Sweet Enchantress Page 8

  "He encourages her esoteric interests, especially the alchemical ones. She has her own laboratory in the dungeon below, you know.”

  "No, I did not know. I find that interesting.” He also found Dominique de Bar cryptic, sharp-tongued, and frank—for a woman. They walked a little farther along the ramparts, Baldwyn moving at a ponderous pace. Paxton asked, "Are you doing a spell as sentry up here?”

  The old leper glanced askew at him. "No. I was trying to decide whether I should kill you or not.”

  Paxton laughed aloud. He had also forgotten humor. "Why so?”

  "I think you an agreeable man, Paxton of Wychchester. You are a soldier, like myself. So you will understand when I tell you that I shall lay down my life in taking yours before I shall allow you to harm my Lady Dominique.”

  Paxton peered over the edge of the parapet to espy far below the mill, its paddles glistening with river water. His smile was grim. "I shall keep that in mind, Baldwyn.” Then he asked what had been on his mind since the jousting earlier that afternoon. “This Denys Bontemps, who is he?”

  “Another childhood friend. He is constructing a hospital for my Lady Dominique.”

  “Constructing a hospital? He is a mason?”

  "He is an architect-engineer, a graduate of the University of Montpellier.”

  Paxton braced his hands on the parapet’s stones. "And he believes himself in love with the countess?”

  The Templar's reply was guarded. "He owes her his loyalty. You see, the mother of my Lady Dominique had granted manumission to his father, a stonecutter. Denys displayed such a flair for his father's work that the Countess Melisande had me tutor him alongside her daughter, my Lady Dominique, so that Denys learned mathematics and geometry, in addition to other masonic knowledge that is a professional secret. I also taught him a little of sword play. Without fear of boasting, I might add that the infidels had reason to fear my prowess with the blade.”

  "He wishes to take Dominique de Bar to wife?”

  The Templar peered at him innocently. “He would honor her so. Nevertheless, he is but a peasant and she a countess.”

  "For the present,” he answered, repeating her own words to the worldly bishop the day before. Did Francis de Beauvais act as the pope’s emissary, as she had stated, or as the pope’s agent provocateur?

  "You must realize my Lady Dominique has been raised in a society dominated by women," Baldwyn entreated. "As a ruler in her own right and a free thinker, it is difficult for her to behave as do ordinary women."

  Reflecting with irritation on her indomitable pride and resolution, he answered, "She will, my good Templar. She will.”

  "Well, as the peasant says, ‘When donkeys fly, we shall see that happen.’”

  A sullen pall overcast the day. Trumpets signaled the start of the second round of the tourney, the battle between the knights earning the most points the prior day. Two ranks of knights spurred their steeds to collision in mid-field. The shock of their encounter reverberated throughout the galleries. After that, the clang of the swords and the groans of the combatants drowned out everything else.

  Dust erupted, fairly choking Paxton. Through its haze, he was able to spot at least a good half of the knights, unhorsed by either the skill of an opponent’s lance or by sheer weight and strength. Still mounted but with his lance broken, he withdrew his sword and swung it in an arc at his nearest foe. He was allowed to strike but not jab.

  A corpulent knight wielded a battle axe that would have surely hit mid-plate on his armor. At the last moment, Paxton dodged the stupendous blow. His mastery at horsemanship had saved him, and the momentum behind the knight’s lunging swing pulled the man off balance so that in the next moment he was unseated.

  Sweat rolled into Paxton’s eyes, yet he fought on, as if his honor depended on it. And in a curious way, it did. Here and there he dealt sweeping blows. Then he sighted Denys Bontemps, afoot. Mounted as he was, Paxton could not engage the man by tourney regulations. With a movement that was most agile for a man of his brawn, he dismounted amidst the mayhem to confront the momentarily startled architect.

  "I win this encounter, Sir Denys,” he shouted against the din of battle, "and you render me your services for seven years.”

  Unexpectedly, Denys sliced horizontally with his sword, and reflexively he jumped back. The sword missed by a hair’s breadth.

  “And if I win?” Denys asked, already short of breath. "The Lady Dominique is released from your custody to me?”

  For answer, he thrust his notched sword at the young man’s chest and scored a point. Denys struck back, catching him on the shoulder. Two points.

  For an interminable time they struck and parried with a tour de force that elicited furious applause from the galleries. By now, he realized that if Denys could kill him, he would without any qualms.

  Gradually, the field thinned until there was only the two of them. Paxton realized Denys was a man of considerable skill with the blade and a strength in shoulder and arm that must have come from years of stone cutting. The whacking of their blades vibrated all the way to the bone. Denys Bontemps fought recklessly.

  So did Paxton, but with a purpose. He felt drained of every last ounce of energy. His broadsword weighed like a boulder. Denys was using both hands to wield his blade. The man swayed. Paxton chose that moment to swing his weapon with a force that sent the man reeling. He stumbled to his knees. The crowd went wild, yelling and cheering and clapping.

  Paxton ignored them. Placing his blade tip on the man's shoulder, he asked with shortened breath, "Your services are mine, Sir Denys?”

  Denys stared up at him with dull eyes. "Yes,” he got out in a wheeze. "But not my loyalty.”

  "The devil take your loyalty.” He wheeled away and crossed to retrieve his splintered lance, with its shorn tresses attached. The French called that reddish cast la cendre. Hell fire, he called it. His gaze sought out Dominique de Bar. Her features were expressionless. Well, he was not yet finished for the day.

  Nearby, waiting nobly for its master, was his steed, which he had trained to bite, kick, and trample in warfare. Especially trample. After mounting, Paxton trotted the war horse across the expanse of tiltyard toward the gallery where the royal standard of a lion against bright red silk proclaimed the king’s presence.

  Cheering spectators and waving handkerchiefs greeted Paxton. Several women flirtatiously tossed brooches and rings toward him, and his mouth curled in a sardonic smile. Halting before the throne, he raised his lance in a salute to his king.

  Edward III, regal in purple satin, rose and announced, "You acquitted yourself superbly and did well by England, Paxton of Wychchester. The honor, valor, and chivalry that was King Arthur’s lives again. As a Round Table knight, you have taken the tourney and its grand prize.”

  With that, he extended a gold garland adorned with rubies and dropped it over Paxton's lance tip. There would be other prizes awarded the knights who had proven themselves—a suit of armor, a war horse, golden spurs fashioned in Toledo, a fine saddle. But, traditionally, this prize was given by the victor to the fairest maiden of the land. More often than not it was bestowed upon a damsel for political purposes.

  He cantered across the field to the opposite gallery. All eyes were upon him. Naturally, it was presumed he would offer the garland to the Countess of Montlimoux.

  Instead, he stopped in front of the Lady Esclarmonde, a winsome damsel with fair skin as white as snow on ice. Better yet, she possessed wonderful malleability and, best of all, was Francis de Beauvais’s sister.

  Astonishment rippled along the benches. The young woman hesitated demurely but in the end could not contain her pleasure and plucked the garland from his lance.

  Dominique de Bar stared straight ahead, but a noticeable flush flowed up her neck and into her cheeks, crimsoning even those small, shell-like ears.

  Regret at having to break her thus took him by surprise. He had supposed he was empty of all compassion for womankind, and women who spo
ke the langue d’Oc tongue at that. He shrugged away the feeling. Tonight, perforce, he would deliver the coup de grace.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The gala feast held at the great hall that evening rivaled any dinner Dominique had ever given. The adherents of The Laws of Saint Robert would have unanimously approved of the proper seating order for the guests.

  She supposed the evening’s fete was attributable to Paxton’s largess and not Montlimoux’s revenues. It was, in her opinion, ostentatious, but then this was in honor of the Duke of Aquitaine and King of England, titles in that order of importance, which Edward himself preferred.

  Essentially, he was French by his mother, his language, and part of his possessions. It was said that he was driven by an antipathy for his father, who had been a reputed homosexual. But then it was also said that Edward was King Arthur reincarnated with his noble words and deeds and fair ladies who graced his court.

  The knights had scarcely had time to remove their armor and wash away the dust and sweat and the ladies to freshen their toilets before the dinner commenced. Banners of various colored silks draped the tables. On each one was placed a bowl containing lavender. A considerable staff of retainers and varlets served the nobility.

  The dishes were brought in by servants in full armor, mounted on caparisoned horses. Their dung in the hall infuriated Dominique, and she found her hands gripping her table knife. She should have expected as much from a mere serf who aspired to rise above his station!

  Incredibly, a hunting horn announced the main course that would be flambéed at the table. A roasted peacock in full plumage, stuffed with spices, rested on a mass of brown pastry, dyed green to simulate a grassy meadow.

  As a lesser knight, Denys did not sit at the main table. Although she did, she was placed at its far end, with the King and Paxton installed in the positions of importance at the center. Esclarmonde, Queen of the Tourney, sat at Paxton's right. Her shimmering blond hair was drawn up through and overflowed the garland of gold and rubies he had bestowed upon her.

  “Your Englishman has done well by the feast,” Francis said, finishing the last of his wine.

  "You know he is not my Englishman.” The vermillion sugar plums were ashes in her mouth. “By tonight’s end, he will be officially my lord.”

  "Look at me, Dominique.” His seriousness drew her regard. Around him was a mystic aura that she could not ignore, had never been able to. Beneath his striking mane of ebony hair, his eyes held hers. "You well know that if conditions were different I would take you as my wife.” A wry smile pleated the corners of his supple mouth. "But the Church has a problem with married priests.”

  "Francis . . .” She paused, then verbalized her curiosity, "Do you . . . uh . . . ever have a problem with celibacy?”

  To her, Francis had always seemed steeped in a luxury and sensuality that did not dull but rather embellished his graceful masculinity. The Church had long been having difficulty with homosexual priests as well as the married clergy. Could she have misjudged Francis’s sexual preference?

  His outburst of sincere laughter reassured her. "Come with me to Avignon and discover the answer yourself, m'amie.” Then he turned serious. "I do want you to come to Avignon. I assure you, you would be quite safe there under my tutelage.”

  Her eyes laughed. "What kind of tutelage is that, Francis?”

  His smile was one of mock innocence. "Why, t’would be like the days of old, when together we explored the works of Abramelin the Mage and Albertus Magnus in your mother’s laboratory.”

  "No, t’would not. Nothing remains the same but is forever changing in the instant. I thank you for your offer of a haven, Francis, but I cannot forsake Montlimoux.”

  Her gaze sought out the English lieutenant again. He was conversing with his king, but at that instant Esclarmonde said something to distract him and he laughed. His grin took away Dominique's breath. That smile transformed his ordinary features into an arresting face. The bold dark eyes flashed with a humor that made any woman watching declare him unequivocally handsome.

  Every woman, that was, but Dominique. She would grant him no boon.

  She turned back to Francis. "Paxton of Wychchester may deprive me of my title. He may drive me from my chateau, but he cannot hound me out of my county. I know every valley, every cave, every pond, every plant. If need be, I could live off the land as he never could.”

  Too soon for her, the dinner was over, and the ballet was set to begin. At some time during the dancing, she would be forced to make public her renunciation of title. The tables were removed, and the gallery's musicians started to play.

  At first, the dances were lighthearted, like the roundeau or chain dance, and the torch dance, in which each dancer held a long, lighted taper and endeavored to prevent the other dancers from blowing it out.

  As the evening passed, the dances waxed more romantic. The code of the courts of love, entitled Arresta Amorum, the decrees of love, specified that each gentleman was to bend his knee before his lady at the end of the dance.

  Throughout Dominique had watched with her maids-in-waiting, particularly Beatrix who glowed like a wax taper when John Bedford presented himself before her.

  On her part, Dominique declined to participate. Certainly, her heart was not of the merry vein. She would have even refused Denys when he bent a knee before her, but she did owe him a great debt of gratitude for fighting in her honor today. Her hand in his, they joined the circle of dancers, taking three steps to the left, marking time, then taking three steps to the right.

  His expression was brooding, and he moved stiffly. When next they marked time, she teased, "Are you bruised and sore from tilting today, my good friend?"

  He made a face and lifted her hand aloft, as the dance steps prescribed. “More than I would have thought." He squeezed her hand, almost hurting it "Dominique, I would tell you before someone else does. Paxton of Wychchester and I wagered for you today.”

  "What?”

  "If I won this afternoon’s jousting, you were to be released into my custody.”

  She halted in her steps. Her eyes expressed their disbelief until she saw the determined intent in his. “And if Paxton won?”

  His determination gave way to an anguished whisper. "I have given him my services for seven years.”

  "Seven years!” she gasped. "Whatever for?” Other couples were circumventing them, but she scarcely took heed.

  "His captain, John Bedford, tells me that my skill will be needed in constructing bridges, forts, things of war instead of things of beauty.”

  Her hand clasped his arm. "Oh, Denys, you should not have risked your future for me!” "My future is you. I could not be happy knowing that you are here, endangered by this English churl.” He was speaking rapidly now, as if there might not be another chance. "There is yet another reason why I would stay, Dominique. The people who are not locals, they are talking about your efforts in the pavilion yesterday, about your attempt to save the wounded knight.”

  "I can well imagine what they say, that I am a sor—” She broke off at the tugging on her sleeve and glanced down. It was Hugh. He pointed from her to his new master, Paxton, whose broad back was to her at that moment. The towheaded boy did not need the gift of speech to make her understand she was being summoned.

  A flourish of trumpets interrupted the dancing. As the duke-king approached the canopied dais that had been transported from the tourney gallery to the great hall, the vociferous revelers cleared the center of the room. Paxton and Edward's advisors took chairs arranged on either side of him.

  For this occasion Edward had donned a sleeveless scarlet robe over his short, tightly fitting cotehardie. If she separated his position from his person, he appeared not much older than herself. Young. Determined to rule. Headstrong. His advisors, it was said, counseled restraint. Among those who did so was Paxton.

  The advisors were richly bedecked in plumed caps and mantles trimmed with embroidered velvet. Beside them, Paxton's dress was sober
, yet his physique was so commanding that all eyes were drawn to him as well.

  When a crier called out, "Oyez, oyez,” her heart began to beat in her throat.

  Edward III began speaking in a calm, almost conciliatory manner. His tone was warm, his voice firm, as he told the assembly that the tourney and gala feast following it were being held in the honor of Montlimoux's new Lord and Grand Seneschal, Paxton of Wychchester. He was treating her ousting as nothing more than a change of administration.

  He fixed his imperial eye on her. "Countess Dominique de Bar, I bid you present yourself.”

  She drew a steadying breath and walked toward the dais, where she knelt, then rose to stand proudly. The duke-king nodded toward a paunchy man on his right, the sergeant-at-law. He completely lacked calves, and the points of his shoes were so long they were attached to his knees.

  In a stentorian voice, the man began reading from a scroll: "I, Dominique de Bar, Countess of Montlimoux, make known to those present and to come that I have become liege lady of the King of England, Duke of Aquitaine, who from this day holds the County of Montlimoux in feud. Whereupon, I commend myself to his representative for guardianship, Paxton of Wychchester. I have made faith and pledge homage to His Highness and his heirs. In return, I seek the security and protection of the Duke of Aquitaine, through his representative, Paxton of Wychchester. By the Lord before Whom all is holy, I submit myself to Paxton of Wychchester and choose his will as mine.”

  Her gaze locked with the dispassionate one of Paxton's. It could have been worse, she told herself. Nominally, at least, she still held the tide of countess.

  He rose and came to stand before her. His eyes were dark, deep, and demanding. He held out his hand. She placed her cold one in it, signifying she was his vassal. His palm was warm and large enough to hold both of her hands.

  "I do so swear as a vassal of my Lord Lieutenant, Paxton of Wychchester,” the sergeant-at-law prompted.