Autumn Lord (23 page)

"Do you not revere the king, who is God's representative?"

"Answer Father Raymond's question, girl," the king ordered. He looked suspiciously at Simon. "Did

you bring a vainglorious infidel into my presence?"

Diane saw that they were trying to use her to get Simon into trouble. She didn't know why. Hadn't the

king invited Simon here to make an alliance? Court politics, she supposed. Jockeying for position and

points, playing power games. Maybe just sheer bloody-mindedness. Whatever was going on, she'd

better do what she could to stop it. It was only a matter of swallowing a little pride. An obeisance wasn't

too high a price to pay to help a man who'd saved her life more than once.

So, Diane gave Simon a swift, reassuring look, and dropped humbly to her knees. She tried to

remember what she knew of the ancient custom. Let's see, was it nine knocks or twelve for the emperor?

She settled for touching her forehead to the floor five times, because this old man certainly didn't deserve

the same amount of respect as the Son of Heaven, whoever he might be at this point in time.

Simon watched in amazement as Diane humbled herself before the king. The court watched her

actions in silence. Simon kept his gaze on her, but he could feel the scavenger eyes of all the others on

him, felt the tension stretched taut through the room. A tender warmth spread through him as he realized

her actions were for his benefit. She was a woman of great pride, but had the wisdom to disregard it

when the situation warranted. He wished he had that same wisdom. For her sake, he would have to try.

He held out his hand to her when she was finished, and helped her rise gracefully to her feet. He

wanted to bring her fingers to his lips, but knew the gesture would be dangerous for both of them in this

place where any genuine show of emotion was a weakness. So, he calmly reached up and pulled off her

veil, baring her blue-black hair and extraordinary features to the world. Diane gave him an annoyed look,

then shook out her loosened hair. It settled in a shining black cloud around her shoulders.

The king squinted up at her while she stood passively before him. "This is not a Saracen face," he said.

"I grew well acquainted with the looks of those infidels on crusade."

"She is from far Cathay, your grace," Father Raymond answered. "The land beyond the Silk Road

where I traveled in my youth. Is that not so, girl?"

I'm from Seattle,
Diane thought. Not that she could explain that, even if she'd had a voice to do it

with. So she nodded.

Then she glanced at Simon, and almost laughed at the look of astonishment that crossed his face—c

rossed his face, and was quickly hidden by the cold, indifferent mask that she knew well from her first

days at Marbeau.

"How did a female from such a strange land come to be in your household, Lord Simon?" Father

Raymond asked suspiciously. "And for how long have you harbored this infidel among Christians?"

As if Father Andre hadn't already written Father Raymond to tell him all about her, Simon thought. He

knew full well who spied for whom in his household.

"As you can see, I've brought her with me to exhibit before the king. Nor is she an infidel, your grace,"

he said to the pious king. "You need not fear for her soul, or that she taints the souls of those she dwells

among." He gave a dismissive chuckle as he ignored Diane's hurt look. "Do you suspect me of negotiating

with some far away kingdom because a lone foreigner resides in my hall?" He sneered at Diane. "A

woman at that."

"But how came she to be with you?" Raymond demanded.

"Why does she not speak?" the king asked. "She obviously understands what we say. No one has

heard her speak since your arrival. Is her silence a sign of insolence? Or of humility? I trust not the

shrouded dagger subtlety of foreign ways."

"She can speak, your grace, but not just any words she might wish to utter," Simon explained. "Hers is

the gift of storytelling, but no more. She talks only to entertain. She is a far-traveled troubadour under the

influence of a
geis,
brought into my household by Jacques of—"

He was interrupted by a woman's laughter. Laughter that was as sharp-edged and dangerous as

shattering glass. It was a sound Simon might have expected to hear again as he lay dying, but not before.

Certainly not here. He was tempted to thrust Diane behind him for safety as he turned to face this enemy.

"Jacques," the woman said as she stepped out of the crowd. "That name explains all."

Diane had a feeling she knew who this woman was before the king said, "Know you of this, Lady

Vivienne?"

"I know that my grandfather is a meddling old fool," the woman answered.

Grandfather? Diane took a close look at the woman as Vivienne stepped into a patch of watery

sunlight let in by the window. Diane was immediately reminded more of the wicked witch in Disney's

Sleeping Beauty
than of the gentle old man who'd brought her to Marbeau. Vivienne was

supermodel-thin and tall, with looks to match. Like the king's priests, she was dressed in layers of

somber black and gray. On her, the colors looked elegantly stylish rather than unfashionably devout. Like

she was the only person in Paris who actually dressed like she was in Paris.

Diane thought that Vivienne would be easy to hate. And suspected that every other woman in the

room thought so as well.

Father Raymond certainly didn't look like he was happy to have to share the stage with her. "Jacques

may be old," the priest said, "but he is well-known to be an obedient child of the church. Tell us more of

this woman, Lord Simon."

Simon made a curt gesture. "The woman's a mountebank, trained to tell stories and nothing more."

"But what of this
geis?
What quest must she pursue to break it? Will it bring harm to my lands or

people?" the king asked.

"The
geis
will not be broken." Simon gave a mocking smirk. "Why should it be? It is more useful to

keep her under the enchantment. It keeps her quiet when she's not wanted."

"So she is nothing more than an entertainer summoned by Jacques for your pleasure?" Father

Raymond persisted. "Nothing more?"

"How like grandfather to give you a new toy when you've nothing else left to play with."

He ignored her mocking words, but felt Vivienne's gaze on him. It was like dagger points between his

shoulder blades, but as hot and hating as ever. She would try to destroy Diane if he showed any trace of

caring for the other woman.

"The foreigner is of no importance," he answered Raymond.

The king looked Diane over speculatively. "She's an ill-favored creature, flat-faced and

yellow-skinned, but still a woman. Have you committed the sin of fornication with her, Lord Simon?"

It seemed to Simon that the king was far too worried about the state of other men's souls and the

activity in their bedchambers. And blind, as well, to have called Diane ill-favored. The presumption of the

king's question and insulting appraisal of a beautiful woman grated on him, but Simon was able to answer

with the ease of truth.

"No, your grace. That is not the woman's function in my household. I'll swear on all the holy relics of

Notre Dame that I have not tupped her."

"Then you won't mind if someone else turns up her skirts?" a man called from the crowd.

The king glared down the ripple of laughter that spread through the court. Simon carefully kept his

hand away from his weapon, but didn't bother to look around. He noticed Diane flinch. She looked

devastated, but he could offer her none of the sympathy he felt. He didn't even have the luxury of taking

the time to castigate himself for the horrible mistake he'd made in bringing her to Paris.

In the simmering quiet that followed the laughter, the king settled back in his chair and gave Diane an

annoyed look as he spoke to Simon. "If you've brought her here as an, entertainer, have her entertain.

We'll have a story from her."

Diane stood very still. She couldn't look at Simon though he was all she was really aware of. She
was

too
furious and hurt to turn to him. She didn't want to see the cold mask that might not be a mask at all.

His words rolled over and over in her mind: mountebank, foreigner of no importance, trained, it keeps

her quiet when she's not wanted. Not wanted. She was not going to cry. She could manage to be

inscrutable enough not to cry just this once. She knew she wouldn't entertain Simon de Argent with her

vulnerability this time.

She also knew that what he did in the next few moments determined whether she got out of this room

alive or not. Maybe it determined if they both did. Her impulse was to turn and walk out. She was about

three seconds away from obeying that impulse even though the room was full of people, hurtful hideous

people, all of them armed with at least a dagger. The guards at the door wore swords. She didn't care.

This had happened so often that the ugly crowds almost didn't exist for her anymore. They were

faceless extras on this horror-movie set. The only person who mattered was Simon. Only his reactions

counted. She'd swallowed her pride once for him today. She wasn't prepared to do it again. She was

prepared to attempt to walk out on the King of France if—

Simon's hand touched her arm. The pressure was gentle, reassuring. His voice in her ear was soft,

devoid of any inflection. "Speak if you will. Tell one of your tales only if it is what you want to do."

For all her stubborn determination, she couldn't keep her gaze from flying to his. He calmly looked

back at her, and for only a second, before he stepped away. The choice was clearly hers. Simon de

Argent acknowledged that her will was her own, even if no one else in this world did.

There was only one thing she could do.

She told King Louis and his court all about
The Godfather, Parts I
and //.

Which didn't mean she
wasn't still furious at Simon once she was dismissed from the king's

presence. She walked through the parted crowd with all the dignity she could muster, then fled in tears

down the tower stairs. It took her a long time to find her way back to the hall where they were staying.

The cold of the short winter afternoon had seeped into her bones by the time she found her way indoors,

but at least she'd stopped crying.

She was grateful to be among people she knew, and settled down to supper among Simon's

household. The food was hot, and she had a seat near the fire, but she couldn't stop shivering. Nothing

warmed her. Nor could she stop glancing toward the door. Time passed, food was cleared away, the

fire was covered, people settled down to sleep, but Simon still hadn't returned.

She found her own pallet and settled down. Not to sleep. She turned her back to the doorway, but

her senses were alert to any movement in the room. Even under a heavy blanket and a fur covering, she

had trouble getting warm. She was cold on the inside, cold with fury, cold with fear. The fury was for

Simon. So was the fear.

She hoped that he was watching his back, wherever he was in this treacherous place, whatever he was

doing. She wanted him safe, so she could have a turn at him herself.

Every thought she had was about him, every emotion centered on him. She didn't know what she

thought. She refused to examine what she felt. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to hold him. She

wanted to help him, and hurt him as well. She wanted to be with him and she wanted to run. She wanted

him.

That was the most dangerous thing of all. This was not her time, not her place. She should look for a

way to escape, some way home. She should forget the man, forget his problems, think about herself. She

should get the hell out of here.

But she wanted him.

He needed her.

She didn't know which was worse.

At least he made her feel like he needed her. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. She was nothing. A

mountebank. A foreigner he'd brought to Paris to entertain the king's court.

Bastard,
she thought as she felt sleep finally overwhelming her.
Arrogant, lying, using ba
—

******************

Simon recognized the priest on the ill-lit stairs as being one of Raymond of Chartres' subordinates. He

gave the man a polite nod. "Father Paquin."

All Simon wanted was to find Diane. He'd spent hours attending court, chaffing inwardly to be gone

while he talked, and feasted, and avoided seduction, and showed no discernible emotion all the while.

Now that King Louis had retired for the night, he was finally free to go and he was in a hurry.

When Simon would have stepped around the priest, the man put his hand on his arm. "A few private