Iron Lace (30 page)

Fray Sebastian pulled it out and held it up for closer
scrutiny, peering at it critically and holding the palm of his hand
near enough to feel the heat emanating from it. But he wasn't satisfied
yet. He submerged it among the coals once more and turned back to her.

"Fire purges," he told her, in the manner that a teacher
instructs a student. "Perhaps it's fitting that while that wicked city
above us is being purged, you, the handmaid of Satan, be purged here
below."

"My family will miss me," she warned her captor in a last
desperate effort of defiance. "You'll have to answer to my grandmother
and my guardian for whatever you do to me."

Fray Sebastian laughed humorlessly. "Oh, they'll miss you,
all right," he agreed, "but they'll more than likely come to the
conclusion that you were lost in the fire and give up looking for you
after a day or two. No, child the fire was a godsend. That's why I saw
the opportunity to take you and seized it immediately."

"But what will you say when you release me? You'll have to
give an accounting—"

"Silence, strumpet! The Holy Inquisition gives an
accounting to no one! Suffice it to say I have very special plans for
you. Meanwhile, we have time. There's no need for us to go too
quickly." He seemed to savor the thought of the long, clandestine
nights ahead of him when he could at last torment this wench whom the
devil had sent to torment him.

"I have resolved to control myself and not be quite as
zealous with you as I was with those other wenches I chastised in the
past," he continued. "That last one I purged expired before she could
recant. I don't want to make that same mistake with you, child, so I
promise I won't torment the demons within you more than your flesh can
tolerate, for I especially want you to live until you've confessed and
repented. As I told you, I have important plans for you."

Despite the heat of the room, a cold chill gripped Monique
from within. The man was mad! How could she reason with him? But then
the whole idea of the Inquisition was mad! This diabolical monk was
simply the venomous fruit of a weed that had been permitted to grow far
too long in the garden of the Church. It should have been uprooted long
ago, yet there was nothing so difficult to reason with as fanaticism.

"But what is it I must confess?" she ventured. "Exactly
what is it you wish me to say?"

"You know full well the gamut of your sins," he snapped
back, "and you must tell me everything. How many men you have led into
sin… how many men you have let possess your body…"

"
Mon Dieu
! I'm not as bad as you
think, Padre! I'm… I'm still a virgin—"

"Lying won't spare you, you know. You must confess to me
every sinful deed you've ever done… every wicked thought
that's crossed your mind."

"But I swear I…" She paused. "I…
I've been kissed a few times, but… God forgive me! Is that
so wicked?"

The monk walked over to the wall and chose one of the long
multithonged whips hanging there. The metal tips on the ends of the one
he held gleamed in the candlelight with the same intensity as his eyes
as he passed the thongs almost caressingly between his fingers.

"Perhaps a good flogging will set you to remembering
better," he told her. "Are you so depraved that your wickedness no
longer even seems like sinning to you?"

"I… I'm so confused," protested Monique,
anxiously eyeing the restless whip in his hands. "Just the thought of
your doing so many terrible things to me fills me with such fear I
can't think straight!"

The monk shrugged his scarecrowlike shoulders beneath his
loosely fitting robes. "A few hours a night with me and my multiple
persuaders should help stir your memory," he told her. "The days go by
slowly here in the dark. You'll soon come to anticipate my nocturnal
visits as the weeks go by, and before long you'll find yourself
remembering many things to confess to me, I'm sure."

The brand was glowing red-hot now, and the flames sizzled
and crackled about it, announcing its readiness. The monk hung the whip
back up on the wall and went over to the brazier. This time there was
no need to test it.

"Now we'll begin!" he announced with obvious pleasure at
the prospect. He withdrew the glowing rod from the fire and reached
down to steady her with his free hand.

She was twisting and turning in a frenzy of terror now,
weeping hysterically. Already she could feel the heat radiating from
the brand, but with her outstretched limbs strapped firmly to the rack,
all she could do was writhe wildly, struggling desperately…
vainly… to dodge the downward sweep of that sizzling cross.
She was like a fluttering butterfly pinned fast to a board, futilely
making its last stand against the inevitable.

The monk tried again to steady her to receive the full
impact of the torch, but the feel of her breast brushing against his
hand during the struggle seemed to disorient him. He suddenly paused
and stood there, looking down at her in fascinated awe. His breath
quickened, and the hand that had touched her breast began to tremble
violently. Those dark, smoldering eyes were glowing now with more
intensity than the red-hot brand he held suspended in midair.

After a moment he gave a start and seemed to come back to
reality. Angrily he dug his fingers into her flesh until she moaned in
pain.

"Cursed woman! Try your wiles on me, will you?" he roared.

Turning away in horror, he thrust the iron abruptly back
into the fire while he tried desperately to regain control of himself.
May God forgive him for his sinful thoughts! For the salvation of his
soul, he must not give in to his desire for her. One more reason why he
had to purge this spawn of the devil, for in so doing he would be
cleansing himself of his own lust for her. But he knew now that he
would never know peace until Monique Chausson was destroyed.

Miguel
was desperate. He had been searching frantically for
Monique for over an hour, and she was nowhere to be found. Now, with
the fire fast taking on the proportions of another major catastrophe
for the city, it was even more difficult to look for her.

Everything had turned into a hellish nightmare since that
moment he had turned to see Monique standing there in the Ducole
hallway looking at him with wide, accusing eyes.

To make matters worse, Azema had made him lose precious
minutes by blocking his way and insisting on arguing, until finally he
had been obliged to thrust her aside and dash out despite her protests.

The irony of it all was that, since his pact with Monique
the morning after the hurricane, he hadn't been near Azema's
bedchamber, and that afternoon was to have been his last meeting with
Henri at the Ducole town house. If only Monica hadn't suddenly appeared
out of nowhere to complicate matters! Whatever had possessed the girl
to go there in the first place? Poor sweet sensitive child! She had
unwittingly given Azema the perfect opportunity to enjoy a brief moment
of revenge against both her ex-lover and her rival.

Of course, Azema simply resented the fact that he had been
the first one to break off their liaison. Her vanity had been pricked,
nothing more. And her pride was probably doubly wounded because it had
been an inexperienced girl like Monique who had won out over her.

No, the only one he was worried about in that
not-so-humorous comedy of errors was Monique. The memory of the look on
her face wrung his heart. He didn't know how he would ever be able to
convince her now that he hadn't betrayed her trust in him…
that he had, in fact, broken off with Azema.

His sweet little ward—so young and passionate,
so uncompromising in her judgments! All he wanted to do now was find
her… kiss away her tears and make her understand. She had to
know he hadn't deceived her, that she had misjudged the significance of
what she had seen.

He had been so certain he'd find her at home that he had
gone directly there. Instead, all he found was the overseer from Le Rêve waiting for him. He realized now that Monique had gone looking for
him at the Ducoles' to advise him of Roselle's arrival at the town
house. It seemed that an urgent matter had come up at the plantation
shortly after he had left there that morning. But Miguel was too upset
to discuss business at that moment. All he could do was beg Roselle's
patience and explain he couldn't attend to anything until he'd found
his missing ward.

On overhearing that Monique was missing, Grandmother
Chausson was beside herself with fear. She began to weep hysterically
and remind Miguel how the two other girls who had been missing recently
had never been found. But Miguel tried his best to assure her he was
going back out to comb the city, if need be, all the while trying to
hide his own frantic misgivings.

No sooner had he stepped out of the front door, however,
then the fire alarm sounded. Miguel looked up Rue Royale in dismay. The
fire was only a few blocks away on the other side of the square. As if
he didn't have enough to worry about already!

The strong wind that had been blowing all afternoon was
rapidly fanning the flames, and the overcast sky to the opposite side
of the city had taken on a reddish glow that had little to do with the
sun.

Just to be on the safe side, Miguel gave hurried orders to
Roselle to help the women and the household servants get whatever
valuables they wished saved into the family coach and wagon and take
them immediately to the plantation. He needed to be free to give his
undivided attention to finding Monique. He didn't want to have to be
worrying about the rest of the family's safety, as well, if the fire
should reach the town house.

"Just leave the geldings and the houseboy here for me," he
told Roselle hurriedly. "As soon as I find Monique, we'll join you at
Le Rêve."

Even as Miguel rushed to the plaza, he continued to hope
that the danger of the fire would make Monique come running back home,
but meanwhile he decided to look around his ward's favorite
haunts—the main square and the Orange Tree Walk.

The longer he walked the streets looking for her, however,
the more difficult it became, for the people were milling about in a
panic-stricken frenzy as memories of the destruction wrought by past
conflagrations filled them with terror. Many were already trying to
return to their homes, but the majority of the townsmen were rushing to
the scene of the fire to help fight it before it reached tragic
proportions.

All hell seemed to have broken loose. The soldiers were
dragging out the town's pumps from the fire-house on the square, and
several of the citizens, as well as one or two more elegantly dressed
members of the city council, were urging them on to greater speed.
There were only six pumps, and some of them had never really been put
to the test, since they had only recently been acquired. Even the
wooden building in which they were housed, with a door for each
"engine," had just been built.

Miguel tried to stop two or three people he knew to ask
them if they might have seen Monique during that past hour, but they
simply gave him glazed looks and shook their heads.

With each passing moment his despair mounted. Where could
she be? In some corner crying her eyes out, thinking he didn't love her
and had only been deceiving her all the while? Or worse yet, perhaps
trying to fend off the advances of some drunken Kaintock, like that
time he had first met her and Celeste on the square? In a port where
drinking and whoring were the favorite pastimes of two-thirds of the
male population—townsmen and boatmen alike—a lone
girl roaming the streets was fair game for any rake who chanced upon
her.

He made his way quickly down the gravel path lined with
trees that ran along the levee, deserted now of its usual afternoon
strollers. The icy wind felt even colder up there, so close to the
river and tunneled through the orange trees. He doubted the girl would
have sought refuge in such a windy place, yet he could leave no stone
unturned.

Quickly he made his way back toward the square, this time
along Chartres, which had probably been the street Monique had
traversed on first leaving the Ducole town house. The fire on Roy ale
was only a block away and already the backs of several houses on that
thoroughfare were beginning to shoot up in flames, as well. He wondered
whether Henri and Azema were going to abandon their place or stay and
try to fight it out. He would have liked to stop off to offer Henri
help, but he didn't dare. Every minute now made his finding Monique
more urgent than before.

Back on the plaza, with the crowds milling around him more
frantic than ever now that it was evident the fire was out of control,
Miguel made his way toward the cathedral. The thought occurred to him
that the girl might have taken refuge there. As soon as he entered,
however, his spirits sank, for he saw the place was empty.

With the faint hope that he simply might have missed
Monique somewhere along the way and that she had returned home by that
time, Miguel decided to return to the town house. Since the Rue Roy ale
was the street that ran back of the church, he made his way across the
polished marble floor toward the rear, wishing, as he went, that he
could find some padre still on the premises who might have seen Monique
around the plaza or even in the church earlier that afternoon.

Worried as he was over the girl, he couldn't help noting
how splendid the new cathedral was. Of course, he had seen a few more
lavish ones in Europe during his travels, but this one was especially
elegant for a city the size of New Orleans.

The altar with its fine marble and gold work was
particularly impressive in the late-afternoon light filtering in
through the stained-glass windows. Perhaps it was because everything in
the place was so new—so shining and clean—that the
dark clump of delicately spun lace lying on the floor in sharp relief
against the light-colored tiles had immediately attracted his
attention. Or perhaps it was because he had recognized that particular
wisp of lace from the moment he had seen it. But whatever the reason,
he knew at once it was Monique's, even as he stooped to pick it up.