Awaken My Fire (3 page)

How frail he looked, how nervous and overwhelmed!

The pantler, head of the pantry, rushed forward with the bread rolls wrapped in lovely gold-embroidered napkins and placed his trenchers near the large ceremonial covered saltcellars before servants hurried to do the same for the lesser tables. The cup bearers began filling goblets with expensive wine. Before the courses began, as he always did, Charles conceded the right of first toast to Louis, who stood for the honor. Roshelle barely heard the speech about how the marriage joined the two houses of France to unite the country against the invasion of the English king. More toasts followed, Rodez hardly appeasing the court's worries when his toast barely mentioned the joint effort against England and centered instead on the lovely young lady at his side: her beauty and charms, her gifts and how the loss of the Orleans court "Is now the treasure of all Flanders and my lands beyond."

The words felt like salt in their wounds, the collective sentiment revealed in the silence that followed. Louis, desperate to maintain the promise of his younger brother's army and monies, nervously started the applause, and only then did the people follow, noticeably without enthusiasm. More toasts followed, an endless song comprised of toasts as the servants brought out the first course of gooseneck soup served in beautiful hand-carved ash-wood bowls, stewed peas, dates and almonds and roasted sturgeon and frogs' legs. Cup bearers rushed to keep wine in the heavy silver goblets.

Roshelle abruptly woke to feel Rodez's gaze again, as if she were a painting on a wall and he a patron of the arts who was weighing her aesthetic value. She felt the hard, unnatural pounding of her heart as she abruptly realized they talked of her as if she weren't there, and with a vulgarity that shocked.

"There is an art to the proper use of a virgin."

"As an appreciative connoisseur of youth"—her husband's weathered hand went to her hair, a finger toyed with the rose-laden rope of the white streak—"I am well acquainted with many different methods. Though as of this moment, I haven't yet decided which will best mold her for my use."

"Multiple uses, and because of that, I have a suggestion.”

Then amidst whispered laughter she heard a discussion no girl should ever hear, about the fine line between fear and excitement and how best to trespass it. She blanched, alarmed to realize just how frightened she felt, a fear far exceeding any thirteen-year-old virgin's fears on her wedding night. She would not survive. Papillion! Did you know I would not survive?

"You will need her obedience." Rodez dipped a succulent frog's leg in the soup bowl, lifting it to his mouth.

"Of course, commanding a woman's obedience is usually easier than a hound's or a mastiff's, but not so Roshelle. Papillion's influence again. I shall have to be clever about it. Which reminds me: Roshelle, child, have you noticed the rain outside?"

The idea of rain put in mind Joan and her fear of it.

Roshelle's blue eyes riveted on Rodez.

"The other day as I was riding through Clisson, I happened upon a fascinating ecclesiastic trial," Rodez said. "It seems the townsfolk got it in mind that the devil was speaking through a village idiot's gibberish, and naturally the church, with its wealth of wisdom, decided the simple man should be tormented unto death—to rid his soul of its host." He laughed as he watched the girl's eyes. "And the simple fool was smiling up until the very moment he felt…”

The room started spinning; she stopped breathing. From far away she saw a rush of movement. Signaled by an alarmed Cisely, and seated in various positions at the tables below, her women rose to go to her. There was a sudden blur of colors made from their gowns as they rushed to where she sat. Roshelle felt the merciful comfort of Cisely's arm about her before Nel, another favorite, knocked over a goblet onto Philip's lap.

Philip's curses filled the hall, the music came to an abrupt halt and a startled silence came over the room as heads turned. A young page rushed forward, cloth in hand to wipe the wine from the rich velvet of the duke's elaborate doublet. The incident distracted the crowd just long enough to get Roshelle out before she was subjected to the traditional shouts and jeers of any maid, highborn or otherwise, off to her wedding bed.

The strange silence in the hall lingered and stretched, inexplicable and for no reason anyone knew or could guess until, one by one, gazes turned, to behold the man who stood at the open doors of the hall. He looked at once magnificent and grand, every bit as legendary as his reputation. He wore plain gray robes—austerely decorated with vestments of red and black and white—cloth that contrasted and yet was similar to the somber black of a priest's robes. Like Moses before Pharaoh, he held in his hand a staff as tall as his own impressive height. His hair was short and sage-white, like his beard, accenting the rich golden color of his unlined skin. Yet all anyone noticed about Papillion was his eyes. Thick raven-black brows arched dramatically over large blue eyes, eyes filled with magic, mischief, wisdom—it was said that Papillion's gaze could mesmerize a man across a crowded room, dropping his victim where he stood.

A trick Rodez knew well...

"My dear Louis!" Rodez turned in a pretense of addressing his alarmed brother, though his eyes remained firmly fixed on the old man. “You neglected to inform me of the treat! You invited Papillion, the famous court magician of Orleans!" The words and tone made a mockery of all Papillion was and all he had once meant to the duke. "Why, Louis," he continued, smiling generously, a hand toying with the sharp point of his goatee, "I am thrilled. I anticipated only the banalities of the traditional minstrel or two, a juggler or an acrobat. How welcome a clever trick or an amusing ruse will be!"

Philip chuckled, but he was the only one; not even the handful of lords and barons brought from Flanders and Normandy dared to mock the famous sage. No one drew a breath as each person turned to watch the effect of the insult on Papillion. Yet there was none. Papillion did not heed the challenge; he did not have to. There was only one reason he had appeared, and that was to save the girl he loved more than life.

Suddenly four gray doves flew into the hall, appearing, it seemed, from hidden folds in Papillion's robe. Whispered amazement raced through the crowd as heads lifted to watch the four gray birds fly about the room, circling and circling until at last they lit upon the four distinct goblets of the three dukes and the Dauphin at the table raised on the dais.

Sergio, Papillion's servant, stepped back, thrilled with his success. Everything depended upon the doves, he knew. The whole thing...

Scattered applause followed the neat trick, but so did confusion, for everyone knew Papillion had not attended the ill-begotten ceremony to provide such lowly entertainment. Yet as the tall, impressive figure moved down the center aisle between the tables, magic spilled into the room.

A woman cried out in fright, then laughed as she withdrew a tiny kitten from the gold bodice of her cream-colored gown. The audience broke out in applause. Another lady felt a stirring up her sleeve and pulled out a miniature white puppy. "Oh, so petite!" The roomful of people laughed with delight. Viscount Gian Valentine laughed as he discovered a gold coin in the sugar-coated candy in his mouth. Three colorful balls rolled from unseen places onto the two center tabletops. A woman holding a napkin found herself holding a bouquet of fresh roses. A page watched in no small horror as the wine pitcher bubbled up and began spilling onto the floor, a similar situation occurring in nearly all of the soup bowls. Another lady shrieked the second she saw a tiny white mouse running up her arm, then fainted dead away when she noticed the little monsters everywhere on her black velvet gown.

Quite suddenly everything changed.

Anticipating a treat, people reached greedy hands for the balls. The slightest touch broke what was a mercilessly fragile membrane and from one ball poured out dozens of tiny black spiders, from another came lizards, still another produced strange, tiny slithering creatures—too small for snakes but too large for worms. Laughter turned to screams. The thorns on the bouquet of roses pricked its recipient's hands and burned with an acid poison. Lord Valentine started choking on the wretched taste of the coin. People jumped up to escape the little beasties crawling from those balls, knocking over the benches as they did.

Wine and soup still spurted unnaturally from their containers, yet now appeared as a most foul-smelling cesspool. The little dog abruptly urinated in the fright of screams, then worse, causing the lady a start of horror that scared her neighbor's kitten and set the tiny creature’s claws to her face.

A high-ranking bishop, Sal de Boviar, stood up, and as a soldier grabs his sword, he clutched his rosary and with scathing fury shouted, "In the name of God Almighty, I command thy demons . . . There once be a lady named Eva! Who came to the hall as Godiva, but a change in the lights showed a tear in her tights, and a low fellow present yelled Beaver!"

Hearing this, witnessing the devil's own possession, the other men of the cloth jumped up to flee in horror. The endless stream of wine covered the floor, foul-smelling soup over that, and one of them slipped; the other bent to pick him up but slipped too. Chaos fueled the entire hall: shouts and screams, fallen benches, spilled wine and wild, frantic creatures.

Philip watched the scene with plain fascination, that was all, though seeing the stumbling priests nearly made him lose the mouthful of wine in his goblet and he swallowed it whole before bursting out with a great roar of laughter. And more as the bishop continued the stream of asinine verse: "... love is the fart of every heart, of mine and yours and all the worlds..." Charles scarcely breathed, let alone moved, while Louis, too, only stared helplessly at this grotesque parody of a court magician's tricks, a show of power and not, he knew, of Papillion's.

Papillion kept his back to the chaos, as if it were not happening, and stared only at Rodez, meeting the amusement in that man's gaze dispassionately. No one overheard the warning as he said to Rodez, "I will stop you, Rodez." His hand came across his heart, the torchlight caught and reflected the gold band on his finger and he said, "The third apex of the triangle that sits upon my heart points to the stars and the heavens beyond. The next time thine eyes behold the ring, you will be pierced by the just sword of a pure heart."

Rodez's eyes blazed with scorn and mockery and, most of all, disbelief. A fool's trick! An absurdly simple fool's trick; the mere suggestion to the mind makes it come true: prophesy a painful calamity to a man and he will trip over the first stone in his path. One of the very first lessons Papillion had taught him. "A child's ploy, Papillion. A child's ploy!"

Papillion watched as Rodez opened his hand and revealed a beautiful gold-and-blue butterfly, the frantic flutter of its wings demanding freedom, and Papillion knew his cruel trick. For many years ago, when he had still tried to believe in Rodez, he had found a black velvet box in Rodez's trunk, not even hidden, and full of dead and decaying butterflies.

Rodez reached for the candle. Yet something slippery touched his fingers and his hand jerked instinctively. The butterfly flew free into space. Hot wax spilled over his hand. With fury, he looked back at Papillion.

"But a child's ploy, Rodez."

Louis abruptly stood and, desperate to save himself, he ordered, "Enough, Papillion! Enough!"

As if his wish were a command, and far quicker than it took to make, Papillion raised his hand, that was all. The chaos abruptly vanished, replaced by a sudden silence. Only the physical traces of a wicked hand remained: the toppled benches, the spilled wine and soup, all but a few of the little animals and the rapid breaths of the lords and ladies as they turned at Louis's voice.

Rodez alone understood the power in play here.

"I had to do it," Louis cried out, desperate to redeem himself. "I had to! For France!"

Papillion still only stared at Rodez but answered, "And though I could never stop this thing you did, I will not let Roshelle be sacrificed."

"Yet 'tis done, Papillion, 'tis done! 'Tis too late to save her now!"

"Is it?"

The silence filled with this question, answered at last as Papillion turned his mesmerizing gaze to Philip for the first time. Philip met his gaze evenly, too stupid to know to be afraid—his last and fatal mistake. "To you, the man who will be her husband for but the space of this ignoble day, I shall grace you with the undeserved favor of a forewarning." He leaned forward on his staff and said slowly, "And I do so only because I know you shall not heed it."

Papillion turned to face the crowded hall and said, "Let it be known to one and all, the girl Roshelle Marie Saint Lille of Lyons and Bourges, and now of Normandy, is cursed! As I have cursed her!” His eyes lit with an unnatural light as he concluded, "For each and every man who attempts to lie with her will be struck down dead!"

Silence followed the shocking announcement, before a din of whispered gasps of horror and awe rose in the room. Could he do it? Did Papillion have that power? Just as quickly the noise stopped. Philip, his face red with fury and indignation, reached for his sword in answer to the outrageous proclamation. "You will die for this—"