Sweet Enchantress

by Parris Afton Bonds

  He passed Chretien to Iolande. “I wish to be alone with your mistress,” he told the old woman without looking at her. His heavy gaze held Dominique fast. She saw that time and weather had chiseled their story on his face. After they were alone, he said, “When I leave Montlimoux, Baldwyn will be released as hostage but my sons come with me.”

  She sprang at him, her fingers arched like a cat’s claws. "I shall see your soul destroyed first!”

  He caught her arms and yanked her across the bed. In retribution, he took her mouth in a violent kiss, despite her mumbled protests. "You forget your pledge, Dominique. My will is your will.”

  She shook her head from side to side, but he repossessed her lips. His tongue was his sword, and he plundered and ravished her mouth. She answered his challenge with a kiss as fierce and demanding as his. She ceased to breathe, locked in that duel of passion.

  At last, his mouth released hers. "The rumors across the land are right,” he told her, taking the caution to capture her wrists above her head with his manacled grip. “You are a sorceress.”

  She glared up at him, not even attempting a rebuttal. Her lips were sore from his rapacious kiss, and somehow her tunic and camisole had gotten torn.

  "All this time, I have tried to deny it, to refuse the spell you have cast on me. But I have come to break it, Dominique. And break you and Montlimoux, before I return to my country.”

  There were no tears in her left to cry at this ultimate rejection of her. She turned her head away. Listlessly, her fingers crumpled the disarrayed bedclothing beneath her. "You will leave an empty man, Paxton of Wychchester,” she whispered. "The rest of your life you will know only emptiness.”

  That night they slept with their backs to one another, but she sensed he was awake when she took first Chretien and then Rainbaut into bed with her to nurse them.

  He found her in her chapel. She was sitting with her legs crossed and pondering God knew what. He broke in upon her meditation, as she called what she was doing. "I ride out today. Word has come that a French encampment has been erected as closeby as Albi.” She rose, her expression carefully controlled. "Do you know when you will return, my Lord Lieutenant?”

  Or if he would return at all. She would doubtlessly be pleased to learn he suffered the same fate as his war horse, which emerged from the last fray bristling with arrows like a pincushion. "I have no idea. John will oversee any problems that may arise in my absence.” He started to turn away but was reluctant to leave with such hostility between them. His hand made a sweeping gesture of the chapel. "The room does not seem like a place of worship without the cross.” He had meant to say something of a conciliatory nature, but his words affronted her, he could tell.

  Her lips tightened. "I told you once, the cross for me symbolizes self-sacrifice instead of selflessness.”

  He faced her fully. “You know, Dominique, you are unlike even my wildest imaginations. You are like something out of the Arabian Tales, with animals changing into humans and magical happenings. I cannot understand you."

  She clasped her hands demurely. “You can understand the Scriptures?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then reflect on the wild, incredible and impossible things that happen in their stories.”

  "But the stories have an underlying meaning”

  "And as for magic,” she continued, "think back on the Book of Numbers. A very great mystery is hidden there. By means of numbers, Paxton, one can perform all the operations for friendship, riches, honor, and all sorts of things—good and evil. But, as a Chinese sage once warned me, ‘Only the worthy will find the key to the whole work.’”

  With an exasperated sigh, he took his leave. He was no closer to understanding her than before. An image of her stayed with him throughout the duration of the maneuver: her face, her smile, with its piquant space between her teeth. Then there was her indomitable pride and resolution. He had to admit to himself that his will could never easily resist hers. He could not resist her, period.

  She had spent an inordinate amount of time with Francis. Intimate hours, possibly. Had she cuckolded him with the priest?

  Whether she had was not what plagued Paxton. It was the certain knowledge that he could not, could never, reconcile himself to this strange woman. He was surprised at the heaviness of his heart.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Dominique watched from the ramparts each afternoon for a sign of Paxton’s return from the sally on the French encampment. She waited with foolish hope that she would see a relenting in his cold behavior toward her. Only toward Chretien and Rainbaut had his attitude softened. The little time Paxton had spent at the chateau before he had left was spent mostly with his sons.

  Their sons, she amended.

  As for Francis, he avoided her and the others at the chateau, almost as completely as he had avoided his sister at the last. Did he feel no remorse? She was too preoccupied with fighting the pestilence and fighting her weakening feelings for Paxton to give more than a fleeting thought to the bishop.

  One afternoon, she spotted a cavalcade and felt the first stirrings of joy, but by dusk the cavalcade turned out to be little more than a peddler with his packs of mules. Because of the plague, the gnome of a man would not enter the chateau walls, but spread his gewgaws for all to examine at a safe distance.

  Lethargically, she surveyed the hats, ribbons, gloves, pots, goose quills, and napery and listened to his patter. "If 'tis not the French killing good folk, then 'tis the English. And if not the English, then the plague. Why I saw in Albi hills of bodies waiting for the funeral pyre.”

  Her heart contracted. "Was there any skirmishing between the English and the French?”

  "That, too. But the damned plague, by the Virgin Mary, is the most accurate archer of all.”

  After the peddler left, she retired to her room. A multitude of feelings assailed her. She did not know whether to be angry, throw up, or cry. True, she was angry at Paxton’s cavalier treatment of her, but her fear he would be killed in a raid made her stomach sink the way it did when her gray jumped a gully. At last, she found it easier just to cry.

  Paxton returned the next day. His countenance was as forbidding as ever. Blood smeared his armor-plate mail.

  “Your raid was successful?" she asked in an indifferent voice.

  "Aye." He pushed the fold of his cloak over one shoulder as if the act required great effort.

  She tried to watch his aura and caught the red rage of violence before the color of dark gray slowed down the vibrations. Black, the absence of colors, the absence of the body's energy, lingered close. Alarmed, she crossed the chamber to him, but before she could reach him, he put a hand to his visor, swayed, and collapsed at her feet.

  "Paxton!” She knelt beside him to pull off his chain mail. Under this, his tunic was sweat-dampened. Tearing it away, she beheld with a gasp the ugly black knots beneath his skin. She realized his soul was hovering in the clutches of the black pestilence.

  "John!” she screamed. Panic beat at her throat like bat wings. “Someone! Help!”

  Marte came running and, at the sight of Paxton sprawled on the floor, she turned back. With relief, Dominique heard her summoning help. While waiting, Dominique poured all her energy through her hands to Paxton's chest. It barely rose and fell. Concentrating, she could perceive the miasma of his breathing. It was the grayish-black of a swamp vapor.

  That night, and on into the following days, she worked ceaselessly over Paxton, but his body's energies ebbed hourly. His body appeared as ravaged by the plague as Baldwyn's was by leprosy.

  This man had betrayed her time and again, yet she was fighting for his life, even to the point of breathing her own breath into him when once his breathing appeared to have stopped. Near dawn of another morning, she knew not how many mornings since his collapse, she faced the truth as she gazed upon his drawn face. Whatever this man was, however his male nature may threaten her, she loved him wholly. Fire could not burn her love, water could not drown
it, old age could not diminish it. Her love may have seemed to be suppressed, but it could not be extinguished.

  In those bleak, wrenching hours, others often came to Paxton's bedside to spell her, but rarely did she take the opportunity to sleep. Her gaze remain locked on her beloved's battle-scarred face.

  One evening, in the hush of twilight, John came up behind where she and Iolande sat, keeping watch, and put his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "How is he, my Lady Dominique?”

  She did not take her eyes off Paxton’s face. "He raves. About Elizabeth.” Bitterness ripped a ragged edge along her words.

  John pulled up a stool and sat opposite her. In a low voice, he said, "My lady, ye must know that Paxton did not love Elizabeth. Obsessed with her initially, but loved her, no. In fact, he refused to share her bed once he learned she had willfully chosen to rid herself of his child, 'debased by serf’s blood!’ was the way she had told him.”

  "But to have murdered her for—”

  "Nay, he did not. When he refused to bed her, she went to her father with a concocted charge that Paxton was conspiring to overthrow the old earl. When confronted, Paxton chose honor rather than explanation. He felt his conduct spoke for itself.”

  "What happened?”

  John fingered his short red beard. "The earl, of course, believed his daughter and ordered Paxton flogged. Left for dead, he was hidden away and restored to health by his old tutor, the abbot.”

  Dominique closed her eyes. "Oh, John! Then Elizabeth’s heartless actions must have confirmed in the most painful way the abbot’s teachings of the perfidy of the female sex.”

  "While still recovering, Paxton discovered one afternoon that the tutor had left with the intention of secretly poisoning Elizabeth. As weak as Paxton was, I think he felt he could have made an effort to prevent Elizabeth's death. If he raves about her, it is because of the guilt he harbors, not because of his love for her.”

  So, the misogynous old abbot had had his triumph, but at what cost to his charge?

  After John and Iolande took their leave, she smoothed the dampened hair back from Paxton's brow and laid a fresh cloth soaked in astringent on his forehead. His scars were livid with the heat. On a nearby brazier she burned a mixture of Indian root, myrrh, aloe, olive oil, and tears. Her own.

  Could she ever forgive Paxton the way he had used her, forgive him his betrayal? Yes, she knew that the capability was within her if she but made the effort. But could he ever love her as she did him? He did not countenance her free thinking. Besides . . . .

  Besides, she loved him and that counted everything else as nothing. In an instant of dazzling foresight, she understood that her English lieutenant also loved her. She understood that he had returned to Montlimoux not to subjugate her but to protect her from the warfare ravaging her county. She understood that he had risked his life to come back. Risking his life—that he did in every battle. But he had risked for her something of far more value to him—his pride.

  With a heavy knock on her door, Baldwyn entered the bedchamber. Since she was startled to see that he no longer wore the habit of the Knight Templar, it was a moment before she realized that his face was even more mottled than usual. With him was John, his mouth set in lines that had not been so grim when he had taken his leave only moments before.

  In their wake, trailed a frightened Hugh. Had the boy done something wrong? “What is it, Baldwyn?”

  He glanced at John. "The men and women camped in the outer ward are rioting, raiding the bakery. They claim you are hiding food from them. I have barred the keep and doubled the guards, but I do not know how long it will be before they try to storm our doors.”

  She looked to John. "What can be done?”

  His hand went to his sword. "The troop is out on reconnaissance, but I can muster the remaining guards.”

  After he hurried from the room, she rounded on Baldwyn and demanded, "But why? There is little food left to hide. They should know that, what with the hundreds of people crowded within the chateau grounds.”

  His mouth stretched thin. "They have been incited for a long time now.”

  "Incited? I do not understand, Baldwyn."

  He took a deep breath and fixed her with eyes enflamed by rage. As the peasant says, ‘An enemy who appears to be a friend is treacherous beyond all traitors.' Show her what you showed me, Hugh.”

  The boy shuffled forward, tugged at his hood respectfully so that his flaxen hair fell forward. His dirt-smudged little hand thrust out the scrap of parchment. His labored scrawl was difficult for her to decipher. "The bishop,” she read, "sezs to the people that ye are a witch. For a long time, he sezs this to them.”

  She glanced from the parchment to Hugh. He nodded vigorously.

  Baldwyn said, "They have been told you are responsible for the famine, for the plague, for their miseries.”

  Her mouth set in a determined line, she said, "I am going to find Francis.”

  "I am going with you,” Baldwyn said.

  With an anxious glance at Paxton, she knelt before Hugh. "Will you guard your liege lord until I can return?”

  Self-importance nudged the beginnings of a smile onto the grimy face, and the boy nodded vigorously.

  "Guard him with your life, Hugh, and when this is over, I shall present you with your own sword in preparation for becoming a knight!” His round eyes widened, and his mouth broke into a full-fledged smile, revealing his missing front teeth.

  Francis was not in his room. Feeling a pressure of time, she and Baldwyn hurried to the library but it, too, was empty. A questioning of the servants revealed little. "Mayhap, the chapel?” Manon offered.

  The chapel, the Justice Room, the Great Hall, the kitchens—all empty. Then she knew. "The dungeon,” she told Baldwyn.

  The hinges of the dungeon’s iron doors complained against being opened. Baldwyn held a taper aloft, lighting the spiraling staircase. For her, it was a descent into hell, because she realized whom Baldwyn had been trying to warn her against. The person seeking Montlimoux through her energy power, through her very soul, was none other than Francis de Beauvais! The knowledge struck her with horror.

  Francis knew she knew, too. With a smile that she had once thought both warm and splendent, he turned from the laboratory counter to greet her and the Templar. His hair was dirty and unkempt, as was his soil-stained robe. She hardened her heart against this childhood love and fought the uncivilized urge to kill, to destroy this shell of a human before her. "For the sake of our old friendship, I will allow you to leave unharmed. But I want you out of the chateau and out of the county immediately!”

  He remained sitting on the high stool, one arm casually draped on the counter, as if he had no fear of either of them. "I can save your Paxton, Dominique.”

  "I would never let you touch him. 'Twas you, was it not, who killed his cat and my falcon?”

  He shrugged. "Necessary for my invocations. Through Paxton, I have access to your county, your energy power—your soul.”

  She shivered uncontrollably. "If you wanted my soul, then why did you declare me a witch to my people?”

  “Because then you would be forced with the choice of burning at the stake or, with the blessing of the people, of delivering yourself into my priestly hands for safety. And the safety of your soul into my hands, as well.”

  “You wrestled for your sister's soul, too, didn't you?”

  “I didn’t have to. She loved me enough to do my will. Enough to unite with Denys in destroying all that was yours, even your sons, so there would be none left for you to love but me.” In his narrow face, his eyes glowed like fiery coals. How could she ever have thought him handsome? “Join me, Dominique, in my quest for the ultimate power, and I will help you save your Paxton and deliver him back into England’s hands.”

  Disgust welled in her. “You cannot even save yourself, Francis. Your magic will never wrought that miracle.”

  From the top of the stairs came Iolande's urgent cry, “Dominique,
come quickly! Paxton is dying!”

  “Begone from here today,” Dominique flung at Francis, "or I shall see you quartered by four horses whipped to the four directions.” Then she whirled to hurry up the staircase to Iolande—and to Paxton.

  Bending over him, she saw the rosy blush of imminent death. She covered her face with her hands, weeping hot, angry tears. Rage at her beloved’s needless death boiled over her. “I should have had Francis killed!”

  Baldwyn said, “Is there nothing you can do for Paxton, my Lady Dominique?”

  She hesitated, because the one hope lay in doing what for her had always been the unthinkable. "At the right moment, I can give all.” She stressed the word all. “All my energies, completely surrendering myself to Paxton.”

  Baldwyn’s forehead knit in confusion, and she elaborated. "It is that liquid form, the female fluids, that carry the most powerful of energies.”

  "But Paxton’s Church teaches the sin of carnality,” Baldwyn responded in a frayed voice.

  "His Church teaches also the gift of selflessness,” she reminded him.

  She knew that one’s sexual energy was the closest energy to the Divine force because during lovemaking merging took place and the life force radiated and created life. It was the Divine reaching out through matter in order to experience Itself.

  She understood what the nature of this sacrifice demanded of her. But was the coarser earthly love given by one physical and emotional body for another worth her soul? Was this what Divine love was?

  The answer came to her in a small, still inner voice. By losing, we find. By giving, we receive.

  She drew a steadying breath, then touched Baldwyn’s shoulder. "I wish to be alone with Paxton for the next forty-eight hours.”

  Baldwyn rose from the stool. Iolande was there at his side at once. He said, "I can only hope John and his soldiers can keep the mob outside at bay for that long.”