A gentle cooing from the balcony reminded Raphael that he had lain awake in bed too long as he imagined the faraway streets of Paris. Pigeons, then, first brought him to the window that morning -- not the knowledge of the man armed with a deadly crossbow on a nearby rooftop.

"My friends," he called out to the pigeons, "I shall be but a moment."

Raphael threw back his blankets, swung his legs from the bed, winced at the sharp feel of cold stone against his bare feet, and rose and stretched, hands high. Sunlight from the window cast his shadow against the wall. As Raphael began to yawn, he wiggled his fingers to make the silhouette of his hands become the shape of a dog's head. Halfway through his yawn, Raphael snapped his mouth shut and dropped his hands.

He looked around his small room in puzzlement.

The cooing outside persisted.

"Patience my friends," he said with good humor. "I face a mystery."

A mystery indeed. Where were his clothes? Not the colorful tights and vest that he wore when entertaining the court; those were plainly in sight on the wall hook. It was the regular tunic and pants that Raphael wanted. Today was Easter Sunday and he needed to be dressed for a stroll through the town.

Where were his clothes?

Not on the chair where he'd set them the previous evening before blowing out the candle and falling asleep. Not on the floor. And not -- Raphael pulled the curled blankets apart -- lost among the bed clothes.

The room was barely large enough for his straw bed, the now empty chair of clothes, and a small table which held a chunk of hard bread, pitcher of water and a chamberpot. If Raphael couldn't see the pants and tunic, he could rightly conclude neither were in the room.

Very strange.

He then grinned to himself. Obviously someone had played a jest on the jester himself. One of the ladies-in-waiting perhaps. Or Claude, the cook's assistant.

Yes, Raphael told himself, Jean-Claude had taken the clothes. Hadn't it been yesterday that Raphael asked Jean-Claude if his ears were dirty? All the others in the kitchen had laughed when Raphael pulled an egg from Jean-Claude's ear. It was an easy trick, really, palming the egg from a nearby basket and with a flick of the wrist pretending it had suddenly appeared from the side of Jean-Claude's head. Not a mean trick either, yet Jean-Claude had sulked, walked away, and refused Raphael's apologies.

No clothes.

Raphael shrugged and reached for his jester's costume. It would hardly do to prance down the hallway undressed as he searched for the other clothing. Too many other members of the courts and their servants occupied this wing of the Palace of the Popes. That would be exactly what Claude wanted to happen.

Besides, Raphael's friends stood outside on the edge of the balcony. He rarely kept them waiting. He also knew that it had taken months to train them to appear at this time of day. It would not be wise to disappoint them, even once, for who knew if they would return the next morning.

"Yes my friends," he said as he hopped about on one leg, pulling his tights onto the other. "I have bread for you."

The baggy tights covered socks, one bright red, the other yellow. Then came a shirt with stripes to match his tights. The vest over top was cinched with a band at the waist. And, because it was habit, he placed on his head the jester's cap with the cloth balls that jiggled when Raphael juggled.

Raphael was big -- unusual for a jester, because most depended on the quickness and agility more easily possessed by the small. It only made it more entertaining and unexpected, when someone Raphael's size juggled or did back flips or balanced on a rope. He had thick blond hair that fell into matted curls, and a wide open face that always seemed to be smiling. The smile seemed to attract many of the maids and kitchen servants, although he was rarely aware of it.

Dressed now, and wearing his usual smile, Raphael snatched the chunk of hard bread from the table, and moved to his balcony windows and leaned outside.

"Good morning, little ones," he said.

The pigeons hopped toward him. Raphael looked them over. Three today. The fat white one who never failed to appear. A gray one, head cocked sideways. AndSwhy the third one was very small.

Raphael clucked at the fat white pigeon. "Mother Josephine, is this one a child of yours?"

Mother Josephine did not answer. Mother Josephine was intent on the tiny pieces of bread that Raphael slowly tore loose and set on the edge of the balcony.

With strutting steps and bobbing head, Mother Josephine reached the bread ahead of the other two pigeons, and stabbed her beak downward.

Raphael laughed softly. He tore more tiny pieces loose and set them behind Mother Josephine. The pigeon was long accustomed to him, and did not take flight as his hand moved above her. The other two pigeons pecked at his offerings.

"It is good to see you again, my friends," he said as he continued to feed them. "Good to see you indeed."

As Raphael spoke in low reassuring tones, he let his eyes sweep the view from his balcony. Even with his eyes closed, he could have described the sights, for he had lived in the room since boyhood.

There was Mount Ventoux to the northwest, its rounded top like a huge mound at the horizon visible between palace towers. There were the rooftops below, clay tile weathered to red -- almost gray. Balconies and ledges of the maze of buildings -- all comfortable and familiar landmarks.

Yet this morning, when Raphael swept his eyes over Avignon, he saw none of what he usually took in. For this morning, squarely in his line of sight, there was a man on the clay tiles of a nearby roof.

This man was lying almost at the edge of the roof. He peered downward into the courtyard. From Raphael's viewpoint, it was impossible to see what the man was studying down in the courtyard with such care.

That mattered little to Raphael.

This man was dressed as a soldier: full armor. Long broadsword. Helmet nearby.

What frightened Raphael most was the remaining piece of military equipment beside this soldier. The crossbow. Capable of slamming an arrow through a knight's armor. Capable of sending an arrow right through a deer.

Even as Raphael watched, this soldier loaded the bow, bracing it to pull the arrow into place, and set the crossbow beside him. Then the man looked downward into the courtyard again. Whatever he was hunting from there, it was not a deer.

This was no soldier.

But an assassin.