Awaken My Fire (18 page)

"Ah, no finer painting have I ever seen of beauty. She is a sight to feast on. To hear Wilhelm tell of the famous sword fight, 'twas the closest Vince ever came to be gored—"

"Aye, so struck was he by what fate had put before him, Wilhelm said if he had not been standing there, he had no doubt Vince would have ended the girl's effort by landing her backside to the bed, slain for sure, though not by a cold metal but by equally hard flesh—" The men laughed until Thomas abruptly stopped, noticing the stale bread set before them, just alongside the noticeably moldy cheese, all to be washed down by ale weaker than the most miserly fish mongers. "What manner of torment is this?"

Lance could take no more. "This," he said with trembling rage. "Is your just deserts," and he poured the ale pitcher over the whole, tossed the pitcher on the table and headed through the doors.

Thomas let a jeweled dagger fly even as he stood. The knife struck the pole directly before Lance's eyes. An inch to the side and it would have been his skull. Sudden silence came over the room, and though, it was well beneath the dignity of the duke's knights to challenge a servant, disciplining one was not.

" 'Twill be your back on a rack the next time you insult a knight of the House of Suffolk. A house whose duke you should thank, as any other lord would surely have burned this dung pile, the servants with the guards. And keep in mind, man, the fire might still be made. Now," his fine, clear voice said, "You have before the next bell to set us a decent table."

Three other servants quickly arrived to set a decent table for the knights of the duke's personal guard, and one of them was Joan. She alone was not afraid of these men. Wearing her perfectly content smile, she held out the wrapped bread rolls, and immediately caught Bryce's eye.

"Ah, now here's a pretty lass indeed. What be your name?"

"Joan."

"Ah, Joan." He gently caught her hand, stopping her. A strange feeling tingled through her. Her heart pounded fast, as if she were running. In confusion, she stared at his large hand on hers. She saw his ring and smiled, beamed with the pleasure. "You do not look French."

She looked into dark blue pools, eyes like Roshelle's. She smiled.

"Are you from here?"

The question made little sense to her; she could hardly know the answer. She thought to nod. He smiled back before running his hand down one of the long ropes of her hair. "Gawd," he marveled, "like spun gold. And there be no end to it."

Pleasure brightening her cheeks, she hurried on to serve the others. She felt his eyes upon her. Eyes like Roshelle's. She kept smiling back.

Meanwhile, Lance anxiously repeated the story a dozen times, and it was repeated a dozen more times—the incident traveled from one mouth to the next like wildfire at the height of a summer drought, until finally straws were drawn and Fiona drew the short one. A plump hand went to her forehead in distress. Five other pairs of hands pushed her forward.

* * *

The image of her father's boots rose vividly in Roshelle's mind. Tall, worn brown leather, with mud-encased, thick gold spurs. She remembered wanting to wipe the mud from his spurs. Like her mother had always done. Her mother had carried a cloth in her sleeve, just so she might bend down and wipe the jeweled spurs when he entered the great hall. That cloth had been clasped in her mother's hands when she died, and Roshelle remembered wanting badly to take it from the cold, stiff fingers, but no, Father Constantine said she was not to touch her mother now….

The little girl hardly noticed the boots of the other knights, the men of her father's personal guard who always surrounded him. Yet she remembered their voices filled with awe and disbelief and something else she had not recognized as a young child. Fear. They were afraid. They were afraid of her.

For she had just ridden her father's war-horse.

"Dear God, the child be bewitched!"

"How is it possible?"

"Look at her! Just look! A goodly breeze could knock her over. As thin as a wisp, as slight as a reed—"

"By the fates, the child be enchanted!"

"Iberia be wild, untamed, a steed like no other. I would not dare a ride, yet—"

"How did she do it?"

"If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not believe it—"

Encouraged by their response, she tensed, anxiously awaiting her father's response. She dared not look up. Was he pleased? Was he very pleased with how strong she was, how very good? Did he realize it now?

Her father never noticed her. He never spoke a word to her, not even a, "How fare thee?" As if she were invisible like angels, he did not even look at her. So she had mounted and ridden Iberia simply because she had heard him tell her two cousins it could not be done, that they would not be strong enough to mount his war-horse for many years. She thought to show him she was strong and good and worthy.

In the secret place of her heart she thought that if she could just show her father this, how very good she was, she might win his affection, and if he would only hold and kiss her like her mother had, it would not hurt so much. He might even remember the pony her mother had promised her.

Father Constantine stepped forward from the crowd of men, silencing the others. "Child," he began, anger in his voice, "did you bewitch the horse?"

Her long russet-colored plaits swung to and fro as she shook her head. Oh, no. Iberia was her friend. She always brought the great black horse carrots and apples from the kitchen, and though Franz, the stable master, refused to let her enter Iberia's stall or give him these treats, Franz took afternoon naps every day.

"How did you do it? Make the horse walk like that?"

"I am strong."

The men shifted uncomfortably, and the priest looked confused. "Why did you do it? Did you not know it was dangerous, that the beast might easily have killed you?"

She bit her lip, paused before suddenly blurting, "I. . . I wanted milord to . . . to smile at me."

A steely silence followed. In this silence, a little girl held out her pain-filled heart for her father's blessing. A blessing he never gave her, for she heard then these awful words: "I cannot smile for thee. Do not expect it. Because to look at ye brings me a sharp prick of pain."

She thought she heard wrong. She forced herself to look up. Her father's gaze was on her. He was looking at her and in his eyes she saw his hate and fury.

Roshelle closed her eyes as her father's last spoken words to her echoed dizzily through her mind. "And what's more, daughter mine"—he spat the words viciously—"do not expect anything from me. ‘Tis hard enough that ye have my name."

Hot tears filled her eyes, spilling over her cheeks as she stood there before him. Yet he turned away, pushing through his men, and with her back ramrod-straight, she withstood the harsh scrutiny of his men.

"’Tis a shame. Her mother was so beautiful—"

"I still say the chit is bewitched—that hair of hers. She should be given over to the church before 'tis too late."

"Aye, 'twill be her only salvation."

“
Aye, aye,'' they had all agreed, but she had barely heard, as she was running through the doors and into the bright sunshine of a spring day. She ran until her little legs collapsed. Hidden in the tall green grass and heather of the hillside, she cried and cried and cried until suddenly she felt a piercing gaze upon her. She looked up and wiped her face and swallowed. Then she blinked and blinked again. 'Twas his eyes, dark blue eyes filled with tenderness and something else, something dark and strange and wonderful.

She thought he was an angel. He said, "If ye cannot find what ye want in one place, ye must look elsewhere."

"Aye, monsieur, but where is elsewhere?"

He had laughed, a rich and warm sound, but somehow, even then, full of mystery. Like afternoon rain on a window glass. "Look here, Roshelle Marie of Lyons and Bourges. Look here and then look yonder. Look yonder at the gift from your mother."

She had stared, first at him and then yonder, where a snow-white pony grazed in the sweet grass.

Papillion, dear Papillion, my father...

"What to do? What to do? What if they, they kill—"

Cisely clasped her pale hand over her mouth as if she were afraid to say the words, as if speaking of death brought it closer. "I am so afraid for you."

Roshelle turned from the open window to see Cisely's fearful amber eyes. She could not imagine her death; it seemed so far away. Heavy was her heart, though. Heavy with the mounting emotional toll of having lost Potiers and Reales by the sweep of that man's hand.

Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk . . .

His name echoed in her mind as she stepped over to her trunk, reaching down to pull put a plain green work gown with elbow-length sleeves, embroidered there and in a straight line down the front with gold-and-yellow birds. This went over her head to fall longer than her feet by an inch in front and a whole pace in back. She pulled out her hair and began lacing the front. She picked up a long gold girdle to tie about her waist.

"The Burgundy court would not stand by and let the guillotine drop, Cisely. Nor would Louis or even Charles." Then she added with feeling, "I do not think even the Duke of Suffolk is so bold!"

"I have no faith in the Duke of Suffolk's temerity!" Cisely said in her own impassioned whisper. "He is a savage brute! I see the way he looks at you . . . and, well, all men look at you, your beauty, but he, he seems to devour you. Who can say what he would or would not do? And Louis, sweet Louis, stuck in that infernal English dungeon, and even dearest Charles himself, least of all Charles, how could they stop him? They have no men and even less money—they are helpless pawns in Henry's game—"

"Helplessness is a confession of defeat, and I will not make it."

Outside, Fiona knocked urgently on the door, casting an anxious gaze at the guards posted at Roshelle's door. One sat on the ground, dozing, while the other man drew with charcoal on a piece of parchment pinned to a drawing board. Panic filled her. Trembling hands knocked again before the latch lifted and the door opened.

"Oh, Fiona! You frightened us. I thought 'twas him again."

Roshelle's relief, while sweet, was also mercilessly short. Fiona shook her dark curls as her hands went to her round cheeks and she burst into tears, dropping to her knees. "The duke means to kill ye, milady! You and all the men, burned at the stake. The servants, too! Everyone! Meself! He will see us all hanged or, or burned—"

Cisely genuflected. "Oh, dear God!"

Fiona, who told you this?" Roshelle asked. "It cannot be true—"

"’Tis true! The knights told Lance as he served them. They said servants and guards will be burned at your side tomorrow!"

Roshelle's blue eyes widened with the terror of it. "No!" She never thought, only acted, rushing through the door and running down the hall.

"Milady! Where do ye go?" The guard knocked over his board and paper as he tried to stand, the other guard just waking. "Halt! Halt, I say!"

Yet Roshelle was gone. She raced to the stairway, flying down the treacherous steps two at a time, then down the second-story landing to Edward's old chamber, where the duke would reside.

Having sent the duke's sword and knife to armorers, Fossy went about arranging the neatly folded clothes in his Grace's trunk. The duke still slept. He had not slept this long since that time he and King Henry had disguised themselves as commoners and spent the whole weekend fighting, wenching and rabble-rousing in London's more notorious inns and holes. Admittedly, he deserved this rest. He had not slept in nearly three days, since the ship—

The doors burst open. The older man looked up to see the most comely creature he had ever laid eyes on. In a split second, he guessed who she must be, though it would take him five more years to guess why Roshelle of Reales stood at the doors to the duke's private chambers.

"Is he here? Is he in here?"

"His Grace? Why—"

With a sweep of her skirts, she rushed past him and slipped through the door before he could stop her. Fossy stared after her in shock. Either the rumors of the duke's bedroom agility had reached France well ahead of his actual appearance, or yet another calamity was about to visit the young and beautiful countess.

A fine morning for a long walk, he abruptly noticed.

* * *

She appeared in his dream...