Awaken My Fire (31 page)

"I need you to do something, my pet."

"Yes, my life, mon amour ..."

"There is a bishop here, a man named Rapondi Dino."

"And what is special about this bishop?"

"The honor of protecting my brother's precious seal. He alone is entrusted with the precious plates of Orleans, and if I should get these plates, I could have my goldsmiths make a seal that would be placed upon a letter that would convince a certain young woman to offer her virginity to a man—who will be struck down dead for the pleasure."

Her eyes found him filled with humor. "The Duke of Suffolk could not be so foolish as his brother?"

"Indeed, apparently he thinks the curse is little more than a measure of French foolishness."

"He is the fool!"

"The world is full of them, my pet. Now, Terese"—he pointed out the man Rapondi Dino— "there he sits. I understand he enjoys a strange trick done with ropes..."

*****

Chapter 8

Blue eyes like Roshelle's. The ring, too. Joan tried not to stare, yet her gaze kept darting to the open grassy field of the courtyard where Bryce and the lord fought with swords. He was covered with sweat. Like before.

With an empty bucket in hand and a saint's patience, Joan waited for Bryce's attention. Last night he had made her happy. Happy with a bright sun bursting inside.

Bryce parried, swung, hit.

Blue eyes like Roshelle's.

"Joan! Joan, hurry over with the water!"

Roshelle's voice called from the newly planted herb garden nearby where she and Lorette, a kitchen maid, knelt in the rich brown soil pulling weeds. Cisely sat prettily on a quilted blanket on the lawn nearby, sewing, refusing absolutely to sink her hands in soil. Instead she contented herself with stitchery—a lady's work—while chatting merrily about Wilhelm.

Wilhelm this, Wilhelm that, conversation Roshelle swore she was neither interested in nor wanted to hear, though Cisely seemed unperturbed by Roshelle's disinterest, disinterest rapidly becoming ire. Indeed, Cisely failed to notice the hardening line of Roshelle's mouth as she worked.

"Wilhelm says his family, the Dirletons of Scotland, have been connected to the la Eresmans of Suffolk for over a hundred years. Imagine that! Apparently Vincent's family sells Suffolk's wealth—which is great indeed, he says—on his family's merchant ships. Ships that sail throughout the world and oh, my, you should hear the good man's tales. Wilhelm does not care for life on the high seas, being susceptible to seasickness and melancholy at sea, so he has made his way in the duke's personal guard. He has done very well for himself, too, and since he is the last of five sons, his father did not mind his choice overmuch. And did I tell you, milady, how his first wife died after giving him two healthy sons? One of his sons is a novitiate at Cambridge, while the other lives on and loves the sea, sailing since he was ten with Wilhelm's brother on one of those fine ships." She set down her stitchery and said dreamily as she looked up at the sky-blue heavens, "Do you know what else Wilhelm says? He swears that, except for the English lake land, which is very near Scotland, there really is not a prettier land in all the world—"

"That be just what Merwyn says," young Lorette said with a soft smile. "He said that someday he will take me there, to this great English lake land. Merwyn says—"

Roshelle tossed down the hoe. "So help me Mother in Heaven, if I hear one more 'Merwyn says' or 'Wilhelm says' I shall scream. Enough of it—both of you. I would remind you they are English. English—"

"Wilhelm is not English! And why, why, the Scots have often fought on the side of France—"

"A long time ago! A very long time ago, and certainly not of late. Now the Scottish knights are little better than Henry's handmaidens. Besides," Roshelle said crossly, "Wilhelm lies so closely with the English, he might as well be one!"

Inexpressible anguish appeared on Cisely's face and her lips trembled. Roshelle tried to soften her tone, but the gravity of the situation made her strict. "Cisely, put him out of your mind. 'Tis not proper to maintain a liaison with a man you can have no future with—"

The sudden pain in Cisely's eyes took Roshelle aback. Cisely rose, her short dark curls shaking, and without a word, not trusting herself to speak her mind, she took her leave.

Stopping her labors for a moment, Roshelle stole a glance across the courtyard to where Vincent and another, that man Bryce, furiously engaged in a sword fight, the loud clang of metal resonating off the stone walls like furious church bells calling the faithful to task for their sins.

"Just look at him," Roshelle said in a heated whisper as they fought. Bryce lunged forward and, catching Vincent as he turned, swung hard. Vincent's sword flew into the air, landing a good ten paces away. The men applauded loudly. Vincent bowed obsequiously to his knight.

Anger bristled through her.

There he stood laughing—just as gay as you please!— his hands on hips, his feet apart. A bright red mouchoir circled his head, and his hair fell unbound to his shoulders. He wiped the perspiration from his face and neck with the cloth slung over his shoulders. Naked to the waist, he wore only breeches, belted by a metal-studded strip of black leather, and tall black boots. It did not even matter to him that he had lost! He was still full of self-congratulations! More prideful than Satan, arrogant, cocksure—

The precious seeds were freshly sprung, but so were the weeds. Roshelle seized one and with a violent pull, ripped out its roots to vent her anger. Weed after weed followed. 'Twas not fair to put her womenfolk amidst all these Englishmen. There was no hope for it. None!

As if being practically English weren't damning enough, Wilhelm had not a parcel of land, his family essentially as nameless and as titleless as the piggery man. There were other things, too: Wilhelm was as big and gruff as a bear waking from months of winter slumber, while Cisely was delicate and fair and slight, and God forbid the man ever got her with his child! Why did the first man Cisely ever took a fancy to have to be practically English?

"Curse all! What is taking Joan so long? She's so featherheaded these days! 'Twill be snowing by the time she returns. Lorette, run off and see what's happened to her."

"At once, milady."

It was all his fault, everything was all his fault. Curse the day she ever heard the name de la Eresman! He and his merry band of men were not just seducing her womenfolk faster than hungry crows on a row of corn, but he audaciously tried to redeem English honor among the people, practically bribing them into acquiescence and obedience. This past week Alicia, a peasant woman, had come down with a strange fever and flux. The fever had left by nightfall, but it had dried her milk. Her youngest child was but a month old, his wails weakening with each passing hour. No goats or milking creatures were left in all of Reales. Desperate, never expecting him to help, she had sent Cisely to ask Lord High-and-Mighty the favor. Six hours later the captain of the English guards had appeared at the woman's cottage with a nanny goat slung across the front of his saddle.

She knew why the duke had extended his help! Just so everyone would talk about how noble and kind he was! Just to buy the people's favor!

The situation had worsened. He'd had the brashness to absolve all peasants of their feudal debt until the fall harvest of next year, and then, then he'd reduced the amount owed by half and the rents by three-fourths. Three-fourths; she still could not believe it. Singing had broken out on the streets. More singing erupted when literally hundreds of creatures—sheep and cows and pigs—had arrived from Suffolk to help provide enough manure for a bountiful harvest. Then he had his men—men of arms, no less!— helping the peasants and village farmers till their soil. Like lowly cotters! Some of his men were even clearing back the brush and forest for the poorest families to plant even more rye and barley and wheat. And his men were spending coins in the township as if it were their very own England. Already five traveling minstrels, a dozen merchants and two moneylenders had arrived in Reales to catch these coins, spending their own, and suddenly the people were bustling with industry. The mill, the tailors, everyone had new business. Phillips, the bootmaker, had apparently taken on an apprentice to help with his new orders, and really, it would all be quite wonderful if only he weren't . . . English!

He only did it to keep the people content and docile, like feeding the pigs before slaughter. Just as he had stolen kisses that night, utterly undaunted by the consequences. She had to do something, she just had to. Somehow she must convince him these kisses would lead him to a certain death ...

Yet how? How?

Dear Papillion, what should be done?

A warm spring breeze blew across her cheeks, lifting roan-colored strands from her furrowed brow, which softened as she remembered his kisses. How bold he was! He had stolen her kisses! She had been naked and—

The garden hoe fell from her hand and she reached to touch her lips, the memory of the pounding sweetness of his kisses sweeping her with heady emotions: she felt hot and cold and shaky all at once.

His tongue had swept inside her mouth ...

With a taste like late-summer apples and warm sunshine, his kisses had brought an avalanche of hot chills and pleasure and then, then his mouth, his tongue, had come to her breasts—

Her arms crossed over herself and she blushed, her blue eyes darting to either side, half expecting to find people pointing fingers at her. Her breasts! Did all men do that? Would any other man in the world do that? He must be darkly, wickedly, carnal! For the first time in her life, she had wanted to ask Cisely if such a thing was, well, common; if all men did this. After all, Cisely had been married and bedded, and she had wanted to ask if her husband had done that to her, and if he had, if it had filled her with a thick, hot pleasure...

Somehow she could not imagine Cisely and a man.

She had always felt so worldly-wise, and while destined to be forever a virgin, she had known everything about the physical aspect of being a man and a woman. Indeed, she had once seen the secrets of a human body in a dissection! She had been bedside at thirty-four births! She knew all about copulating, or so she had thought, but never, never had she imagined that a man's kisses might make a woman hot and weak and, and filled with yearning—

The memory shot hot crimson color to her cheeks. As if his kisses were not torment enough! She and Cisely had been cleaning the stained-glass windows in the great hall as Vincent and his men supped. She had been listening intently to their conversation, most of it concerning their king and counselor and the capture of Lord Darmeth and Lord Somerset as they conspired against Henry. The conversation had excited her, indicating Henry's ambitions were receding, that he was too involved in his own domestic crisis to push any further into France with another godless campaign. Then someone asked if it was true, if Henry was looking for a gentlewoman to be Vincent's next wife.

"Oh, aye, Henry is always looking for the woman who would be my wife." He paused, his darkly intelligent eyes traveling across the room to find her sudden stare. "Yet he has had no luck finding her. For this woman who would be my wife is as rare a creature as the winged goddess of Athens."

The room fell silent and the men smiled as they followed Vincent's gaze to find Roshelle's interest. She swung back around, pretending she had not heard and was not listening, and wondering wildly why her heart began a slow, escalating thud. As if she cared at all about his next wife!

She did not!

Then Bogo had commented dryly, "My poor Grace, there be no such thing as picking out the best woman or even a good one—'tis only a question of comparative badness."

The men laughed, but Vincent disagreed. "Comparative badness? I think not," and he added in that rich, compelling tone she remembered so vividly, "For the woman I shall marry will be graced with the virtues."

As if the heavenly sun depended on the sparkle of the glass she cleaned, she put all her strength and vigor to her task. A cramp had shot up her arm. Still she scrubbed, desperate to escape the heat of his stare, the more disturbing idea of his new wife, this rare bastion of virtues. By the saints, what did she care? She cared nothing for this man who braved the curse, who had brought her to her knees before him, who—

"Ah!" Wilhelm exclaimed. "Do tell! I would hear about this good woman you would marry. What goodness be in your Grace's mind?"

Against her will she had stopped, turning to discover the strange warmth of his stare upon her. How could it affect the race of her heart? How? The way he stared, as if there were no one else in the room, as if he were thinking about kissing her again—

"Why, the goodness of heart," Vincent responded easily, and seeming to speak to her, he said softly, "This woman who would be my wife shall have the spark of heavenly fire in her heart; she would be blessed with the virtues of compassion and kindness, and with my love, this spark will kindle and beam and blaze in my home."