Simon was surprised at how young Cardinal Paulus de Verceuil looked. The
man who stood with him in a vineyard on the road to Orvieto had a long,
fine-skinned face and glossy black hair that fell in waves to his
shoulders. If his scalp was shaved in a clerical tonsure, his red velvet
cap covered it. His handsome violet silk tunic reminded Simon that his
own surcoat was travel-stained and that Thierry had not polished his
mail in days.
De Verceuil tossed away the cluster of pale green grapes he had been
nibbling and spoke suddenly.
"Count, a report has reached me that you spoke rudely to the doge of
Venice." His booming bass voice sounded as if it were emerging from the
depths of a tomb. "You do realize that your actions reflect on the crown
of France?"
He thrust his face into Simon's as he spoke, which made Simon
involuntarily draw back. De Verceuil was one of the few men Simon had
ever met who matched his own unusual height.