Awaken My Fire (34 page)

"Did what?"

"Called me that name!"

"What name is that?"

Trying not to laugh out loud, Wilhelm braced, watching as the girl's frustration built. He half expected to see her arms start winding like a mill as she set about landing a hard blow to Vincent's face—which would be a grave mistake. Breathing deeply, she glared at Vincent.

"The point is, the only point that matters is I do not want your men coupling with my women, your army pillaging my country's land, and most of all, I do not want your vile presence in my home!"

"Vile presence?" Vincent appeared quite shocked by these words, though a wicked light betrayed his true sentiments and he bit his lip to stop his laughter. "Now you would call my presence vile? Why, how strange!" He leaned closer, briefly motioning to the others as he steered her a few paces away so as not to be overheard. "You did not seem to find my presence in your chambers very vile that night. As a matter of fact, sweetling, I remember, rather vividly, you, too, were all soft sighs, atremble with the pleasure of my kisses—"

Horrified color shot to her cheeks. Her blue eyes darted quickly around to ascertain if anyone had overheard this.

Yet everyone pretended extreme disinterest in their impassioned exchange. Wilhelm had led Cisely away toward the well water, while Bryce seemed suddenly consumed with his effort to pick dried mud from his boots with his dagger. She turned back to see Vincent's amused—very!— smile.

"You have the audacity and mean spirit to remind me of that which, with every breath I draw I try to forget—"

"Yet you cannot, can you?"

"No! I cannot—though not for want of trying! And I warn you, milord, do not delude yourself. 'Twas not because of the sweet seduction of your kisses—"

"No?"

"No! 'Twas that I was mad, out of my mind with fright! I can only reason that you so scared me, I, I lost my wits and, and fell victim to some manly spell that preys upon innocent maids—"

Vincent threw his head back with laughter. "Manly spell and innocent maids indeed! While I would not use those exact words to describe the acquiescence of your kisses, they are indeed apt. And think of this, milady. Each and every time more, you will be less afraid and more—"

"Do not say it! I will not! Never! But even if I were a willing partner in your seduction, I must make you believe, you must know, twould mean your death!"

The impassioned declaration made him release her arms, but only so he could laugh with near abandon. Stunned, she could only glare up at him, her blue eyes shimmering with fury and fear and something else, something very much like excitement. Which he saw. "Oh, my love," he said, leaning forward, laughing still. "I have said it before and I see I shall have to say it again: death has become an absolutely irresistible temptation—a temptation I march blindly and verily toward!"

“
You are mad, just mad!'' Roshelle's fists tightened and she swung around and marched away with all the small dignity she could muster. Away from him, his men, his army, most of all his laughter. A sound she knew would haunt her, and probably for the rest of her days—as short a time as that was likely to be!

*****

Chapter 9

Roshelle sat at her writing table, quill in hand, furiously scribbling an urgent message to the herbalist in Rouen. The Duke of Suffolk needed his ardor dampened, 'twas the only thing she could think to do. The potion had worked on Edward, so she saw no reason to doubt its effect on his older brother. She needed some ergot, and while she had no coins to pay for it, she thought to appeal to the monsieur's charity. She had to fix the duke a potion! It seemed the only way to avoid disaster.

For she could not leave Reales.

A knock at the door sounded.

She looked at the door and she stiffened. It was him. Again. Here to torment her with his kisses. What would she do? What could she do? It was painfully clear she had not the armor to fight this kind of attack—

An insistent knock followed.

The quill dropped. She stood up, staring at the door in horror. She swallowed. "Who stands there?"

"Your servant, milady. I carry a message from Bishop Rapondi Dino, of the Orleans court."

"Saints alive!" Roshelle rushed to the door, pressed the latch and opened it. A young page of Vincent's retinue stood in the hall. He could not be the messenger from Orleans, who was no doubt watering and feeding his horse, perhaps even accepting refreshments from his English adversaries. She had to hurry if she wanted to give him a message to take back to Orleans.

"Eveningtide, milady."

She nodded curtly.

He handed her the sealed parchment. She nodded again as she shut the door. For a moment, she stared at the parchment without opening it. What ill tidings could come from Orleans now? Charles's poor health or worse—

She ripped the bishop's seal and unfolded the message. She skipped the lengthy formal address to read the main text:

We most urgently appeal to you, our young Countess de la Nevers, in France's struggle against her English invaders! As you read these carefully penned words, a new army is amassing under the orange-and-white banner of Orleans. Charles, the young and noble Dauphin, will lead these brave knights in an advance against the English strongholds throughout Brittany—

Roshelle stared at those last words, reading them again and then once again. Charles amassing an army? It did not seem possible. It seemed even less likely that Charles meant to lead men of arms against the English himself! He must be getting well at last! Why had he not written her?

Because of his fear of interception of his penned words!

With her heart pounding with new fervor, she read the

rest:

Be forewarned! Thy time has come!

Now is the time we must gather all our weapons, large and small, to wield against the English, and so we ask of you a great sacrifice. This sacrifice is nothing less than to rid the English army of its villainous leader, the Duke of Suffolk, Vincent de la Eresman. You know to what weapon we appeal: we appeal to your wholly unique, God-protected chastity. In secret meetings his Holiness and revered leader of the Christian world, Pope Benedict, hath decreed His design meant for you to use your chastity now, to free all of France! We are depending on you, so young, pure and chaste, graced by the heavens and celebrated by the people, to exercise the curse and rid the English of their greatest champion—

The parchment floated unnoticed to the floor.

Color drained from her face as her blue eyes sought and found the candle on the table. Her thoughts raced to the near future: she had always known it would come someday. Now here at last was the sweep of history she awaited. The amassing of a brave, valiant and victorious French army, thousands of men of arms led by their true king, Charles. There would be a great battle, the final battle to return France to its rightful citizens.

A battle in which she must do her part.

She must use the curse to murder Vincent de la Eresman.

It would not be hard. He had made perfectly clear how verily he would march to his death. She had no illusions about it; she would go to his chambers, he would play his game of seduction, an act of violence would follow: a sudden intrusion of another knight bent on his murder, a heart seizure or sudden apoplexy—something that would kill him.

As the curse had killed so many others.

The idea of his death left her feeling so strangely cold. Why? She hated him, his English heritage, his strength and power, his unearned, undeserved lordship of Reales, did she not? Would not his death be welcome? Was she afraid of being killed in the tidal wave of bloodshed?

Why was she so frightened?

She clasped her hands together in horror when she realized they trembled.

Think! It mattered not at all what she felt! All the men and knights of France amassed nearby even now, preparing to boldly spill blood and lose their lives, and all of those brave souls depended on her to do her part. A part that Benedict himself decreed had been ordained in the heavens! God Himself gave her this precious weapon to use against the duke! "It was meant to be!

Roshelle forced the sudden whirlwind of emotions back. There was no room for sentiment here. She had to do this! For France! For a France governed and led by the rightful heir, Charles.

She knelt down and picked up the parchment. Very carefully, she stepped over to a candle. The parchment went up in flames. She set it in the metal basin and as she watched it turn to ashes, a curious numbness swept through her limbs like a tonic. The last time she had felt that numbness was on her wedding night: the first time the curse had worked its awesome power to steal the very breath of life from a man.

And, so it would again.

Roshelle slipped quietly through the door to his outer chambers. The door closed softly. She stood still for several seconds as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, until, like a cat, she saw the dark outlines of different shapes in the room: two trunks, a chest of drawers, sword shield and halbert hanging from the wall, the pallets from which the soft sounds of his servants' slumber rose. The only light came from beneath the door to the inner chamber.

He was awake.

She stepped silently to it. A pale hand touched the latch. Closing her eyes, she whispered a brief prayer for courage, before she gave the latch the weight of her hand. The door opened and she stepped inside.

A cool spring breeze blew through the open window. Atop the large stone hearth, candlelight flickered above the dance of a bright fire. Vincent stood at the window, staring out at the darkened landscape of the night, and as her eyes encountered him the brief moment before he turned to see her there, she felt her heart skip a beat. He wore only loose cotton leggings, rolled at the waist and cut off at the knees, that was all. One outstretched arm braced against the stone wall; the other arm rested on his raised knee and held a goblet. She knew the cup would have only water or goat's milk in it, for one of the eccentricities of his remarkable character was that drink—common ale, as well as wine—apparently gave him a headache. His handsome face held the thoughtful expression of a man contemplating the world he had made. She suddenly thought of all he had done for the poverty-stricken land of Reales.

Would Charles or his liege lord be as good?

By God's grace, he would.

Something alerted him to her presence: the sound of her sudden sharp intake of breath or the barely perceptible trace of her perfume. His eyes found her and for a full minute or even longer, he stared, just stared.

With the front ends held simply back by a ribbon, her long auburn hair fell unbounded and unadorned down her back, cascading over a plain white cotton nightdress. Her wide blue eyes were full of fear and uncertainty, two things he did not have to wonder about.

"I wondered if you would come."

The words meant nothing to her, less than nothing as he drained the goblet and set it down. For in the span of a moment fear consumed her entire being.

As God is merciful, it would be quick!

With the loud pounding of her heart, she wondered wildly if she should say something. She steeled herself against the intensity of his stare and tilted her chin up, her eyes narrowing as if she were a warrior princess with sword in hand. "I... I have come to endure your challenge to the curse."

There, she'd said it—it was all but over. He would kiss her, lay her on the bed and then, then—

He would be struck dead.

A cold dread filled her, and she trembled. More so when she heard a soft, low chuckle, echoing her hollow words with mockery and scorn. Something awful sprang into his expression, reflected even more in the light shining in his eyes. A warning sounded in her mind and she realized suddenly he threatened her. To make her afraid? Aye, something dark loomed between them. Instinctively, like a fawn caught within eye range of the archer's bow, she started to bolt, but too late.

He suddenly stood in front of her. A long arm reached past her and shut the door. He stood so close, his height towering above her. A strange heat and violence radiated from him, trapping her like the eyes of a snake. She couldn't have moved if her life depended on it, and having no choice, it seemed, she lowered her eyes as if shutting out her vision could transport her away. A hand came to the string of her nightdress and lightly toyed with them.

He stared at the plain dress, it said so much. Long, loose sleeves covered her arms; a string gathered the garment at her neck before it dropped to the tips of her toes, every inch of her covered in thick cotton. Like a child's nightdress, one wildly inappropriate for her intent.