Simon said, "I know. David--Daoud--told me not to take Sordello with me
if I went looking for Sophia. As if he knew this might happen. How could
that be?"
Rachel was sitting on the arm of the chair, gently stroking Sophia's
shoulder.
Friar Mathieu said, "Why would Sordello try to kill you? Because he was
about to rape Sophia when you interrupted? Or because he was afraid you
would punish him for killing--Daoud?"
Amazement jolted Sophia's body. She opened her eyes and stared at Friar
Mathieu.
"_Sordello_ killed Daoud?"
Simon answered her. "I will tell you how he died. I must talk to you. I
have waited more than a year, you know, to see you again."
Sobs still shook her, but she nodded and wiped her face with the sleeve
of her gown. He reached down. She took his arm, and he helped her up.
She saw that he had a bloodstained strip of linen tied around his neck.
"The balcony," she said.
"Good."
As she went to her chest to get her cloak, Sophia looked at the icon of
the saint of the pillar and thought how much, even though it had Simon's
name, the expression looked like Daoud's.
Simon held the door to the balcony for her. The night was cold and
moonless. The bitter smell of burning floated on the freezing air. The
shouts of frenzied soldiers and the agonized screams of men and women
seemed to come from everywhere. Fires blazed in all parts of the town,
their glow and smoke turning the night sky a cloudy reddish-gray. On the
plain to the north, campfires twinkled. Somewhere out there Daoud lay
dead.
She looked up at Simon. Darkness hid his face. The ruddy glow of burning
Benevento haloed his head. In a quiet, even voice he told Sophia how he
came upon Daoud fighting side by side with Manfred, and how he fought
with Daoud after Manfred was killed. How he lay helpless with Daoud's
sword pointed at his face.
"He did not move for a long time," Simon said. "It was growing dark, but
I saw the look on his face. A gentle look. He did not want to kill me. I
am sure of it."
And then without any warning had come the treacherous crossbow bolt out
of the circle around them, and Daoud had fallen.
"It was Sordello. He could not understand my rage at him. He kept
protesting that he had saved my life. He had not."
Sophia thought of Sordello's attempt to seduce her. She clutched the
wooden railing, choking bile rising in her throat.
"I am glad I killed him," she whispered. "I have never killed anyone
before tonight. That I killed him was a gift from God."
Simon did not answer at once.
Then he said, "Tonight, before Daoud died, he told me that you were
innocently drawn into his conspiracy against the alliance. He said he
took advantage of my love for you, and that you and he were never close.
But now that you've heard he is dead, you are like a woman who has lost
a husband or a lover."
He stopped. He needed to say no more. She knew what he was asking.
The enormous aching void inside her made it almost impossible to think.
Daoud, even as he lay dying, had tried to protect her. Simon might have
suspicions, but about who she was or what she had done, he knew nothing.
Manfred was dead. Tilia, Ugolini and Lorenzo--wherever they might be
now--would say nothing.
She could, if she chose, become the person Simon thought she was--the
person who had given herself to Simon in love at the lake outside
Perugia. She need only seize the chance Daoud had given her.
In all Italy there was no place for her now. Once again she belonged
nowhere and to no one. And she could be a wife to this good young man.
She could be the Countess de Gobignon, with a station in life, with
power to accomplish things, to change the world.
"You want to know what Daoud meant to me," she said. "Did you tell him
what I meant to you?" She was amazed at how level her voice sounded.
"I think he knew," Simon spoke just above a whisper. "I did not feel I
had to tell him anything."
Then Daoud had died not knowing that she and Simon had for a moment been
lovers. Did it matter? If Daoud had known, perhaps he would have killed
Simon instead of just standing over him with his sword.
His not knowing had not hurt Daoud. But it was hurting her.
_There was a part of myself I withheld from him. And that was my loss,
because much as he loved me, he did not know me fully._
But if she regretted not telling Daoud the truth about that single
moment, how could she ever bear to hide from Simon the truth about her
whole life?
Could she pretend, forevermore, to be Sophia Orfali, the naive Sicilian
girl, the cardinal's niece, with whom Simon had fallen in love? Could
she pour all of herself into a mask? Could she live with Simon, enjoying
the love and the wealth and power he offered her, knowing that it was
all founded on a lie?
_No, never. Impossible._
The pain of Daoud's death was nearly unbearable, but it was _her_ pain,
true pain. Ever since that night of death in Constantinople--a night
much like this--she had not felt at home in the world. Now she saw her
place. All she owned in the world was the person she _really_ was, and
what she _really_ had done. If she deceived Simon, she would have to
deny her very existence.
_And I would have to deny the greatest happiness I have ever known, my
love for Daoud._
If she lied to Simon, it would be as if Daoud had never been. It would
be like killing him a second time. Her heart, screaming even now with
her longing for Daoud, would scream forever in silence. Buried alive.
Simon must already suspect the truth. He might try to believe whatever
she told him about herself. Still, some awareness of his self-deception
would remain with him, even if he refused to think about it. It would
fester inside him, slowly poisoning him.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see the suffering
in Simon's long, narrow face as he waited for her answer. Starlight
twinkled on the jeweled handle of the sword at his belt. What she told
him might make him hate her so much that he would kill her.
_I have never been more willing to die._
"Simon, I promised you that when I saw you again I would tell you why I
could not marry you. I hoped I never would have to tell you."
He said, "I had not wanted to fight in this war of Charles against
Manfred, or to bring the men of Gobignon with me. When I found that you
had fled to Manfred's kingdom, I changed my mind."
Her pain had been like a pile of rocks heaped upon her, and what he said
was the final boulder crushing her. Her ribs seemed to splinter; her
lungs labored for breath.
_So I must bear the guilt for Simon's coming to the war. How many men
died today because of me?_
She could hardly feel more sorrow, but the night around her seemed to
grow blacker. Perhaps it would be best if he did kill her. She would
tell him everything straight out, without trying to protect herself from
his anger.
"My name is Sophia Karaiannides. I worked as a spy in Constantinople for
Michael Paleologos and helped him overthrow the Frankish usurper. I was
Michael's concubine for a time. Then he sent me to be his private
messenger to Manfred's court here in Italy. Manfred chose to make me his
mistress. But that became difficult for him and dangerous for me. When
Daoud came to Manfred asking for help in thwarting the Tartar alliance,
Manfred sent me along to Orvieto to help him. I fell in love with
Daoud."
Simon leaned his long body against the outer wall of the house. Having
to hear this all at once must be overwhelming.
"So you went from one to bed to the next as you went from one country to
the next."
It hurt her to hear his words, his voice tight with pain, but she had
expected this.
"Daoud and I did not come together as man and woman at first," she said.
"He did not want to be close to me."
He staggered back to the edge of the balcony as if she had struck him,
and she was afraid he might fall.