by Колин Глисон
Clean wetness filled the air, tingeing his nostrils and cooling his bare chest as he leaned on the bottom of the arrow slit and looked out over his domain. Yet, in the darkness, he could see only the perfect oval of the nun’s fair face, upturned to him with wide eyes, darkened by the night shadows. And her lips… Jesù …they were full and wide—made for kissing, he’d thought in one absurd moment before he’d remembered who she was.
Even now, his own mouth twisted in disgust. Madelyne was the daughter of his dearest enemy, as well as a woman prepared to embrace religious life. She could have no idea that her innocent beauty was enough to make a man hot with desire…even a man who had not touched a woman other than the occasional whore or serving wench for seven years.
Gavin pushed himself away from the window and folded his arms over his chest, pacing to the fireplace to stoke up the smoldering blaze. The sooner he turned the woman over to Henry, the better off he would be.
He poked at the charred logs that glowed with orange embers, releasing sparks and tiny tongues of flame. The short rainstorm had cooled the summer night and his chamber had become chill, yet he was not yet ready to seek the warmth of his bed.
When he received notification of where the royal court would be stopping for the next months, he would pack up his guest—and her erstwhile maid—and take them to Henry himself. And then, he would never have to see the woman with her calm gray eyes again.
The king would likely make her a royal ward, keeping her under his care or that of the queen in order to control the actions of Fantin de Belgrume. It was well-known of de Belgrume that he had greatly mourned the loss of his daughter and wife, and verily he would be more easily brought to heel knowing that his daughter yet lived. Mayhap the king might even find a way to relieve de Belgrume of his fiefdom, thereby putting an end to the madman’s resources.
Gavin nodded to himself and replaced the long metal pole he’d used to tease the fire, refusing to give credence to the niggling guilt at the back of his mind. She would be better off at court, he told himself, ignoring the echo of her own explanation as to why life in the abbey afforded her more freedom. A woman such as she—beautiful, with lands aplenty through her father—was not meant to while herself away in an abbey.
Peste! He stalked over to the window again. What did he care of her future? He had a task to do—to bring her father under control—and the king expected nothing less of him to do so. If he felt guilt by taking her from the solace of Lock Rose Abbey, that was merely a sign of his own weakness and an uncontrollable factor in his doing his duty.
He stared unseeing over the world below, catching out of the corner of his eye the impression of dawn starting to lighten the sky. The cool tang of rain-filled air had evaporated, to be replaced by a bitter acridity of smoke. Gavin sniffed, frowning, then turned his attention to the town below.
Where the darkness should have yielded only the faint gray outlines of cottages and huts, a yellow glow flickered on the west side of the town.
* * *
By the time Gavin reached the village, crowds of peasants and men-at-arms had gathered in the streets. Three of buildings were ablaze, and sparks and flames leapt and jumped with such vigor on the gusty wind that ’twas only a matter of time until the next buildings caught afire. Though dawn was beginning to give natural light to the sky, shadows danced eerily over the faces of women and children who stood to one side of the street, watching as the men threw bucket after bucket of water onto the flames.
Soot and black smoke whorled from the buildings, mingling with the moist air and choking the bystanders and fire fighters. Gavin pushed his way through the crowds of people to join his men near the blaze, quickly taking a place at the front of a line that passed the leather buckets to and from the town well.
Clem stood next to him, handing him dripping pail after dripping pail. He swiped at his sweating face with a thick arm, smearing black ash over his cheek and temple.
“’Twas lightning struck the house here,” he told Gavin as he whirled to shove a full bucket into his lord’s middle. He turned away to get another, then spun back to take the empty and pass on the full. “It must have smoldered below the roof for some time, else—” He turned away again, then back, “the rain would have put it out.”
Gavin grunted in agreement, forbearing to point out that the brevity of the storm, fierce as it was, had likely contributed. The thatched roofs of the peasant homes were particularly susceptible to such dangers. It had happened more than once in this village alone—lightning had struck, passing through the roof into a house, setting the interior ablaze before anyone realized it.
“Did all get out safely?” he asked Clem, slamming an empty bucket into the man’s hand.
“Aye, I believe so…although—” He turned back as Gavin turned toward the fire in the rhythm they had established, then they returned face to face. “Robert the Cooper has a bad burn.”
A sudden wind blustered, sending ash and smoke billowing into the faces of the fire fighters. Gavin ducked, holding up an arm to ward off the black fog. Something stung him fiercely on the shoulder, and he slapped a hand there to brush away the sparks that landed on his bare skin. He cursed himself for neglecting to pull on a sherte before leaving the keep, but there was no time to stop now.
“This way!” A voice shouted, and the mass of fire fighters stumbled, shifting several steps in one direction to move out of the wind’s changed path.
The buckets kept coming, but the wind would not allow them to gain an advantage. Soon, the walls of the first building collapsed inward, sending up a shower of sparks and ash. A spray of orange coals scattered over Gavin, stinging like tiny needles that he didn’t have the time to brush away. Already, a fourth building was beginning to smoke in the hay-like thatch of the roof.
With a shout that had grown rough because of the sooty air, Gavin pointed at the coil of smoke coming from the building. He beckoned for two of the lines of bucket-passers to turn their attention to this new danger, then, with a quick nod to Clem, he slipped out of his own position and started toward the group of women and children.
Pointing to the wife of the smith, he said, “You—Sally—get you those children who are old enough, and whatever women can be spared from watching the young ones, and throw water on this house next. If we have God’s luck, we shall keep it from spreading further.”
He was just about to return to his place in line when an agonized scream reached his ears.
He turned to see a woman running toward the fourth of the burning buildings. “My son! Barden! My son!” She would have dashed into the blaze had Gavin not thrown out an arm and caught her around the waist.
When she looked up and recognized him, even that did not stop her from struggling to get free. “My lord! My son’s home! My son and his wife!” she shrieked—a mournful, wailing cry that tore at Gavin’s heart. “I cannot find them! They are burning!”
“They are there?” he asked, looking at the building, gauging how badly it was burning within. His glance flickered over the mass of people that worked as one body, passing buckets and tossing water. It was unlikely that Barden and his wife had not been awakened by the activity. Thus, if they were within the house, they were most certainly dead. “Stay you here.” He started toward the house.
“My lord—” her shriek of mingled gratitude and horror followed him as he started toward the small home.
Gavin was near enough to feel the blistering waves of heat from the building next door when a hand closed over his arm. He shook his arm to loosen the grip, and turned in annoyance to see a familiar, soot-covered face. “Lady Madelyne!” he exclaimed, stopping. “What are you doing?”
“Nay, my lord, you cannot go in there!” she tightened her grip on his bare arm, seemingly heedless of the sweat that made her fingers slip. She was dressed in a long, stained gown, with the bulk of her hair pulled back into a thick braid. Sweat dripped down her own face, which was flushed from exertion and speckled with ash.
> “I must see to her son,” he said simply. “’Tis my duty. I am the lord, and I am foresworn to protect my vassals.” He started away again.
“Nay! My lord!” Moments later, she was after him again, carrying a bucket of water. “Wait.”
He turned, more annoyed. “You cannot say me nay, Madelyne. I must—”
“I would not. But, here, take this to cover your mouth and head.” She handed him a length of cloth, and he saw that she had torn her gown to her knees. It was wet and cool, and she helped him to wrap it around his head and shoulders, leaving a flap to pull over his mouth and nose. “Have a care!”
Her words followed him, even over the crackle and hiss of flame and the calls and shouts of bucket-passers, and for once he did not ask himself why he should have a care for his safety. Instead, he paused at what once was the door of the house, wrapped the wet cloth more tightly over his head, and pulled up a piece of it to cover his face.
He kicked out at the sagging door of the house, shoving it into an interior that was dim. Smoke did not billow out, which bespoke of the fact that mayhap the fire had not progressed as far as he’d feared. Gavin stepped inside gingerly, watching for fallen timbers and other pitfalls.
The house was little more than a hut, and it did not take much effort to scan the room with his gaze, even in the dimness of the interior. At first, he saw naught but the flames that licked the ceiling, kissing the walls and dropping an occasional tuft of fire onto the floor. Then, back in a corner, he saw a large, unfamiliar shape.
Stepping over a fallen beam, he skirted the edge of the building to avoid the fire in the center, and approached the lump. It was a piece of the wall, and had folded inward, collapsing onto a pallet, leaving an opening just next to the blaze outside.
With a grunt of triumph, Gavin stepped over a collapsed stool and, continuing to hold the cloth over his face, used one hand to push the wall up. It sagged, bowing in the center, but held together so that he lifted it up enough to see the two people it had covered. Though he could not tell if they yet lived, he dropped the cloth from his face to push the wall away, and it fell outside of the hut, landing against the next house that burned. The smoke suddenly speared into his nose and mouth, and Gavin found himself needing to duck near the floor. Fighting the cough that welled inside his lungs, he replaced the cloth over his nose and reached to grab the woman’s arm with his free hand.
He grasped her wrist, half lifting her off the floor, and slipped his arm around under both of her arms, then began to push his way toward the opening where the wall had collapsed. He was just reaching it when he realized the fire next door was too close for him to make it out safely, and he was forced to turn.
By now, the smoke was burning his eyes so that they were hardly tearing any longer and he could see little but blurred shapes. It was hot, and sweat made him and his grip slippery and clumsy. He took several steps toward the door before stumbling and nearly falling to his knees.
Nay, Father, do not take me now!
The thought came from nowhere, but came with a galvanizing strength, and Gavin felt a burst of energy beat back the fatigue he’d been feeling. He took two more steps toward the door, and was just about to reach for the edge of the opening when a loud crash filled the air. A sudden wave of smoke and flame buffeted toward him, and the last thing he saw was the roof tumbling toward him.
Eight
Fantin de Belgrume awoke with a smile on his face.
At last, his destiny was clear. He felt light and free and very sated, only part of which was due to the warm body that slumbered next to him.
The only disappointment, the only thing that kept him from being completely serene was the knowledge that Gavin Mal Verne still lived. The mere thought of the man caused Fantin’s insides to roil with anger and hatred—but the added knowledge that the evil man had Fantin’s own innocent daughter in his possession served to make him near mad with the bloodred fury that seemed to rear in him more oft as of late.
An obsession…mayhap Rufus spoke aright. In the dawning light of day, abovestairs and away from the beckoning power of his laboratory, Fantin could admit that his venom toward Mal Verne was perchance more of a distraction than it should be.
Did he indeed allow his need to annihilate Mal Verne sway him from his holy work? Aye, it could be true.
Yet, he could not allow the man to keep him from his purpose, and Mal Verne, should he have the chance, would destroy Fantin’s life and any opportunity to finish his work. ’Twas self-preservation, Fantin acknowledged as he trailed a finger along the sweeping curve of Retna’s spine.
As the woman next to him shifted, brushing against him in her sleep, Fantin could not help but recall the many times Mal Verne’s own Nicola had done the same. The woman’s body had been sleek and sensual, and she fancied herself in love with Fantin. He, in turn, had believed she was the woman God had provided him in the replacement of his dead wife Anne. Mayhap not as pure, but worthy to bed with Fantin and become one with him. After all, God had given the earthly pleasures of coupling to all humans, and, like his patron, The Whore Saint, Fantin did not deny himself that release.
It had been no hardship to avail himself of what Nicola, Lady Mal Verne, offered the first time he’d met her at court. Fantin had had merely to give her his measured, haunting look from the lute over which he labored with such melancholy, and to sing of beauteous maids and the perfection of the love bestowed upon them by their champions …and the woman had been lured in like a mule following a carrot.
Of course, being wed with a gruff, silent, stupid man such as Mal Verne should drive any woman to one with the charm and striking countenance that Fantin possessed, he reflected as his lips shifted in a self-satisfied smile. God had blessed him well, indeed, in making him attractive to both women and men…at the least, those of whom he wished to have find him attractive, and to follow his way and support his work.
Retna opened her eyes, hazy with sleep, and allowed the blanket to shift nearly to her waist, baring herself to him. Fantin looked at her, the stirrings of lust returning to his nether regions, and considered whether he should make love with her once more before sending her to her fate in the laboratory.
’Twas a messy fate, but necessary.
This was, in fact, his weakness. The physical coupling with a woman—any woman—who did not bear the same purity that God had bestowed upon Fantin was the vice that he must battle, the cross he must bear, the temptation that he must set right. He knew he compromised his gift, his Purpose, by enjoying the flesh of whores and women who gave their bodies to any man who asked—true whores, or even the ladies of court, such as Nicola Mal Verne. She had not been the pure woman he’d believed, and that had caused Fantin much grief.
Yet, David had had his Bathsheba, and God still gifted him with his kingdom. Aye, David’d had his punishment, but Fantin did not fear that. So long as the Lord continued to show him the way to the formula for the Philosopher’s Stone, Fantin could manage any penance that might be foisted upon him.
If Anne had not perished… Ah, Anne, his wife, the one woman who possessed untouched innocence and was chosen as he was. The one woman worthy of his physical love.
Fantin had searched for one to replace her these ten summers past, and had never found one worthy of him. Nicola had been his greatest error, enslaving him with her whoring ways whilst causing him to believe she was innocent and pure.
Until he found the woman God meant for him, his transgressions would only be forgiven if he removed the temptation—the sluts, the whores—from his sight, from his life…from this world.
Only then—when he found perfection in a woman and needed to look no further—would he be forgiven his transgressions.
* * *
Madelyne heard the horrifying crash as the roof groaned and folded into the house where Mal Verne had disappeared. She shrieked and ran toward the collapsed building as smoke poured forth. Jube, who had shadowed her since she left her chamber, was right on her heels
, shouting for Clem and Arden to assist. He pushed her to one side, giving her a curt command to stay there, as he approached the rickety structure.
She stood there obediently, gnawing on her fist, watching the three men dash toward the building. A small crowd of women and children, led by the woman who had alerted Mal Verne to the missing people, clustered behind Madelyne.
Jube, followed by Clem and then Arden, stooped and gingerly pushed through the entrance to the house. They disappeared into the smoke.
Madelyne saw flames beginning to flicker through the roof, and she clenched her fist tighter, her attention fastened on the building. What if all of them were lost?
After what seemed like an age, a figure stumbled through the entrance, dragging a heavy burden, and was followed by two more soot-blackened men, carrying a body between them. Madelyne’s heart pushed up into her throat as she ran forward into the circle of heat blasting from the house. The first man was Arden, and he pulled his burden well away from the building, letting it drop onto the ground as he sagged against a nearby tree. One quick glance identified the lump as a woman, her skirts mussed and torn, and her face and hair cut and bleeding.
Madelyne saw that she was being attended to before rushing on to meet Clem and Jube, who carried what she feared was Gavin Mal Verne between them. They staggered, choking and coughing, with their heavy burden, to the perimeter of the crowd of people before allowing the body to sag onto the ground.
Madelyne was on her knees in an instant, sinking onto the stone-covered ground next to the limp, blackened body of Lord Mal Verne. She felt immediately for a pulse, touching the side of his neck and gasping with relief when she found it. Then, she placed her palm flat on his bare, scarred chest and bent her ear near his mouth and nose to ascertain whether he yet breathed. When she felt the rise and fall of his chest and heard the raspy breath coming from his nose, she sat back and scrambled to her feet.
“We must get him, and the other injured, to the keep immediately,” she commanded unnecessarily, gesturing to a man-at-arms she did not know. The alarm had already been raised for the lord of Mal Verne, and two men-at-arms were preparing a litter for him.
