"So near, Reverend Father, that the miracle happened yesterday and the
news reached us this afternoon."
"What miracle?"
"A foreign priest--from some eastern country--was saying mass. And when
he got to the consecration and raised the Sacred Host"--the young
friar's eyes glowed--"the Host dripped blood!"
Simon's head spun in confusion. Frustrated rage at being interrupted
when they were so close to victory struggled with amazement at this tale
of a bleeding Communion wafer. He looked at Fra Tomasso, and all hope
ebbed away. The philosopher's face fairly glowed with relief. Sadness
swelled in Simon. They did not have a chance. Perhaps they had never had
one.
* * * * *
Before they knew it, it seemed, Friar Mathieu and Simon were walking
together out the gate of the Dominican convent. Behind them there were
shouts and white-robed friars bustling to and fro like a flock of
startled doves. The whole convent, it seemed, was in an uproar over the
miracle at Bolsena.
Fra Tomasso had courteously but firmly dismissed Mathieu and Simon,
saying that he must question the one who brought the news. He might, he
said, be called upon to look further into the event at Bolsena, and he
must be fully prepared.
Simon had wanted to protest. If Fra Tomasso would only give them a
little more time, he would surely have to change his mind about the
Tartars. But Simon sensed that Fra Tomasso did not want to change his
mind.
The sky was cold and gray as chain mail. Carters, horsemen, and laborers
on foot bustled along, their cloaks pulled tight around them against the
chill north wind.
_All is lost_, Simon thought, as he had after Alain's funeral. Just when
they were gaining ground with Fra Tomasso, news of a miracle. Was God
Himself against them?
Skulking back to Gobignon. Forever to be known, not as the count who
helped liberate Jerusalem, but as the son of the traitor Amalric.
_Maybe I should give it all up and become a Franciscan, like Friar
Mathieu._
"Where did he get that scroll?" Friar Mathieu wondered.
"What can we do now?" said Simon. He was not really asking; it was only
a way of saying he thought nothing could be done. He was in despair over
the failure of their mission.
Then he thought of Sophia.
In an instant a light bloomed within him. Skulking back to Gobignon? No,
riding back in triumph, with the most beautiful woman in the world
beside him as his bride.
He had not yet nerved himself to propose to Sophia, but now that they
had failed with Fra Tomasso, he could not wait to see her again.
Friar Mathieu scratched his white beard thoughtfully. "It was de
Verceuil who tipped the scales against the Tartars. And it was we who
sent de Verceuil. I thought this might be the one time he could be
useful to us."
"Fra Tomasso had already sided with Ugolini's faction," Simon said.
"That is why we sent de Verceuil."
"He told us today that he had been trying to be neutral," said Friar
Mathieu. "But Sophia told you that Fra Tomasso had already sided with
Ugolini's party. Do you suppose the great Dominican was not being candid
with us? Or was it Sophia who was not being candid?"
Simon gasped at the sudden pain of a blow that was worse than their
failure with Fra Tomasso. Sophia not honest? No, he could not live with
that.
He stiffened so suddenly that his horse stopped walking. He stared at
Friar Mathieu in dismay.
Friar Mathieu reached over and put his hand on Simon's arm. His touch
was light but firm.
"Know where you are going, Simon. Do not travel blindly."
Simon nodded. There was a way to find out the truth about Sophia.
He must put Sordello to work. The mere thought of that blackguard spying
on Sophia twisted his heart with anguish. But he had to know the truth.