Autumn Lord (31 page)

"Fair's fair," she insisted.

"Very well. I took my wife to the countess's court in Poitiers. She found she liked the life there, soft,

luxurious, full of song and dalliance. I played courtier games myself, flirted with the grand ladies, sang

love songs to them. It was only a diversion for me. I meant nothing by it. I held my wedding vows sacred

—like any other vow. I never took another woman into my bed until Genevieve was . . . dead."

"Oh," Diane said. It was a wholly inadequate word to use, but she didn't think he would accept any of

the sympathy that flooded her. All she could hope was that talking about it would help purge him of the

guilt she felt from him. "And?"

"He was my best friend at court. A man of great sophistication, of easy laughter and ready wit.

Handsome."

"More handsome than you? Get real."

Her quick, indignant words made him smile, just a brief twist of his lips, that turned into a sneer as he

said, "He had dark hair and flashing black eyes. Adultery was the fashion in Poitiers. Genevieve followed

the fashion. I cursed the day we went to Countess Eleanor's court, vowed to do what I could to bring her

decadent house down, and then I brought my wife home to Marbeau."

"Which is where she died?"

He shook his head. "No. Not at Marbeau. She died alone, in exile."

Diane could see that Simon was furious with himself over this. "Why?"

"I sent her away."

"After you brought her home. I don't understand? Did you lock her up in a convent, or something?"

Like you tried to do with me,
she thought, but this was no time to bring his high-handed treatment of

her into this.

"No," he said. "I did my best to forgive her, for the children's sake, for the life I thought we had built

together. I wanted us to go on as we had. How foolish that must sound to you."

Diane remembered the bruises on Felice's face. She remembered the nasty threats Thierry had made

to her. She had a good idea how men normally treated women in this world. Simon had called her his

chattel, but he had never treated her like his possession. She supposed he had that right in this time and

place where men held absolute power over women. Simon, she thought, was an exceptional man in any

time. He was a paragon of compassion and virtue in this one.

"You're a good man, Simon de Argent," she told him. "And nobody seems to have sense enough to

realize it. All you were trying to do was save your marriage. That's not foolish. What went wrong?"

"Genevieve didn't want to stay. She wanted to be with her lover. She pointed out that we did not love

each other, and it was true. She wanted more than contentment." Simon gave Diane a long look. "Now I

know what she meant. I understand the sacrifices she was willing to make for love. Then I thought the life

in Poitiers had driven her mad."

"What did you do?"

"I let her go. Only—" He choked on the word, then went on, voice rough. "It was winter, storming. I

was furious. And I sent her out into the storm. She caught a fever during the journey, and died of it. So,

you see, I had a hand in my wife's death though I didn't deliver the blow."

She would have answered something, she knew, but before any words came to her, Simon spurred

his horse forward through the flying snow. He rode quickly past the guard riding point and was soon out

of sight on the twisting path. Diane didn't try to follow. She was frozen, but not by the cold winter air.

The burning cold that filled her was reaction to Simon's pain. She had never known that you could hurt

more for someone else than you could for yourself.

She cursed herself for having made him talk about his wife. She worried that he wouldn't come back.

She fussed and fretted in fretful silence as the short afternoon and the miles went by. Fortunately, the

snow soon stopped.

They had made camp and she was helping to gather firewood when Simon at last came riding up. Her

heart leapt painfully at the sight of him. She hurried forward.

He jumped down from his horse and took her in his arms, forcing her to drop the sticks she'd picked

up. "Do you hate me?" he asked.

"Hell, no." It was not, perhaps, the most eloquent way of expressing herself, but the question had

taken her by surprise. "I love you."

"I thought that after you knew about what I did to Genev— "

"Genevieve is responsible for her own mistakes!" Diane shouted. They were inches apart, Simon

blinked and jerked his head back at her yell. She took his face between her hands. "Isn't she?" She

suspected tough love would work better on this man than squishy sympathy.

"You sound like Jacques."

"He's very wise. Totally unethical," she amended. "But wise."

"Wizards live by their own rules."

"And take responsibility for their own actions?"

"Just as you think everyone should?" he questioned back. She gave a decisive nod. "I've thought a

great deal since I left you," he went on. "I ended up thinking that perhaps I dreamed that you cared for

me. I feared that no one could care for me."

"You're an idiot," she answered lovingly. "An over-imaginative idiot."

He gave her his most superior glare. "You don't have to be quite so blunt."

"And
you
can give the guilt a rest."

Simon believed he understood the thrust of what Diane said. Perhaps he had punished himself for too

long. But how did he stop? How did he forgive himself? He'd spent the last hours asking himself that. The

only answer that made sense was that he did it with Diane's help. That he accept her belief in his

goodness and try to believe in it himself. Then his mind had wandered onto the possibility that she

couldn't care for him and he'd rushed back to confront her.

"I am an over-imaginative idiot," he agreed with her. "A hungry one." He straightened, and took her

hands in his. "What's for dinner?"

"Men," she complained, and led him toward the camp-fire.

Three days of sleeping
on a bedroll on the ground, even wrapped in Simon's arms, were three

days too many as far as Diane was concerned. She woke up more stiff and sore each morning, and

more in need of a bath all the time. The cold permeated her bones, and that made her dream about long,

hot baths as much as the dirt on her skin and clothes did.

Still, she enjoyed the waking up in Simon's arms part. She loved the closeness they shared when they

lay down each night by the campfire, wrapped in their cloaks and a fur blanket. They shared body heat

and whispered conversations in the dark. She would rest her head over his heart, or he would rest his

head on her breasts and it would be so peaceful. Desire hummed between them constantly in the night,

and their hands often roamed, though he had an easier time of it since she wasn't wearing a layer of iron

rings under her outer clothes. They exchanged long, deep kisses, whispered endearments and

confidences. She liked it when she made him laugh, loved the way the sound of his amusement rumbled

in her ear.

She would have loved to be able to make love, but not in a camp full of his men. And not to a man

who wouldn't take off his chain mail, even to sleep. Besides, it was still public, no matter how dark.

Anyway, it was too cold to get naked, and she refused to get her clothes any more messed up than they

already were. Simon said he didn't understand her reticence, but, not being a raw boy, he was able to

contain his animal lust until he could get her alone in his bed.

"With any luck, that'll be sometime today," she said as she helped him roll up their bedding on the

fourth day of the journey. "I thought you said we were taking a shortcut," she said when he gave her a

curious look.

He handed the bedroll to one of his men, then gave her a hand up. "Did I say that?" He touched her

cheek. "Don't fret, it's not far to Marbeau."

The horses were saddled and ready to go, her and Simon's bedding the last thing to be loaded onto

the pack-horse. The fire was out, the ashes scattered. It was time to go. They always ate a breakfast of

stale bread and dried fruit as they rode, and passed around a skin of watered wine. Simon helped her

onto the horse and handed up her rations. Then he mounted his stallion and led the way out of the

clearing where they'd spent the night.

Diane ate her bread as they rode along, and watched the men who surrounded her. They were silent,

alert. Tense. She found it rather conspicuous that she was in the center of a protective circle of

horsemen. Simon rode ahead. His bright hair was hidden by a chain mail coif. He always rode in full

armor, all the men did. For some reason, this fact took on ominous significance for her this morning. This

morning they looked like they expected trouble.

Diane tried to tell herself that she was just being paranoid. Except that after a while she heard the

hoofbeats coming up behind them. They were being followed.

"Damn!" The vehement whisper burst out of her on a flash of terror.

Terror that turned to desperate anger a moment later as Simon turned his head to meet her gaze. His

look was full of reassurance, but she saw the worry deep in his eyes. Her anger was for him. The man

deserved some peace, some rest. Why couldn't they leave him alone?

And who were
they
anyway?

She left the center of the pack and moved up beside Simon. He didn't look happy to have her

company. "Does the whole world have a contract out on you?" she asked.

"What? The world is at war," he went on before she could explain.

"With you, specifically?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

She glanced behind her. "We're being followed."

"We've been followed the whole way."

"Why?"

He quirked a brow at her, though the sardonic gesture was impeded by the mail hood that covered his

forehead.

"Stupid question," she agreed. "Why do these people intend to attack you?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why aren't you sure?"

"Because, I don't know which particular enemy is about to catch up with us."

"Oh." He was right, the world was at war with him.

One of Simon's men rode out of the trees ahead of them. He pointed to the way he'd come. "The

ground opens up around those boulders yonder. A good place to make a stand."

Simon nodded, then he gave orders to his men. Diane remained silent while Simon organized the

horsemen for a battle.

Another scout came up from the rear to report, "I counted no more than fifteen, my lord."

Diane's stomach clenched with tension. Fifteen. Simon had only six men with him. Seven against

fifteen. She hated the odds. Simon seemed unconcerned. In fact, his expression was so cold and

unreadable he might have been carved from marble.

He asked, "Whose colors do the horsemen wear?"

"France's, my lord."

"How flattering," he drawled. "It seems the king himself will be disappointed at our survival."

The men laughed at his bravado. Diane didn't see anything funny in the situation.

"Couldn't we just run for it?" she asked.

"That's exactly what you're going to do," Simon told her as they reached the clearing. He pointed to

the left. "Marbeau is that way. You can be there by sunset."

"I'm not leaving you."

"You'll come to a road. Go west on it."

"I said I'm not going. I can help you."

"Can you use a sword?" His hard expression didn't change. She shook her head. "Can my lady wield

a bow?"

"No. But—"

"We don't have time to argue, Diane. My men and I have a better chance of winning this fight if we

don't have to worry about protecting a woman. You have a better chance of surviving if you're not here."

He stroked two fingers across her cheek, and traced her lips. His soft touch belied the harsh look on his

face. "I want you to survive, Diane."

How was she supposed to survive without him? She also had to agree with his logic. She would just

get in the way if she stayed. She wanted to do whatever she could to improve Simon de Argent's

chances.

"Damn it, Simon."

"I know," he said. He stroked her cheek again. She kissed his gloved palm. "It's hard to part with

someone when you don't know if you'll see them again."

"Damn right, it's hard."

"Trust me. We won't be parted long."

She sighed. "Don't get dead."

"My lord!" one of his men called. "They're coming!"

"I won't," he promised. He pointed to her escape route. "Go."

She wheeled her horse and kicked it into a run. She didn't look back, not even when she heard the

shouts and the clash of swords.

This was her fault, Diane thought as she put distance between herself and the fighting. She had gotten

him into trouble with the King of France. The king had wanted Simon to marry, to make an alliance with