Awaken My Fire (24 page)

Vincent peered over the rim of his goblet as he swallowed the last of his water. "I'm not sure I am. What?"

Wilhelm tossed the roasted duckling to the plate before wiping his fingers on a napkin cloth. "He's as ripe as week-old pig rinds." He finished the watered-down ale before setting the goblet down with disgust. "Worst pissant ale I've ever tasted!''

Vincent ignored the oft-heard complaint and continued to stare at the man, knowing of course Wilhelm did not speak idly. The seemingly banal comment had import. "Wilhelm-"

"Ah, Vince, your mind's on other things. No doubt a wild young woman with sky-blue eyes. From the odor coming at me, I'd wager the man hath a fear of water."

A slow smile spread over Vincent's face.

Darkness filled the tall windows and torchlight cast dancing shadows on the bare and unadorned walls— apparently, the tapestries here had been sold long ago. No modern features had been built within the stone walls either—no guardlope or hooded hearth or lamps or nearby buttery for a tired servant's ease in serving the hall. Torches lit the space from the walls, while in the dead center of the room sat a rounded hearth, its bright flames leaping up. "Like dancing gypsies," Wilhelm said, his grin the result of a long-ago memory of a particular gypsy maid. The duke had new tables and benches made after the old ones had collapsed the first time they felt the weight of his knights—the English were so much larger than the French—but the rush-covered stone floor overwhelmed the pleasant scent of freshly cut pine. The floor should have been swept out long ago, but as Wilhelm observed, "Even the servants here are depressed and lethargic."

Bogo le Wyse peered into the pages of a Bible, his eyes black and intense as, with more intellectual curiosity than religious fever, he pursued one of his and Vincent's entertaining competitions—finding contradictory passages in the Bible. Once he found a contradictory passage to a passage, he had to search for a verse that challenged Vincent in turn. Bogo pushed his thinning, shoulder-length gray hair back with a loud and pleased, "Ah-huh!" He had found just the one. He thrust the book in front of Vincent, pointing an impatient finger at the passage.

Vincent stopped his conversation with Wilhelm, scanned the verse, and after a moment or two, quickly flipped the pages, found another verse and, with a triumphant grin, passed the book back to Bogo.

Bogo read the verse once, then twice again before he threw back his head with his laughter. Vincent's smile disappeared as he abruptly realized how long they had been made to wait. He interrupted Wilhelm in mid-sentence to demand, "What the devil is the delay? Where is she? You"—he motioned to a nearby servant—"fetch the lady at once—"

It was as if she had been waiting behind the closed doors for the exact moment in which to appear. For as the servant opened the door, Roshelle stepped into the gold light of the great hall. The silence alerted Vincent and he turned to see her there. For a long moment, he stared, just stared, startled by the simplicity of her beauty.

Roshelle wore a modest gown of pale green cloth, spun on a spinner. Emerald-green and gold embroidered lines edged the square-cut bodice, the long flowing sleeves and the long skirt that fell from a vee at her hips. A handmade rope of green-and-gold woven thread belted her small waist, accenting the slender shape beneath. She wore no caul or overdress. A green band, like a halo, held her long hair back, which cascaded in its rich color past the small of her waist. Like an unadorned frame around a masterpiece, all gazes were drawn to and then held by the girl's beauty.

Wilhelm was staring at Cisely, admiring the firelight in her dark curls, wondering at the delicate and frail-looking creature who had captured his eye. Normally he liked large, bawdy women, the exact opposite of her, and—

With a regal tilt of her head that always spelled trouble, Roshelle thought to show Vincent she had recovered from his torment of yesterday. A pretense, she knew, for she might never truly recover from it. He frightened her senseless, more now that this farce of justice would push her to her death.

"I appear here," she began, owning courage by the idea she would be escaping, never to lay eyes on him again. "Not out of obedience to your summons or deference for this trial, but rather, I appear to provide a voice of dissent, representing all the good and poor people—,?

Vincent cursed under his breath before he exploded. "Enough."

The blue eyes shot to his face, half expecting him to find a comfortable spot before motioning her to proceed. Yet he only leaned back in his high chair, watching her with what appeared casual indifference, even boredom.

Save for those eyes. His eyes stared with intensity—she felt his gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes. She felt it! "Am I not allowed to address the court?"

He drained his refilled goblet and as he set it back on the table. "No, you are not. I will warn you once: I've no mind to hear a tiresome litany of French invectives tonight. You will restrain your speech to answering the questions put to you."

Color rushed to her cheeks and her fists clenched at her sides as the heated emotions—none of them pleasant—shimmered in her eyes. How dare he! Restrain her speech indeed! He would hear an earful before—

Before she escaped.

Roshelle cast her gaze back to Cisely, who glanced up at her quickly, offering sympathy and support. A barely perceptible nod passed between them before Cisely—who never could be trusted with any intrigue or secret—looked hesitantly toward the door as she actually genuflected.

Boldly meeting his gaze again, Roshelle tried to stifle her fury and indignation. She would show him! That is, if nothing went amiss, and she prayed this was so. For death itself awaited if she could not escape. As feudal lord, the duke would never let her appeal to Henry—not that Henry would ever condescend to hear her case, let alone rule any differently. The duke would personally set her upon the guillotine and cut the rope.

Do not think of the guillotine, which is the common means of execution for the highborn. Not now. Not until the sting of its blade strikes my neck—

The thought made her gaze dance nervously around the room as Vincent motioned to Bogo to begin. She spotted a gloating Miles Hartman, her enemy, immediately. She barely graced him with a moment's consideration before passing on to the legion of the duke's knights. Not a kind face among them. Nor a French face either, She turned accusingly back to Vincent, the man responsible for this farce of justice, only to discover his gaze had not strayed from her.

Which somehow made her close her own eyes. How did he achieve it? This lifting sensation in her chest, the leap of her heart and the race of her pulse, the surge of response to him, a thing she had never felt before? After what he had done to her?

Roshelle glanced quickly up again, as if his appearance might provide a clue to the mystery. Vincent was so unusually tall. Seated, he was nearly the same height as his abbot, who was standing. Barbaric giants, the English. He wore a loose blue jerkin, and his dark hair was pulled straight back to reveal the harsh angles of his face, accenting the dark brows over his eyes.

After initial religious formalities, Bogo read from a sheet of golden parchment. "Here gathered is the high court of Reales, presided over by his Grace, Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk, and his honorable provosts, Wilhelm of Manchester, Sir Edwin of Salisbury, John of Huntingdon, Reginald of Essex, et cetera, et cetera ..." He waved a hand, forgoing the rest of the titles to get to the point. "The court is convened to try the person of Roshelle de la Nevers, who stands before us accused of the murder of Lord Edward of Suffolk. Will the witness to this murder, the honorable and noble knight Sir Miles Hartman, stand and face the accused."

Roshelle stared for a long moment at the man before she retreated, closing her eyes for a moment only to conjure his leering grin as he'd watched Edward molest her with the intent of rape that night. When she reopened her eyes, she found Sir Miles staring at her with unmasked hostility, no easy feat.

Bogo said, "Will you, Miles Hartman, tell us before God, the Father, and all gathered here what happened, exactly as it occurred, on the night Lord Edward was murdered."

One of the duke's knights, the man Bryce, abruptly stood up and, walking behind the dais, approached Vincent for a whispered conference. Vincent suddenly laughed. Bryce slapped him on the back and returned to his seat.

Roshelle stared with some small horror. How uncivil and ill-mannered! And how she'd give up a month of free days to know what had made him laugh. No doubt another disparaging remark, one whispered with laughter in the middle of her trial. She and her rebellion were little more than a colossal jest to these Englishmen. She tried to find comfort in the idea that David had had the last laugh against his persecutors...

She glanced up. Bogo le Wyse read in silence from that great large book—he was too bored to listen, even!—and the duke and Wilhelm conferred in loud whispers as Miles Hartman began to speak with open hatred. "There be not much to tell, as the tale of murder is as simple as a day be long. 'Tall starts with the lady herself. She be highborn, they say, but with the manners of the lowest French scum—"

Bogo's black eyes shot up from the book. "French scum?" The dark gaze alone was chastisement enough, though he only sighed with irritation. "Henceforth refrain from slanderous nouns when addressing the accused, and I remind you, guilty or no, she is your better."

Roshelle listened, staring with widening eyes and no small disbelief at these men. Neither Vincent nor his men, indeed least of all the abbot, paid any attention to the proceedings. Vincent bent over, now inspecting a pile of drafting sheets just brought him by his draftsman. The abbot still read and, even now, acted irritated with Miles's insult only because it interrupted him. The man Wilhelm, why, yes! He seemed to be leering at, at Cisely—

Roshelle's gaze shot to Cisely, only to find her blushing like a rose in spring! Indeed! She gave Cisely a disapproving glance. Cisely straightened, before lowering her eyes in apparent contrition.

Roshelle looked back at the redheaded giant. Smiling, he leaned his head back and seemed to doze. Four of the duke's knights played dice; another group conversed in not-too-quiet whispers. Here she was about to lose her life, and they acted as if listening to the proceedings was too taxing.

The idea brought anger, but inexplicable fear quickly followed. Why? Because killing her would be done with no heavy conscience or care! Just like that! She, as well as the people of France for whom she fought, meant nothing to them.

"Well, she hates all things English, she does," Miles was saying. "We, all of us, knows 'tis her and her merry band of demons that go around spreading misery for us. Constant trouble." He snorted with disgust. "Like one time she put a foul-smellin' sticky substance in all our boots. Couldn't get rid of the odor for weeks. Those who could got new boots, and that's when we discovered she takes some of the profit from the town's bootmaker to give ta these lazy, no-good townsfolk around this hellhole!

"But Edward made her pay, 'e did," Miles continued, looking pleased. "He had the bootmaker put in public stocks for a week. The bastard learned 'is lesson well, 'e did, nearly lost 'is arm. To this day two fingers do not move." He laughed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "And then Edward forced the bootmaker to make the twenty of us new boots—for the charge of no coin, 'e did."

Like many others' in the hall, Vincent's wavering attention was caught by this last remark. He stopped talking and looked up. The words gave Bogo pause as well and he asked, "Was this bootmaker tried at hallmoot for this crime?"

Roshelle knew well the answer to the question. The hallmoot, the village court, was used for all matters of crime and punishment of common folks, save for the three high court matters of murder, rape and treason. Edward knew full well Phillips was unjustly accused, that he had nothing to do with the incident, but wanting free boots even more than he wanted to punish her, Edward decided the crime was petty treason, and therefore, the poor man deserved no trial by hallmoot.

"Twas considered a matter of petty treason, and so Lord Edward decided the matter himself."

If Roshelle didn't know better, she would swear this upset the Duke of Suffolk. He exchanged glances with Wilhelm, whose own face appeared a studied expression of gravity. So, this part concerned them! Why?

Confused by Vincent's expression, to say nothing of Bo-go's, Miles Hartman hastily added, "Any fool, even a woman, would have learned a lesson, but her? Oh, no." He shook his head, all but pointing a finger at her. "The lady continued to harass Edward at every turn. A witch she be in truth. She made him lose 'is manhood for a spell—"

"Indeed!" Vincent's tone was sarcastic, the surprising discourse now catching and holding his attention. "And just how did the lady manage that trick?"

"No one knows how she did it. Only that she did. She concocts all these potions, ye see. One night she tricked the guards—fallen in their cups—to follow a merry dance into the foul-smelling moat, she did. Oh, the French folks had a hearty laugh at that one, they did. Then she sabotaged the wheelbarrows, so that every time a bloke used one, it broke down. I broke me toe with one! And she brought on the murrain that hath afflicted Edward's sheep here, and caused him a pretty price in profit, too, seeing how none of the townsfolk have hardly any sheep left and depended on his stock to provide some—"