"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 about you 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 for _months_.
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 the hardness 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--a _place_, a
_family_. 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.