A Mortal Glamour (23 page)

"What more would you have me do? Should I ravish you? Fall at your feet and kiss the hem of your houppelande? Sing songs in your honor? Tell me: what do you want of me?” He favored her with his charming, equivocal smile. “Or shall I tell you?"

"You don't know what I want!” His confidence stung her.

"Do I not? Do you think I do not know of the hours you spend alone, your thoughts harking back to the time we have spent together. But that isn't enough, is it? You burn, and your burning only feeds the fire—isn't that so?” He held out his hand and Aungelique surprised herself by putting her own into his. “Your veins are alive with desires you cannot name. Aren't they? And your flesh reels and aches as if you had been beaten, though no one has touched you. Do you deny it?"

Aungelique's eyes had grown large. “How do you know these things? Who told you?"

"No one needed to tell me; it's writ in your glance, in the way you walk. Haven't you wanted someone to see this in you? When you pray for God to aid you, do you not imagine a lover, not a father or brother?” He let go of her hand. “Or cousin?"

"You!” Aungelique flushed deeply and turned away.

"Will you leave me, sweeting?” His voice was still light and teasing, but under it there was something more, a power that caught and held Aungelique as surely as if the fragrant garden were the deepest pit.

"You've ... said—"

"Have I been cruel? But lovers are cruel, aren't they? Isn't that what the troubadours sang, all those years ago? What lover has not suffered for love?” In a supple, feline movement, he came down from the fountain and sauntered toward her. “Isn't that what you wish to do, to suffer for love and cause others to suffer?"

"Not ... only that.” She stared at him, caught by his insinuating force.

"What more then?” He came up to her, mockery in his light-colored eyes. “Or shall I guess again?"

She put out her hand as if to fend him off. “No. Don't guess.” She no longer wanted to match wits with him, for she knew he would toy with her mercilessly. “You ... you know too much already."

He cupped her chin in his long, slender hand. “Does it hurt so much to admit it? Sweeting, I am willing to gratify your desires; you have only to ask.” Quickly he bent, brushing her lips with his own, then released her and stepped back. “Or do you prefer your convent, after all, and your cell, where you may have your dreams and not be bothered with awkward bodies that grunt and sweat at Venus’ work?"

"I do not wish to be a nun!” she shouted at him.

"Have I said that you did? I have only suggested that you would rather have your dreams, fledgling."

"That's not so,” she said, not looking at him.

"Isn't it? When you sleep alone here? When you leap like a startled hare at my touch? Would it be otherwise if I were le Duc Pierre? Or is he only another dream you keep?"

"You are wrong! I will have lovers and they will ... they will adore me.” Her jaw was set and she wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

Her tormentor smiled again. “Adore you? Like a monk before the plaster statues of the Saints, no doubt. Ah, little fledgling, that is not how men and women live, or love. But if it is adoration you seek, then so be it.” He bowed deeply and started away from her.

"Wait!” she cried, to her own amazement.

He slowed a little. “Why?"

"I must..."

"Yes?” He was still now, gazing at her with disconcerting intensity.

"I do not want to be a nun. I want to live my life as Comtesse Orienne lives hers."

Thibault's smile was almost a sneer. “Why?"

"Because ... because she is free!” Aungelique declared.

"Free.” Thibault laughed. “Do you think her life is less constrained than yours? Poor Aungelique! You think that because this cloister has silken cushions and scarlet robes that it is less a prison than your convent? Comtesse Orienne has her Order and her Officers, just as you have. You are deceived by the trappings, little one."

"But I want ... I want...” She floundered helplessly.

"What—other than rapturous dreams?” He waited, saying nothing more.

"Oh, you don't know what it's like!” She took a few steps toward him, then hung back. “I want..."

"To matter?” he suggested. “To be important? To be desired? To be possessed?"

"Yes; to be possessed. I want you ... to desire me to madness.” She liked the sound of that. “Yes. To madness. And I want you to be obsessed with me, and to think only of me."

"And you? You have said what you want of me. But what of you, sweeting? You say you wish to be possessed. How?” One long hand rested negligently on his hip, the other made graceful gestures in the air.

"You already—Let me...” Her cheeks grew bright at her thoughts.

"Very pretty. It's a shame to waste you on the convent. All those faceless, bodiless nuns. Do you feel faceless, little one? When you keep your vigil with your flesh against cold stone, do you feel bodiless?"

She stared at him. “Yes,” she said when she had thought about it. “I feel that I am nothing, that I am fading away. But..."

"But there is your desire, isn't there? And it is still yours, is it not? As long as the desire is there you are not quite gone, are you?” This teasing manner of his made her more frightened than a serious approach might. She stared down at her hands.

"There were heretics, Flagellants, who tried to break into the convent. We fought them.” Her hands twisted around each other.

"Did you? And how did you feel? Were you frightened? Were you pleased?” With each question he came nearer, stopping just two steps from her.

"Yes. Frightened, pleased, all of it. Excited. They didn't get in.” She giggled abruptly. “It was ... wonderful, pouring scalding water on them and seeing them run. I wanted more of them to be there."

"And would you want to do it again?” Thibault's smile had changed, becoming not quite as attractive as it had been, but more genuine, revealing a trace of the sort of creature he was.

"Yes. Perhaps no. I would want them to know who I am, if ever they came again. I would shout my name at them, and the name of my House, so they would know who it was that bested them."

"Such ferocious thoughts, sweeting."

"Well, my father is Michau d'Ybert. We are a fierce breed.” She was feeling better now, and was starting to enjoy herself once more. “Think, if those heretics had been suitors, what fun it would have been, to see them run and to watch for the one who would not mind the scalding water."

"And what do you do with him after he reached you?” Thibault asked, more seriously than he had before. “A scalded man might be angry with you. He might be a poor lover, as well."

"Does that matter? If he were angry, then I would know how strong his passion was. Let him take me, subdue me. Let his burns press against me, let him howl with pain as he takes me."

There were birds in the trees beyond the garden and their calls drifted in, adding their magic to the scents of herbs and flowers. Sunlight, warm and potent as an alchemist's elixir, flowed over them, nearly palpable in its intensity.

"And then what?” he inquired, offering her his wrist to lead her indoors.

"Oh, doubtless I would wake up.” Her eyes danced and she achieved a charming smile as they went in out of the light.

Furiously Pierre flung the half-full goblet across the room where it broke, leaving a stain like the splash of blood against the stones. “By the brass balls of God, what has come over you, cousin!” he demanded as she came into the small reception room where Comtesse Orienne had made him wait.

Aungelique, dressed provocatively, her short hair dressed with wreaths of fresh flowers, opened her eyes wide in deceptive innocence. “Have I offended you, cousin?"

"Yes!” he thundered. “You know you have offended me. And your father. And your House, and your Order. What haven't you offended?” The scar on his face was livid with his emotion.

"All that?” she asked, finding the meeting far more interesting than she had feared it would be. “For such a little thing?"

"You ran away from the convent, you came here—here—where there is nothing but license and dissipation, you flaunt yourself to the men who come here to be entertained by Comtesse Orienne—"

"As she has entertained you, cousin?” Aungelique reminded him pleasantly.

"That is nothing to you,” he shouted. “You're a disgrace! Your father would be justified in sending you to prison or to an anchorite. He may still do one of those things, if you do not return to Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion immediately. Do you understand me? Do you?” His voice was growing even louder and he glared at her impatiently.

"I am not minded to do so,” she told him with a sly smile. “If I must live at the convent with my father's blessing or live here without it, then I will pray for him and remain here.” She found Pierre's rage stimulating, the more so because she sensed that it masked a desire he could not admit.

Pierre could not bring himself to touch her, or he might have shaken her like an ill-behaved puppy. There was, he knew, an awakening desire for her, to put an end to her taunting by bedding her. The honor of his House forbade that; he took refuge in wrath. “What are you, a whore? Do you know what women do here?"

"Certainly,” she said, running her finger over the little lace ruff of her houppelande. “I do the things that women do here, don't I?"

"Do you!” He rounded on her, this time making her fear him. “Are you saying that you are not intact? If you are no longer a maiden, your father will disown you. As well he should.” He lowered his voice. “Have you truly done the act?"

She gave him a blithe smile. “Of course, cousin. You would not have me, and I have said all along I have not the vocation to be a nun. What am I to do, then, if there is no succor for me? At least here, there are men who find me pleasant.” She gave an adept imitation of Comtesse Orienne's throaty laugh. “I have appetites, cousin. I have desires. God made me a thing of passions—and not the passions of the spirit, but the flesh."

"Your father should have married you off when your first blood came,” he muttered.

"But he didn't, and so I have had to do as best I may. It is wrong of my father to insist that I live in a convent or as a brood mare for some aging, gross stallion with more care for his wine than tupping.” She folded her arms.

"Your father could imprison you.” It was said quietly. Both of them knew it was a fact.

"But he won't, not if I'm the only one he can use to barter to a husband.” It was her only power against her father and she was determined to use it to her best advantage. “Other women have had lovers before they were wives, and their husbands have married them with pride. Why shouldn't I have the same fortune? Am I so ugly or so ancient that no man could regard me with favor?"

"That's not in question,” Pierre admitted, his anger reasserting itself.

"Then what is? If I am not a nun, if I were a lady-in-waiting instead, the woman I served would set the tone of my morals; and cousin, no matter what my nature, I would abide by what my mistress wished. But situated as I am now, I cannot think how I am to live, let alone retain my soul as my father would wish it.” This was a more dangerous ploy, for it might be all the impetus Pierre needed to recommend to Michau d'Ybert that his daughter be placed in confinement.

"You don't realize what you are saying,” Pierre protested. “You're still a child. You play at games you do not understand."

Aungelique moved closer to him. “Then teach me, cousin. Do not fight with me, or tell me that I am a rebellious child without duty or gratitude; teach me what I must know, or let me be wanton as God made me.” She put her hand on his shoulder and was not dissatisfied when he brushed it away.

"You must stop this ... nonsense,” Pierre ordered her, but without real conviction. “You must school yourself to be obedient and biddable."

"But why?” She waited and when he did not speak, she went on. “I have said that I will be obedient at court. I have said that I would marry a suitable man. I wish for lovers, many lovers, but I will forgo that if my father will get a dispensation—surely his vidame has some merit—that would permit us to marry.” She saw the confusion in his eyes and pressed on. “You do not burn for me. Not yet. But there are those who do, and if you do not want me, they do, and I will be satisfied with them."

"Aungelique, you're not thinking clearly."

She brought up her chin. “Nor are you. Oh, for le Bon Dieu, do not try me too far, or I will run away to Rome and sate myself with those servants of the Devil who rule there."

He knew her well enough to realize that she was capable of such a monumental disgrace, and so he responded cautiously to her threat. “That would be unwise, Aungelique. And once done, there would be no turning back. No matter what Baron Michau wished in his heart to do, he would have to cast you out of it, for the honor of his House. And once he had cast you out, you would have no recourse left but to be the playing toy of those Romans, and your end would not be kind.” He felt compassion for Aungelique as he explained this, but he could not be open with her; his honor as much as his desire made it impossible.

"He has cast me out of his heart already,” Aungelique countered. “He takes no pride in me, he treats me as if I were less than a slave to him. He is a stern man, and they tell me he is just, but I do not see justice in what he has done to me."

"You're his daughter, and a willful one at that. You would not think he was just unless he married you to the Emperor of the East or Prester John.” He set his feet apart, his thick legs like tree trunks holding up the mass of his torso. “You think you know what it is to be filled with passion, but you do not recognize it in your father, who has more passion for the glory of his House than half the Kings in Spain. You are ready to throw away every chance for an honorable life for the whim of your vanity. It is not passion that consumes you, Aungelique, it is lust and pride, and for that alone, you will suffer in Hell unless you purge them from your soul."

"If I am those things,” she said, not bothering to check her anger, “then Heaven has given them to me."