She could not help herself. She, who never cried, could not contain the tears that welled in her eyes. She had failed her feminine forebears. Thankfully, only this man who now owned her services could see those tears of shame; "I do so swear as—”
Her throat was choked with her tears. Her hand trembled, and Paxton squeezed it, whether as reassurance or as prompting, she could not tell. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Triumphant as always was he.
She started over, “. . . swear as a vassal . . . of my Lord Lieutenant, Paxton of Wychchester.”
He raised a brow, waiting. Everyone waited for her to perform the last traditional step in the ceremony. She swallowed hard, forcing herself into action. Closing her eyes, she stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek. He had to lower his head for her lips to reach him, and even then she just barely grazed his jaw.
His skin was smoothly shaved, and a pleasant male smell reached her.
Quickly, she stepped away and blindly signed the document that the sergeant-at-law held out. Another flourish of trumpets and clarions signified the end to the humiliating ceremony.
She would have gratefully withdrawn from the floor, but Denys picked that moment to come forward. He took her hand, the one she had just removed from Paxton's. Her childhood friend’s face was taut, his color high. "Your Majesty and my Lord Lieutenant, I come to seek a boon. The hand of my Lady Dominique in marriage.”
Silence claimed the great hall. All eyes watched in expectancy, all ears strained to hear any words of exchange. Edward’s amused gaze deserted her and Denys and moved to Paxton. "Me thinks this is your domain.”
Paxton took the cue. He rubbed his chin while everyone waited with pent-up breath. At last, he said, "By droit de seigneur et regale, Denys Bontemps, I refuse your offer of marriage with my vassal.”
Denys’s hand tightened around hers. "I pray ask on what grounds, my Lord Lieutenant.” Paxton’s smile was veiled. His hand seemed to rest negligently on his sword's hilt. "Since as my vassal she cannot provide required military service, her husband must do so. I can marry off the maiden for far more than your military service would bring me.”
Piled atop her humiliation now was her degradation of being bartered like salt. "I will not be—”
He cut her short. "You will be what I want.” His words were loud enough only for those nearest to them to hear. She should have known he would not let her challenge his authority. The most she might do was throw a tantrum, for which she quite probably would never be seen at court again but instead spend the remainder of her days chained in the chateau's cellar. Which at that moment seemed a safe and desirable prospect.
He turned to Denys. "I suggest you do as the biblical Jacob did for the hand of Rachel and indenture yourself to me for another seven years.” He shrugged and added indifferently, "Perhaps after that period of time I shall reconsider, providing I haven’t in the meanwhile found an advantageous union for her with some nobleman.”
Denys started forward, but her hand waylaid him. He was courting death. "If I may retire, your Majesty?" she asked, purposefully avoiding addressing the oaf who now officially presided over Montlimoux.
"After the gala is over,” Paxton said. He signaled the musicians and held out his hand. She had no recourse but to take it and let him lead her out into the center of the room. The danse au chapelet was being played. Other couples formed a large ring, and she followed the steps mechanically, for, to tell the truth, had she been required to think clearly she would have been unable.
When she missed a pass, he caught her by the waist and redirected her. A soldier born, yet an adept courtier who has the education of a priest. She could not make out this foreigner. "For all your coarseness, you ape well your betters,” she said.
“For all your high birth, your manners are little better than a fille de joie.” His smile was as forced as hers, his eyes promising further retribution.
Suddenly, she realized that the end of the dance was nearing—and what it required. Was he aware of this Provencal tradition?
The last note of a flute died away and she glanced up at him beneath her lashes. His head was lowering over hers. She stiffened. Wildly, she wondered how this foreigner could have known that at the end of the dance a kiss was required of the damsel.
Then the thought died away at the touch of his mouth on hers. He moved his lips over her own, lingering at the comer of her mouth, then returning to claim hers in a full and quite possessive kiss.
She felt charged, as if she were soaring, and weak, too. Her fingers clung to his shoulders. His large hands squeezed her upper arms, supporting her. She wondered what was happening to her. How could he make her feel thus?
When he lifted his head, she opened her eyes and saw that the two of them were the center of attention. Once more he had imposed his claim on her, as he would, she suspected, in all ways.
She awoke early, with the memory of last night far in the back of her head. Dawn’s golden light shimmered between the heavy draperies. She stretched, feeling good about everything in general.
Then, as she pulled the cord to summon Beatrix, the memory returned. It had been all she could do to retire from the great hall the night before with her dignity intact. By midday, gossip would doubtlessly have shredded it.
The Englishman’s mistress!
She tossed back the covers and dressed herself in a simple tunic that required little lacing. A cloak secured by a gold chain at her left shoulder would protect her against the early-morning chill. Avoiding the just awakening maids, she slipped out of the chateau with only the usher and the barbican guards to challenge her. Most of last night’s revelers had drunk themselves into a stupor.
Besides, why should Paxton be concerned if she left now that she had finally signed over her domain?
The village was already astir with activity. Blacksmiths and butchers were among the first opening their shops. Shutters rattled and rusted door hinges squeaked. She met sleepy maidservants going to the wells with buckets and basins.
Once clear of the village, she walked, a long, rapid walk to discharge her energy. But waves of magnetic impulses kept swirling through her with incredible intensity. She returned to the chateau, still charged and restless.
For the first time in weeks, she sought out her laboratory, hoping her work would divert her tumultuous thoughts. Torches of resinous wood cast their light down the tightly descending staircase and onto the rusty bars of the dungeon grate. At its bottom, she stopped short.
Spread out over the cold stone floor like a small Arab carpet was her falcon, still hooded. A scarlet line demarcated its split throat, split by one of the broken vials that littered the floor. The bird of prey’s blood pooled on the stones to mix with the mercury, sulphur, and other elixirs that had been spilled.
CHAPTER IX
By degrees the tourney's spectators and competitors departed from the county the following week, and life in Montlimoux returned to normal—if the presence of Paxton's soldiers was discounted. Apparently, only Dominique resented the English troops, for as a result of their deployment within the county, Montlimoux’s merchants were waxing wealthy from the increased revenues.
Even Denys was gone, dispatched by Paxton to inspect river crossings for possible bridge sights. Denys’s leave-taking had been brief but consummate. He had found her in her library and rashly taken her in his arms in front of Jacotte and some of her maids-in-waiting. "I shall return for you, Dominique. I swear by all that is holy. I shall never relinquish you! You know that, do you not?”
Staring up into those impassioned eyes, she could only nod. She had known as much since childhood.
Then, he had kissed her. The first kiss ever from him. She had felt . . . pleasure. But not that sense of losing herself that frightened her when Paxton’s mouth closed over hers. Afterwards, she had felt regret because of the pain she witnessed in Jacotte’s anguished gaze, as she watched Denys’s ardent display.
Why could love not be perfectly ma
tched with the lovers? She could only surmise that there were lessons to be learned, but, oh, at what cost to the soul? Pray, she would not lose herself in such a way!
Not all the tourney's guests took their leave, among them being Lady Esclarmonde, who, upon deciding to stay, had bade a temporary and touching adieu to her brother. How long Esclarmonde planned to stay was a question ever in Dominique's mind.
Francis's sister found the serenity of Montlimoux a respite from the whirlwind court life at Avignon, or so she said. Dominique had her doubts. She believed Esclarmonde found Paxton of Wychchester a delicious challenge compared to the pandering courtiers at Avignon’s papal palace.
At any rate, Dominique chafed under the imposition of this unwanted houseguest, but she no longer had the authority to order the woman out. Was it Esclarmonde who had cast this bleak aura over the chateau? No one else seemed to sense the heaviness. Mayhap, Dominique thought, it was the loss of Reinette that had left her feeling unsettled. The bird’s death had been a cruel, violent act.
Who was responsible? Certainly not Esclarmonde. The young woman did not have the strength required to subdue the bird of prey, much less kill it. Of course, there was the distinct possibility she could have hired some man to do it for her.
Of even more dire consequences was Esclarmonde's possible design on Paxton. She was using all her coquettish wiles upon the bachelor. Today, she had cajoled him into allowing her to ride with him. Mounted, not on his chestnut but his war horse, he had ridden out of the chateau with her at his side, astride a docile palfrey. Too bad it was not a cob.
Paxton could very well end up marrying the woman. The very thought made Dominique shudder. Esclarmonde was one of those petty, domineering spirits bent on exerting every scrap of authority that is theirs. Dominique could not imagine her life being spent in such spirit-quenching humility. Worse, she knew that Esclarmonde, should she succeed in bringing Paxton to the altar, would send Iolande, Baldwyn, and herself packing.
Dominique rubbed her temples with her fingertips, willing away her emotional turmoil. It was Paxton of Wychchester's fault that she could no longer center herself. His condescending gaze, his aggressive male essence, threatened to dominate her receptive feminine side, which had always been a paradoxically powerful force.
Outside, spring was adorning herself with a riot of gaudy, gorgeous flowers. She had missed tending her plants, but even more than the earth, she needed water now. Not simply the bath water from a copper tub. She needed full immersion in that element to experience the wholeness of nature and to live with it in harmony.
When she ordered an equerry saddle her horse, Baldwyn insisted on riding with her. He caught up with her as she strode across the bailey. "Not all of the English soldiers may be so well ordered as those posted within the town, my lady.”
"No, Baldwyn, I always rode alone before,” she said, entering the stables. She delighted in its earthy odors of manure, leather, and straw. Particles of dust floated on sunlight beams shafting between timbers. "To do otherwise now would only—”
"I shall accompany the Lady Dominique,” Captain Bedford interposed.
She whirled around to find him leading her dappled gray to her, along with his own mount. "I thank you, Captain, but I wish to ride alone.”
"My Lord Lieutenant's orders, my lady.'' He appeared to genuinely regret countermanding her wishes. She could not find it in herself to be harsh with the roguishly handsome knave. "I assure you, I shall be all right, Captain.”
"I shall stay a reasonable distance, my lady. No closer than last time.”
"Last time?”
"Aye. When ye went walking the morning after the gala feast.”
"You followed me?”
"Aye, at my Lord Lieutenant’s command.” So she was Paxton’s prisoner, regardless of the length of rope he allowed her. She told John Bedford as much after they left the noisy town behind and cantered out through the river valley. "My captor is generous in permitting me to ride so far afield.” She slanted a look at the redheaded soldier. "Or, mayhap, he plans an accident for me.”
John laughed, a full laugh that came from his deep barreled chest. "Thine imagination is lively, my Lady Dominique.”
His humor irked her. "With my death, my fief would then be forfeited to him, isn’t that so? Why covet a title like Grand Seneschal when one could be Count?”
"What need has Paxton of the title Count of Montlimoux, when he can be the Earl of Pembroke?”
She sniffed. "An earldom is no better, especially in your heathen land. Even your king prefers the title of Duke of Aquitaine to King of England.”
"Aye, but Paxton prefers Pembroke, I swear by my troth, lady. Once he completes his mission here—”
"And the reason for that is?”
"Why, supervising Montlimoux."
The afternoon sun was hot, and she wiped the perspiration from her brow. "No, I mean why does he prefer this Pembroke?”
John's expression clouded over. Even his merry blue eyes seem to dull. "’Tis Paxton's form of retribution for past injustices done him by its former earl.”
This bit of knowledge revealed to her that the lieutenant could be a dangerous enemy to those who opposed him. Was he responsible for Reinette’s death?
And what would happen once he had completed his work here? Whom might King Edward send to take his place? Paxton had yet to beat her or force himself upon her. Overall, she had been treated better than suzerains of other occupied principalities. Better Paxton as her liege lord than some ignorant, porcine soldier.
Paxton’s rational intellect, his aggressive force, certainly made him a formidable competitor, as he so aptly demonstrated in the tourney games. Perhaps that was why she was attracted to him. Had not Chengke proclaimed that polar opposites were a unity?
Abruptly, she sawed in on her reins, realizing what she had unconsciously admitted to herself: She was attracted to Paxton of Wychchester!
"What is it, my lady?”
"Nothing.” She shook her head, as if thereby she could shake off the provoking thoughts of Paxton. "Only that the mountain stream I seek lies nearby. Wait here until I return.”
Leaving her gray in John’s care, she followed a hen run that twisted up a hillside forested with magnificent old beech trees and fragrant cedar. Legend clung to the area, supposedly the site of pagan celebrations.
Soon, she heard the sound of tumbling water. She picked her way to the spot where the stream fed a horse-high waterfall. Water frothed like sparkling wine, and rainbows arced through its mist. Golden sunlight sifted through the canopy of leaves. The place was intoxicating.
Chengke had instructed her about such areas. Forests, mountains, and the sea, the mother of all creativity, where the waters in the body moved with her tides, were power generators for the spirit. Water was the most profound conductor. Chengke had compared it to lightning, although she was not sure she really understood.
She did know that by simply submerging her body in water, she could effect a tremendous release of the heaviness surrounding her.
The water whispered, its formless spiritual energy beckoning. She stripped off her linen underclothes and outer robes with what Iolande would surely term undue haste. Once her ties were loosed and her hose were peeled away, she wriggled her toes in the cool, green grass and practically sighed aloud.
Gingerly, she waded into the gurgling stream. Chengke had claimed that moving water released the static energy which occasionally disturbed her nervous system and confused her perceptual abilities. The cold water rushed around her knees, up her thighs, and caressed her belly. When it lapped her full breasts, she laughed out of sheer pleasure.
“Ah,” she sighed, turning over on her back to float. “How can nakedness be considered sinful?”
The water streamed through her hair, combing it into a shimmering, silken fan around her head. She luxuriated in its essence, feeling her senses wonderfully enhanced. When her limbs moved freely and gracefully, finally relaxed and supple, sh
e waded from the water reluctantly.
As she reached for her silk chemise, she thought of Chengke. She could imagine him as he was in her court, his hands tucked up in the wide sleeves of his mandarin orange robe in the attitude of a monk. She knew he would have told her, “The negative particles of the turbulent water have not sufficiently purified your emotional system, woman.”
Tis that Englishman, she told herself crossly. He disorients me.
Her studies with Chengke had taught her that one will always be attracted to that which will create change within a person.
But who said she was attracted to Paxton of Wychchester?
By my own admission, curse it!
She recalled one of her conversations with Chengke. "The yin is the female creative source that allows for the blueprint,” he had said. "Like Denys's sketches, it is to be taken out and constructed into reality by the aggressive yang male energy."
She began to tug on one hose. She did not need to recall Chengke’s lecture on mysticism, she mused, with definite perturbation. She needed practical guidance. She needed to find a way to keep Montlimoux.
At that instant, before she could even cry out, Paxton, mounted on his great war horse, crashed through the underbrush. Whirling, she grabbed up her clothing to hold like a screen before her.
His horse pranced nervously, and he sawed in on the reins. His angry gaze raked over her near nakedness. "We need to talk.”
She almost laughed. His eyes indicated something else other than mere conversation. The lust she saw there reassured her. She could deal with mere coarse sensuality. It was the solution to her worries. She must fight, using her feminine wiles to maintain her fiefdom. "Talk about what, my Lord Lieutenant?”
"What is on everyone's lips since the tourney. Your sorcery.”
"Then it was you who killed my falcon?”
"What?” His impatient tone warred with the desire that darkened his eyes.
"Someone slit her throat and left her carcass in my laboratory, along with broken elixir vials.”
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