"The southeast of Italy. The richest of Manfred's provinces. Where he
has always chosen to live, and his father Frederic before him. Simon,
Count de Gobignon, Duke of Apulia. How does that sound? In one short war
you would double your land holdings and triple your wealth. Now do you
see how this war touches you?"
What Simon realized, with a clarity that chilled him, as if he had
suddenly seen in Uncle Charles the mark of some dread disease, was that
he and Charles d'Anjou were utterly different kinds of men. As Count of
Anjou and Seigneur of Arles, Charles already ruled a domain bigger than
Gobignon, and he thought it the most natural thing in the world to want
more.
_Why do I not want more? Should I? Is something wrong with me?_
It was all too much for Simon to think through now, while Charles was
pressing so. He had to get away from him. It occurred to him that he
could agree now to join forces with Charles, then go back to Gobignon
and renege on his promise. Charles would be far too busy fighting in
Italy to try to force him to bring troops from Gobignon.
No, that probably would not work. It would be stupid to think he could
outwit a man as experienced in statecraft as the Count of Anjou. Once
Simon promised, Charles would no doubt find a way to force him to make
good.
"Uncle Charles, I cannot decide in one evening the future of thousands
of people whose lives and souls I am responsible for."
Charles shook his head. His face was darkening; he was getting angry.
"You sound like my brother, talking about the difficulty of making royal
decisions. God's bowels, boy! Deciding what's best for our subjects is
what we were born to do. Where is the Gobignon in you? Your father,
Count Amalric, for all he went wrong at the end of his life, would have
known how to seize a moment like this. How do you think that splendid
domain you've inherited was built up? Empires must grow, or they wither
and die. It is a law of life."
Simon was never more glad he was not Amalric's son.
"I must go back and look at the old agreements and treaties, Uncle
Charles. I must see what kind of service each baron and each knight owes
me, and for how long and under what conditions I can call on them. Let
me see what my rights are as seigneur. Then I will be able to tell you
how many knights and men I can bring to you."
"Suit yourself, but I will wager few of them will hold you to the letter
of their obligations. As I said, when they see the chances for gain,
they will want to come. If need be, pay them. Your treasury is fat. You
have had no wars to pay for for many years. Whatever you spend, you will
make back a hundredfold when we take Manfred's kingdom."
_He did not notice that I did not actually promise to bring any men back
with me._
To seem to promise and yet not to promise--Simon felt rather proud of
himself for finding a way out. He felt like a fox who had thrown a pack
of slavering hounds off the scent. He had freed himself from the trap
Anjou had built for him. Perhaps the count was right. Perhaps this time
in Italy _had_ done him some good, made him a cleverer man. He drank
deeply of the red Roman wine and secretly toasted himself.
He would honor Charles's request to remain at his side in Rome for a
time, fighting for him if need be. Then to Viterbo.
Over a year ago he had agreed to care for the Tartars, and he would be
judged, and would judge himself, on how well he had done that. He did
not like leaving it to de Verceuil. Even if Papa le Gros, as the
Italians called him, were all in favor of the alliance, the Tartars
still had many points to settle before the war--the final war--on the
Saracens became a reality.
"Before I return to Gobignon," Simon said, "I must go to Viterbo and
make sure that the Tartars are well guarded."
"Suit yourself." Charles waved a large hand in acquiescence.
To Viterbo and Sophia.
He felt again the ecstasy of that day by the lake, the closeness, the
union of their flesh. How beautiful it had been! Even here, in Charles
d'Anjou's tent outside the walls of Rome, he felt a hot stirring in his
body at the remembrance of their afternoon of love.
How could she not want that again? She must. He was sure of it. She
wanted, as he did, a lifetime of love. That was why she wept whenever he
tried to convince her that he meant to marry her.
She had promised him faithfully that the next time they met she would
tell him what the obstacle was to their marrying. Whatever the reason
was, he would sweep it aside and carry her off to Gobignon with him.
Friar Mathieu could marry them before they even left Viterbo. Then if
Grandmère or his sisters had any objections, they would have to swallow
them. They could be together in his castle this summer, when the rivers
were flowing fast, when the trees were heavy with fruit and the fields
were green and the forest was full of fleet deer and clever foxes. How
she would love it!
Sophia. A thousand visions of her cascaded through his mind, of her dark
red lips smiling, her eyes glowing like precious stones, her proud
carriage. And he remembered the feel of her limbs tangled with his, her
passion the proof, despite her fears, of the depth of her love for him.
It would be maddening to stay away from her for the two months Charles
had asked of him, but after that they would have the whole of their
lives together.