Authors: Susan Sizemore
mail and go out and kill people.
Duty dictated his decision. He got up and called for Yves to bring cold water. Lots of cold water.
******************
"I had my reasons," Simon replied.
He tried to ignore Joscelin as he looked around the interior of the church. The wounded were being
well-tended, but Diane was not there. He turned around and strode back across the courtyard, with his
helmet tucked under his arm. The young knight followed close on his heels.
"You were a lion of battle, my lord. Surely, the scattered survivors of that band of
routiers
will carry
the tale throughout the land."
"That was why I let some of them live."
Joscelin gave a decisive nod as they entered the hall. "So no one would dare attack Marbeau again,
though the landless mercenaries may be as hungry as wolves through the winter."
"Precisely."
Not here, either. Where was the woman? He took the stairs up to his chamber, annoyed that Joscelin
still followed him. What was the young fool doing dogging his steps?
"I wonder where Diane's gotten to?" Joscelin questioned as they entered Simon's chamber. Simon
watched in consternation as Joscelin boldly looked around
his
room. "Not here, my lord."
"Obviously." The relief in Joscelin's voice had been too evident. The jealousy in Simon's reply had
been plain as well. To Simon at least. He handed Joscelin his helmet. "Go polish this."
The lad gave him an odd look, but he did leave. Simon went to his writing table, and sat down with a
sigh. After a few moments, he called, "Yves!" When the servant appeared, Simon demanded, "Where's
Diane?"
Before Yves could answer, Jacques came in. Diane followed him. She limped, and supported herself
with Jacques's jeweled wizard's staff.
Simon was at her side instantly. "What the devil happened to you? Are you hurt?"
"Don't fuss like a hen with one chick," Jacques told him. "She fell over one of her patients and hurt her
leg."
Diane pulled up her skirts as Jacques spoke. Simon was so shocked by her immodest action that he
didn't see the bruises and scrapes that marred her golden skin for a few moments. When he did, he
scooped her up in his arms. The staff dropped from her hand with a mighty clatter.
Jacques hastened to snatch it up. "Careful! This is a family heirloom."
Simon gently deposited Diane in the chair he'd been using. He carefully adjusted her long skirts over
her injured leg. A look sent Yves for food and drink. He looked back at the disgruntled wizard. "Ah, yes,
the rod of power passed down from your illustrious ancestor. Mryddn, wasn't it?" he teased.
Jacques bristled. "Mryddn? That Cymri hedge wizard? Hardly. This rod was presented as a birth
present by Dion of Epirus to his son, no matter what great-great-great Grandmother Morgause said
about who fathered the babe."
Wizards were
so
touchy about their frequently incestuous and tangled family trees. There were so few
born with magical gifts that they had to interbreed to keep the power. Sometimes that led to birthing
monsters, such as Jacques's own granddaughter. Simon decided it would be better not to tease the old
man about his ancestors if he didn't want to get into the subject of his descendants.
So, he asked, "If the staff’s so precious, why let the girl use it as a cane?"
Jacques ran his hands lovingly over the carved and jeweled wood. "Damned old thing doesn't work
anymore. Thought I'd put it to some practical use."
Simon looked down at the wide-eyed Diane. "How are you?"
"She's sore," Jacques answered for her.
"And how long will she be sore?"
"She'll be fine in five or six days."
"Damn!"
Simon realized he was glaring at the girl with unfair irritation. It was just that he'd had hopes, plans,
fantasies, of taking Diane to his bed for long hours of passionate love. He was hardly going to carry out
any of those erotic schemes when she'd be too uncomfortable to appreciate them.
Diane didn't know why Simon was annoyed with her, though she was certainly annoyed enough at
herself. She knew she wouldn't have fallen at all if her attention hadn't been elsewhere. She'd spent the
night in feverish, erotic dreams. She'd spent the night sleeping in the arms of the man those dreams were
about. She'd woken to find him gone, and was stabbed with an unreasonable sense of grief at his
absence. After a few moments, she decided that what she felt was worry, and went to work. She knew
she was right to worry about Simon when reports of the fierce fighting outside the walls reached the
infirmary—along with the wounded.
She hadn't actually fallen over one of the injured men. She'd actually tumbled hard onto the chain mail,
helmet, and sword that the women had stripped off him and left in a pile Diane hadn't noticed as she
hurried past with an armful of fresh bandages. She received a cut across her knee from the dulled edge of
the sword, scraped her leg on the mail, bruised herself on the hard stone floor, and twisted her ankle as
well. Jacques was right, she was sore, but she wasn't worried she was going to get an infection and die,
or anything like that.
The whole incident was rather embarrassing. She almost didn't resent Simon being annoyed with her.
Better annoyed than disgustingly solicitous, she told herself. His carrying her to the chair had been more
embarrassing than the fall. Though there was a certain pleasant reassurance about being cradled against
his strong, masculine chest, even though the tunic that covered it was soaked with mud and sweat. She
was immensely relieved that he'd come out of the fighting filthy but unscathed. And just why was he
annoyed with her, anyway?
When she gave him a questioning look, he put his fingers under her chin and tilted it up. "My apologies
for my rude words, sweet Diane. It was tender concern for your well-being that caused my sharp
words."
Simon smiled as Diane cocked an eyebrow sardonically at his flamboyant language.
"What?" he questioned. "Can I not speak to you with fair, flowery expressions?"
Diane drew her face from his grasp, and shook her head.
Simon spread his arms wide as he went down on one knee before Diane's chair. Chain mail clinked as
he moved. "Then with what can I prove my true devotion, my—How about dinner?" he asked as Yves
came in with a laden tray.
Simon got to his feet and went to change as Yves laid out the meal on the writing table. The servant
took the mail away with him, to be cleaned and have broken rings mended in the armory. Simon gave
himself a quick wash and dressed in a clean clothes before he joined Jacques and Diane once more.
Diane did not give in to the impulse to watch Simon as he got cleaned up. She still ached with longing
from the last time she'd seen the man naked. She didn't want that ache to flare into desire again, so she
looked around for anything else that could capture her attention. The food didn't do it. She would eat it,
but didn't want to actually study it before she did. She didn't
want
to know what it was. Her modern
American sensibilities didn't take to the menu here any more than they had to the truly alien, non-tourist
cuisine she'd encountered on her one visit to Hong Kong.
Asia, at least, had McDonald's.
So she turned her attention to the pile of paper on the desk. She supposed the stiff, yellowish stuff
was actually parchment, but she wasn't sure what the difference was. Something to do with sheep, she
thought. She picked up the parchment at the top of the pile. It was covered in spidery, splotched writing.
Writing she couldn't read. She studied it hard, but the words didn't magically become clear as she looked
at them.
She wondered why. She could understand what everyone said, they could understand her stories. She
got Jacques's attention and ran her fingers over a line of words. Then she pointed to herself.
She had to do this several times before his eyes lit with comprehension. "You're wondering why you
can't read?"
She nodded vigorously.
Simon's hand landed on her shoulder. "Can you read? In your own world?"
The excitement in his voice almost made Diane forget the electric jolt that ran through her from his
touch. She looked up at him and repeated the nod.
"But not here?" Simon looked at Jacques. "Why not?"
"I was already starting to answer that." The wizard looked from one to the other, then he shrugged. "I
have no idea."
"What?"
Simon shouted it, but Diane echoed the accusing word silently.
"What kind of wizard are you to—?"
"An old one," Jacques reminded Simon. He ran his fingers thoughtfully through his white beard. "No,
perhaps I do have a notion of why Diane cannot read. It's only a conjecture, of course."
"A conjecture?" Simon frowned at the wizard. "Old man, I trust you and in your power, but your
willingness to explore the limits of your imagination terrifies me sometimes."
The wizard lifted his head proudly. "What I can imagine, I can perform. Theoretically. Theory is the
basis of what I do. Conjecture is what all magic spells are until they are proven with experimentation,"
Jacques explained. "Of course if it doesn't work, my subjects have this tendency to turn into frogs. There
was one time—"
"I take your point," Simon interrupted. "What were you going to say about this notion you have about
Diane?"
Simon's hand was still on her shoulder. His fingers made unconscious, comforting little circles on her
skin while he and Jacques talked. Diane wanted to close her eyes and savor the sensation, but forced
herself to concentrate on Jacques instead.
"Conservation of energy," Jacques said. "I'm old," he reminded them once more. "The spell that
fetched Diane to Marbeau was looking for specific things, and gave specific things to the one it chose.
So, Diane knows our language because she needs it to perform the requirements of the spell. She does
not need to read our language to be a storyteller."
"So you gave her only what she needed?"
"The spell did." Jacques waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind, you can't understand the
difference, nor do you need to."
"I don't want to know, either." Simon leaned forward eagerly. "But can she learn to read? We could
communicate that way, could we not?" He squeezed her shoulder. "Why didn't you think of this?"
She looked up at him with a silent laugh. He saw the eagerness in her eyes, the same eagerness he was
feeling. Love or not, perhaps they would soon be communicating with each other.
"Well?" Simon asked Jacques.
"Of course she can learn to read. She's an intelligent young woman, isn't she? Oh, before I forget."
Jacques reached into a large pouch at his belt and brought out a folded piece of parchment. "Speaking of
reading, this is why I helped Diane limp down here instead of sending her with a strong young serving
woman. A messenger brought this while you were chasing off the last of the besiegers."
Simon took the parchment. After looking thoughtfully at the large wax seal for a few moments, he
solemnly cracked it and read the contents of the message. Excitement drained out of him as he did so.
His world came back into focus, and it had no eagerness or anticipation, or joy, in it.
Finally, he looked up at Jacques. "King Louis invites me to attend him in Paris."
Paris? Diane shot to her feet, then fell back into the chair with a sharp, silent wihce. Beside her, Simon
didn't pay her any notice. He stood rigid as a rock, the parchment crumpled in one tense fist.
Paris? she thought. Paris, France? Was she in France? What was she doing in France? When did
France get wizards? And warriors? She'd thought she was in some sort of parallel fantasyland, but
apparently her assumption was wrong. Apparently she was in France. Had she traveled through time?
Not that that made any more sense than her traveling to another dimension. Maybe that was why Simon
understood the line in
Casablanca
about "we'll always have Paris." Because he'd been there. He was
going there now. She wondered why. And what year was this, anyway?
Before she could think of any way at all to phrase these urgent questions, Jacques asked, "Why
would you go to Paris?"
Simon's voice was glacially cool when he replied. "Why, to get married, of course."
"You most certainly are going."
Diane shook her head one more time. She stomped her foot. The servants and soldiers waiting to
leave with their lord and his luggage looked around nervously. Simon glared.
She refused to be impressed by his leonine glower. She wasn't going. The fact that Jacques stood at
her back, blocking the entrance to the castle, and that Simon was looming down from his large stallion,