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 marry _me_."
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 family
between 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 of _her_ pretense, 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._