She had been used by these men and brought down paths reeking of blood, and she had come willingly because, when she had first seen this man, she had thought him more splendid than any man she had ever seen. She understood, well enough, that Lucifer’s death was desirable, that the Fallen Angels should be broken, but she understood, too, that her part in their downfall was foolish. She had come, like a besotted child, come for the moment itself, and suddenly the years beyond this moment seemed dark as night.
She had wanted love, but now she was scared of it, as if the glory of the moment might fade and she saw what Uncle Achilles had tried to tell her, that love’s instant could be as bright and brief as the fall of a shooting star. She was frightened.
The Gypsy stood. She heard him walk to the fire, heard him add wood to the blaze, then heard his steps as he came and crouched behind her. She could smell the good smell of horses and tobacco on him. His voice, as it had been at the temple, was like the darkness itself, soft and beguiling, gentle in her hearing. “So ever since the world began, my Lady, the Rom have hunted for the creature that is fairer than the dawn. We have ridden the mountains, we have crossed the dead lands, and always we have been hated and scorned because men fear us. We have been cold, we have been hungry, we have seen our children die, and we have listened to men ask us why we do not build houses and grow crops to be like them.” He paused. Her hand was pressed to the golden seals at her breasts.
His voice was gentle. “The story does end, my Lady.”
“How?”
“The Gypsy finds the creature, and he knows she cannot be beaten or whipped or broken, so he gives her the one thing that he wants from her. He gives her love.”
She thought that the beating of her heart would fill the whole chasm of the dark and come echoing back from the high rocks until the whole night was filled with her trembling. “You know what love is?”
“Love is wanting for the other person what they want for themselves. It is never seeking to change them. It is seeing them in the morning and in the evening and being glad that they live.” And as he spoke he reached forward and stroked her hair, as gently as the touch of silk, stroking the shape of her head to the skin of her neck. “And you will forgive me, my Lady.”
“Forgive you?” She did not move from his touch.
“When I say that I love you.” He leaned forward and kissed her neck and still she did not move. “And forgive me when I say that I wanted you to come here, and that I have not used you, but that I have wanted you, and for that temerity, I am sorry.”
He leaned away from her, and her neck was cold where his warm touch had been.
There was silence between them. The moon was as bright and sharp as metal, its light cold and silver.
His voice was still soft. “And you must know that no harm will come to you. You only risk love.”
She stared into the night. “Tell me how the story ends.”
She thought he would never reply. The moment seemed to stretch, and the sound of the water was like a torment to her and she felt her heart throbbing the gold against her skin and she knew that she trembled, and when he did speak she almost jumped because his voice was so near. “I want to be with you always, my Lady, to be astonished.”
She was shivering. “Astonished?”
“At God’s last creature.”
His hands touched her shoulders and, obedient to their pressure, she turned. The moon touched her blue eyes silver, shadowing the places beneath her cheekbones and mouth. Very slowly he leaned forward. He kissed her. His lips brushed her cheek and his hands held her shoulders and he whispered softly in her ear. “And I would marry you.”
She held him, her arms about his body, and she pushed her head against the leather of his coat. “I thought when I first saw you that you didn’t notice me.”
She sensed that he smiled. “I thought you would never notice me, my Lady.”
“I used to look for you in the Castle. I’d go to the stables just to see you.”
“I used to hope that you’d come.” He kissed her cheek, her forehead, her eyes, and she kissed him back and still she trembled. She had her eyes closed, not daring to look at his face. When he kissed her she shuddered. She moved her cheek against his cheek as if she could melt into him, as if she could hide in him.
He drew his face from hers and raised his hands to her hair. He pulled the combs and pins loose, releasing the pale gold to flood onto her shoulders. He gently stroked her hair. “Why did you come, my Lady?”
She thought he was more beautiful than any creature she had ever seen. “I wanted to know how your story ended.”
He gave her a quick smile. “The ending is what you make it.”
“I know.”
His hands were suddenly still on her hair. “So what is your ending, my Lady?”
She saw the worry in his eyes, the flicker of fear, and she understood that he had risked foolishness in asking her, that his confidence was a mask, and his gentleness a sign of what was masked, and she wanted to hug him because of it. Instead she touched his face, his thin, savage, hawk’s face. “I will marry you.”
He smiled a smile of such happiness and such relief that she wanted to laugh. His eyes were searching her face as though he would draw into his memory a picture of this moment that would last forever and he shook his head in wonderment, took her shoulders in his arms, and held her as if he would never let go of her, never again spend a moment without her.
She wanted to say something, she wanted to laugh with happiness, but there was nothing to say, not even when he leaned away from her, took her hand, and drew her to her feet. He smiled, he stepped toward the fire, and she went with him onto the grass. His dark, splendid face was lit by the flames. “I love you.”
She looked at him, knowing the bravery it must take for a Gypsy to ask a Lady to marry him. She knew what he asked now. “I know.” She could hardly speak.
He let got of her hand and, without letting his eyes move from her eyes, he put his fingers to the laces at her throat.
The fear, delicious and tremulous, beat like wings at her. She stared into his oddly light eyes. He watched her, and because she made no move, he pulled the laces free, put his hands on the collar and pushed the coat from her shoulders.
The coat fell.
She swallowed. Her heart was beating like a young colt’s when it fought against the bridle. Still she stared at him, and he leaned forward and she shut her eyes and his mouth was warm on her mouth and his tongue flickered on her eyelids and his lips brushed her cheeks and she pressed her face into his face as his hands, strong and firm, stroked her from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. She shivered, and she felt the small juddering as his fingers pulled at the knot of her skirts.
He took his face from hers. She kept her eyes shut. She felt the strings at her waist come loose and she held the skirts with her fingers. Her heart was pounding the seals at her breast.
His fingers touched her face. “You have only to say no.”
She could hardly make her voice sound. “Tell me you love me.”
“I know no better way, my love.”
She felt his breath on her face, then his lips touched hers, warm and hard, and she kissed him back, her eyes closed, and his hands were at her throat, his strong, quick hands, and the night air was cool on her skin as he undid the buttons one by one.
She could not have believed, not in all her waking dreams, that she could feel such fear and such delight and such apprehension and she hid her face on his face, fearing so much, fearing that he would despise her, that he would laugh at her, and then his strong hands were at her shoulders, his palms warm on her bare shoulders as he pushed the blouse back.
His hands pushed the cotton blouse down her arms. Her breasts were touched by the night air, by the swinging laces of his coat, and when his hands reached her hands she had to let go of the skirts.
She trembled. Her clothes lay at her feet. She stood naked, but for the pagan gold that
hung between her breasts and caught the light of the thin, hard moon.
He put his arms about her, as if to hide her nakedness from herself, and she shook because all the magic that men had denied was sweeping about her, his arms were around her, his hands on her skin, and she let him lift her and lay her down, and the fear was filling the darkness and the grass was cold. Her eyes were closed. She did not want him to take his arms from her. If he held her he could not see her, and she shook her head with a kind of despair as he lifted himself from her and then, gently, he laid her coat over her body, covering her from her neck to her feet.
She opened her eyes. She lay nervous and still, child-like, not daring to speak, fearful that one sound or movement would break the spell which held her.
Neither did he speak. Slowly, watching her eyes, he took his coat and dropped it on the grass. He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head. His chest was dark in the moonlight, sleekly muscled. He pulled his boots off, his eyes still on her, and then, unbuckling his belt, he stepped from his breeches and she lay, silent and still, and thought that his beauty was like the slender, shining, long muscled beauty of a thoroughbred.
He came toward her, knelt, and put his hand on the coat.
She shook her head.
He bent toward her, his dark hair brushing her face, and he kissed her cheeks, her lips, her hair. “I love you.”
She felt the coat lifted away and she made no move.
She closed her eyes. She wanted to hold her breath. He looked at her a moment, seeing how lovely she was, and then he put his mouth on her mouth.
His hands stroked her long flanks, her waist, her thighs. He kissed her. His fingers writhed in her hair, then spread it like a golden fan upon the grass. His hands moved down her face, her throat, her breasts, and his touch was gentle and she moved to it, wanting it, feeling the glory that she knew love could have, though still her eyes were closed as his hands stroked down to her legs and his lips were soft on her mouth. His knee pressed on her knees. She put her arms around him, her fingers digging into his back, and slid her cheek against his cheek so that her closed eyes were buried in his hair. His knee pressed on hers and she yielded. She kept her eyes tight shut, and the small, small wind was on her skin like a caress and he was in her and he moved his mouth to hers and she cried out once, held him tight, kissed him, and she held him so tight and wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it. Her mouth was open, she was kissing his face, and she pressed up from the grass and pressed again, and then she felt the great shudder and he cried out in a noise that was more flattering to her than any words he could have spoken. They still moved, she still held him as if she wanted to hold him against all the people who would deny them this.
And slowly they became still.
The wind was cold on her. She kissed his face. Her eyes were still shut. “Is it always like that?”
His voice was soft. “They say the first time is the worst.”
“Who’s they?”
“The people who do it a second time.”
She laughed. She opened her eyes. She was happy.
He slid from her and stroked her body from her face to her knees. The seals of Lazen were like barbaric gold between her breasts. He kissed her, following his hand down her body, and she stared at the stars and soared among them.
He kissed her breasts, her belly, her thighs, and he drew himself back to her face and smiled at her. “I love you.”
She looked into his eyes. “I love you.” She said it as a test and found it true. She pulled him and he lay on her again, their bellies slippery with sweat. “I love you,” she paused shyly, “Christopher?”
“I love you,” he paused, “Campion?”
They laughed at their embarrassment.
She touched his face. “I can’t cook.”
“I’m marrying you for your servants.” He kissed her nose. She kissed him back and rolled him over so she lay on top of him. She propped herself on her hands and smiled at him. “You brought me here to do this, didn’t you?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“We could have gone into the town and met Toby, yes?”
“Yes.”
She made a face at him and he laughed.
She felt his hands laying plucked grass on the small of her back. It tickled. She felt him stirring beneath her and she lowered her head to kiss him and she marvelled at the passion, at the dawn in her life of this magic. She was in love and she made love with him again and the glory of love was in her and about her and she held him, skin against skin, against all the nightmares of a dark world that would deny this glory. She had found love.
Later, in the small hut, she woke to find that she had rolled away from him in her sleep. She crawled out of the cloaks and blankets and went to the doorway. She crouched there, naked in the cool of the night, the wind cold on her thighs and shoulders.
There was a gray light, a wolf-light, to the east.
The embers shivered the air above the gray ash.
She felt like an animal, like a wild beast for which anything was possible. She had lain with her man on a mountain top and she smiled into the darkness. She was happy.
She stood and walked to the ledge of the rock where her clothes and his still lay, heavy now with a dew. She stood naked on the ledge, staring down at the misted valley where her ancestors had reigned, where they had danced to the music and built their great house. Auxigny. Had even one of them, she wondered, ever stood naked above the whole valley? Perhaps only the first people who ever came to this place and found the valley with its water and rich soil had stood like this on its crests.
She raised her arms to the wind, letting the cool air wash about her, she closed her eyes, lifted her head, and heard his footsteps.
She turned.
Skavadale smiled at her. “Do you know what you look like?”
She laughed. It was odd, she thought, how quite suddenly there was no embarrassment in standing naked before him. He had made her feel beautiful. “Tell me what I look like.”
He looked at her, the gold bright on her skin. She was pale and slim and naked in the wolf-light. “You look just like the Nymph in the picture.”
“Like the Countess?”
“The swimming Countess.”
“You saw it?”
He laughed at her shocked surprise. “I saw it.”
She went to him, her arms wide, and she thought that his dark, bare, muscled body was more beautiful than anything she had seen, and she hugged him. She raised her face and kissed him. “You need a shave.”
He tugged his forelock. “Yes, my Lady.” He smiled at her. “You don’t have regrets?”
“What is there to regret?”
He smiled. His hands explored the curve of her back. “Will you really marry me?”
She smiled, but her voice was stern. “Do you think I’d be here like this if I wasn’t going to marry you?”
He kissed her, then turned to stare at the dawn mist which shrouded the lower valley. “The world will say you married badly.”
“Then the world is wrong.” She touched his cheek. “I’m marrying a man, the world will be jealous.” She thought of Achilles. She thought of the shiver of scandal that would run through England’s society. She laughed. If they could see her now! She was naked in a cold dawn and a man was stroking her breasts and kissing her face and she put her arms about his neck. “We have only one duty to the world.”
“Which is?”
“To show them a good marriage.” She stroked his face, exploring it with her fingers. “Will you be happy?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t miss the adventures?”
He was teasing her hair with his fingers. He kissed her. “I don’t think I’ll be bored ever again.”
She had never guessed that she could feel this way. His hands flickered on her and she laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“I was going to ask you if people only did this at night. It seems a rather unn
ecessary question.” She laughed again. She had always been quick to laughter before her father died and now, as she pulled him onto the dew wet grass, she knew the laughter had come back.
And afterward he remade the fire and she put their wet clothes to dry beside the flames. They sat cloaked on the hill’s rim and watched the dawn, like bars of silver, shine through the pines beneath them. The chateau was hidden by mists.
She smiled at her man. “What do you do today, Prince of Gypsies?”
He smiled. “I shall kill your enemies.”
She touched his face. “I love you.”
He held her hand. “God knows what the world will say of it, my Lady.”
She was not the daughter of Vavasour Lazender for nothing. She looked at the mist-shrouded valley and her voice was scornful. “The world can roger itself, my Lord.”
And above them, unseen by them, the planet Venus faded as the sun rose. Some men called it the day-star, it shone above them where they kissed, and others called it Lucifer.
22
B ertrand Marchenoir was the first of the Fallen Ones to reach Auxigny. A full regiment of infantry came with him, the men straggling into the town behind Marchenoir’s coach. The first company was hurried ahead to form a guard of honor in the courtyard of the inn. Their Colonel hastened to open the carriage door himself.
Marchenoir stepped down into the dusk light. He wore a dark green cloak on which was sewn a tricolor rosette. He looked about the yard. “When I grew up here, Colonel, I wasn’t allowed in this inn yard. I was too dirty, too poor, too hungry.” He turned to his servant who was climbing from the rear of the coach. “Make sure it’s the best room!”
“Of course, citizen.”
“And order a cassoulet for me! You know how I like it cooked.”
“Indeed, citizen.”
Marchenoir walked slowly down the line of the troops, fixing each man with his eyes as though he could personally read the soldier’s mind. At the end of the rank, instead of turning back into the yard’s center, he walked beneath the stone archway into the main street of Auxigny. The Colonel walked beside him.
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