the topic
and bring the conversation back to the two of them.

Sophia, her hands folded in her lap, lovely hands with long slender
fingers, looked sadly toward the lake. "I suppose that pleases you."

"Why not be happy for me? My work is nearly done."

_And_, he wanted to add but dared not, _we can be married_.

She turned to look at him, her eyes troubled. "Uncle says the new pope
will call Charles d'Anjou to invade Italy and make war on King Manfred.
Will you be with the invaders?"

_Count Charles will surely expect me to join him_, Simon thought. Well,
he would simply tell Uncle Charles that he had no wish to spend any more
time in Italy.

"When the alliance with the Tartars is settled, I mean to go home."

He was about to tell her again that he wanted her to come with him, but
she spoke first. "You know this Count Charles well, do you not? How soon
do you think he will march into Italy?"

Simon wanted to talk about their future, not about Charles d'Anjou's
plans for war with Manfred. But he tried to answer her question.

"He is pressing his people for money now. Then he must gather his army.
And it can take months to move an army from the south of France to
southern Italy. With winter coming on, he will probably wait until next
year to cross the Alps. My guess is he'll be here in Italy next summer."

She was about to speak again, probably to ask another question about
Count Charles. He quickly broke in.

"What I told you last time--that I am a bastard and that the last Count
de Gobignon was not my real father--does that make you less willing to
marry me?"

Her face squeezed together, as if a sharp pain had struck her. "You are
not going to start talking about marriage again, Simon?"

Her words were like a knife wound in his chest. While he searched for
words, his eyes explored the steep brown hills that surrounded this
secluded lake. Their tops were veiled in mist, like his past.

"I have never stopped thinking about marrying you. Sophia, you are the
one person in the world who can make me happy." He reached over into her
lap and took her hand. It felt cool and smooth.

"I could never, never make you happy," she said. "You know nothing about
me."

Why was she always saying that? What was there to know about a woman who
had lived a quiet life in Sicily, was widowed at an early age, and had
come to live with her cardinal uncle?

"I know enough." His eyes felt on fire with longing. "And you know
e