Sophia heard a murmur from the riders ahead, and looked up. It was
warmer here in the south, and she had opened the curtains of her sedan
chair. Following the path around the side of a hill, the two men
carrying her had brought Lucera into view.
It seemed not to have changed at all in the year and a half since she
had left with Daoud and Lorenzo. The octagonal walls and square towers
of Manfred's citadel, warmed by the setting sun, rose above the small
city standing in the center of a plain surrounded by hills.
Her skin tingled at the thought of seeing Daoud again. But her heart,
which should have been light with happiness, ached, tormented for months
by a decision she could not make.
A cry from the men-at-arms leading the way startled her. Her eyes
followed a pointing arm and saw, high on the rocky slope of a nearby
hill, a mounted warrior.
He glittered in the sunset. He was too far away for her to see the
details of his costume, but gold flashed on his breastplate, on his
hands and arms, and on the white turban that shaded his face. One of
Manfred's Saracens probably, sent out from Lucera to bid them welcome.
She saw that their path descended gradually into a valley. The Saracen's
horse was scrambling down a steep slope to meet them. The warrior leaned
back in this saddle to balance himself, riding easily down to the valley
floor.
As she drew nearer to him, her heart started to hammer in her chest. The
lower half of his face was covered by a short blond beard. The face was
still in shadow, but the nose was long and straight.
Most of all, it was his carriage that told her who he was. He held
himself so perfectly erect that he almost seemed made of some substance
lighter and finer than ordinary flesh. And yet there was not a trace of
stiffness in his posture. Like a young tree. Some vessel seemed to open
within her and spread a gentle, joyous balm throughout her body.
Ahead of her, Ugolini, alerted by his guards, had thrown back the
curtains of his sedan chair and was leaning out. He was bareheaded, his
white side-whiskers fluttering in the breeze. He must be beside himself
with excitement, Sophia thought, at the prospect of reunion with Tilia.
The horseman touched his right hand to his white turban in salute to
Ugolini, and rode on past.
How splendidly he was caparisoned, from the white plume in his turban to
his jeweled, carved stirrups. The breastplate over his long red riding
robe was of polished steel, inlaid with gold in Arabic spirals. Jewels
sparkled on the hilt and sheath of his sword.
He was close enough for her to see his face clearly. His new beard gave
him a commanding, princely look. Seeing him like this, she understood
better what the word _Mameluke_ meant. She felt as if a new sun had
arisen before her. How unbelievably lucky she was to be loved by such a
man.
But, like an enemy in ambush, the pain of her indecision struck her in
the heart.
_The more fool I am to have betrayed him._
He drew up beside her and rode around her sedan chair so that the head
of his glistening black horse was toward Lucera. In a sudden movement he
leaned down from the saddle. An irresistible arm encircled her waist and
pulled her up out of the sedan chair. For a moment she felt alarmed and
amazed, as if she were flying through the air. Then, before she could
scream, she found herself comfortably seated across the great horse, her
shoulder resting on his breastplate, his arms around her.
Her only fear was that she might faint at his touch.
And like that they rode into Lucera. Together for all the world to see.
* * * * *
What exquisite irony! She gazed around the bedchamber Daoud had led her
to, hardly able to believe her eyes. The big bed with its golden
curtains was the same, and so was the window with its pointed arch. This
was the very room, the very bed, in which Manfred and she had made love
for the last time.
Manfred must have deliberately chosen to give this room to them.
Daoud's weapons hung on the wall, and his armor was mounted on wooden
stands. Chests of clothing and other possessions were lined up along the
wall. Soon the servants would be bringing her things in too.
This room--another thing she could not tell him about. She despised
herself. But it might well offend him if he knew of Manfred's little
joke, and enmity between Daoud and Manfred at this moment could be
disastrous.
_Manfred needs Daoud. Why is he so foolish as to risk angering him?_
Daoud and she stood staring at each other. They had said little so far.
She felt overwhelmed, and she supposed he did too. She felt her longing
for him as a strange not-quite-pain in the pit of her stomach.
He took her shoulders in his hands. How good to feel his strong fingers
holding her.
"How long has this been your room?" she asked.
"For about a month. Rather grand, is it not? The king says it is
suitable to my rank. I have my own command, a division of his mounted
Muslim warriors. I call them the Sons of the Falcon."
_Suitable to my rank._
She wondered how much Daoud knew about herself and Manfred.
"What troubles you?" he asked.
_So many things._
"Manfred," she said, choosing the worry easiest to speak of.
He stroked her cheek gently. "No need to torment yourself. I understand
how it must have been."
_But would you understand about Simon?_