Sweet Enchantress (19 page)

The afternoon sunlight was merciless on Iolande's face, a patchwork of wrinkles. She sighed. "Look at them. 'Tis as if the two were meant for each other.”

Beside her on the battlements, Baldwyn said in a hushed voice, "Me thinks you are right, old woman.”

Together, the two aging people watched the two younger ones cavort on the list below. The older couple’s dreams of what might have been, what could have been, but would never be made the afternoon air heavy with remorse and sorrow.

At that
distance, the shared laughter between Dominique and Paxton sounded like the pealing of Whitsuntide bells. Paxton's cat scampered and pounced amidst them in pursuit of a butterfly.

The young couple, wed scarcely three weeks, ceased their frolicking to pick flowers, growing wild along the walls. Deftly for such large hands, Paxton wove a chaplet of the blossoms and placed it on Dominique's brow. Unaware they were
being observed from above, the two moved into an embrace, their kisses unabashed, wild, and surely as sweet, as the rapidly wilting plucked flowers.

This time Baldwyn sighed, although his gravelly voice came out more as a grunt. “
As the peasants say, ‘Love and a cough cannot be hidden.’ "

"Bah! What know you of love, leper?”

"Love?” He turned his despoiled visage on her. "I would lay down my life this very moment for love of our Lady Dominique.”

I
olande’s nose twitched with a sniffle. “Yes, I can understand that kind of selfless love.”

There was a part, hidden far below Iolande's crust
y surface, that yearned painfully to love and to be loved by a man. Nature had created everything, every single thing, to unite with its counterpart. Everything, everyone, but her. Why she had been so destined she had long ago given up trying to divine. “I never would have believed that this savage Englishman could bring our Dominique joy.”

"As the peasant says, 'Bitter medicine may have sweet effects.
’ ”

"A plague on your prov
erbs, Templar! Just watch them. The two fairly radiate with their bliss.”

“
Do you remember when our lady Dominique was small, no more than knee high, and —”

“
Your knee high, mayhap.”

"
—and, climbing that elm in the outer bailey, she accidentally knocked down that beehive we kept for candle wax?”

''Came running to me, sobbing, she did, and with a face full of welts.”

He chuckled. "She looked like a leper, herself.”

"But, as I recall, within the hour she had use of your shoulder as a perch. She was bent on cl
imbing that elm once more, with the bees still swarming."

"I remember, that I do. They clustered all over her. Never stung her. Not once. Stung the fire out of me, though!”

"Remember that time she and Francis and Esclarmonde and Denys got into the battle with the stable's clods of manure?”

This time Baldwyn
’s chuckle was almost a wheeze. "Do I! Esclarmonde did not duck quickly enough and—”

Iolande cackled and clapped her twisted hands. "And she looked like one of those black-faced Moorish servants the Sarac
ens keep!”

Their laughter was as one, as their love for Dominique was one. With their fond gazes fixed on the couple, Baldwyn mused, "Denys, the poor y
oung man. I cannot help but wonder what is to become of him, locked in the barbican that way. With but a stump for a hand. I tell you, old woman, no good can come of that episode.”

"Our Lady Dominique would disagree with you.”

"To be sure. But for the life of me, I cannot see how everything happens for a reason that is to the betterment of our souls. No wrong roads to be taken? Simply lessons to be learned from our choices? Me doubts it hardly!”

"She is a
n advanced one, our Lady Dominique.”

The Templar spared the crone a sidewise glance. "Do you think the English soldier and our Lady Dominique will produce chi
ldren? Children who we could take as much delight in as we have her?”

Iolande cackled again. "Every chance. I
secreted a small gemstone of jasper between the sheets for childbirthing powers!”

Paxton heard Dominique's laughter, and like a man bewitched, he followed its siren's beckoning call to her chapel. From the door he spied upon her with a lover's delight. She sat on the floor like a man, cross-legged, and faced Hugh, who held a wooden tablet. She was reading from a Latin grammar, and the boy laboriously scratched into the tablet's green wax.

"
‘A is created by God, therefore A exists,' ” she read. ‘“And similarly this. A does not exist, therefore A is not created by God.' Of course, Hugh, the word God is a neutral term for an all-powerful, all-knowing force. God is not masculine or feminine. Do you understand, what I am trying to explain?”

Hugh nodded vigorously, but Paxton had his qualms. His pleasure in h
is newly acquired wife squelched these qualms, as it squelched his occasional jealousy when her attention focused on other men. His best friend, in particular. Was not John bedding the brunette maid, Beatrix?

Yet would it be easier for Dominique to love John, the son of a squire than himself, a basebo
rn serf?

She glanced up and spotted him. Her smile came readily. "I felt someone watching.”

His mouth crimped in a wry line. "That does not surprise me.”

Her lax attention afforded Hugh
the opportunity to avoid any further schooling, and the boy shot past him. She chuckled. "You would think I were a Dominican monk quizzing Hugh on the torture rack.”

Paxton grinned but could think of no retort. Why was he here? If nothing else he could be cleaning the rust from his armor with sand, as the other soldiers were busy doi
ng. It was a perfect summer day for shedding the shirt and engaging in combat practice or hunting. The partridges were so thick a blindly shot arrow could not miss bagging one. "I thought I would take you fishing.”

Her amaz
ement at his statement only surpassed his by an increment, but after he said it he realized that that was exactly what he wanted to do.

"What a delightful idea,”
she said, rising gracefully from what would have been an awkward sitting position for him. Her hem caught on her girdle link, baring one shapely leg all the way to her thigh. His appreciation of her womanly contours was nudged aside by his sudden wanting of this woman who was now his. Only an acquired refinement was able to subdue what Brother Thomas had designated as “the dark animal that lurks within every man's depths.”

“
Change into something more—something simpler,” he said, “while I have our mounts saddled.”

She did more than change into a simple
linsey-woolsey tunic; she prepared a basket of cheeses and fruits, along with a sheepskin
boleta
of wine. Her joyous smile, her high spirits, were infectious.

They mou
nted and left the chateau, heading for the far meadows where ponds reflected diamond sunlight and trees flourished like Irish clover.

While she spread their repast beneat
h a shady oak, he set out to rig two poles. Baldwyn had told him that bream and pike as large as beavers were stocked in the pond.

“
'Tis been so long since I last fished,'' she said, coming up behind him to take one of the poles. “Since I was maybe twelve and hooked more fish than Baldwyn.” Deftly, she secured the line and hook. "After that he refused to take me.”

A noblewoman fish? Her capabilities were truly astonishing. He eyed her askance as she seated herself in a grassy spot bene
ath an oak and dangled her line.

She saw his bothered expression and smiled. "We women are not the weaker sex, you know, Paxton.”

"I did not say you were.”

"Ah, but I can tell from your expression and your demeanor that you think so. I know well how the Dominican Inquisitors wo
rd it. ‘The cunning enemy Satan seduces a member of the weaker sex, who is inconsistent, wavers easily in her faith, is malicious, and has no control over her feelings and instincts.' ”

He had to smile at her deep-throated parod
y of a priest. "Mayhap, my lady, you are overly defensive. The Dominican friars could have been referring to the male.”

"Aha! Then you will freely admit the male is the weaker sex?”

"I admit nothing.” He chuckled. His wife was utterly and charmingly unpredictable, and he watched her, fascinated, waiting for what next her ingenious mind would produce.

She fixed him with a saucy look. "Do you likewise disavow the charge that Peter
’s thrice-repeated denied of Christ was actually that of the voice of a woman?”

He dropped his pole and took
hers, laying it aside. "I will admit only that if any woman could perform such a feat, it would be you. You have captivated me from the very beginning, Dominique.”

She aligned her hands on either side of his face and stared at him solemnly. "I know. I exp
erienced the same when first I beheld you as a beggar. That tug at my innermost being. Ridiculous but true, Paxton.”

He splayed his hand over the small mound of her belly. A gentle warmth spread through him, a feeling of being home, although home, he would
have said, was Pembroke. "This child of ours—”

"This daughter
—”

"This daughter of ours, you will raise her to be like yourself?”

"You want that? For her to be like me?”

"Very much.”
And then he could contain his desire no longer, and his hand deserted her stomach to slip beneath her skirts and find the moistness there. There was home. All the home he would ever need.

"Paxton only married you to better cement his authority of his newly acquired fiefdom,” Esclarmonde taunted. "The entire county of Montlimoux knows that.”

As much as Dominique regretted seeing Francis return to Avignon, she could only rejoice in his sister's imminent departure with him on the morrow. Dominique had been doing her best
to be agreeable with this long-term guest, but annoyance got the best of her. "You are merely disgruntled because Paxton did not want you.”

The two women, along with Dominique
’s maids-in-waiting, were wandering through the stalls set up for the annual trade fair at Montlimoux. The hubbub was diverting. The tables in the cloth hall were a kaleidoscope of colors. From the spice market could be heard the traditional call of "Hare! Hare!” From the pungent district of stalls came the smell of the fish merchants, the butchers, the linen makers, and most noxious of all, the tanners.

Esclarmonde smiled s
lyly. "Did not marry me, mayhap. Marriage ties, after all, are based on political calculation. But want? Can you say truly that Paxton does not want me?” Her lower lip made a mocking moue. "Tell me, Dominique, do you truly know what Paxton does with all his hours?”

Dominique would not let the vindictive woman spoil the growing pleasure she was taking in he
r marriage. Paxton was an attentive lover, with a delightfully lingering hand and his wry humor was totally unsuspected. His abbot had done well in instilling a measure of knowledge about a variety of subjects, so that they often conversed into the wee hours of the morning. Only the thought of Denys, imprisoned and mutilated, marred these first perfect weeks as Paxton's bride. "I have faith in my husband.”

"Tell me, is he as faithful to you as he was to his first wife?”

Dominique felt as if she had been hit in the stomach. She stopped, closed her eyes, and drew a fortifying breath, then waved away her maids. In a low voice, she asked, "What are you saying, Esclarmonde?”

"Are you slow of wit? That your beloved husband has been married before.”

"How do you know this?”

The blond young woman shrugged prettily and turned away to fasten her attention on an acc
umulation of costly pearls brought by Arab dhow and pack train. They were spread on black velvet like tempting, but untouchable, stars. "The soldiers. They talk.”

The hurt Dominique felt was unbearably heavy. Despite her love for Paxton, he was so closed o
ff, so unsharing of his inner self.

Would she always be an outsider with her own husband?

She waited until after Paxton returned from stag hunting and had eaten. They were alone in the bedchamber. She sat on the great bed, staring at him as he removed his doublet and tunic. Clad only in his hose, his battle-honed body had the power to take her breath away. She dragged her gaze from his muscular chest and fixed it on his face. The way he smiled at her now, how had she ever found that face plain?

He knelt bef
ore her. "So solemn? I know. I forgot to bring you a chaplet today to crown your
cindre
hair. But I brought you something much better.”

The teas
ing gleam in his eye made resistance impossible. "What did you bring me, Paxton?”

He opened one large hand. A sm
all gray pouch lay in his palm. "Look inside.”

Tentatively, she reached out to grasp the velvet bag by its draw cords.

"Pearls,” he told her, too impatient to wait for her to unveil his gift. "From the deepest seas.”

She spilled the pearls into her palm. "
How did you know about—”

"Jaco
tte. When I asked your maid-in-waiting what caught your interest at the fair today, she told me you and Esclarmonde had stopped at the pearl stall.”

Dominique stared at the opalescent orbs so
she would not have to judge the truth in her beloved’s countenance. Her words were barely a breath on her trembling lips. “Paxton, I want to know about your previous marriage.” She saw the ridges made by an abruptly clenching fist. "So you know.”

"Is your . . .
you are not still married, are you?”

He rose and turned from her. "No. I am not still married.”
He paused, then said, "Elizabeth is dead.”

A portion of her turmoil evaporated. "Why have you not told me of this, Paxton?”
she asked. And the next in words of pain, "Why did I have to learn this from someone else?”

“‘
Tis no one’s business but mine.”

"You are wrong, Paxton!”
She sprang from the bed and slung the pearls like chicken feed. "On our wedding night you spoke of no more separation. Well, pray tell, what do you call this?”

He round
ed on her. "This is my past. It has nothing to do with you and me.”

"Do you still love her?”

"No.”

“
Did you love her?”

His head lowered. "Aye, at one time.”

"Tell me about her.” Did jealousy prompt her question? "Was she from your village, from Wychchester?”

“
No. She was the Earl of Pembroke’s daughter.”

"The Ear
l—he had the people of your village murdered! And you married his daughter?"

He rubbed his fist into his other palm. "I
had meant to seduce her—an act of revenge. But, before I knew it, Elizabeth had become an obsession with me. So beautiful. So un-touchable. I thought. And so passionate when at last I possessed her."

"How did she die?"

He stared at her stonily. "She was murdered."

"Murdered?”
she whispered. "How?”

"It matters not. The fact is she is dead and our marriage is legal in the eyes of the Church.”
His words came too rapidly. He caught her by her shoulders. "You are my wife, Dominique.”

His kiss hurt her, a posses
sive kiss that she struggled against Struggled and lost. His touch bathed her in bliss, however fleeting it was. Perhaps he was the sorcerer. She understood the power of sexuality, but this was something more, something that would take more than her will to withstand.

That certain "something”
came to her in a dream later that night. She awoke with remnants of the dream meandering like the breeze through her sleep and lingering briefly on her conscious thought. "In chess, the Queen is free to move in any direction.”

She understood the import of the dream
’s message. She had the power to do anything, if she wanted to badly enough. But was she truly queen?

Beside her, Paxton slept deeply, his arm heavily and reassuringly draped across her ribs. She could feel th
e crisp hair of his legs on her. Such delight to be taken in one's opposite!

The morning brought the departure of Francis and Esclarmonde. Their pack train was lengthy enough to flow out of the bailey, span the drawbridge, and creep down the village road.
With Francis's leave-taking, Dominique felt, as she always had, that she was losing her last touch with civilization. Nevertheless, Paxton's gaze was upon her and made her farewell brief. Esclarmonde would have prolonged hers with Paxton, her hand tarrying overlong on his sleeve, but John Bedford interrupted the adieu.

He drew Paxton aside. His voice was low, but his words were obviously urgent. Dominique watched Paxton
’s countenance darken. The muscles in his jaw tensed. He issued some order to John, who hastened away.

"What is it, Paxton?”

He flicked her an inquiring look. "Your friend, Denys. He has escaped his dungeon cell.”

At once, Paxton left with John and a few soldiers to scour the woods and nearby mountains for Denys. Her husband had given
her the briefest of good-byes, and she sensed he suspected her of engineering Denys’s escape. She feared for her friend’s life. This time Paxton would certainly not spare it.

By evening, Paxton had not returned. Now she feared for him. What if Denys managed to amb
ush Paxton and his men in one of those narrow mountain files? Paxton did not know the lay of the land as Denys did.

Bored, worried, restless, she wandered down to her laboratory, where she had not been since Denys's imprisonment. Whatever relief she expect
ed to find in her alchemical work was immediately quenched by the sight of Arthur. Its feline body lay upon the counter. A swath of dried blood semi-ringed its furry neck.