"Is it not a sin, Father, to explore a man's body like that?"
"It is considered a crime in many places. But it is not a sin when it is
done with reverence, to discover the truth."
Watching Friar Mathieu, Simon felt his stomach rebel. The old priest
bent over the long naked form of Alain de Pirenne, stretched out on
Simon's bed, wielding a freshly sharpened carving knife borrowed from
the Monaldeschi kitchen. The knife flashed in the light of the many
candles set around the bed as Friar Mathieu enlarged the wound in
Alain's belly. Simon kept looking away and then staring back,
fascinated.
"It hurts me to see you treat Alain so," said Simon. "Though I know you
mean to do good."
"My brother Franciscan, Friar Roger of Oxford, says that if you want to
know God, you must look as closely as possible at His works. He says
that to read the book of God's creation is better than reading
philosophy, and is a form of prayer."
"Philosophy. Yes," said Simon. "I learned last night that Fra Tomasso
d'Aquino is an enemy."
"One moment." Friar Mathieu had tripled the width of the lower wound and
was now pulling the lips of the gash apart, peering intently into it. If
Alain had been alive, Simon knew, blood would have been pouring out of
that incision.
Sickened, Simon turned away. He wondered if he could sleep again in this
bed, knowing that Alain's poor naked body had been stretched out there,
to be tormented in death by this old Franciscan physician-priest.
If he abandoned the bed, he would have to give up the room, though, and
it was one of the few private rooms in the Monaldeschi palace. It was a
warlike room, as befitted a young knight, decorated with battered
Monaldeschi arms. Crossed halberds, spotted with rust, were hung on the
stone chimney that ran up from the kitchen on the first floor. Shields,
dented and scratched, each almost as tall as a man, faced each other
from opposite walls. They were probably quite old, since they bore
simple blazons. The one on Simon's right was ocher, with a black chevron
dividing it across the middle. The other bore an azure cross against a
white background.
This being the top floor of the palace, the mullioned window was
spacious, and Friar Mathieu had drawn back the curtains and pulled the
twin window frames inward on their hinges to get more light. Simon went
to the window and looked through the protective iron grill down into the
square. Two men and three horses were gathered by the steps leading to
the front door. They wore yellow and blue livery, the colors of the city
of Orvieto.
"I think I have found something," said Friar Mathieu. Just as he
finished speaking, Simon's door shook under a heavy knock.
"Say nothing," said the Franciscan. "I will tell you later."
The knock sounded again. Simon went to the door and opened it. A stocky
man whose bald head came up to the middle of Simon's chest stood there.
Simon observed that the man carried more muscle than fat on his sturdy,
barrel-shaped frame. He wore a yellow silk tunic trimmed with blue, and
a short sky-blue cape. A bright gold medallion on a gold chain hung from
his neck. Two daggers, one long and stout, the other short and slender,
hung from the right side of his belt. The sword on his left side reached
from his waist to his ankle. Simon knew he had seen him before, but he
could not remember where.
"Your Signory, Count de Gobignon, it is my honor to address you," the
stout man said. His words were polite, but his tone was perfunctory. He
had to tilt his head back to look at Simon, but his voice and expression
made Simon feel very young and small. Even so, Simon held his silence
and did not step aside to let the man in. Let him introduce himself
first.
After a pause, the man said, "Your Signory, I am Frescobaldo d'Ucello,
podesta of Orvieto." He stopped, eyeing Simon. He had sparkling black
eyes, and his black mustache was trimmed so that it was no more than a
thin line above his mouth. Simon remembered now having seen this man,
the governor of the city, at the execution of that poor heretic a month
ago.
"Signore Podesta," Simon bowed. "The honor is mine."
"Not at all, Your Signory." Now the stout man looked past Simon into the
room, and his eyebrows flew up. Simon turned and saw Friar Mathieu
anointing Alain's brow with his oil-dipped thumb, forming a cross on the
white forehead. Most of Alain's body was under an embroidered coverlet,
and the kitchen knife had disappeared.
D'Ucello blessed himself and said in a low voice, "I will examine the
body after the good father is finished with the last rites. Would you be
so kind as to step out of the room, Count, so that we can talk?"
Closing the door behind him, Simon followed d'Ucello through the
corridor out to the colonnaded galleria overlooking the lemon trees
where he and Sophia had kissed on the night of the contessa's reception
for the Tartars.
So long ago that seemed now, though it was little more than a month, and
so much tragedy had come of it.
Simon told d'Ucello the story he had worked out, that he and Alain had
gone to that inn searching for women and had gotten separated.
There were large bags under the podesta's eyes, dark as bruises. They
contracted as he listened to Simon.
"Forgive me, Your Signory, but I must be clear. Are you telling me that
you slept with a woman last night?"