by Robert Shea
LXV
Pride swelled Daoud's heart as he watched the column of Muslim cavalrysuddenly change direction and sweep like a long roll of thunder throughthe valley. A flutter of orange banners on their flanks, and the men atthe far end of the line launched into an all-out gallop, while theriders at the near end slowed to a high-stepping trot. The whole linepivoted like a great scythe, enveloping the flank of an imaginary enemy.
"Very impressive," said King Manfred. "They get their orders from thosecolored flags?" He and Daoud stood on the rounded brow of a grassy hill,watching the Sons of the Falcon displaying their skills for their king.The valley Daoud had found for the demonstration was a naturalamphitheater, a flat, circular plain at least a league in diametersurrounded by hills. Normally it was used as grazing land.
For over a year Daoud had been training these two hundred men, pickedfrom hundreds of volunteers from Manfred's Saracen guards. With so muchtime, he had been able to forge and polish the Sons of the Falcon into aweapon that could be the vanguard of Manfred's army.
He hoped that what Manfred saw today would put him in a warlike mood, amood to ask Daoud for his advice. He prayed for the chance to urgeManfred not to wait for Charles d'Anjou to invade his kingdom, but tomarch north and attack Charles at once.
_O God, open Manfred's mind._
For Manfred to delay the start of his war against Charles d'Anjou eventhis long could well be disastrous. A year ago Manfred could have movedout from southern Italy and smashed Charles, as a man rises from hiscouch and crosses the room to crush a mosquito. Sadly, like many a manwho sees a mosquito across the room, Manfred had chosen to remain on hiscouch.
And the mosquito was fast growing into a dragon.
Lorenzo Celino and Landgrave Erhard Barth, the grand marshal ofManfred's army, stood on either side of Daoud and Manfred. Scipio stoodbeside Celino, who rested his right hand on the dog's big head. Half adozen nobles and officers of Manfred's court were gathered a shortdistance away from the king and his three companions. Lower down thehillside, scudieros held the party's horses.
"Those flags would be useless at night," said Barth, speaking Italianwith a heavy accent, which Daoud knew to be that of Swabia, the Germanstate from which Manfred's family came. "And they would be hard to seeon a rainy day." He was a broad-faced man with a snub nose. All of hisupper front teeth were missing, which caused his upper lip to sink inand his lower lip to protrude, giving him a permanent pout.
Irritated, Daoud spoke to Manfred rather than to Barth. "There are manyways to signal. Colored lanterns at night. Horns. Drums. These men havelearned all those kinds of signals and can respond to them quickly."
Daoud's muscles tensed as he thought that the big German and he mighthave it out today. Barth, he felt sure, was one of the advisers who washolding Manfred back.
"I like the idea of signals," said Manfred. "In every battle I haveseen, no one knows what is going on once the two sides meet. Our knightsdo not know how to fight in unified groups as the Turks and the Tartarsdo."
The Sons of the Falcon rode to the base of the hill from which Manfredwas reviewing. Omar, Daoud's black-bearded second in command, spurredhis horse up the slope, leapt from the saddle, and rushed forward tokneel and kiss Manfred's hand.
"You ride splendidly," said Manfred in Arabic.
"Tell the men I am very proud of them, Omar," Daoud said. Omar flashedbright white teeth at him.
To Manfred Daoud said, "Now, Sire, if it be your pleasure, the Sons ofthe Falcon will demonstrate their skill in casting the rumh--the lance."
Manfred nodded and waved a gauntleted hand. He was dressed in a longriding cloak of emerald velvet, with an unadorned green cap covering hislight blond hair. His only jewelry was the five-pointed silver star withits ruby center, which Daoud had never seen him without.
_Just as I still wear the locket Blossoming Reed gave me._
Omar bowed, and vaulted into the saddle with an agility that brought agrunt of appreciation from Manfred. Waving his saber, he rode back downthe hill.
A scaffold and swinging target for the lances had been set up halfwayacross the valley. Recalling his own training--and Nicetas--Daoudwatched his riders form a great circle in the plain below them. He heardin his mind a boy's warbling battle cry, and felt a deep pang ofsadness.
"Why do you call them the Sons of the Falcon, Daoud?" Manfred asked.
"Because I know the falcon is the favorite bird of your family, Sire,"Daoud said. Manfred grinned and nodded.
He thought, _And because the falcon does not hesitate_.
Daoud admired Manfred. He was said to be the image of his father, andthat made it easy to see why Emperor Frederic had been known as "theWonder of the World."
_Easy to see why Sophia loved Manfred for a time._
But as a war leader, Manfred was frustrating to work with. He seemed tohave no plan for fighting Charles d'Anjou. All over southern Italy andSicily, knights and men-at-arms were in training and on the alert, butdays, months, seasons, followed one another and Manfred ordered noaction.
Daoud's own goal remained the same he had set for himself a year ago inOrvieto: To spur Manfred on to make war and to help him win a victory.
And when the war gave an opportunity, Daoud would once again try to killthe Tartar ambassadors. They were now, Manfred's agents in the northreported, in Rome under Charles's protection. Perhaps he could evenrescue poor Rachel.
Daoud smiled with pleasure as the riders below formed a huge circle, oneman behind the other. He was able to recognize individual men he hadcome to know over the past months--Muslims from Manfred's army whom hehad picked and trained himself--Abdulhak, Mujtaba, Nuwaihi, Tabari,Ahmad, Said, and many others. They were as eager for this war to beginas he was.
At a shouted command from Omar, who sat on his horse in the center, thecircle began to rotate, the horses running faster and faster. Each manbalanced a lance in his right hand, and as he rode past the swingingtarget ring, he hurled it. The ring was pulled from side to side withlong ropes by attendants, just as when Daoud had trained as a Mameluke.
As lance after lance flew through the moving target, Manfred gave a lowwhistle of appreciation. Daoud had ordered the ring to be a yard wideand the distance from horseman to target fifty feet. It was easier thanit looked for men who had practiced for months, but the rapidity of itmade a beautiful spectacle. Daoud's eye caught a few misses, but hedoubted that Manfred noticed.
"Like falcons, swift and fierce and sure," said Manfred. "But a bird isjust bone and muscle and feathers, Daoud. These men are lightly armedand armored compared to Christian soldiers. These two hundred of yourscould never stop a charge of Frankish knights."
Daoud tensed. This was an opening.
"True, Sire, when Frankish knights in all their mail get those hugearmored war-horses going at a gallop, nothing can withstand them. But weMamelukes have defeated the Franks over and over again by not lettingthem use their weight and power to advantage. They must close with theirenemy. We fight from a distance, raining arrows down upon them. If theenemy pursues you, flee until he wearies himself and spreads his linesout. Then rush in and cut him to pieces. Attack the enemy when he is notexpecting it."
"That might do well enough in the deserts of Outremer," said Manfred,"but European warfare is different. There are mountains and rivers andforests. We cannot spread out all over the landscape."
Daoud threw an exasperated look at Lorenzo, whose dark eyes weresympathetic, but who shook his head slightly, as if to warn Daoud to bepolitic in his argument with the king.
"There is one principle that you can adopt from Mameluke warfare," saidDaoud, choosing not to contradict Manfred, "and that is speed."
"Our Swabian knights and our Saracen warriors ride as swiftly as any inEurope," Barth growled.
"Once they get moving," said Lorenzo sharply.
_He isn't always politic himself_, thought Daoud.
"Forgive me for speaking boldly, Sire," said Daoud, "but a whole summerhas gone by sinc
e Pope Clement proclaimed a crusade against you anddeclared that your crown belongs to Charles d'Anjou. And there has beenno fighting. Is this what you mean by European warfare? In the time ittakes Europeans to get ready for one war, we Mamelukes would have foughtfive wars."
As he spoke he proudly recalled what an Arab poet had written of theMamelukes: _They charge like lightning and arrive like thunder._
Manfred turned to watch the riders. A royal privilege, Daoud thought, toconduct an argument at one's chosen pace. He pushed down the urge to saymore, forced himself to be patient, waited tensely for Manfred to replyin his own time.
He felt a movement beside him and turned to see that Lorenzo had movedcloser to him. He gave Lorenzo a pleading look, trying to ask him tojoin the discussion. Manfred respected Lorenzo and listened to him.
Lorenzo replied with a frown and a nod. He seemed to be saying he wouldspeak up when he judged the moment right.
When the men who had cast came around to the opposite side of thecircle, fresh lances thrust upright in the ground by their servants werewaiting for them. Each warrior leaned out of the saddle, seized a lance,and rode back around at top speed to throw at the target again.
After a moment, Manfred turned back to Daoud and said, "Charles d'Anjouhas been hanging about in Rome all through the spring and summerclaiming to be king of Sicily. This morning I asked to see my crown, andmy steward brought it to me from the vault. The pope's words had notmade it disappear. Rome is not Sicily. Anjou is welcome to stay in thatdecaying pesthole until he takes one of those famous Roman fevers anddies."
No doubt, thought Daoud, Manfred's gesture in calling for his crown hadamused his whole court. And put heart into any who feared Charles'sgrowing strength. Manfred was charming, no question. But meanwhileCharles d'Anjou, who by all accounts had not a bit of charm, _was_ infact growing stronger day by day. Those of Manfred's supporters who wereafraid had good reason, and Daoud was one of them.
It was agony to think how the opportunity to beat Charles now wasslipping away.
"So, you will wait for Charles to come to you," said Daoud.
Manfred smiled. "And he, I suspect, hopes that I will come to him.Charles has to pay his army to stay in Italy. The longer he puts offattacking me, the more his treasury is depleted. My army waits at home,sustaining itself."
Daoud said, "Now that Charles's war is called a crusade, barons andknights are joining him from all over Christendom. Many of them arepaying their own way. Sire, when Charles decides he is ready to moveagainst you, his strength will be overwhelming."
Lorenzo spoke up. "And meanwhile the pope has placed your whole kingdomunder interdict. No sacraments. No Masses. Couples cannot marry inchurch. Can we weigh the pain of mothers and fathers who think theirbabies that die unbaptized will never see God? And what about the terrorof sinners unable to confess, and the dying who cannot have the lastsacraments? And the grief of those who had to bury their loved oneswithout funerals? Sire, your people have not heard a church bell sincelast May. They grow more restless and unhappy every day. And it does nothelp your cause when they see your Muslim and Jewish subjects freelypracticing _their_ religions."
"I am surprised to hear _you_ pay such tribute to the power of religion,Lorenzo," said Manfred with that bright grin of his.
The grim lines of Lorenzo's face were accentuated by the droop of hisblack and white mustache. "I have never in my life doubted the _power_of religion, Sire."
Having used up all their lances, the Sons of the Falcon were nowshooting arrows from horseback, riding toward lines of stationarytargets that had been set up at the far end of the valley.
"Do you have a proposal, Daoud?" said Manfred with a sour look. "Let mehear it."
Daoud felt an overwhelming sense of relief. This was the moment he hadbeen hoping for all day.
"Sire, do not wait for Charles to come out of Rome," he said. "InJanuary, February at the latest, assemble your army and march north."
There, he had made his cast. Would it pierce the target?
"I could go all the way to the Papal States only to find Charles lurkingbehind the walls of Rome. I cannot besiege Rome. That would take tentimes as many men as I have."
"No," said Daoud. "His army will not let him stay in Rome. By the end ofwinter they will have stolen everything in Rome that can be stolen.Charles will have to promise them more spoils and lead them to battle,or they will desert him."
Manfred nodded thoughtfully. "In truth, greed is what drives them."
Daoud added, "And call on your allies in Florence and Siena and theother Ghibellino cities to stop any more of Charles's allies coming intoItaly. They cannot all come by sea as he did. Many times I have heardpeople in your court say that Charles has cut Italy in half. Nonsense.He has put himself between two millstones."
Manfred's eyes lit up. "Yes, I like that way of looking at it."
The Sons of the Falcon had ridden to the far end of the valley and werenow roaring back, standing in the saddle and firing arrows over thetails of their horses.
"Sire," said Daoud. "Not to act is to act." He felt urgency building inhim as he sensed that he was persuading Manfred.
"I remember my father saying something like that," said Manfred. "Whatdo you think, Erhard?"
Daoud's heart sank. The beefy Swabian would undoubtedly counsel morewaiting.
In thought, Landgrave Barth sucked in his upper lip and pushed out thependulous lower one until it seemed he was trying to pull his nose intohis mouth.
"Anjou will have to campaign against you soon, Sire, for the reason HerrDaoud has just given," he said slowly. "His men will not allow him tostay in Rome and endure the privation of a siege. When they learn youare coming, they will demand that he march out to meet you. He isprobably planning an attack for next April or May, when the weather isbest. He must expect reinforcements--but, so he does not have to paythem for long, he will not want them to come until the very moment he isready to invade. So, if you attack him in January or February, you catchhim unready." He finished with a vigorous nod of his head. "I recommendit."
Daoud felt a new and unexpected warmth toward Barth. The landgrave wasnot such a dull-witted old soldier after all.
The Sons of the Falcon had finished their archery exercise. In fourranks, fifty mounted men abreast, they drew up at the base of the hilland saluted Manfred, two hundred scimitars flashing in the afternoonsun.
Manfred stepped forward to the crest of the hill and raised his handsabove his head. "_May God bless your arms!_" he shouted in Arabic.
The wild, high-pitched ululations of his Muslim warriors echoed againstthe surrounding hills as Manfred, smiling, returned to his companions.
He said, "In three months' time, then. No more than four. The weatherwill decide. I will call in my barons one by one and tell them toprepare. We must keep this a secret for as long as possible."
Daoud, Lorenzo, and Barth all bowed in assent. Daoud felt a surge ofjoy. He had succeeded in persuading Manfred to strike at Charles.Manfred's reasons for not wanting to move were sound ones, he knew. Hehad spent long hours considering them himself, but he was certain thatif Manfred did nothing, he was surely doomed. At this moment Manfred andCharles were nearly evenly matched, Manfred a little stronger, Charlesgrowing in strength. To a great extent it would be luck--or the will ofGod--that determined the outcome. Daoud could not control luck or God.But he could make the best possible plan and give his all to it.
Suddenly, he badly wanted to get back to Sophia in Lucera. Usually heenjoyed being out with the troops, overseeing their training. Today hebegrudged the time. Every moment seemed precious. Three months would begone before he and Sophia realized it. Then he would be riding withManfred's army, perhaps never to see her again.
He must make sure she would be safe no matter what happened. PerhapsUgolini or Tilia could help. Sophia would want to travel with thearmy--with him--north. She was not a woman to pine at home while menmarched away. He must discourage her; it was too dangerous.
&nbs
p; But to discourage her would probably be impossible.
* * * * *
Simon listened to the drumming hooves behind him on the dirt road andthought, _I will be hearing this sound all day long every day formonths_. He supposed that after a while he would no longer notice it,but today, the day after his departure from Chateau Gobignon, his earsseemed to ache from the incessant pounding.
And the hoofbeats were a constant reminder that he was really leadingthe Gobignon host to war.
All summer long the conviction had been growing upon him that this was abad war, and all the suffering it caused, all the deaths andmutilations, would be on his conscience forever. No matter that the popehad proclaimed it a holy crusade against the blasphemer Manfred. Popescould be wrong about wars.
Simon's father, Roland, had vividly described for him the horrors of theAlbigensian crusade of a generation ago, when knights of northern Francehad fallen upon Languedoc like a pack of wolves--like Tartars, infact--reducing it to ruins. And that crusade had been proclaimed by apope.
In days to come the rumbling in his ears would be louder, the feelingthat he was guilty of great wrongdoing harder to bear. He looked overhis shoulder and saw thirty knights mounted on their palfreys, anothertwenty equerries and servants on smaller horses, two priests on mules,five supply wagons, two of them full of weapons and armor, one hundredfoot soldiers and sixty great war-horses in strings, a page boy ridingthe lead horse in each string. This was the Gobignon householdcontingent. At today's end he would have three times that many of everycategory, and by the end of the week his army would have swollen to itsfull size of four hundred knights, fifteen hundred foot soldiers, andall the equerries, attendants, horses, and baggage they needed.
And, a year or more from now, how many of them would come back from thiswar? He thought of Alain de Pirenne, lying on a street in Orvieto. Hethought of Teodoro at the Monaldeschi palace, his chest crushed by astone, his warm blood pouring out of his mouth over Simon's hand. Howmany of these men would die miserably like that?
Thierry d'Hauteville and Valery de Pirenne--Alain's younger brother--thetwo young men who rode behind him, caught his eye and grinneddelightedly. He managed a smile in return, but feared it must lookawfully weak. The bright red silk crosses sewn on their chests caughthis eye. He wore one, too, on the breast of his purple and gold surcoat.His oldest sister, Isabelle, a fine seamstress, had sewn it there andembroidered the edges with gold thread.
All three of his sisters, Isabelle, Alix, and Blanche, had worked on thecrusaders' banner, red cross on white silk, that rippled above Simon.Equerries took turns riding with the banner according to a roster Simonhimself had written. Beside the crusading flag, another equerry carriedthe banner of the house of Gobignon, three gold crowns, two side by sideand one below them, on a purple background.
His sisters' three husbands rode to war behind him today. Since he wasunmarried and had no heir, one of them would be Count de Gobignon if heshould fall.
_And with more right to the title, perhaps, than I have_, he thoughtunhappily. And he felt as if icy fingers stroked the back of his neckwhen he thought how much one of those three knights back there stood togain by his death.
His little troop raised no dust; the road was damp and covered withpuddles from yesterday's rain. Thank God it had not rained hard enoughto turn the road into mud. As it was, the weather made his leave-takinggloomier than it need have been. The empty fields, littered with yellowstubble, lay flat under the vast gray bowl of a cloudy November sky. Theonly feature in that landscape was a darker gray, the bulk of ChateauGobignon with its round towers rising on its great solitary hill. Theroad they traveled ran back to it as straight as if it had been drawnwith a mason's rule.
_I should stop this enterprise now_, Simon thought. _I should turn backbefore it is too late._
The longer they were on the road, the harder it would be to declaresuddenly that Gobignon was _not_ going to war in Italy, to tell hisbarons and knights to return to their homes and hang up their arms. Ifhe did so at this moment, he would provoke great anger in these men ofhis own household. Today and tomorrow great barons would be joining him,mature men--his vassals--but men of weight and power in their own right.Their scorn at his change of heart would be almost unbearable.
But did he want to be another Amalric de Gobignon, leading the flower ofhis domain's manhood, hundreds of knights and thousands of men-at-arms,to war, with only a handful coming back? If this was a bad war, Godmight well punish Charles d'Anjou with defeat. And Simon would share,not in the glory as Charles had promised him, but in disaster and death.
_And I am not rightfully the Count de Gobignon._
He knew, though these men did not, that he had no right to call them outto war. If Simon de Gobignon, a bastard and an impostor, led this armyto its destruction, what name was there for such a crime?
The voice of Valery de Pirenne, Simon's new equerry, broke in on Simon'stormented thoughts.
"I am not sorry to be leaving home this time of year. What better placeto spend the winter than sunny Italy?"
_I have already caused the death of this young man's brother. Will Ikill Valery too?_
"It rains much in Italy in January," said Thierry, now Sire Thierryd'Hauteville, having been knighted by Simon at the beginning of Novemberon the Feast of All Saints. His tone was lofty with experience.
"Bad weather for war," said Henri de Puys, whose experience was tentimes Thierry's--or Simon's, for that matter. "But the rains should beover by the time we reach that infidel Manfred's kingdom."
"Look there," said Thierry. "More knights coming to meet us."
Simon saw a line of about a dozen men on horseback, three canvas-coveredwagons and a straggling column of men on foot with spears over theirshoulders. The oncoming knights and men were tiny in the distance,marching along a road that would meet Simon's route.
_Oh, God, now it will be harder to turn them back._
"That will be the party from Chateau la Durie," Thierry said, pointingto the horizon where the four towers of a small castle were just barelyvisible.
A distant bell was ringing out the noon hour as Simon's troop met thosefrom la Durie. All of the new knights wore red crosses on their tunics.Sire Antoine de la Durie was a stout man about de Puys's age with a hugemustache called an algernon, whose ends grew into his sideburns. Simonand de la Durie brought their horses together and embraced. The knightsmelled like a barn.
"How was your harvest, Sire Antoine?"
Large white teeth flashed under the algernon. "Ample, Monseigneur. Butnot so ample, I trust, as what we shall gather in Sicily."
They all wanted this so much.
How his chief barons had cheered and roared and stamped when heannounced this war to them at his Midsummer's Eve feast in the greathall at Chateau Gobignon! It was at that very moment, when he had seenthe ferocious eagerness of his barons for war, that he had begun againto doubt.
Antoine de la Durie gestured with a callused, bare hand to three youngmen on horseback whose russet cloaks were patched, but whose longswordsproclaimed their knighthood. They grinned shyly at Simon.
"These are the Pilchard brothers, Monseigneur. They are not Gobignonvassals, but they are Madame de la Durie's cousin's sons, and I vouchfor them. They beg to go crusading under your leadership."
_Under my leadership! God help them!_
"You are right welcome, Messires. When we stop for the night, see myclerk, Friar Amos, and have him add your names to our roll."
The young men dismounted, rushed to him, and kissed his hands.
Why did he not send them away, send all these knights away, tell themthere would be no war in Italy? Because he was afraid of his own baronsand knights, the men he was supposed to lead. Because he felt he had setsomething in motion that could not be stopped, like one of thosehorrendous avalanches in the Alps.
If they were to keep going, he must--without mishap--cover ten leagues aday to reach Rome by February. He must study ag
ain the maps Valery wascarrying in his saddlebags, especially the one he had just received,along with a letter, from Count Charles--King Charles.
The infidel Manfred, Charles had written, had stirred up the Ghibellinocities of northern Italy. They were lying in wait for allies of Anjou,who might come down from France or the Holy Roman Empire. Simon must notwaste troops fighting the Sienese or Florentine militia. So he shouldenter Italy by way of Provence and Liguria, then cut across eastward toRavenna and thence down to Spoleto and Viterbo, and finally to Rome. Theroundabout route would take longer, but Charles would expect Simon inRome by the first of February. Charles intended to march against Manfredat the beginning of April.
Two months to reach Provence, march along the Ligurian coast, perhaps asfar as Genoa, which was safely Guelfo, and then pick his way around thenests of northern Ghibellini to Rome. It could be done, but only if hisarmy met with no unexpected obstacles--a Ghibellino army, for instance,or a bad winter storm.
And then, beyond Rome, what would they find?
Once they were there, at least he would not have to make the decisionsthat determined the fate of these men. The responsibility--and the blameif they failed--would be Charles's.
_The greatest war since you were a child_, Charles had promised.
And none of the Gobignon men would ever know that they were fightingbecause he had fallen in love with a woman named Sophia--if that wastruly her name--and she had let him taste her love and then haddisappeared.
He remembered a trouvere at a feast singing of how the Greeks went towar because Helen, wife of one of their kings, ran off with Paris,prince of Troy. But that was just a story.
Sophia--her face and form arose in his memory, and there was a strangehappiness mixed with the pain, as if he were glad of his suffering. Hehad heard songs about the sweet pain of love, but he had never beforenow understood them.
And even now he could not think of Sophia as an enemy. His heartbeatquickened at the thought that there was a chance, very small but still achance, that Sophia might truly be someone he could love, and that hecould free her from whatever entanglement had dragged her into Manfred'spower.
By the end of the day the sound of hoofbeats around him was no longer adrumming, but a thundering. And all around and above him was afluttering of banners. Each of the larger contingents that joined himhad brought the standard of its seigneur.
The road south was climbing into forested hills. At the crest of thefirst hill Simon tugged on the reins to slow his palfrey, and turned tolook back. In the fading light of the overcast day, Chateau Gobignon wasa violet outcropping on the flat horizon, its towers indistinct. Thiswould be his last sight of it, perhaps for years. And tomorrow he wouldcross the boundary of his domain. That was a point past which there wasno return. Once the host was assembled, once they had crossed theGobignon border, it would not matter what he told them. If he refused tolead them, they would find another leader.
He saw two more banners rising above the crest of a bare ridge to thewest. Then the heads and shoulders of men, then the horses they rode.They waved and halloed. More followed them. And still more.
Simon met the newcomers by a stream that trickled through a small valleylined with birch trees. Seigneur Claudius de Marion, the leader of thelarge new party, lifted his square chin as he reached over and clappedSimon heartily on the shoulder.
"The valley widens out up ahead," he said. "I propose that we campthere. The forest beyond is thick and not a good place to ride throughat night. And, Monseigneur, to be frank, I do not want to send mydaughter home after dark."
"I will be quite safe, Father, if Monseigneur the Count wishes to presson for the night."
The young woman riding a tall gray and white stallion beside Claudius deMarion had humorous blue eyes and a wide mouth. Her upper lip protrudedslightly, an irregularity Simon thought quite pretty in her. She had notinherited her father's nose, which was shaped like an axe blade; herswas small and turned up at the end. Her single yellow-gold braid, whichcircled round from under her blue hood and hung down between her highbreasts, seemed to glow in the gathering dusk.
Simon remembered dancing in a ring that included her at last Midsummer'sEve feast. She had worn a woven wreath of white daisies in her hair.
"Barbara insisted on accompanying me to our meeting," said de Marionwith an indulgent grin. "I could not persuade her to bid me farewellfrom our castle."
Barbara's smile was wide and frank, like her father's. "In truth,Monseigneur, I had to see all the knights and men you have gathered. Iknew it would be a brave sight, such as I have never seen the like of.God grant you a glorious victory. Will you take wine?"
She held up an oval wineskin, and at Simon's nod and murmur of thanksshe worked her horse over to his with a click of her tongue and a pat onthe neck. She rode like one born to it, thought Simon. Which she was.
She squirted the wine into his open mouth. It was red and strong, and itlit a welcome little fire in his belly.
As they rode deeper into the valley, Simon asked himself, where hadBarbara de Marion been when he had been earnestly searching for a wife?She had been a child, and his eyes had passed right over her. Howdifferent his life might have been if she had been a little older twoyears ago. Seigneur Claudius was one of his chief vassals and a goodfriend, and would doubtless have had no objection to a marriage. Simonmight never have gone to Italy.
But there was room in this heart for only one love. And there was onlyone course his life could take now.
Somehow, with the sight of this maiden and the realization that he mighthave fallen in love with her once but never could now, a door closed inSimon's mind. His destiny lay in Italy. He could no more forget Sophiaand return to Chateau Gobignon like a snail crawling into its shell thanhe could spit himself on his own sword.
As for these men, they were going to Italy for their own gain, not tohelp Simon find Sophia, nor yet to help Charles d'Anjou become King ofSicily. Or even to protect the pope from his Hohenstaufen enemies. Hehad not had to appeal to their feudal obligations in summoning them towar. As Count Charles had predicted, they all _wanted_ to come. All theycared about was a chance for riches and land and glory after years ofdoing nothing but managing their domains. They marched of their own freewill. He only pointed the way.
He remembered something Roland had said to him: _Once you have made yourchoice, put your whole heart and soul into it. Never divide yourself._
Which, Simon thought, was exactly why, even though he would pass nearNicolette and Roland's home in Provence, he would not visit them. Heknew well their feelings about crusades, and he could be quite sure ofthe loathing with which they would view this war. Roland had even spenta good part of his youth at the court of Emperor Frederic, Manfred'sfather. No, he had enough doubts of his own without letting his parentsadd more.
Even so, from his belt hung Roland's gift to him, the jeweled Damascusscimitar. He did not like to admit to himself that he was superstitious,but with this scimitar Roland had gotten out of Egypt alive in the faceof the most terrible dangers. Somehow, Simon saw the scimitar as atalisman that might also get him through this war.
He glanced over at the beautiful Barbara de Marion and felt a rush ofgratitude. Knowing that, lovely as she was, she could never make himforget Sophia, had helped him make his decision.