Alain de Pirenne, his gauntleted fist clenched on the hilt of his sword,
blustered out, "Damned Italian discourtesy! It would serve them right if
somebody did slip a dagger into those Tartars while we stand out here."
_God forbid!_ thought Simon.
Sordello came back with a Venetian man-at-arms, who touched the brim of
his polished kettle-helmet respectfully.
"This sergente has a message for you from His Serenity, the doge, Your
Signory."
"Let him tell it."
Simon's command of the Venetian dialect was not good enough to follow
what the man in the kettle-helmet said, and to make it harder, he spoke
in what appeared to be an embarrassed mumble.
"What did he say, Sordello?"
"Forgive me, Your Signory," said Sordello. "The message may offend you.
I will repeat it only if you wish it."
"What did he say?" said Simon again in a tight voice.
"The doge says you are to wait in quarters of your own choosing until
the ambassadors from Tartary are ready to travel. At that time he will
place them in your keeping. Until then you are to trouble him no more,
unless you are a very good swimmer."
Simon felt rage boil up within him. He clenched his fists and fought it
down.
"Tell him I thank His Serenity for his courtesy and will forever honor
him for it."
Sordello nodded, and there was a look of respect in his craggy face.
As Sordello repeated Simon's words to the sergente of the doge's guards,
Simon wheeled and strode back the way he had come, to stare out to sea.
Tears of frustrated fury burned his eyes. He could feel hot blood
beating in his temples. The doge had treated him like a small boy. That
old gargoyle had insulted him, had insulted the house of Gobignon, had
insulted King Louis.
And there was nothing Simon could do about it. He felt furious and
miserable. A failure, at the very start of his task.