Shame pricked her again when she thought back on her conduct almost two weeks prior. She had lain with a man of God. Charlotte swallowed hard. As if bedding a stranger and living with the guilt were not enough, now she had to live with the fact he was a brother. Good fortune was just refusing to pay her a visit.
“Everything all right there, mistress?” Armand asked.
When she turned to him, she caught the shrewd old man staring at her intently. Did he know what she had done? Would he believe her capable of such a thing?
“Have you ever done something you bitterly regretted but too late to take back?” She regretted her question as soon as she voiced it. What was she doing, confiding in her employee?
He nodded silently. “Sure did. Several times. I should have waited a few decades then asked for your hand instead of Constance’s.”
She joined him when he broke into chuckles. Becoming serious once more, he shrugged under his glistening cloak. “We all do things we wish we hadn’t. We’re just human. He understands.” Armand pointed heavenward with his index finger.
“I hope so.”
She wondered if God understood what she had done. Although she would enjoy nothing better than to blame Brother Gautier for the whole thing, she could not. She had been willing, even convincing him when he seemed as though he would leave. No, she thought, she had played a large part in the encounter. Some blame was his to bear and some of it was hers. Yet what kind of brother, even a lay one, had intimate encounters with strange women?
The kind with knuckles like walnuts.
Guilabert had told her he was different, had even been a chevalier. What could have happened to convince a knight to become a brother? According to townsfolk, Brother Gautier used to be a carpenter for some large town. Then why go to the crusade in the first place? Why leave it all behind?
Like Jean-Louis.
Her brother had left it all behind—the distillery, the dead parents, his younger sister. For what, to dull the pain by inflicting it on others? The things she heard that were done in God’s name in the Holy Land…
Charlotte shivered. Whatever had happened to Brother Gautier there, it had convinced him to return home and become a man of God. A special kind of man of God too if she believed Guilabert’s boasting. How special? She was not sure she wanted to know.
“We’re there, mistress,” Armand said, breaking her musings.
Her mind snapped back to the here and now and she realized it had stopped raining. Wind had picked up too. She shivered and pulled the cloak tighter.
Armand’s gaze guided hers to the large milestone separating her land from the Lanteignes’. After a small nod from her, he urged his beast on. They crossed into her neighbor’s domain and continued to follow the High Road, which ran along the river. She could see it to her right, a few hundred paces or so. Under the gray sky, it resembled a giant slate road. The flow was still a bit too thin for this time of year.
When they stopped for the night, Charlotte decided to have a strong drink before sleeping. She dreaded the kind of dreams she had been having of late. They all involved the brother and her doing things that would send her straight to hell. It was enough she throbbed in the most intimate of places just by thinking about him. She did not need to lose sleep over him on top of things.
Something had happened to the water and without it, there would be no bourbon. She needed to be keen, stay alert. Spending nights fornicating with a man of God would make her lose both her sleep and her soul. Perhaps she had already lost the latter back at the cascade.
They traveled north for another full day, stopping at an inn for the night then continuing at dawn. They were cresting over a small hill when the road became wider and branched in two. Charlotte recognized the place. If they rode west, following that fork in the road, they would reach Guilabert’s home. She had half a mind to kick her way into his home and demand to know what he was thinking about. Not tell her about her own brother. His best friend! But she pushed the idea aside. She preferred to confront him on her own land, surrounded by familiar faces.
“Would you look at that,” Armand snarled under his breath. The river meandered for a league or so and kept on due north.
She followed his gaze and spotted some large contraption spanning the river. Urging the beasts on, they reached a place where the river narrowed to a hundred feet. There, newly constructed and solid-looking, was a lock with gates the thickness of a large man’s middle.
“What’s this for?” Charlotte asked.
No one was about, which was strange since this lock meant someone wanted to keep the water from flowing. Yet there was no industry anywhere near, no mill of any sort, only green hills and the occasional flock of sheep in the distance.
“I don’t know but it shouldn’t be there.”
She agreed with a nod.
Armand’s face paled. He looked at her while his mouth opened in a silent O of outrage. “It’s that damned knight.”
“Guilabert? I don’t think so. He knows the Bourbon-Condé need this river. He wouldn’t touch it.”
“Wouldn’t he now? I bet he did this to force you to negotiate. I knew he was up to no good when he came sniffing about the distillery. He put that lock there to show us, show you, that he has control. I smell him from here…’marry me or no bourbon’.”
Charlotte could only stare in mute shock as Armand went on in his tirade, each argument becoming increasingly convincing. Guilabert owned and controlled this part of the Lanteignes’ land and surely, surely, he would know about the lock. A shiver ran down her spine and prickled her arms. How could he do this and think he would get away with it? Unless he had friends in very high places indeed. Even then, she doubted someone would meddle with the supply of bourbon, especially when the king’s court prized it so much. And what of the Lanteignes? Unless they were in it as well. For coins perhaps?
“Let’s go home,” she said abruptly, halting Armand in mid sentence.
“I say we deal with this thing before we leave,” he shot back, eyeing the closed lock as though it were something crawling out of his food. “A few well-placed blows is all…”
“We can’t. It’s not our land here. We’d be arrested and justly so.”
She eyed the thick beams. Charlotte doubted two persons would budge the thing in the first place, let alone destroy it.
“I’ll write to the Lanteignes and see what they say. If they won’t hear reason, then I’ll send a messenger to the court and warn the Duke of Valois that his bourbon will start drying up soon.”
As if the mere thought was more horrible than anything else, Armand put his hand to his mouth and looked heavenward. “Your family has been making bourbon for generations. Heaven help those who put this damned thing here.”
“Indeed.”
A heavy weight settled in Charlotte’s gut. Guilabert’s proposal was becoming more burdensome by the day. First his incessant visits then the man from Rome and now this. Weariness forced her spine into a curve. She leaned sideways and let an elbow rest on her knee. A long sigh escaped her. Perhaps she should have considered Guilabert’s offer—
What was she thinking? She had been thinking—considering—his offer, as though it were good for her. All he wanted was her fortune. Yet she could not deny the physical attraction between them. He was a devilishly handsome man and shrewd.
“Don’t even think about marrying that swine, mistress. You’re too good for the likes of him.”
She looked at Armand and wanted to reassure him she was not considering marrying a man to save her family business. But she could not. Her gaze traveled farther down the hillside to her left, to the thinned river, and her eyes filled with burning tears. Charlotte felt like a besieged city, choking, seizing up. Ready to surrender. She hissed a curse under her breath. Surrendering?
Never.
Chapter Five
It had been so long since Gautier had held a fine tool in his hand. Though not as precise as his back when he was a carpenter,
this hammer did the job. Years of use had worn the handle smooth. He ran his thumb over the soft grain.
Gautier looked down between the rafters at the expectant faces and spotted one of the younger children looking up at him. The keen little face was turned up and to the side. Gautier pulled another nail from between his lips and winked at the little boy. The sound of hammer blows drowned what the child told his mother.
After Gautier finished fixing this family’s roof, he passed the tools down via a bucket bound to a rope. The boy caught it in his small hands and held it like a cherished pet. With a grunt, Gautier slid off the rafter and hung by his hands. He let go and landed nimbly in the middle of the kitchen floor. Dust floated down around him.
“My thanks,” he said to the boy, who gave him back the bucket of tools.
“Bless you, good Brother,” the mother said. She retrieved a clay jar from a shelf and pushed it in his hands. “The choicest in the province.” Pride sparkled in her eyes. “Oh and please accept this loaf as well. Goes well with it.”
He lifted the cloth cover and smelled the distinct aroma of vinegar and dill. Whatever it was, it was pickled. He hated pickled foods. With a forced grin, he clutched the jar and bread to his side and dusted his black habit as best he could. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Nonsense. It’s my pleasure. This roof’s been leaking for months and with winter approaching, I was worried we’d have to pay an artisan to fix it. From what I’ve seen, we got even better.”
“I’m a carpenter by trade. I was Brenne’s guild master. Have you ever seen their cathedral there? I was the one who—” Gautier stopped himself.
Why share his life story with this woman? She did not want to know. “Well, I must go now. My thanks again.” He raised the jar and bread, offering what he hoped was a convincing smile.
“Oh my, not to worry. It was my pleasure,” she replied with a wink that made him blush.
Outside, he returned to the church and placed the bucket of tools back in the placard in the garden shed. He brought the gifts to the small annex behind the church, which consisted of a tiny kitchen, a privacy closet and a bedchamber. Gautier put the bread and jar of pickled something on the table.
After placing some kindling and a few logs in the hearth, Gautier stuffed some used parchment within the pyramidal pile and lit it. A small fire soon warmed his hands. Rubbing them in anticipation, he pulled a pot filled with water and hung it over the fire. After slicing sweet beets and carrots, he unwrapped the piece of pork another villager had given him that morning for fixing a broken staircase. It smelled salty and looked delicious. He pulled it in thin strands then let them fall in the warming water. The smell of basil filled the air when he tore a few leaves off the plant on the windowsill and dumped them in.
Weary but content, Gautier padded to the small room that served as a washing closet and removed his habit. The scars on his chest glistened like rained-on earthworms when he looked into his reflection. Time spent outdoors had given him a healthy flush. A gay sparkle lit his eyes. The grin slid off his face. He was not here for long. No use getting comfortable with the place and its hardy folks.
As he washed off the grime and sweat, he considered more fully how well these simple folks lived. Montmorency prospered under the Bourbon-Condé family, this much was obvious. The humblest farmer lived well with enough food and proper lodging for all. Children here had round faces and sparkling eyes, as they should. The folk took apparent pride in themselves and their baroness, of whom he had heard often. He wondered if the townsfolk were letting him know in no uncertain terms they loved their baroness just the way she was, hose and all. His skin prickled at the memory of her fine legs, the way water beaded at the juncture…
A twinge of shame made him don his tunic and hose without looking at his reflection again. He let the habit hang on a hook planted in a vein of mortar.
Smells from the soup cooking in the kitchen made his stomach grumble. He padded barefoot to the kitchen and stirred the delicious-looking broth. After a quick taste from the ladle, he served himself a large helping. As he sat to eat, he spotted the clay jar of pickled something. Reaching out, he slid it closer and pulled the cloth and cover off. He sniffed, trying to guess what it was. No use wasting food. With a small sigh, he spooned out a tiny amount and tasted it.
Definitely gourds and onions. Plums? Um.
Not bad at all actually. Bolstered, he helped himself to a heaping spoonful and spread it thick on a chunk of bread. The woman had been right—the choicest in the province. Lucky children.
When he was done, wiping the bowl with the last of the bread, he washed his dish and spoon and let them air dry on their hooks. A grin of satisfaction found its way onto his face. He sat by the hearth and leaned back low in the chair.
Through heavy lids, he surveyed the small kitchen and its austere furnishings. A single chair, which he presently occupied, a table and one set of dishware. Everything was in singles. No pair of nothings. Silence settled over the small house. He spotted through the parted shutters trees beginning to dance with the evening breeze.
The isolation overwhelmed Gautier with the suddenness of a summer storm. Acute, thorny, his solitude pressed hard against his heart. He had thought life would be easier when one lived alone. Not that his life had been teeming with friends before. Still, he had received the occasional visitor in his Brenne home. As guild master, he often held humble but enjoyable soirées with the local artisans. Since donning the habit, his days had been filled with work, his evenings with silence and his nights with oblivion. He looked about at the life he had chosen for himself and gritted his teeth. Closing his eyes, he leaned back into the chair and laid both hands on his belly.
At once an image troubled his tired mind. The baroness again with her mane of curly brown hair unbound on her shoulders. He squeezed his eyes tighter, forced the image to leave him alone. He was still deeply ashamed of his lustful dream. But the fancy would not release him. With terrible clarity, she came back again. Only stood there smiling. A radiant sun gave her cheeks a glow he found himself unable to resist. His fingers twitched when his mental self touched her cheek then her neck. She stood against a stone wall, leaning back on it with her hands on either side of her. One moment she wore the dress from Sunday at church, the next, nothing but a lopsided grin.
As if moved by some unseen force, he pressed himself against her, hands on breasts, his mouth full of hers. Unable to restrain the wicked slant of his thoughts, he felt his rising passion straining against the hose and hated himself for it, cursed his weak flesh. The vision would not relent.
It all felt so true to him, the feel of rough stones as he pressed his palms to either side of her head. She snaked wiry arms over his neck and pulled him close. He could hold it no more.
Gautier took her there against the wall, standing. Murmuring in his ear things he could not hear, she hooked a leg behind his. Beneath his physical hands, the ones he strove to keep to himself and off her, his member quivered up by another measure.
A sudden rap at his door made him jump. Ashamed, flustered, Gautier patted himself down, trying to bridle his breathing while his mind battled the last shreds of fancy. He retrieved the dagger he kept in his sleeve. The slender and razor-sharp blade poised in front of him, he went to the door and opened it, keeping the dagger and his lower body out of view.
A lone man stood outside. On his chest gleamed a small golden cross. The Order of Raphael. Gautier swallowed hard. The messenger bowed and produced a small folded note. Without a word, Gautier took it and closed the door.
Cardinal Lanteigne’s personal seal gleamed.
Wax like fresh blood sealed the note. He broke it with his thumbnail and unfolded the letter. A quick scan of the looping penmanship produced a keen twinge of pain in his side. The sudden shift from shameful lust to grief took him by surprise, left him gritting his teeth. He sank in the chair and read the letter again.
Cardinal Lanteigne was getting restless. According
to this note, Gautier was to wed Charlotte Bourbon-Condé, no matter the way he chose to do it or the circumstances surrounding the occasion. In other words, he was to see her married or else. Gautier read the last line again.
“That woman must reach next Sunday married or not at all.”
Gautier tossed the letter into the fire. No wonder he had been saddled with such task. Marrying a woman should not have proven so difficult. A real priest could have done it. Gautier snorted. The cardinal must have known all along the woman would not cooperate, probably on that Guilabert character’s forewarning. Gautier’s unique “expertise” had been in the mind of His Eminence the whole time. Gautier cursed under his breath. Killing an enemy of the Church was easy—eradicating vermin who polluted young minds was simple—but murdering a woman because she refused to marry someone chosen for her was altogether different.
Yet who was he to decide who should taste the Church’s determination and who should not? Back in the rat hole in which he had been left to die, he had vowed to serve the Lord, had sworn to uphold God’s will to his dying breath. He could not back down now because the task proved unpalatable.
Cardinal Lanteigne undoubtedly had ample reasons to force the issue. Gautier shook his head. His role was not to discuss orders but to follow them. And he would. Only this time, he would get no sense of achievement from the task.
* * * * *
Gautier had not taken two steps outside the church when Guilabert and his companion materialized on either side of him. He had his dagger in his palm before the knight opened his mouth to speak.
“Sneaking up on me isn’t a good idea,” Gautier snarled under his breath.
For some reason he could not quite explain, he hated being seen in the presence of these two. As if to put him more ill at ease, a pair of older women walked up to the church for the daily collection. They looked at him then at the two men on either side of him. Was it his imagination or did their smiles crystallize around the edges? One of them nodded while the other ignored the men.
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