The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 87

Daoud shook his head. Nonsense. Sophia was not his wife, and it was for this very purpose, to seduce, corrupt, and spy upon the enemy, that he had brought her here.

_To use her, as I used Rachel and the women at Tilia's. First the Tartar took Rachel, and now de Gobignon takes Sophia. And I am nothing but a slave and a panderer._

A second silhouetted figure appeared beside Simon, much shorter, with unbound hair falling in waves and a narrow waist. Daoud saw Sophia rest her hand on his shoulder. A moment later she took the Frenchman's hand, and they both turned away from the window. The curtain fell back in place behind them.

_She leads him to bed!_

Daoud was shaking with rage. Every muscle in his body ached to kill de Gobignon.

_Oh, G.o.d, give me the chance to destroy him!_

He heard another sound to his left, the sc.r.a.pe of a boot on cobblestones. His hand darting to his sword, he glanced toward the street he had just pa.s.sed through. Nothing.

De Gobignon had brought a friend or servant with him. The friend was waiting at that inn, where he could watch the front of Ugolini's mansion, and, perhaps, signal to de Gobignon as dawn approached.

De Gobignon's friend had been watching Daoud. He must be all in a sweat, knowing that Daoud had seen the young count in Sophia's window. He would expect Daoud to raise an alarm. And if Daoud did not, then de Gobignon would guess that David of Trebizond _approved_ Simon's making love to the cardinal's niece. And from that it would only be a step to realizing that David and Sophia must be plotting together.

It would extinguish any suspicion of Sophia the count might have if Daoud were to rush into the mansion, raise an alarm, and pursue Simon.

But if de Gobignon were caught, it would mean a scandal. His French compatriots would certainly do all they could to stop him from seeing Sophia again.

Again Daoud heard the sc.r.a.pe of a boot sole on the stone of the street.

He drew farther back under the overhanging upper story of a house facing the mansion. Now de Gobignon's man could not see him without showing himself.

There was only one thing to do. And it gave Daoud grim satisfaction to realize it.

_I cannot kill Simon de Gobignon, but I have to kill his man._

He drew the Scorpion from its pocket in the hem of his cloak. Quickly and silently he unfolded it. A leather case held a sting for the Scorpion, a steel dart half again as long as his finger, coated with the same paste he had used to render Sordello unconscious. He pulled the string of twisted rawhide back with his fist, slipped the dart into place.

The Frank took a step out of hiding. Daoud saw him as a big shadow at the corner of the building. He imagined the Frank's thoughts. He must be trying desperately to think of some way to warn his master before the cardinal's guards were roused.

Daoud raised the Scorpion, but the darkness made the shot difficult. De Gobignon's man was too hard to see.

"Pardonnez-moi, Messire," he said in the language he had not used since he was ten. "I have a message for Monseigneur the Count de Gobignon." He spoke in as casual and friendly a tone as he could muster.

Daoud was close enough now to see that the man's hand was on his sword hilt.

"Why do you speak of the count to me?" The voice was young.

"Because you are his man," said Daoud, and he thumbed the notched wheel that held the bowstring in place. The string thrummed, the dowels sprang forward, and the dart buried itself in the Frenchman's body.

To avoid hitting breastbone or rib, Daoud had aimed for the stomach.

The Frank uttered a cry of pain and anger, and his left hand clutched at his middle as his right hand drew his sword.

"You Greek b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he groaned, and fell first to his knees, then on his face. So he had recognized him as David of Trebizond. He must surely die.

Daoud rolled the unconscious man over on his back. His fingers quickly found the dart. Just a bit of it protruded from the Frank's stomach; his fall had driven it deeper. Daoud pulled the dart out, keeping his finger on the wound. He laid the dart on the ground and drew his dagger. He drove it upward just below the breastbone, striking the heart. The man's torso jerked violently, the body trying to save itself even though the mind was asleep. As Daoud pulled the blade out, blood flowed out after it, warm on his hand. He whispered a curse and wiped his hand and his blade on the man's tunic.

This must look like a street stabbing, a man murdered for his purse.

Daoud thrust his dagger into the body again, this time in the place where the dart had gone in.

He felt for a heartbeat and found none. He sheathed his dagger, felt for the dart on the street beside the Frank, and put it back in its case.

Case and Scorpion went back in the hidden pocket in his cloak.

The Frank's dead body was heavy as he dragged it into the deeper darkness under the overhang of the nearest house. He fumbled about the dead man until he found his purse, a small one and not very heavy, and tucked it into his own belt. The pottery maker would be shocked in the morning to find a robbed and murdered man on his doorstep.

Had anyone seen? The houses around the square were dark and silent as so many stone tombs. There was only that one light in the third-floor window of Ugolini's mansion.

He could not enter the mansion now, with blood on him. Whoever unlocked the gate for him would be sure to connect him with the murdered man who would be found in the morning. Orvieto's authorities would be questioning everyone, and Ugolini could not control what his servants might say.

Back to Tilia's, then.

He chose another street leading out of the square so as not to pa.s.s the inn where de Gobignon's man had been on watch. As he walked, he cast his mind back over what he had done. The killing left him troubled.

Saadi had taught him never to waste human life. _To wage war is a holy obligation. But have a care that you kill, not with a small soul, but with a great soul._

This had been a necessary murder, Daoud thought. This young Frank had to die that Islam might be saved from infidel hordes of East and West. But, looking into his heart, Daoud knew that he had, indeed, killed with a small soul. He had been forced to kill de Gobignon's man, but he had also wanted to, and he had felt unworthy triumph over Simon de Gobignon.

It had not even been an honorable fight. The Frank had no chance.

_Purify my heart, oh, G.o.d_, he prayed as he walked back to Tilia Caballo's brothel.

x.x.xII

Simon remembered those kisses in the garden of the Palazzo Monaldeschi as he looked again at Sophia, and his arms ached to hold her. But he must keep himself in check. He was still not sure he could trust her.

And even if he were certain of her honesty, courtly love commanded him not to touch her until months, perhaps years, of worshipful wooing had pa.s.sed.

Sophia said, "I must tell my uncle that his mansion is not as well protected as he thinks it is. His guards must have been asleep tonight."

Her oval face reflected the warm glow of the five or six small candles she had placed around her room. Her dark brown hair was unbound and fell in waves to her shoulders. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he looked at her.

"You did invite me here, Madonna." Simon felt rather proud of the way he had scaled the wall by the courtyard gate, waited till the cardinal's guards were out of sight, then climbed to the roof of the central wing.

"Yes, but I did nothing to help you, and I truly do not see how you got here." She stood facing him, her hands at her sides. He was not sure whether the gown she wore was for bed, or for him, or both. It was a translucent white tunic, sleeveless and cut deep in front, revealing the swelling of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, pulled in at the waist by a cloth-of-gold belt.

A large gold medallion stamped with a horse's head hung from a gold chain around her neck. His eyes kept traveling from her shoulders to her bosom to her narrow waist. The effort of holding himself back from touching her was agony. Sweet agony.

"I am trained in the art of stealing into castles."

"I thought the French were more given to marching up to a castello in broad daylight, banners flying, and taking it by storm," she said. Her teeth flashed in the candlelight. He wished she would invite him to sit down. But then he saw in what she said an opportunity to raise the subject of trust.

"True, Madonna. We French excel at open warfare, whereas you Italians seem more adept at intrigue."

"Intrigue? What do you mean?"

He tried to sound lighthearted. "Oh, for instance the clever way you diverted my attention at the Palazzo Monaldeschi while David of Trebizond had the Tartar amba.s.sadors making fools of themselves."