With Paxton, she proceeded to the chair and knelt on painted tiles to kiss the ring of the Vicar of Christ. When she rose, however, it was not the pope’s scrutinizing gaze her own encountered but Francis's intense one. At once, her interest was captured completely. It had always been like that, the way he dominated one’s attention. Certainly, he had more of an aura of the supreme pontificate about him than Benedict XII. He smiled reassuringly and then leaned close to the pope and whispered something behind his hand.
Benedict nodded and then began to discuss with Paxton his role as proxy for the Duke of Aquitaine. She noted that the pope did not once refer to Edward as King of England but always as King Philip’s vassal.
Not for nothing was the pope French. King Philip knew exactly what he was about when he had maneuvered for the majority of the cardinals to wear the French mitre. The power of the monarchy and the Church combined would be a formidable opponent against England.
Paxton responded adroitly to the pope's questioning, adding, "I shall eagerly be looking forward to King Philip's arrival next month so that I may personally do homage for my own fiefdom as well as that of the Duke’s.”
Under other conditions, Paxton’s presence at the pope’s palace might be questioned, but as Avignon was the intellectual center of Europe, he was but one of many foreigners in that court of intrigue. As it was, Benedict was more concerned about the ongoing conspiracy against him by the Roman patricians and princes. Because of this, Paxton was treated with nominal, though cautious, respect.
Later in the privacy of their bedchamber, Paxton explained to Dominique, "King Philip might not trust his English cousin, but he certain is not yet ready to go to war over Edward's legitimate claim to the French duchy of Aquitaine. In this one matter, Edward is at least King Philip’s vassal, an arrangement I would imagine Philip finds immensely satisfying."
She paused in the midst of unknotting her girdle and smiled wistfully at her beloved. His features were so powerful. And so closed. "I find you immensely satisfying, my Lord Lieu-tenant.” Forgetting her girdle, she went to him and slipped her arms around his neck. Those long-lidded brown eyes grew wary. "Paxton," she pleaded, "I want the intimacy and warmth between us that we once had.” Beneath her palms, she could feel his neck tendons pull taut. "I want trust between us.”
A muscle at the comer of his mouth ticked. "Can there be such a thing between any two humans?”
She kissed the end of his mouth, where the twitching had been. "Yes, with mutual work.” His mouth moved slightly so that her lips were beneath his. "Mmmmm,” he murmured. "Is this mutual work?”
Her laugh was husky. Her head lolled back. Her eyes closed languorously. "Mutual pleasure, I would say."
He put his hands on her arms and set her away from him. Her lids snapped open. She did not mistake his forced smile. “A pleasure I must forego for the moment. Affairs at the pope’s palace demand my attention."
With an aching hunger that she feared would have no end, she watched him take up his sword and knife and leave, dropping only the lightest of kisses on her cheek.
The departure was the first of many, and she did not know which she found more unbearable—the loneliness of the Hôtel de la Prefecture without Paxton's presence or the toadying of the courtiers those days she accompanied him to the pope’s palace.
Paxton seemed most interested in attending the frivolous appartements. At these events, she had to witness the open flirtations of the women in attendance, among them, naturally, Esclarmonde. Was it possible . . . could Esclarmonde hate her enough to work evil against her? Admittedly, Francis's sister was little more than civil to her, which was not the case with Francis.
Despite the demand upon him by his service to Benedict, Francis found time to introduce her into the academic gatherings of the papal court. The lure of intellectuals and artisans like Andrea Pisano succeeded in drawing her often to these salons, so that she and Paxton occasionally passed each other coming and going. The majority of their exchanges, however, occurred in the privacy of their bedchamber late at night.
Piqued at his lack of attention, she associated more and more often with the learned minds while ignoring the flirtations of the other adepts in Avignon. One afternoon, as she was leaving the hotel with Iolande and Manon, and Baldwyn as guard, she met Paxton just arriving at the courtyard gate. In court dress, he appeared devastatingly handsome. The sleeves of his doublet were split so as to show the fine white shirt, and he wore cordwain shoes of goatskin from Cordova.
"You look tired," she said, inflecting her voice with an insouciance she was far from feeling. Where had he been this time? He told her so little now that they were quartered in Avignon.
Holding the gate open for her, he stared down at her with a peculiar look in his eyes. Was it yearning? Suspicion? Why could she not read him as she did others? But then, even that gift seemed to have dimmed for a long time now. "Where are you going?” he asked.
"Only to the home of Cardinal della Provere.” Perversity made her add, "Petrarch will be there.” Despite the love poetry he wrote about an anonymous woman named Laura, the Italian evidenced a great deal of enjoyment in flirtatious conversation with Dominique. "You know how stimulating Francesco can be.”
"Yes, I am aware of that.”
Could she not even stir that impassive English face into jealousy?
As they made their way to the cardinal’s house, Iolande grumbled continuously. "Outrageous, the morals of this city. Yet the law forbids a Jewess to touch the fruit in the market stalls. Bah. I spit upon it.”
As a papal enclave, Avignon was a sanctuary. Jews, on payment of a small indemnity, were safe, as were escaped prisoners and adventurers fleeing litigation. Smuggling, forgery, and counterfeiting were rife, and brothels and bawdy houses flourished.
Dominique could sympathize with Iolande. After a short three weeks, she was restless to return to the familiarity of Montlimoux. "The time here will pass quickly, Iolande,” was all she could offer.
Although dusk still provided enough light to see by, torchbearers guided Dominique’s retinue to the cardinal's home just beyond the narrow Rue Peyrollerie. The mansion was richly appointed with gilded chests and cupboards, easily disassembled for traveling. Arras tapestries graced walls frescoed in yellow foliage on a blue background. Servants hovered at every staircase and screened passage.
Iolande was not impressed with the women who painted their faces and dusted them with fine white flour nor with the superficial discussions of the works of Ovid and Vergil, and least of all with Petrarch and his friend, Giovanni Boccaccio. Several couples were listening intently as Petrarch expounded. “The care of mortal things must be first in mortal minds,” he told the painted woman nearest him.
“Bah, words,” Iolande said beneath her breath. “So many words. Where are their actions?”
Iolande was right, of course. But the afternoon was a diversion. An event to occupy Dominique’s thoughts which were forever turned toward Paxton and the subtle change she could only vaguely perceive yet not specifically identify. He evoked the worst in her . . . and yes, the best. She was learning to care beyond hope, to love without limit; to reach, stretch, and dream in spite of her fears.
Tonight, Esclarmonde was not present, but Martine Blanchard was. A renowned court beauty, she was the wife of a portly Flemish merchant who specialized in cargo insurance. Martine specialized in seduction, so it was said, and Dominique suspected that Paxton was her prey. The Belgium woman's cold beauty chilled the length of the room, reaching its frosty tentacles even to Dominique.
Although she had been at the affair less than an hour, she was thinking of leaving. Only the knowledge that her early return would confirm her attachment to Paxton prevented her from doing so.
Then Francis was announced. Dominique noticed that all the women in the salon became alert, almost as if he were a lodestone, magnetizing their attention. And why not? With the shock of raven hair and those piercing black eyes, Francis was irresistible.
The prohibition of his calling, the taboo of loving such a man, made him all that more desirable. In addition, he was most proficient at playing the political game, of navigating through the nuances of the papal court, a valuable asset for the courtesans among the crowd.
Like peacocks, those courtesans and the wives and daughters present preened. But after first pausing to discourse with a politician from Philip’s court, then a diplomat from a foreign nation, and next another ecclesiastical, Francis wended his way directly toward her, bypassing even Martine.
Iolande gave an impudent snort, and he grinned. "I swear, Iolande, I am not here to coerce your charge into some indiscretion. Although I would have long ago if I thought I would have had a chance at succeeding.”
He focused his attention on Dominique then and it was that very attentiveness, that sophistication, that made the rest of the evening pass all too quickly. "You know, Dominique,” he said, as she prepared to leave, "the pope’s palace has the most extensive alchemical laboratory outside of Islam. I suggest on your next visit to the palace I show you its wonders. You can become a pilgrim to a greater knowledge at which mere villeins scoff.”
Why could Paxton not understand this quest for the path of enlightenment?
Rocher des Domes, just beyond the juxtaposition of the pope's palace and a smaller palace that was Francis’s official headquarters of the Avignon episcopate, was the highest point of Avignon. A windswept crag, the Rocher placed a seemingly endless view of the landscape of the Rhone valley at his feet, which never failed to send a thrill through him that was equal to that lust that came with sexual completion.
The north mistral lashed Francis's hair across his face, but he did not present his back to the wind. The stinging was just another sensation that reminded him he was alive, as did the Rhone’s murmur, echoing off the surrounding hills.
So little and yet so much was required for that feat of feeling alive. So much when one was bonded to the remnants of malignancy lasting thousands of years—and hundreds of lifetimes.
"Francis!”
He turned and smiled at the lovely woman hurrying toward him up the sloping path that passed the orchard and garden well with its built-in sundial. Dominique was lovely with innocence yet to be initiated. For her, there could be another path, one to degradation lower than that reached by ordinary physical activities.
He took her outstretched hands, their flesh so alive with her extraordinary force-energy, force-energy generated by the soil and air and vegetation and water of Montlimoux, all of which she was a part. To possess both would be to possess life eternal and all its accompanying riches.
His smile contained centuries of calculation. "I was certain your scientific curiosity would get the best of you.”
She laughed joyously. "I have been stifled for months now. Come, show me the delights you promised.”
The wind whipped together his brocaded skirts with her silken ones, as, laughing, he led her back to the palace. He took her by way of the second-floor, a covered gallery to the vice legates’ private apartments, that because of their northern exposure were freezingly cold in the winter.
Only a few stair steps and a gently sloping corridor separated those apartments from the bell tower. She hung back when he reached the barred door. "Tis all right,” he assured her. "People come and go constantly here, and nothing is thought of it.”
"Women come and go?” she asked with a teasing smile that was familiar from their childhood. But at that time she had been a virgin.
“Mais, oui! Martine has paid me several visits.” He crossed to the trap door in the floor and lifted it to expose the dark cavern below. "Martine has an intense interest in the concoction of poisons and the casting of spells, among other things.” He took the torch from the wall socket to light the darkness. "One soon discovers that one can have many enemies at court.”
"Then I must applaud your longevity here, Francis. Your survival instincts must be at a peak pitch.”
He held out his hand for her to kiss the cabochon of his ring. "Come with me,” he said with a daring smile, "and I shall hear your confession.”
She looked at him uncertainly, then, laughing again, kissed his ring.
The stairway descended three flights into a barrel-vaulted room that had once communicated with the lower gallery of the cloister. Just as he expected, Dominique’s eyes lit like twin torches when she saw the array of alchemical apparatus in the room. "Come, I shall you show you more than you ever imagined.”
Her hands caressed appreciatively the various flasks and vials and burners. "How fortunate you are, Francis. All this knowledge at your disposal.”
"Much of what I learned in the last few years has come from a manuscript by Simon Magus who was a magician and Jew and who eventually became sorcerer to Nero.”
She tilted her head. "Like what?”
"Like the mystical jugglery with numbers and letters, the writing of amulets, and such. It was Simon who pointed out the close relation between gold and excrement, the importance of dew as a solvent of gold, the value of menstrum and virgin's milk.”
He detected an uneasiness in her laugh. "Virgin’s milk? Francis, isn’t that a contradictory term?”
"Not at all.” He clasped her upper arms, turning her toward him. "The more one studies and experiments, the more one perceives that all is the opposite of what it appears.”
Her eyes glistened with the opportunity of increasing her knowledge. "Will you teach me, Francis?”
"It would be very much my pleasure. Very much.”
Francis's knowledge of the hidden enthralled Dominique. Even his voice held that power to enthrall. "It has previously been thought that semen must rot in order to impregnate, for rotting is procreating. The corruption or breaking up of one form is the beginning of another. Can you understand this, Dominique?”
Chengke had taught her that death was not an end but a beginning. Francis’s statement had a sensible point, yet the pull of life, not death, was too strong in her to accept fully his viewpoint. Not yet anyway.
Perceiving her confusion, he said, “With further lessons, you will come to see what I am trying to teach you. Tell me, have you heard of the Basilisk?”
She shook her head.
“’Tis a monster that grows in the greatest impurity of woman, her menstrua, and from the seed of man, putrefied in horse's dung. Its glance is fatal, but one can protect oneself if clothed in mirrors. With the knowledge I teach you, Dominique, I shall clothe you in mirrors that will defeat the ignorant”
She accepted the hand warming her shoulder and said, "I am forever indebted for your friendship, Francis.”
He smiled benignly. "Your love is enough, Dominique. By the way, do you realize that amor spelled backwards is Roma, or the Roman Catholic Church?”
CHAPTER XVIII
The alchemical laboratory at the pope’s palace and Francis's friendship and guidance were the only two things that enabled Dominique to get through each day. Eagerly, she descended with the bishop to the laboratory, where she could immerse herself in scientific studies to which she had never been exposed.
But even this once-consuming interest was not enough to totally distract her from the anguish she felt at Paxton’s emotional distancing from her. It was not only that Paxton seemed to have shut down his emotions since coming to Avignon, it was his disinterest in everything beyond his own amusement. He fluttered from fete to fete, from chateau to chateau. He neglected even Esclarmonde’s amorous advances in favor of the court beauties, of whom Martine was the acknowledged queen.
The few fetes Dominique attended found her with her choice of partners if she so desired. The ambassadors at the papal court, as soon as they had discharged their duties, sought her out. Her ardor for knowledge, her familiarity with myriad subjects, her growing fondness for the Italian novellieri, made her most sought after.
Yet her spirits lagged. At one such gala, dwarfs, and buffoons, and rope dancers entertained, while the ecclesiastical guests degene
rated into a loud, rambunctious, and immoral lot. Noble pages handed round ewers and basins and were pouring water over the diners’ fingers, while noble knights stood behind diners’ chairs to catch inebriated guests who toppled out of their chairs.
In the midst of this revelry, death presided in the form of various poisons—from food to incense, a result of any one of numerous monks’ plots. After these galas, an orgy of contrition usually ensued, with four hundred bishops singing Verti Creator Spiritus. It was fast becoming her opinion, the higher the birth, the lesser the piety.
The dross, the base desires, the dregs drained her. So, after a while her attendance at the galas declined, and she focused on those afternoons spent at the laboratory with Francis.
Among other things, her friend claimed to have a formula that, once divined, would lead to the secret of transmutation: iron to gold. Gold, that metal sought after by mankind not merely for its rarity and glitter but for its wonderful malleability.
With limitless gold, she could buy Montlimoux from the king of England, from all the kings of all the countries for that matter! And she could restore her cherished countryside to the splendid grandeur it knew in the days of her mother, the mistress of alchemists.
"You are putting yourself in peril,” Baldwyn told her one morning after she had requested his accompanying her to the palace. "The bishop is alienated from nature.” When she looked askance at him, he added with an uncomfortable shrug, "A bit of spiritual knowledge I gained from my near-death experience.”
"I heed the warning,” she sighed, "but my own force-energies have always been equal to those of others. Francis cannot harm me without my permission.”
Little by little all her force-energies were being directed toward preserving the tenuous relationship between herself and Paxton. And, too, there was the growing knowledge that more than ever she wanted his child. This time the conception would not be happenstance—although Chengke would have argued that nothing, not any single thing, was happenstance—but would be a planned event
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