His hand gripped hers tightly. He bent down so that he was speaking
softly into her ear.
"I know you cannot forget your people, but you could escape this war. My
service is done, now that the new pope has confirmed the alliance with
the Tartars. I do not have to stay in Italy."
She was glad he did not want to fight for Charles. The thought of him
and Daoud meeting on a battlefield was horrible. But surely this brother
of King Louis would make every effort to draw Simon into the war.
"Count Charles will want you to fight."
"If you will marry me and come to Gobignon, nothing else will matter to
me. We will live content in my castle in the heart of my domain. We will
shut out the world and its wars."
She turned to look at him, and the longing on his face was painful to
see.
She felt the tears coming, hot, blurring her vision.
"Simon, I cannot!"
His grip on her hand was painful. "Again and again you say that to me.
And you never tell me _why_. Are you secretly a nun? Have you taken
vows? Does your husband still live? I demand that you tell me! Stop
tormenting me like this." His usually pale face was suddenly scarlet
with rage.
His anger dried up her tears.
_I know how I can put an end to this._
"I will, Simon. But I am not ready to speak of it today."
"Then _when_?"
"Go now and meet your Count Charles at Ostia. By the time you come back
to the papal court we will probably have moved to Viterbo. And when I
see you again, I will tell you why I cannot marry you."
The shadow cleared from his face. "Do you promise with all your heart?
And if I can persuade you that your reason is not good enough, then will
you marry me?"
For a moment she hesitated. Even though her life depended on deceiving
him, she could not bear to make such a promise. But then she saw that
she could honestly agree to what he asked.
"If you still want me to marry you--yes."
_I can say that because if you ever come to know my true reason for not
marrying you, you will hate me more than you have ever hated anyone in
your life._
He left her soon afterward. She went back to her room and cried for most
of the afternoon. Every so often she looked up to see the icon of the
desert saint staring at her. She saw the same reproach in Simon
Stylites's eyes that she had seen in Simon de Gobignon's.