"Ride to King Louis as quickly as possible." Urban turned, again half rising from his chair, and handed Simon the letter.
"Shall I carry the king's answer to Perugia, Holy Father?"
Urban shrugged. "Oh, yes, I shall surely be in Perugia by the time you come back. But God will take me before the first of Charlesd'Anjou's knights sets foot in Italy." He raised a pale hand to silence Simon's polite protest, and there was actually a twinkle in his eye. "Whatever my successor thinks, he will have a hard time undoing the decisions I have made today. By the time the next pope is elected, he will have a French army to help him destroy the Hohenstaufen. Whether he wants to or not."
"What of the Tartar ambassadors, Your Holiness?" Simon asked, thinking that it would be best to hasten those negotiations, too, lest the next pope disapprove of them. "Should I take them with me to the king?"
"No," said Urban firmly. "Then you would have to take a troop with you to guard them. You may have to travel far to find King Louis. He is setting out on a royal progress through his kingdom. I had a report of him just two days ago. That is one great benefit of this office—" His gray beard twitched again, and Simon knew that he was smiling. "News comes to us from everywhere." Then his eyelids lowered. "That is also what makes being the Holy Father so wearisome."
Yes, of course, King Louis made a journey of inspection through some portion of his realm nearly every summer. It might be months, Simon thought with a sinking heart, before he could find the king, deliver the pope's letter, and get back to the papal court. So much could happen.
But the most important thing of all has already happened. We have won. We have the alliance!
Triumph rang like cathedral bells in his ears. He was bringing victory to the king and to Count Charles. And his success would restore honor to the house of Gobignon.
Simon knelt once again, kissing the Fisherman's Ring and thinking that the hand that wore it would soon be cold.
But as he hurried down a corridor in the Palazzo Papale, already planning his route to France, the bells of triumph stopped ringing and in the silence a face appeared before his mind's eye. Amber eyes, olive skin, and wine-colored lips.
Sophia! By all the angels and saints, I may never see her again!
For a moment he felt torn. Duty and honor demanded that he leave Orvieto at once. But what of love? Sophia's image smiled, and he decided. He would need at least a day to prepare for his journey anyway. Before he left Orvieto he must see Sophia and make sure that the meeting would not be their last.
Fat gray clouds hung low over the Umbrian hills, and Sophia thought she heard thunder rumbling in the west. As Simon's message had promised, he was waiting for her by the shrine of the Virgin on the road leading north from Orvieto. But what was he doing here, she wondered, with spare horses and a loaded baggage mule?
He waved to her and dismounted, and his scudiero—the same man who had yesterday delivered Simon's note to her—took charge of the beasts.
Clearly Simon was beginning a journey. He had not simply come out here to meet her. But he would not go anywhere far with no more company than one squire. And how could he leave the Tartars when hardly two months ago he had nearly lost his life protecting them?
Trying to puzzle out what was afoot, she rode with Ugolini's man Riccardo beside her to the shed-covered shrine where a blue-robed Mary held a smiling baby Jesus. Riccardo helped her down from her horse and Simon came forward.
She took Simon's arm, and he led her into the pine forest beside the road. She studied his face, trying to guess what thoughts were passing behind his somber blue eyes.
As soon as they were out of sight of their companions, she asked him, "Are you going to Perugia ahead of the pope?"
He did not answer her at once, so she kept her gaze on him.
Sophia enjoyed looking at Simon as she enjoyed looking at beautiful icons, jewels, sculptures. Yet his body did not have the fine proportions she had seen in statues made by Greeks of old. He was very tall and slender, all sharp lines pointing to heaven. His head, framed by long dark brown hair, was narrow, the nose and chin angular. His eyes, set in deep hollows, were bright with candor and intelligence, though at times she saw in them a haunted look.
She even found his barbaric Frankish garb pleasing. From Simon's narrow shoulders hung a cloak of rich crimson silk, and he wore a soft maroon cap adorned with a blood-red feather. The purplesurcoat that extended below his knees sparkled with dozens of embroidered repetitions of a design of three gold crowns. In Constantinople only the Basileus and his consort were permitted to wear purple. From Simon's black leather belt, decorated with silver plates, hung a curving Saracen sword. Precious stones twinkled in its handle.
Now that she considered it, she recalled that she had always seen Simon in more subdued colors.
He dressed this way to please me, she thought fondly.
He looked away from her, but there was nowhere for him to look. They were walled in on all sides by a thick growth of pines. The lower trunks of the trees were straight and clean, like the poles of a palisade, their branches, which started higher than she could reach, putting out the bright green needles of new summer growth. Somewhere far above them was the cloudy, rain-heavy sky, but here they were enveloped in deep shadow under interlocked pine branches. The forest was so dark and soundless that she began to feel a little frightened. Simon and she were enemies, after all, even though she hoped he would never realize it. She often forgot it herself, when she was with him, liking him as much as she did.
"I am not going to Perugia," he said.
"Did you have me ride all the way out here to tell me no more than that?" she demanded.
"I wanted to tell you that I love you," he said hoarsely. He turned toward her, and his face glowed with adoration.
Oh, the boy! The dear, beautiful boy! He loves me, and he means it with every fiber of his being.
She felt a wave of warmth, not love but surely a kindliness, going out from her to him. He turned and took her shoulders in his big hands. She liked the feel of his hands on her. If only she could forget about David, she could happily give herself to him.
But shewasacting for David, and she was here to find out what this Frank was planning. She must make some guesses, and then see if she could get him to confirm them. Such as, where was he going, and why was he leaving the Tartars behind?
She had to tilt her head back to look into his troubled face. "Come, let us sit down," she said. She took his hand and led him to a tree whose trunk was wide enough to let them rest their backs against it. Her silk skirt formed a dark green semicircle around her, bordered by an embroidered orange and red design of flowers.
There was a grace in the way he sat down, despite his long arms and legs. With a practiced movement he swept his sword back behind him, out of his way.
"Where were David of Trebizond and Giancarlo the night of the attack on the Monaldeschi palace?" he asked suddenly. She went cold. Did he suspect them, and her too? Had d'Ucello told him of his unsuccessful effort to see David and Lorenzo that very night?
"They had both left the city," she said. "They went to Perugia and Assisi. David wished to see the wonder-working body of San Francesco at Assisi."
"I thought he was interested in silk, not saints." Simon glowered at her.
She made herself laugh. "Surely you do not think David the merchant was in the streets, fighting, the night the Monaldeschi were attacked?"
She heard a bell ring somewhere in the distance. Some little hillside church ringing out the hour of Tierce. The chiming sounded clear and peaceful.
Dear God, sometimes I wish I could have become a nun.
Simon sighed and took her hand gently and held it resting on his thigh. "Why does it have to be Cardinal Ugolini who is your uncle?"
"If not for my Uncle Adelberto I would not be here and we would never have met," she said.
"You are so beautiful," he said.
The adoration in his eyes was like a dagger in her heart. She wanted so much for it to be for her, and it was for a woman who did not exist.
I am so far from what he thinks I am. Michael and Manfred treated me like a whore. David sends me to seduce this man who is his enemy.
And that, she thought, was why she so much hated to see what had happened to Rachel, and to know that David had done it and that she herself had a hand in it.
"You will never come back to Orvieto, will you?" she said disconsolately.
His grip on her hand tightened. "No. That is why I wanted to meet you today. Tell me—if your uncle goes to Perugia to follow the pope, will you go with him?"
She let her body lean sideways till she was pressed against him. "Oh, I am sure my uncle will go. He is the cardinal camerlengo, after all. As for me, I would go if I thought I would see you there."
His head drew down toward hers. "Do you care for me that much?"
"I have never known love like this, Simon. My husband was kind to me, and I was sorry when he died, but the way I feel aboutyou is different. I think I will die if I do not know when I can see you again."
Joy lit up his thin face, and she despised herself. "I will find you, Sophia. I will be gone for months. But I will ride like the wind, and when I come back it will be to Perugia."
He must be going to France!He was traveling with but one man, so as to go faster. The Tartars had nearly been killed in the Filippeschi uprising, but he would be leaving them formonths.
Only one thing could be more important to Simon than the lives of the two Tartars, and that was what the Tartars represented.
The pope must be offering to approve the alliance. Simon must be carrying the message.
When I tell David about this, he will ride after Simon and kill him.
Her thoughts began to race. Even if Simon were stopped, was it not still too late to keep the Franks and the Tartars from joining forces? No, probably not, because the pope was dying. If this alliance were not settled now, the talking and deciding would have to begin all over again, with a new pope.
Could she seduce Simon into abandoning his mission altogether, running off with her? No, he would never betray so great a trust, not even for love of her.
"I swear to you, I will find you, I will see you again, Sophia," he was saying. "Believe me."
You will not live long enough.
"I do believe you, Simon." Her loathing for herself grew stronger.
Now his arms were around her, and he was pressing her back, away from the tree trunk and down onto the soft bed of pine needles.
His open mouth was against hers, his lips devouring hers. His hands caressed her shoulders and her back, moving ceaselessly. One hand slid around and held her breast, and she heard his little indrawn breath of pleasure. It must feel good to him, she thought. It felt good to be touched there, and she pushed back against his hand. She felt her body relax and grow warm. It had been so long—nearly a year—since a man had held her in his arms.
I need this as much as any man does. Men can go to whores, but where can I go?
She loved the feel of his strong arms around her as she lay beside him. He moved so that his whole length was pressed against her, and now he did not seem any taller than she was. She felt thehardness at his groin that he pressed against her leg, and she felt an answering heat within herself.
No!
I cannot let this man make love to me and then send David after him to kill him. I cannot, I cannot. I would hate myself forever.
She felt her body opening to him, felt her bone-deep need of him. If they came together now, it would be love, not the love she felt for David, but love even so. And if she condemned him to death then, she would destroy herself. But if she did not tell David where Simon was going, she would betray him, and bring ruin down on his people and her own. If she let Simon make love to her, she would be so torn that afterward she would probably go mad.
He was already partly on top of her, and she wriggled away from him, pushing at him.
"Stop it!" There was a power in her voice that she had not intended to unleash. She was no longer Cardinal Ugolini's sweet little niece, Sophia Orfali from Sicily, but Sophia Karaiannides, the woman of Byzantium.
A hand's width of space separated their faces. Her voice seemed to freeze him. He stared at her as if he were seeing a stranger.
Then anger blazed up in his eyes. His arms tightened. Those arms seemed so lean, but the strength in them was like steel chains drawn tight. She clenched her fists and locked her bent arms in front of her to keep him away. His lips drew back from his teeth and she felt his hot breath on her face.
Frankish barbarian!she thought. Where only a moment ago she had wanted him, now she hated him. He was just like all those mail-clad savages who had destroyed Constantinople, stolen, raped, murdered her parents. Yes, and she had helped the Basileus Michael to drive them out, and she would kill this one too. Never would a union of Frankish and Tartar barbarians threaten her people. By this one man's death she could guarantee that.
With all the strength her anger gave her, she straightened her arms, pushing him away. Her right arm free, she thrust her open palm against his jaw, forcing his head back.
"Let me go!" And again it was the powerful voice of Sophia Karaiannides.
"God's blood!" His eyes were wide, and there was amazement in them, no longer anger. He released her so suddenly she fell back, hard, against the floor of the forest.
Immediately he reached for her, but his hands were gentle once more, helping her to sit up.
He knelt before her. "Please forgive me." He sounded on the verge of tears. "Please. I lost command of myself."
Standing up, she brushed pine needles from the back of her skirt and her shawl. He moved to help her, and she pulled away.
"Sophia, I have never loved any woman as much as I love you."
"Nonsense. Simon, you have far to ride."
He moved around so that he was facing her, his usually pale face flushed, his chest heaving.
"Marry me, Sophia."
If he had struck her, she could not have been more astonished. But she quickly recovered herself. He thought he could have his way with her by offering marriage.
"Simon, I am not a woman whose legs can be parted by a promise of marriage." The note she heard in her voice distressed her. She was being too much her true, worldly self with him. If he were not deaf to everything but his own passion, he would hear it, and he would suspect that she was not what she seemed to be.
She reminded herself:I must seem to be awed that this great nobleman speaks to me of marriage.
"You put it crudely," he said, his eyes narrowed with warmth. "To shock me, I suppose. But you defend your honor, and you speak plainly. I speak plainly too—I love you."
The sight of him standing there gazing at her with such yearning in his eyes was too painful. She kept thinking of herself telling David what she had learned today. She kept seeing this tall, handsome man lying dead in a ditch. She had to get away from him.
"The morning is well along," she said. "You had better get started if you want to cover much distance by nightfall. Where do you plan to spend this night?" She despised herself because she had asked the question to make it easier for David to trail him.
He frowned at her. "Sophia, I must have your answer. I mean what I say. I love you. I want to marry you."
Holy Virgin, would the fellow never give in? Did he really think her foolish enough to believe he was sincerely proposing to her? Yes, perhaps he did think that of the Sophia she pretended to be. She must answer him as that girl would. She cast her eyes down, her hands clasped before her.
"Simon, do not torment me. I know that you cannot marry me. My uncle has told me who you are—your ancient noble house, your vast holdings. Perhaps you mean to be kind to me by speaking of marriage, but a man of your rank has too many obligations. You cannot marry as you choose. So, please, speak of it no more."
But what if we could get married?
The thought arose unbidden in her mind as she stared down at the brown pine needles. She wanted to drive it out again, but could not stop herself from seeing what it might be like.
Marriage, a home, a fixed, secure abode where she might live out her life in serene, peaceful occupations. Raising children, spinning, embroidering, managing a household. What so many women, rich and poor, had. What she had not known since she was a young girl—aplace, afamily. And to be the wife of a man like Simon—kind, brave, handsome, well spoken.
She understood suddenly why it was always so easy for her to forget Sophia Karaiannides and become Sophia Orfali. She did what was given her to do, but in the core of her heart what she longed for was to be someone like Sophia Orfali, who truly had a place in the world. Sophia Orfali, for all that she was a mask, was more real than Sophia Karaiannides.
It was too painful for her, the unexpected longing for the love she could never have, the grief for Simon, whom she was going to murder.
"Let us get back, you to your scudiero and I to my escort," she said. She started walking toward the road.
He stepped in front of her. "Sophia, wait."
She felt something in her chest like a ball of iron. She had her tears well under control for the moment, but she had to get away from him. Otherwise she would not be able to stop herself from crying.
"Please," he said again. She felt herself forced to look up at him. His thin face, so grave, so intelligent.
"I beg you to believe me. I do want you desperately. Love is of the spirit, and it is of the body too. But I am not proposing marriage just to possess you. I want to marry you because I love you."
She stood looking at this handsome young man and breathing the fragrance of pine-scented air, and she thought of David. What she felt for David drew no line between body and spirit. If she had all the things she had just been longing for—a husband, a family, a home—and David appeared out of nowhere and looked at her with those glowing eyes of his and told her to come with him, she would abandon everything for him. When she looked at David, she saw a pillar of pure fire burning inside him. There was a power in him that called out to everything that was strong in her and demanded that she accept no other man for her mate.
"You think that my title, my family, is an obstacle to our marrying," Simon said. "But it is not. If you knew who I really am, you might not want to marryme."
She laughed a little at the thought of him not being who he so obviously was. "Are you some peasant lad who stole the place of the true Simon de Gobignon, then?"
"It is something like that."
"In God's name, Simon, what are you talking about?"
His nostrils flared. He drew air in a great gulp through his mouth. He took a step toward her, and she tensed, lest he seize her again, but he kept his hands at his sides.
"The last Count de Gobignon was a traitor to his king, to his countrymen, to his own vassals. He betrayed a whole army of crusaders into the hands of the Saracens. He died in disgrace. His grave is unmarked. So foul was his treachery that no man of good family in France will permit his daughter to marry me."
Sophia found that hard to believe. There must be many great barons in France who would forget the crime of the father, no matter how horrible, when the son was so attractive and, especially, so rich.
"Simon, you have so much to offer a wife." She would have laughed at the absurdity of all this, but the tortured expression clearly mirrored a tortured soul.
"Oh, surely, there are barons who would sell their daughters to the devil for a bit of land," he agreed. "I meant that I could not marry the women I chose. But there is worse, Sophia. I could lose everything if what I am about to tell you were known, but that is the least of it. It puts my life in your hands and the lives of my mother and—my father."
Your life is already in my hands, she thought, her eyes hurting from looking so intensely into his. But then the full meaning of what he had said bore in on her.
His father?
"Simon, are you telling me that you are not—"
"I am not the son of the Count de Gobignon. My father was a troubadour, the Sire Roland de Vency, with whom my mother fell in love while Amalric de Gobignon was still alive. She succeeded in passing me off as the count's son, but we three, my mother, Roland, and I, know the secret. And my confessor. And now you."
She shook her head, bewildered. She felt no doubt that what he was telling her was true. The pain in his face was like that of a man who had stripped his very skin off to reveal himself to her. It tore at her heart to see him suffering so much.
"But how could this happen, Simon?"
"It is too long a tale for today. Perhaps one day I can tell you all of it. But do you believe me now? Truly there is no barrier of familybetween you and me, Sophia. Unless you set one there, knowing that I am—I am a bastard and an impostor. Could you think of marrying me?"
The tears she had been holding back, for an hour it seemed, burst suddenly from her eyes, as sobs welled up in her throat. And yet, she wanted to laugh as well, at the irony of it. To think that he was ashamed of his pretense. If he had any idea ofherpretense, and David's, he would probably kill her on the spot.
His face, coming nearer and nearer. All his finery was a red and purple blur before her tear-filled eyes. His hands were reaching for her.
He loves me. He really loves me. He really does want to marry me.
If he had taken that strange Saracen sword of his out and run her through with it, he could not have hurt her more. She had been thinking about sending David to kill him, and he had just entrusted all of himself, his family, everything he possessed, his body and his soul, to her.
If David went after him, this time one of them—Simon or David—would surely die. The luck of the Monaldeschi palace encounter could not protect both a second time.
She felt Simon's hands on her shoulders. She pulled away from him.
"Sophia!" She heard the anguish in his voice.
Tartars and Muslims were a thousand leagues away. If Christians and Tartars were destined to join forces and destroy Islam, it would happen. She willed herself to believe that. And if it was not destined, it would not happen.
David and Simon were here. To say anything to David about Simon's mission to France was to doom one man, perhaps both. It might be the man who loved her, or it might be the man she loved. And she did not want either to die.
"Sophia, I beg you, speak to me! Are you turning against me?"
She wiped her streaming eyes to see Simon standing before her, his arms hanging at his sides, his face agonized.
I cannot doom this young man.
She took deep breaths to calm herself enough to speak to him.
"Simon, I pray that God will bless and protect you." She stifled a sob. "I cannot marry you. You must forget me."
He scrambled to his feet, his arms outstretched. "Do not turn from me, Sophia. I would rather have you kill me."
"No!" It came out of her as a scream. She turned and started to run, holding up the hem of her long skirt to keep from tripping.Her anguish was like a giant's hand that had seized her heart and was crushing it.
She ran like a hunted animal, tripping on rocks, turning her ankle in hollow places. She could only hope she was running toward the road.
"Sophia!"
She looked back over her shoulder. He was following her out of the forest, but at a distance. He was walking, staggering like a wounded man.
"Forgive me, Simon!" She ran on.
A pine branch struck her across the face, and she cried out in pain. But she felt that she deserved it. She ducked under the branch and kept running, seeing brighter light among the dark rows of tree trunks now. The road must be that way.
She forced her way through a tangle of shrubbery and was out on the road. Simon's scudiero, standing with their string of horses, stared at her wide-eyed. The huge Riccardo, Sophia's escort, was with him, talking. They were standing with their backs to a roadside statue of the Virgin in a little protective shed.
At the sight of Sophia, Riccardo rushed to her, looming over her protectively. "Madonna! What has happened to you? Dio mio! Did he—"
His eyes were wide with outrage, but there was anxiety in his face too. He must be wondering whether he would have to fight a nobleman.
"I am not hurt—he did nothing. He did nothing!" Sophia babbled, choking down sobs. "Mount quickly, Riccardo, and let us go from here."
He held her horse, and she threw herself into the saddle. She spurred on without waiting to see if Riccardo was ready to follow.
When they came to a turning in the road, she looked back once. The scudiero stood alone with the horses. Simon had not yet emerged from the pine forest. She started to cry again. The pain in her chest was worse than ever. She silenced Riccardo's questions.
"I cannot talk about it. He did no wrong to me. No harm. That is all you need to know."
I cannot talk to anyone about it, ever. I am going to betray David. I pray God I never see Simon de Gobignon again.
Just as Sophia and Riccardo arrived at the Porta Maggiore in the city wall of Orvieto, the air around them seemed to glow and crackle. A cold wind blew across the road leading up to the gate. Sophia spurred her bay, but the horse hardly needed encouragement to gallop the last few paces to the shelter of the gatehouse. A shaft of lightning dazzled Sophia, and a mighty thunderclap, loud enough to shake the rock on which Orvieto stood, deafened her. She and Riccardo were in the shelter of the gatehouse before the first fat drops began to fall, making craters in the dust of the road.
They identified themselves to the guards without dismounting. Clerks were no longer posted at the gates to interrogate and record the name of every person entering and leaving Orvieto. Evidently the podesta had given up on that.
Sophia, Daoud, and Ugolini had, even so, been chilled by a polite letter from d'Ucello to Ugolini requesting that "His Eminence's distinguished guest from Trebizond" not leave Orvieto without the podesta's permission. Sophia, on the other hand, seemed free to come and go as she pleased.
The thought crossed Sophia's mind that she would be soaked as she rode from the gate to Ugolini's mansion. But the meeting with Simon had left her in misery, and the storm suited her mood. David knew that she was meeting Simon outside the town. Now what would she tell David about where Simon was going?
She was about to ride on into the city streets when a man stepped out of the crowd that had gathered for shelter under the gateway arch. He raised a hand.
"Madonna!" It was Sordello. "A private word, I beg of you."
She saw fear in his face, but in his bloodshot eyes burned another feeling she could not identify. She disliked the man and did not want to talk to him, especially not now, carrying secrets as she was. But he served David, and his disturbed look suggested that what he had to say might be important. Sighing, she dismounted,gave the reins of her horse to Riccardo, and walked beside Sordello to an unoccupied corner of the gatehouse.
"You know that Messer David has set me to find the informer among us, and he says he will kill me if I fail." He had backed her into the corner and pressed uncomfortably close to her. His breath smelled of onions, and he was altogether repellent.
"What do you want of me?"
"The one person who might give me a clue is the Count de Gobignon, and he has disappeared. No one at the Monaldeschi palace will tell me anything about why he left."
Does he know that I just met with Simon?
"Why ask me?"
"I know that it is Messer David's wish that you allow de Gobignon to court you. If he has left Orvieto, perhaps you have heard where he is going." He smiled, showing a gap in his upper front teeth. And now she realized what the hidden feeling was. It was lust. She was disgusted, and pushed past him to give herself room.
He said, "I saw you ride out earlier today, and I waited here at the gatehouse for you to come back. You must have met with the count. Madonna, I do not know what to do. And Messer David will kill me if I do not tell him something."
She desperately wanted to get away. "I am going to Messer David myself to tell him that Count Simon has left for Perugia. Where the pope is going. He is recruiting more guards and preparing a refuge for the Tartar ambassadors. You'll gain nothing with Messer David by telling him the same thing."
Sordello frowned thoughtfully. "No, but I might try to catch Count Simon on the road and talk to him."
Sophia's heart leapt with alarm and seemed to lodge in her throat. What if Sordello followed Simon and discovered he was on his way to France and came back and reportedthatto Daoud?
"You needn't go to all that trouble," she said, keeping a grip on her voice. "We will all be going to Perugia shortly, and you can question Count Simon there."
He nodded, as if satisfied with that, and she felt a little better.
He bowed again and again. "Thank you, Madonna, thank you."
In a moment she was on her horse again and riding into the rain. She wanted nothing more to do with Sordello.
But the encounter had helped her in one way, and now she felt more confident about talking to David about Simon. Rehearsing the lie with Sordello had helped.
"He is leaving the Tartars behind? After I came so close to killing them?"
"They will be closely guarded. I do not think you will be able to get at them again."
There was a bitterness in the small smile that quirked David's thin lips. "I do not intend to try until the Sienese arrive here. When I seek their lives again, a whole army of guards will not be enough to stop me."
What would David do, Sophia wondered, if he learned that the alliance he had fought so hard to prevent would soon be sealed in France by Simon de Gobignon?
She looked at David's eyes, the color of the thunderclouds outside. Her hatred for herself struck her heart with hammer blows.
He stood by the window of his room, straight and broad-shouldered, wearing a belted gown of black silk with a broad red stripe at the bottom. His wound no longer required a poultice, and it was almost healed. The strange Saracen treatment he had prescribed for himself had worked.
She saw pain in his eyes, a pain of the heart. "No doubt you will miss the count," he said in a low voice. He turned to look out the window.
He had pulled the leaded pane of glass slightly inward on its hinge, letting into the room the cold breeze stirred up by the storm. Locks of his blond hair fluttered around his forehead. She studied his profile, the nose long and straight, the chin sharp, the brows seeming to frown even when relaxed.
"You wanted me to make love to him," she said softly.
He kept his face turned. "Yes."
"You did not want me to make love to him."
"Yes."
She stood in the center of the room, about ten paces from him, her hands clasped before her. Her shawl and her gown were cold and wet. A net of small pearls held her hair in place, but her hair, too, was sodden with rain. She felt on the verge of shivering, but she held herself very still.
White light filled the room. David's body jerked, and his lips tightened. A long, rolling peal of thunder followed the lightning, ending in a crash so loud it hurt her head.
He was afraid of thunderstorms. She had noticed that before. There was little rain in the part of the world where he had grown up. He was afraid of nothing else, as far as she could see. There was nothing he would not do, nothing hecouldnot do. If only he were Greek, what a fighter for the Polis he would be.
But when he winced away from the lightning, she wanted to cradle his blond head against her breasts.
The rain beat down on the walls and roof of Ugolini's mansion with redoubled intensity. She saw a small pool of water on the wood floor, rain blown in through the open window.
"I never did make love to him," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind and rain.
"I know that." He took a step toward her.
I am doing worse than that now, she thought with a stab of guilt.I am keeping from David something he would badly want to know.
"He put his arms around me and kissed me many times," she said.
David turned fully to look at her, saying nothing.
"Whenever he took me in his arms, I thought of you."
He closed his eyes.
When she was with David she never grieved over the turns her life had taken. She never felt sorry for herself, as she did with Simon, because she had not married and could not marry. Simon had actually said he wanted to marry her, and in the end she had believed him. That seemed like a dream now. A pleasant dream, but an impossible one.
For an instant she tried to picture herself, a woman of Constantinople wed to a Frankish lord and living in a castle in the north of France. If such a preposterous thing should come about, she would be enormously wealthy and powerful—though she had not really thought about that when she was with Simon. She was not herself when she was with Simon. And now, when shewasherself and able to see things clearly, the wealth and power still did not matter, because they would give her no pleasure if she had to live among barbarians.
When she was with David she never worried or even thought about her future, what life would be like for her when she was older. With David she thought only of now.
He had opened his eyes and was staring at her. She looked at him, standing tall and fair.
I love you, David. I want you so.
Why had it not happened? Soon it would be a year since they had met at Lucera, and she had long known that she wanted him, and believed that he wanted her as well. But something had always held him back.
Her body grew warm inside her cold garments.
It is not because of me that we have waited this long.
There was a question in his eyes, and she felt something insideher pulling her toward him. She took a faltering step across the tile floor. Then another, surer one.
He held out his arms, his harsh mouth softening as his lips parted slightly.
"Come to me," he said.
He watched her walking toward him one step at a time, and he thought she looked like a woman in a trance. Her head was lifted to receive his kiss.
"How like rose petals your lips are," he said in Greek. He had never spoken Greek to her before. She stopped her slow march toward him and gave a long, shuddering sigh.
Then she ran the last few steps and threw herself into his arms. Joy flooded his chest as he pulled her against him.
At last, at last, at last!
He had wanted to hold her like this for so long, and much of the time had not even been aware that he wanted it.
He had not wanted to be aware of it, he thought, knowing that he must use her against his enemy. And how he had hated Simon de Gobignon simply because Simon was to have Sophia.
I should have known then that my hatred for de Gobignon was a measure of my love for her.
But he had not wanted to know that either, because Blossoming Reed, the daughter of the sultan, awaited him in El Kahira, and he had sworn to be faithful to her all his life.
Take as many women as you like. But love always and only me.
He felt a chill, and realized that he was feeling cold not merely because of the memory of Blossoming Reed's warning, but because Sophia was rain-wet against him. She had ridden through the storm still thundering away outside, and he felt a cold dampness soaking through his gown.
"Your clothes are wet," he said, continuing to speak Greek.
She rubbed herself against him. "I am wet to the skin. I need to take these clothes off."
"Yes. Why not do that?"
Without hesitation she stepped out of the circle of his arms and undid the brooch that held her printed shawl around her shoulders. She would not be shy, he realized. There had not been time, in the life she had led, for hesitation with men. Only, he hoped that she would not, like some of the experienced women he had known, show little feeling herself while she let him use her in any way that pleased him.
She is not that sort. I know it.
Foolish of him to even think it. But some part of him needed to doubt. This moment was too good to be true.
And too frightening. Because what they were about to do was not just satisfy their bodies' hungers; it would seal the bond of love between them. And then he would not be able to send Sophia like a falcon to strike at his enemies. He would not be the same man when he went back to Blossoming Reed. What they were about to do would change both their lives.
Standing in the crumpled heap of orange and green silk that was her shawl, she turned her back to him.
"Help me with the laces," she said. He saw that her gown laced down the back.
"One small moment," he said, running his hand caressingly over her back. He walked to the door. There was still pain in his right thigh when he moved quickly, but now it was overwhelmed by his body's yearning to have this woman. He felt the swelling and pressure of arousal in his loins.
He opened the door of his room partway and looked up and down the shadowy corridor. There was no one in sight. He closed the door firmly and slid home the heavy iron bolt that would guarantee their privacy.
She was standing where he had left her, watching him, her amber eyes warm. He went quickly to her and untied the knot in the laces at her back, marveling at the slenderness of her neck. She could have unlaced the dress herself, he saw, but she wanted him to.
She wore no belt, and the dress fell away. Under it was a white silk chemise without sleeves. Still standing behind her, he dropped his hands gently on her small, square shoulders and slid the chemise down. His eyes followed its fall, savoring her delicate shoulder blades, the shadowed hollow of her back. All that remained now were light green hose attached to a wisp of silk that girdled her hips.
Sophia shivered, and he knew it was not the cold, though the storm was blowing a strong, moist breeze through the partly opened window.
He put his hands on her shoulders, firmly now, and turned her around. She threw back her head and laughed as he stared at her breasts and bit his lower lip.
What Daoud carried under his black gown felt as big and heavy as a mace.
He dropped to one knee before her. He reached around to her buttocks, his palms tingling at their cool firmness, and he slid down the last of her garments. She stood, all exposed, before him.
"Will I not see you naked?" she said with a throaty chuckle. "Is that the Turkish way, for the man to remain clothed?"
"You will soon learn what the Turkish way is, my lady." He leaned forward, still genuflecting, and dropped a dozen light kisses on her belly and thighs, and then buried his face in the rich triangle of hair between her legs and kissed her deeply.
She cried out in surprise and pleasure.
Suddenly he stood up and swung her up in his arms like a Bedouin chieftain carrying his bride to his tent. She laughed delightedly. She felt as light as a child. He strode across the room to the bed and laid her down.
He wrestled his black silk gown over his head and threw it off. Quickly he pulled off the locket Blossoming Reed had given him and dropped it on the gown. He stood over her, looking down at her, and letting her look her fill at him.
"The blond Turk," she said in Greek with a small smile, and moved her hips from side to side.
Slowly she reached up to her head and pulled free the net of pearls woven into her hair. Long locks, black as raven's wings, spread out around her head on the pillow.
"I must look like Medusa," she said.
"Who?"
"A woman with snakes for hair. Men who saw her were turned to stone."
He remembered now: In a bazaar at El Kahira he had listened to the story of the she-monster.
"The sight of you would bring a stone to life," he said.
"Ah, but part of you is already hard as stone. How long are you going to stand there? I want you." The yearning in her voice made something vibrate inside him, as if she had plucked a taut string in his very soul. He was seized by a violent urge to throw himself upon her and take her at once. And she would welcome it, too, he knew.
But this moment was too precious to be allowed to pass so quickly.
He sank to his knees and reached out to pull her hips to the edge of the bed. She squirmed across the bed to help him.
Just after he grew out of boyhood, when he was very wild and afraid of nothing, Ayesha, the youngest wife of Emir Faruk abu Husain, discovered that he existed, and showed him a way to come to her in abu Husain's harem. He knew he would die writhing on aspike if the emir's slaves caught him, but he was also quite certain that such a thing could never really happen to him.
With a boy's eagerness and excitability, he had spent himself an instant after he joined Ayesha in the darkness on her couch.
"The emir is very old and has many wives," she purred. "Rarely can we slip a beautiful young man like you past the harem guards. So we must learn how to pleasure each other. There are many things that will delight a woman's body besides a man's rumh. Shall I show you?"
He was curious, and at his whispered agreement she pushed his head down between her legs and told him what to do.
"And put your fingershereat the same time. Ah, that feels very good."
He looked at Sophia lying open before him and said again, "How like a flower." He saw dew on this flower, and he bent to taste.
He did to her the things he had learned from Ayesha and later on from other harem women.
As he worked upon Sophia the magic of the harem, he listened to her breathing as it grew faster and faster. He watched her breasts rise and fall, her chestnut-color nipples standing up.
She groaned and tossed her head from side to side, the groans turning to screams as she reached a pinnacle. He brought her to another, and another.
Panting, almost crying, she put her hand on his head. "No more. This way of the Turks is wonderful, but I want you inside me now."
He stretched himself full length beside her, put his face, wet with her own sweet liquor, against hers and kissed her with lips and tongue. She seized his shoulders, her nails digging into his muscles, and pulled him over on top of her.
The way was so well prepared that he was within her in an instant. He knew that he could not hold himself back very long, and he gave himself up to the floodtide of pleasure. He raised his head a little so that he could look down into her wide amber eyes, and so that she could see into his soul at the moment when he gave all his force to her.
Almost at the same moment the muscles in her face tensed and her neck corded. Through clenched teeth she cried out again and again and again.
Their bodies relaxed together. Daoud felt that now, in the aftermath of frenzy, their flesh was melting and flowing together and becoming one.
They lay in silence, and a distant growl of thunder told him thatthe storm outside had passed. He had not noticed its dying away. He felt a cool breeze blowing through the windows.
It seemed as if hours passed while they lay there in silence, arms around each other, legs entwined, and he listened to her breathing slowly grow calmer.
She stroked his cheek and played with the blond hairs on his chest. "Is anything changed now?"
"For us, I think, much is changed."
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I love you. Does love mean anything to you Muslims?"
He laughed softly. "Of course it does.In this world, women and perfume are dearest to me.So spoke our Prophet, may God commend and salute him."
She shook her head and ran her finger down his forehead and nose. "I am glad I am as dear to you as perfume. You say 'our Prophet,' lying there looking more French than Simon de Gobignon. Of course, that is why your sultan sent you here. If I, who know what you are, still find it hard to accept you as a Saracen, those who do not know would never suspect."
As she spoke the name de Gobignon, he felt a twinge of anger. Just his name, mentioned in their bed, was an intrusion. Her eyes flickered momentarily away from his, as if she, too, realized it was an error. Best, he thought, to say nothing about it.
"Yes, I am truly a Muslim, and Muslims know more of love, I believe, than most Christians." But now he thought of Blossoming Reed.
Why must these ghosts hover over us?
She reached out to touch the little leather capsule tied by a thong around his neck, the only thing he was wearing at the moment. "What is that?"
"It is called a tawidh. Inside are numbers written on a scroll. It protects me from death by wounding and causes any wounds I do receive to heal quickly."
"Tawidh?" She mimicked exactly the Arabic pronunciation. "How can numbers on a scroll protect from wounds?"
He did not fully understand himself the Sufi belief that all things are numbers, and that numbers written by a holy man could control objects and events.
"One must be of my faith to understand it," he said briefly.
She looked at him earnestly. "It is so hard to think of you as a Mohammedan, David."
"Not Mohammedan—Muslim. And David is not my name. My true name is Arabic. Shall I tell it to you?"
"Oh, yes, please. I will use it with you when we are alone together."
"I am called Daoud ibn Abdallah. Daoud is Arabic for David."
"Then your nameisDavid."
"No, it is Daoud," he said. "The sound matters a great deal. It is the sound that God hears."
"You believe that God speaks Arabic?"
"It is the language most pleasing to Him. Did He not give His message to the Prophet—may God praise and salute him—in Arabic?"
She pulled herself closer to him. "Ah, David—Daoud—do not talk to me of religion now. Here and now, let us think not of religions and empires and wars, but only of you and me." She paused and looked at him a little anxiously. "Do you think the servants or anyone else heard me screaming?"
"I saw no one outside. Most of them probably suspect that we have been lovers for a long time. But suspicion is one thing. To confirm it by our outward behavior could be dangerous. We must continue to act as if this never happened."
"We will do this again, will we not?"
He touched her dark red lips with his fingertips and said: