Awaken My Fire
by
Jennifer Horsman
SMASHWORDS EDTION
*****
PUBLISHED BY
Jennifer Horsman on Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Horsman
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Prologue
“Tis Lady Roshelle!"
“That be the famous mare Charles just gave her!"
"Saints alive! Look! She means to jump the hedge!"
"She'll break her neck!"
"Mon Dieu!"
The surprised members of the Duke of Orleans' hunting party held their collective breath, their gazes wide, riveted to the fast-moving streak made of the blue gossamer of the young lady's gown over the reddish brown of the mare's coat. Tension seized the men as the girl leaned forward, clinging tightly as the horse flew towards them like the wind. Four mercilessly short paces from the waist-high hedge, the magnificent creature leaped high into the air. For a long magical moment, horse and rider appeared gloriously suspended in space. Hooves crashed to the ground amidst the cheers and wild applause of the men.
"No other girl in Christendom can ride like that!"
"Precious few knights as well!"
"And it twill no doubt get her buried!"
Roshelle Marie slowed the creature's speed, tightening the bit as she turned her in fast pretty circles before the group. She was in no mood to banter with the lords and barons of her guardian's court. Not now. For unmasked fury shimmered in her blue eyes, the emotion seemingly incongruent with the delicate lines that drew her deceptively angelic beauty—deceptive, for the great passions that ruled her were anything but angelic; no wilder creature lived in all of France. Presently her blue eyes sought and found her guardian amongst his men. She came right to the point.
"I will not marry that beast!"
Louis Valois, the Duke of Orleans, just stared. He first said nothing as he stared at the girl he loved, as if only now realizing what he had done. Mon Dieu, it hurt to look at her. Sitting atop that half-wild horse against the backdrop of woods and beneath the bright blue sky, Roshelle Marie Saint Lille, the Countess of Lyons and Bourges, looked incredibly beautiful.
Roshelle Marie was but ten and three, tall and as slim as a boy, her slender figure just beginning to blossom with the promise of womanhood. A pretty blue beret crowned the untamed cascade of her rich auburn, tousled and wild-looking from her ride. The color of her hair matched perfectly the color of her horse. (It had taken Charles, the Dauphin, ten servants and three months to find a match in both spirit and color.) And while usually she took pains to hide the white streak in her hair, not so now. Against the auburn color, the white streak proclaimed her wholly unique position in his court like a banner.
Louis needed no reminder of the fact. With the exception of Papillion and perhaps young Charles himself, no one loved the girl more than he did. Giving her up would be the single hardest thing he had ever done. "Roshelle Marie," he began but stopped, changed his mind and motioned to the handlers to quiet the dogs. "Who told you of this?"
''Then it is true! You do think to marry me to Philip the Bad, the Lord of Normandy!"
Shocked gasps sounded from the interested, now silent audience. Only a few knew the awful news, for Louis had wanted desperately to keep it a secret as long as possible. Roshelle held her breath, too, part of her unable to believe this was happening, that he wasn't denying it. She had been so certain Papillion's court spies had been wrong.
“Do not you see? 'Twill save all of France, the country, all of the people you love—you will save them!"
She raised her face to the heavens, offering a frantic prayer to slow her mounting desperation long enough to think. Papillion had always warned that Rodez would have his revenge where it hurt the most: "He will strike you, Roshelle!"
"Why, Papillion? Why me?"
"Because you mean the most to me in this life. Just as Angelique meant the most to him. He will bring your life despair and you will be cursed. I see it now."
She remembered the panic, the terror of his words. Rodez was now a man ruled by hatred, all because he had once known love. He had fallen in love with a poor baroness named Angelique Von Elliote, and had abnegated on a marriage contract in order to marry her, losing a fortune in the process. Roshelle was one of the few people alive who knew the awful truth of how Rodez had lost Angelique to the church, and why he blamed Papillion for the heartbreaking loss.
"Do you mean, Papillion, am I to die before my time?"
"No, no, sweetling." He had shaken his head, and she'd felt a moment's relief, but just a moment's, for then he had asked her: "What are the most powerful of all things on earth?"
"Love and God."
"Aye. Love and God, two of the same. And what is the most painful and sorrowful of all things on earth?"
Her blue eyes had searched his. "I think, the loss of that love." She had gasped. "Like Rodez."
"Aye, like Rodez." Then Papillion had stared off at a distance where he could see her future. She followed his gaze to the place where the blue sky sat on the earth, and a distinct line made the horizon. Then she caught the reflection of the last rays of the sun on Papillion's gold ring.
Papillion claimed that one night as he slept he was given the vision of this gold ring, that it would come with the gift of prophecy. He was shown a forest glen he knew from his travels where he would find the ring. The next morning he set off for the glen, a two-day trip from the forest house. When he finally reached this place, he found a wounded hawk lying under a tree. The creature's leg was bleeding, entangled in an old fishing line, and on this fishing line was the gold ring.
Of course, this unlikely story was probably the result of an old man's imagination and a young girl's love of a tale. Still, sometimes, like now when she looked at it just so, the intricate latticework seemed to move, as if it were alive, full of mystery and magic.
The old man had said: "The curse will protect you, like an invisible veil over your life. It will keep you safe—"
"But if it be a curse!"
"Aye, a curse because it will keep you safe, but not, I fear, with impunity. Oh, no, I see someone is coming to teach you that to know love, however briefly, is to never regret. Her name is—"A warm smile changed his face. "Aye, her name be Joan."
She had been so frightened by the words, especially after the rain-washed night when she met Joan, that with Louis's permission she had spent her fortune on making a new order of Saint Catherine in Orleans: an order of sisters dedicated to ministering to the poor and downtrodden. Fifty thousand livres to build the small-convent and chapel, five thousand more just to pay the only masons in France who could cut and erect the stone for its bell tower, ten thousand livres more to keep the sisters there and, mon Dieu, she had thought she had escaped this curse and despair...
Roshelle's thoughts returned to the present. "There must be another way, there must! We can stop it! I know we can stop it. I will not be sacrificed to a man I loathe! I will not!"
The petulant tone of her voice made her seem as young as she was. Ten and three. Louis tried to keep in mind the vulnerability of her youth, and was even more determined to do so when he noticed the slight tremble in her hands on the reins. Roshelle's blue eyes followed his and she gasped slightly, startled by just how desperate she felt.
Roshelle dropped the reins and slid from her horse, rushing at him. "My Grace!" She fell to her knees on the forest floor, lifting her clasped hands in prayerful supplication to him. "My Grace, you know, you must know, I would march verily unto death for Charles, for you, for France, and that of course I am not so silly or foolish a creature as to ever dream of love in my marriage, but you cannot sacrifice me to a man who is responsible for the deaths of half the people I loved—including my uncle and my last two cousins! Why, his very name says all: Philip the Bad! He is said to have once punished a servant by killing the poor wretch's child! He is a mad, bloodthirsty beast and but a sniveling pawn of the House of Burgundy. How can you think to have me marry him? How can you think to let him have his revenge? 'Tis as if you are making Papillion's awful prophecy come true. Stop it! Stop it now and set me free—"
''Listen to me, Roshelle!'' He grabbed her thin arms in order to command her attention. "As we speak, Henry of England is amassing his army on the Dover shore. My spies report an army numbering four thousand this time. Four thousand warring knights! We have no chance this time. None—unless I swallow my hate and pride and join forces with my brother. We must join armies! And you, Roshelle, know this—"
''Aye! I know the threat that shadows our land. I know we must have all the knights of France to fight Henry, but—"
"And you will get me this! Your marriage in exchange for my brother's army, and while Papillion warned us both about my dear brother, about sacrificing you at the altar, he also has left me no choice. 'Tis a bargain made in hell, but the only one Rodez will make!"
A tremor of fear passed through Roshelle and she closed her eyes, the images of that dark night flashing dizzily through her mind: Papillion's throat and the blood streaming from the jeweled dagger and Rodez's desperate demand, "I must have it! Give it to me!" and the sudden manifestation of the diabolical parchment in Papillion's hand and as Rodez seized it, as his fingers touched it, the burst of fire!
"That night he threatened this! To use me for revenge! To teach Papillion, he said he would use me to enact revenge. You know this!"
The words were said like a warning. Louis nodded. "Aye, Roshelle, and what's just as bad is he gets to squeeze my heart in the bargain. 'Tis just like Rodez to make me squirm and suffer, to pick the one thing that would be hardest for me to give up." Then he added in a tone of utter defeat, "The jewel of my court . . . married to that wretched old man—"
"Tell him you changed your mind, that you cannot agree to such a marriage! Your brother will concede, he has to! After all, he stands to lose as much to the English. He needs us as much as we need him—"
"Does he? My spies bring me reports of Rodez's correspondence with Henry."
"What?" She stared in disbelief. "Nay! This cannot be!"
Yet the gravity on Louis's face as he nodded said it was true. The shocking news rocked her back on her heels, and her eyes widened with incredulity as she tried in vain to imagine even Rodez Valois sinking so low as to negotiate with the archenemy of all France, Henry, the King of England. "Be that the reason you agreed to my ill-fated marriage?" With dawning understanding and defeat, she whispered, "You are afraid Rodez will turn traitor and join with Henry against you, and, dear Lord, did not Papillion say 'twould be a thing you had to do?"
He nodded slowly, watching her closely now. He did not have to say the rest. He knew well how quickly her mind worked.
The news changed everything and nothing. At least she understood why she was to be sacrificed, and aye, 'twas a goodly reason for sure. Yet still she did not understand how he could do this to her. Papillion would stop him, he always said he would stop him ... yet .Papillion was in Paris, then Basel for two, maybe three more fortnights. A tremor of fear shot up her spine. ' 'Mon Dieu!'' She slowly shook her head in denial. "Milord, oh, Dieu, you have put a date on this ill-fated marriage?"
"Aye." He nodded again as his kindly brown eyes filled
with the pain of it. "The Sunday after next. My brother and your newly betrothed have already embarked for Orleans. Their parties should be here by week's end."
Roshelle's blue eyes widened with the shock of it. Papillion had taught her the infallibility of math, a subject not usually considered ambiguous, but one she found different now: her fastest messenger riding Charles's fastest horse could arrive in Paris in two days if all went well, an uncertain proposition in these dark days of brigands and bandits. 'Twould then take another day, maybe two and maybe longer, to find Papillion. He would be lecturing at the Sorbonne if the quality of students pleased him, but if not, he would have already left for Basel where philosophers and their students congregated, and if so, 'twould take another two days to reach Basel from Paris-Dear Lord!
A trembling hand went to her forehead. Papillion would not likely make it back in time! Dread filled her chest; she went weak with it.
"Roshelle, child," Louis said as he reached to hold her up. "I did not want to tell you. Not like this. Come to me, petite, and let us get ye to your women, where I can spend the rest of my miserable life begging your forgiveness—"
"My forgiveness?" she repeated, startled by this as her own pain and anger met the fear in his eyes. "You need not bother begging my forgiveness! I am but your vassal after all, a pretty pawn you must sacrifice in this deadly game of chess played with your awful brother. You think Henry be thine enemy and aye, he and his unholy ambitions cast a dark shadow over France indeed. But the true threat to Charles and a united France sits upon a throne in Burgundy, and he hath the deadly combination of France's royal blood, Papillion's teachings and a leaden heart. Rodez is our enemy!"
Louis clenched his fists and mouth as he demanded, "Would you rather I give Henry the French crown?"
Roshelle stared for a long minute, the fateful question singing in her mind. She turned away at last and marched back to her waiting horse. She grabbed the fallen reins, lifted the bell-laden ropes over her mare's fine high head before agilely vaulting the strong back. Before she kicked heels to the creature's side, she said, "Papillion did warn you, my Grace. When you sacrifice me, you will be full of goodly reasons and holy cause. So, it hath come. My destruction is writ in stone."
Roshelle Marie Saint Lille knelt at the altar before the Bishop of Orleans, a prayer turning over and over, faster and faster, as the bishop's soft-spoken Latin mass resounded off the towering stone walls of the Cathedral of Orleans. The four most powerful bishops of the Avignon papacy stood to the right, their bright crimson vestments contrasting sharply with the cold gray stone of the church and the darker, somber colors worn by the priests who surrounded them in two long neat rows of twelve. An even more impressive array of color and personages stood to the left of the altar: gathered there among various barons and counts of the Valois court stood the two most powerful grand dukes in France: Rodez Valois, the Duke of Burgundy, and his older brother, Louis Valois, the Duke of Orleans.
The young and frail Dauphin, Charles VII of Valois, the boy who would be king, stood between his two powerful uncles. Though he had always lived under the protection of his older uncle, Louis, for the first time in his life he stood as an equal next to his uncle Rodez.
The mere pretense of equality with his frail, doomed nephew filled Rodez Valois's dark gaze with sardonic pleasure, somewhat less of a pleasure than that which he received from staring at the famous young girl at the altar. She was his now, and for nothing more than a promise, the elaborate charade of standing alongside his nephew for all the world to see.
A long pale hand reached to the black rose that hung at his neck, and his eyes lit with the passion of his victory.
Roshelle is mine, Papillion, mine! With Roshelle comes the third of your loves and the triangle is complete; the lowest apex points to hell. For I shall hold your precious rose beneath a slow-burning fire until the white petals darken unto ash and the fear of God is burned from your soul!
As you burned it from mine, for mine...
"I saw your fate in a dream, Rodez!" Papillion had interrupted a long-ago sword fight, and with a pointing finger he announced to all: "You are doomed, doomed-torn asunder from God Almighty! The girl's unanswered love be only a mask for your relentless thirst for this power. Dear God, you will be separated for eternity..."
Papillion's words echoed louder than the monotonous drone of the bishop's Latin, and he remembered the occasion as the very last time he had known fear. The very last time. No more Papillion, for it was done. He was separated...
Thinking of it at this moment of triumph, Rodez felt a strange energy begin to radiate from his tall, princely form, a power surpassing that which could be brought to bear by his unparalleled status, surpassing the simple lift of his hand that sent legions of servants scurrying like rats in fire to escape his wrath; or his signature, which mobilized and moved whole armies across France. An energy he used to become the invincible and legendary swordsman, reputed to be the best in all the Continent and probably England as well. One had only to draw close to feel the occult power of his presence, and while his dark gaze usually revealed only a supreme indifference to the world, to solicit his interest, as many unsuspecting servants had learned, was to feel an awful mesmerizing effect alight every strained nerve of one's body.
Standing at Rodez's side, Louis felt it as a precursor of doom, his very own, but he had felt it since the day of his brother's birth and every day since. He felt it in force now, and just as he felt Rodez's strange aura of energy, he also felt the presence of Papillion's ire as he watched Roshelle at the altar of sacrifice. Mon Dieu! He glanced up, cursed the archbishop for his slow musical incantation of each sacred word, then his younger brother for his hatred, then Roshelle herself for looking so ... so beautiful. As if she had maliciously wanted to make it even more difficult for him to see her taken away.
She looked more beautiful than words. The elite personages of her audience saw only the long trail of the girl's famous auburn hair cascading over the pale rose silk of her long-sleeved, loosely fitting gown. A crown of early-spring white roses—her namesake—cleverly concealed the white streak that marked her hair and her life, and though many tried to see it, none could. Her lowered lids were like a curtain on her heart, concealing the sheer desperation of the emotions plain in her large, widely spaced eyes, a desperation increasing each moment Papillion failed to appear to save her.
Through sorrowful brown eyes, Charles watched helplessly as his dearest childhood friend listened to her betrothed echo the words that would bind them before God and all of Christendom unto death. Unto death. Tears welled in his eyes; he felt certain he could feel the fear pounding in Roshelle's heart as her wonderful blue eyes darted frantically to and from the old man at her side, a man only forty-seven years older than her ten and three. Roshelle, the jewel of the Valois court, joined to a beast unto death. Unto death, dear Lord; why did Charles expect the man to be struck down dead as he said his vows?
Because of Papillion, the old man of the forest. Most people, and especially the learned, felt Papillion was all sage and saint, the disseminator of the combined knowledge of five countries and three dead languages, healer of the wounded and sick, God's greatest gift to the Valois court. Others thought he was made of the elements and their magic, of the secrets of the alchemist, secrets that drew upon darkness as often as upon light. Still others—a certain political faction within the church, jealous as it was of the man's miracles—believed that he was nothing more than a clever deceiver, a purveyor of magical tricks, tricks that relied on the susceptibility of foolish old women, hysterical young ones and the pervasive ignorance of common folks. Yet no matter what one believed, no one had any doubt that, unlike most other mortal beings, Papillion owned the awesome power to make his will manifest in reality.
The bishop's voice broke through Roshelle's frantic reverie and she heard the awful last words that bound her to the man at her side unto death. The sudden silence came as a great shock; her eyes flew open as a weathered hand came beneath hers to assist her to stand. The room held its collective breath as the Duke of Normandy kissed his young bride. The first unchaste kiss of her life, and the cold, demanding mouth on hers brought the terrible reality of the near future crashing down on her, a sick dread rising like bile in her throat; and as he broke the kiss and encountered her obvious distress, he replied with a smile at once condescending and maddening.
"You look so surprised," he whispered as he beheld his third and by far most beautiful bride. "Did you, too, truly believe that poor trickster could save you from your destiny as my wife?"
Roshelle’s antipathy for her husband shimmered in her eyes as she drew herself up to squarely meet his gaze. They were nearly of a height. Graying dark hair framed his face: his small dark eyes and pinched mouth; and as if time and its dispensation were the clever hand of a sculptor, cruelty had etched hard, deep lines there. Papillion had taught her the intuitive art of physiognomy, and what his face said scared her to the depth of her soul: his blackened heart was indeed merciless enough to kill an innocent child in order to punish a helpless parent.
An impertinent reply trembled on her lips, but she knew to stop herself; the last thing she wanted was a demonstration of her new husband's hostilities on this of all nights. She would have his lifetime to express her animosity. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes as, chuckling, indeed hardly able to contain himself, he took her elbow to escort her down the rose-petal-strewn aisle to the cathedral doors.
As if as he, too, were the groom, Rodez stepped to her other side, against protocol. Her blue eyes shot to him, his tall, slender and awfully graceful form, lifting to view the thin and very pale face set against the raven black of his long curly hair and the oddity of his pointed goatee, a meticulously trimmed point that made his long face seem even longer. Always his hand rested on the pommel of his sword. Reputed to be the greatest swordsman in all of France, and she believed this, as he exercised darkly occult powers Papillion had so vehemently denied her. A chill raced down her spine as Rodez's wide, dark gaze came to her, as if sensing hers. She could feel it, as if he claimed her by his gaze alone!
Fear and dread filled her, like a great weight on her chest; she could hardly breathe. She just couldn't believe this was happening, that it had happened to her. Twas a nightmare she desperately needed to wake from—
She found no comfort as Charles and Louis followed them; her handmaid, Cisely, her other women and the multitudes of churchmen fell into step behind them; but as if in answer to her prayers, as she stepped outside beneath the dark clouds to the frantic clanging of the heavy church bells, a curious numbness swept over her from head to toe. She felt suddenly as if she watched the proceeding from a safe distance far above, as if she were not the sad, doomed and abandoned creature being escorted across the courtyard.
The people of Orleans gathered behind the thick iron bars of the castle gate at the far end of the grassy courtyard, their faces solemn and hostile and disbelieving as they watched the wedding parade proceed to the great hall. To lose Lady Roshelle Marie Saint Lille to Philip, the Duke of Normandy, felt like a knife put to heart, for the girl belonged, if to anyone, to the people of Orleans who loved her.
The young lady might be wild, but she also owned God's greatest grace in an abundance that many felt would make her a saint—marked as she was by the white streak and Papillion's teachings. The young lady herself was often seen at the nunnery she had founded, dispensing the wealth of Papillion's medicinal knowledge and skill, just as she appeared on the doorsteps of the unfortunates in Orleans-women and children whose husbands had abandoned them, the sick or the infirm—with a basket in hand, her highborn women in tow, and often with some miraculous means to alleviate their suffering. The people loved her, this unlikely young girl who crossed the long high bridge that separated the nobility from the masses as if it weren't there at all; they would always love Roshelle Marie. And while the weddings of the highborn normally brought cheers and festivities throughout the land, this did not happen now. As the people watched their young champion walk to the great hall on the arm of Philip the Bad, murmured disapproval rippled through the crowd, disapproval growing with a chant:
"Wedding day rain
Be God's angry curse
The groom will get pain
And then he gets worse!"
Distant thunder rolled over the mountains and a few fat drops fell, spotting Roshelle's lovely gown. The people pulled mantles and shawls over their heads as it began to rain heavily. They chanted more loudly now, but Roshelle still neither heard nor noticed them. She felt the moisture seep through her silk slippers, the cold numbness through her fingers. Fingertips felt hot to the touch and Philip abruptly withdrew his hand as the wedding party quickly passed through the tall, tapestry-lined walls of the wide, grand entrance hall, down the corridor and into the great hall itself.
A long white-clothed table was set on the dais above the main floor. Four other long tables stood in four neat rows below the high table, separated by a center aisle for serving. Elaborate tapestries hung on the walls and each depicted a scene of Orleans' history. The finest musicians in Orleans serenaded the bride—still dazed and seemingly lost in a soul-saving trance—and groom as they took their seats at the long table on the dais.
The lords and ladies of the court quickly filed in, everyone wanting to witness the historic setting as the Dauphin took his rightful seat, beneath the bright orange-and-white canopy, and between his two warring uncles for the first time since his birth. Poor Charles! Sneezing into his mouchoir, his hand trembling as he signaled the others to sit, his mistrustful eyes darting to and fro, as if to spot a would-be assassin.
How frail he looked, how nervous and overwhelmed!
The pantler, head of the pantry, rushed forward with the bread rolls wrapped in lovely gold-embroidered napkins and placed his trenchers near the large ceremonial covered saltcellars before servants hurried to do the same for the lesser tables. The cup bearers began filling goblets with expensive wine. Before the courses began, as he always did, Charles conceded the right of first toast to Louis, who stood for the honor. Roshelle barely heard the speech about how the marriage joined the two houses of France to unite the country against the invasion of the English king. More toasts followed, Rodez hardly appeasing the court's worries when his toast barely mentioned the joint effort against England and centered instead on the lovely young lady at his side: her beauty and charms, her gifts and how the loss of the Orleans court "Is now the treasure of all Flanders and my lands beyond."
The words felt like salt in their wounds, the collective sentiment revealed in the silence that followed. Louis, desperate to maintain the promise of his younger brother's army and monies, nervously started the applause, and only then did the people follow, noticeably without enthusiasm. More toasts followed, an endless song comprised of toasts as the servants brought out the first course of gooseneck soup served in beautiful hand-carved ash-wood bowls, stewed peas, dates and almonds and roasted sturgeon and frogs' legs. Cup bearers rushed to keep wine in the heavy silver goblets.
Roshelle abruptly woke to feel Rodez's gaze again, as if she were a painting on a wall and he a patron of the arts who was weighing her aesthetic value. She felt the hard, unnatural pounding of her heart as she abruptly realized they talked of her as if she weren't there, and with a vulgarity that shocked.
"There is an art to the proper use of a virgin."
"As an appreciative connoisseur of youth"—her husband's weathered hand went to her hair, a finger toyed with the rose-laden rope of the white streak—"I am well acquainted with many different methods. Though as of this moment, I haven't yet decided which will best mold her for my use."
"Multiple uses, and because of that, I have a suggestion.”
Then amidst whispered laughter she heard a discussion no girl should ever hear, about the fine line between fear and excitement and how best to trespass it. She blanched, alarmed to realize just how frightened she felt, a fear far exceeding any thirteen-year-old virgin's fears on her wedding night. She would not survive. Papillion! Did you know I would not survive?
"You will need her obedience." Rodez dipped a succulent frog's leg in the soup bowl, lifting it to his mouth.
"Of course, commanding a woman's obedience is usually easier than a hound's or a mastiff's, but not so Roshelle. Papillion's influence again. I shall have to be clever about it. Which reminds me: Roshelle, child, have you noticed the rain outside?"
The idea of rain put in mind Joan and her fear of it.
Roshelle's blue eyes riveted on Rodez.
"The other day as I was riding through Clisson, I happened upon a fascinating ecclesiastic trial," Rodez said. "It seems the townsfolk got it in mind that the devil was speaking through a village idiot's gibberish, and naturally the church, with its wealth of wisdom, decided the simple man should be tormented unto death—to rid his soul of its host." He laughed as he watched the girl's eyes. "And the simple fool was smiling up until the very moment he felt…”
The room started spinning; she stopped breathing. From far away she saw a rush of movement. Signaled by an alarmed Cisely, and seated in various positions at the tables below, her women rose to go to her. There was a sudden blur of colors made from their gowns as they rushed to where she sat. Roshelle felt the merciful comfort of Cisely's arm about her before Nel, another favorite, knocked over a goblet onto Philip's lap.
Philip's curses filled the hall, the music came to an abrupt halt and a startled silence came over the room as heads turned. A young page rushed forward, cloth in hand to wipe the wine from the rich velvet of the duke's elaborate doublet. The incident distracted the crowd just long enough to get Roshelle out before she was subjected to the traditional shouts and jeers of any maid, highborn or otherwise, off to her wedding bed.
The strange silence in the hall lingered and stretched, inexplicable and for no reason anyone knew or could guess until, one by one, gazes turned, to behold the man who stood at the open doors of the hall. He looked at once magnificent and grand, every bit as legendary as his reputation. He wore plain gray robes—austerely decorated with vestments of red and black and white—cloth that contrasted and yet was similar to the somber black of a priest's robes. Like Moses before Pharaoh, he held in his hand a staff as tall as his own impressive height. His hair was short and sage-white, like his beard, accenting the rich golden color of his unlined skin. Yet all anyone noticed about Papillion was his eyes. Thick raven-black brows arched dramatically over large blue eyes, eyes filled with magic, mischief, wisdom—it was said that Papillion's gaze could mesmerize a man across a crowded room, dropping his victim where he stood.
A trick Rodez knew well...
"My dear Louis!" Rodez turned in a pretense of addressing his alarmed brother, though his eyes remained firmly fixed on the old man. “You neglected to inform me of the treat! You invited Papillion, the famous court magician of Orleans!" The words and tone made a mockery of all Papillion was and all he had once meant to the duke. "Why, Louis," he continued, smiling generously, a hand toying with the sharp point of his goatee, "I am thrilled. I anticipated only the banalities of the traditional minstrel or two, a juggler or an acrobat. How welcome a clever trick or an amusing ruse will be!"
Philip chuckled, but he was the only one; not even the handful of lords and barons brought from Flanders and Normandy dared to mock the famous sage. No one drew a breath as each person turned to watch the effect of the insult on Papillion. Yet there was none. Papillion did not heed the challenge; he did not have to. There was only one reason he had appeared, and that was to save the girl he loved more than life.
Suddenly four gray doves flew into the hall, appearing, it seemed, from hidden folds in Papillion's robe. Whispered amazement raced through the crowd as heads lifted to watch the four gray birds fly about the room, circling and circling until at last they lit upon the four distinct goblets of the three dukes and the Dauphin at the table raised on the dais.
Sergio, Papillion's servant, stepped back, thrilled with his success. Everything depended upon the doves, he knew. The whole thing...
Scattered applause followed the neat trick, but so did confusion, for everyone knew Papillion had not attended the ill-begotten ceremony to provide such lowly entertainment. Yet as the tall, impressive figure moved down the center aisle between the tables, magic spilled into the room.
A woman cried out in fright, then laughed as she withdrew a tiny kitten from the gold bodice of her cream-colored gown. The audience broke out in applause. Another lady felt a stirring up her sleeve and pulled out a miniature white puppy. "Oh, so petite!" The roomful of people laughed with delight. Viscount Gian Valentine laughed as he discovered a gold coin in the sugar-coated candy in his mouth. Three colorful balls rolled from unseen places onto the two center tabletops. A woman holding a napkin found herself holding a bouquet of fresh roses. A page watched in no small horror as the wine pitcher bubbled up and began spilling onto the floor, a similar situation occurring in nearly all of the soup bowls. Another lady shrieked the second she saw a tiny white mouse running up her arm, then fainted dead away when she noticed the little monsters everywhere on her black velvet gown.
Quite suddenly everything changed.
Anticipating a treat, people reached greedy hands for the balls. The slightest touch broke what was a mercilessly fragile membrane and from one ball poured out dozens of tiny black spiders, from another came lizards, still another produced strange, tiny slithering creatures—too small for snakes but too large for worms. Laughter turned to screams. The thorns on the bouquet of roses pricked its recipient's hands and burned with an acid poison. Lord Valentine started choking on the wretched taste of the coin. People jumped up to escape the little beasties crawling from those balls, knocking over the benches as they did.
Wine and soup still spurted unnaturally from their containers, yet now appeared as a most foul-smelling cesspool. The little dog abruptly urinated in the fright of screams, then worse, causing the lady a start of horror that scared her neighbor's kitten and set the tiny creature’s claws to her face.
A high-ranking bishop, Sal de Boviar, stood up, and as a soldier grabs his sword, he clutched his rosary and with scathing fury shouted, "In the name of God Almighty, I command thy demons . . . There once be a lady named Eva! Who came to the hall as Godiva, but a change in the lights showed a tear in her tights, and a low fellow present yelled Beaver!"
Hearing this, witnessing the devil's own possession, the other men of the cloth jumped up to flee in horror. The endless stream of wine covered the floor, foul-smelling soup over that, and one of them slipped; the other bent to pick him up but slipped too. Chaos fueled the entire hall: shouts and screams, fallen benches, spilled wine and wild, frantic creatures.
Philip watched the scene with plain fascination, that was all, though seeing the stumbling priests nearly made him lose the mouthful of wine in his goblet and he swallowed it whole before bursting out with a great roar of laughter. And more as the bishop continued the stream of asinine verse: "... love is the fart of every heart, of mine and yours and all the worlds..." Charles scarcely breathed, let alone moved, while Louis, too, only stared helplessly at this grotesque parody of a court magician's tricks, a show of power and not, he knew, of Papillion's.
Papillion kept his back to the chaos, as if it were not happening, and stared only at Rodez, meeting the amusement in that man's gaze dispassionately. No one overheard the warning as he said to Rodez, "I will stop you, Rodez." His hand came across his heart, the torchlight caught and reflected the gold band on his finger and he said, "The third apex of the triangle that sits upon my heart points to the stars and the heavens beyond. The next time thine eyes behold the ring, you will be pierced by the just sword of a pure heart."
Rodez's eyes blazed with scorn and mockery and, most of all, disbelief. A fool's trick! An absurdly simple fool's trick; the mere suggestion to the mind makes it come true: prophesy a painful calamity to a man and he will trip over the first stone in his path. One of the very first lessons Papillion had taught him. "A child's ploy, Papillion. A child's ploy!"
Papillion watched as Rodez opened his hand and revealed a beautiful gold-and-blue butterfly, the frantic flutter of its wings demanding freedom, and Papillion knew his cruel trick. For many years ago, when he had still tried to believe in Rodez, he had found a black velvet box in Rodez's trunk, not even hidden, and full of dead and decaying butterflies.
Rodez reached for the candle. Yet something slippery touched his fingers and his hand jerked instinctively. The butterfly flew free into space. Hot wax spilled over his hand. With fury, he looked back at Papillion.
"But a child's ploy, Rodez."
Louis abruptly stood and, desperate to save himself, he ordered, "Enough, Papillion! Enough!"
As if his wish were a command, and far quicker than it took to make, Papillion raised his hand, that was all. The chaos abruptly vanished, replaced by a sudden silence. Only the physical traces of a wicked hand remained: the toppled benches, the spilled wine and soup, all but a few of the little animals and the rapid breaths of the lords and ladies as they turned at Louis's voice.
Rodez alone understood the power in play here.
"I had to do it," Louis cried out, desperate to redeem himself. "I had to! For France!"
Papillion still only stared at Rodez but answered, "And though I could never stop this thing you did, I will not let Roshelle be sacrificed."
"Yet 'tis done, Papillion, 'tis done! 'Tis too late to save her now!"
"Is it?"
The silence filled with this question, answered at last as Papillion turned his mesmerizing gaze to Philip for the first time. Philip met his gaze evenly, too stupid to know to be afraid—his last and fatal mistake. "To you, the man who will be her husband for but the space of this ignoble day, I shall grace you with the undeserved favor of a forewarning." He leaned forward on his staff and said slowly, "And I do so only because I know you shall not heed it."
Papillion turned to face the crowded hall and said, "Let it be known to one and all, the girl Roshelle Marie Saint Lille of Lyons and Bourges, and now of Normandy, is cursed! As I have cursed her!” His eyes lit with an unnatural light as he concluded, "For each and every man who attempts to lie with her will be struck down dead!"
Silence followed the shocking announcement, before a din of whispered gasps of horror and awe rose in the room. Could he do it? Did Papillion have that power? Just as quickly the noise stopped. Philip, his face red with fury and indignation, reached for his sword in answer to the outrageous proclamation. "You will die for this—"
Philip's strong hands gripped the handle of his sword and he pulled and pulled and pulled. Yet mere human strength could not dislodge his sword from its sheath. The people watched the Duke of Normandy struggle, too amazed, too upset to see the humor in it, let alone the metaphor.
"I will use it against her, Papillion!" Rodez shouted.
"You will try," Papillion said.
"So help me, I will turn it against her!"
A tiny white mouse scrambled up the elaborate brocade of Rodez's jacket. Just as he snatched it he heard, "The ring, Rodez. Never forget the ring. And remember, too, what else I taught you—the simplest tricks are the best . . ." Rodez's eyes narrowed as the voice appeared to come from the tiny mouse and, guessing the trick to it, he looked back to where Papillion stood. Too late. Papillion was gone, vanished, to be seen no more:
No matter. The old man was just desperate, for despite the certainty of Philip's death, he now owned Roshelle. His fingers tightened around the tiny mouse and, thinking of Roshelle, he suddenly laughed.
A memorable evening indeed.
That evening an old man played his most desperate and ambitious trick to save the girl he loved and thus, opened the first pages of her history. Roshelle’s history, Papillion had always promised, would be woven into the rich tapestry of her struggling country, marked by the colorful strands of court intrigues and rebellions, battles waged and forgotten, a whole nation lost before it would ever be gained, and gained only when she finally realized it did not matter. Just as the white streak marked her fate, now a curse would change it forever. For before the night was through, the church bells rang out with the eerily haunting toll that announced a sudden death within the castle walls.
And so it began…
*****
Chapter 1
The tall, dark man leaped out from the shadows in front of her and Roshelle's gasp came in a startled cry as her hands flew to her heart.
"Madonna!" The gaze of Edward de la Eresman, the Lord of Suffolk, lit with pleasure as his long arms came on either side of her to rest against the stone wall behind her. "You are alone!" The hall's torchlight cast his face in darkness, hiding the devilish excitement playing in an amused grin. "Bless my sweet luck!"
Roshelle's eyes widened dramatically to encompass the shape towering over her, cornering her against the wall, before she looked frantically down the long, empty hall. Empty. Curse it! The torches shed light in the hall, but no one moved there. All her women, maids and guards were asleep, and not having wanted to rouse them for such a trifling errand, certain the English, too, would be asleep at the late hour, she had left the safety of the solar alone. Only to be accosted by none other than him, the high-and-mighty himself. "Loose me! Just—"
She stopped with another muted cry as a strong hand snaked tightly around her arm while the other covered her mouth. As if scorched by the heat of his body, the terrifying scent of spiced wine—he was quite drunk!—she pressed her backside hard against the cold stone wall, her eyes wide and furious as she glared up at him.
She had never stood so close to him, having always taken great pains to keep her distance. He stood a half foot taller than most men, able and strong too, a knightly warrior in his prime. Curly light brown hair framed the handsome bearded face, his extremely regular features marred by a wide red scar across his cheek—as if his cheek had been cut by a jagged knife. The moment she saw where his gaze dropped, she tore his hand from her mouth. "Loose me! Loose me or I'll—"
"Or you'll what? Scream? Call a guard?" Humor lit the handsome commander's pale blue eyes. "One of these fearless French knights of yours?"
Roshelle understood the insult only too well. The past tumultuous years had changed the very light in her eyes. For she had lived through the nightmarish sweep of history, a nightmare without end. The French knights were well known for their fearlessness, a fool's courage that had seen them massacred in the infamous battle of Agincourt, where one thousand English soldiers had fought and soundly beaten nearly ten thousand French, virtually wiping French nobility from the face of the earth. Including her second husband, Count Millicent de la Nevers. Of course, she knew Louis's excuses; indeed, she had heard them hundreds of times, but the fact remained—French knights were no match for the English warriors, and the English pigs never for a moment let them forget it.
Like the Lord of Suffolk now. Last year, over half the French kingdom had joined the Burgundians under the duchy of Burgundy in an unholy alliance with the English. Louis had been captured at Agincourt and imprisoned in the Tower of London, leaving Charles without his guidance and strength, alone among the wolves of his court. All of northern France and Brittany had fallen to the English, leaving only the southern part of France under the banner of the duchy of Orleans as the domain of poor Charles.
Reales had been Millicent's land, but because of his death and his fealty to Rodez, the Duke of Burgundy, Roshelle was forced to house the English garrison here, at Castle Reales. Her castle and her prison. This wretched garrison was commanded by him—Lord Edward de la Eresman of Suffolk, younger brother to the famed Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk. His French name owed itself to the time in history when the French and the English aristocracy were fond of marrying each other, but this distant French blood did nothing to mitigate his utterly English tyranny. She could imagine no more brutal a feudal lord than this man before her, and no one had ever accused her of owning a limited vision.
The arrogance of the House of Suffolk shone in Edward's pale, cold eyes as he mocked her apparent helplessness, a potentially fatal mistake, but of course, he knew that. So what was it he wanted?
"What is it you want?"
A soft chuckle sounded briefly before Edward bit his lip as if to restrain his amusement. "What is it I want? Oh, milady, I have waited to find you alone for some two long months now."
"Yes? Why?"
The question came as a demand, impatient at that. She was not daft; in fact, most considered her wise far beyond her ten and seven years. Nor was she in any way ignorant of the effect her beauty—the worst part of her curse—had on men. True, she had the lowest opinion of Englishmen, all of them, convinced the entire people were crude, hopelessly uncivilized, the lowest kind of bloodthirsty barbarians, that like a legion of demons, words could not adequately describe just how horrid they were. She knew every detail of their waves of violence against the poor people of Brittany and she knew the result, a poverty that left the simple folk on the brink of starvation—the slowest and most painful of all deaths.
Lord Edward was responsible for much of it. Highborn though he be, he was a vile creature indeed: tyrannical, greedy and as full of vice as the desert serpent. Yet as low as this opinion was of Edward, she never suspected he was, well, stupid. Not until he answered her question with the heat of his gaze as he pressed his body against her.
Shocked blue eyes shot to his face. Was he mad? He couldn't mean to, he just couldn't! He would die, to act on the desire her wretched beauty inspired landed a death blow, everyone knew that! Did he imagine he was immune to it?
"Milord! Your thoughts are mercilessly transparent—I, I confess my surprise. Are you not afraid of the curse?"
Edward chuckled with bravado, which wavered ever so briefly as his gaze found the startling white streak woven into the beautiful hair. The crown of hair loosely framed her face before falling in a long, neat pile down her back, past her narrow waist. "Ah, your curse. Well, you see, the other day as my men and I watched you ride out on that wild steed of yours, we got to discussing your 'curse.' Suppose, we wondered, the most beautiful maid in Brittany was unmarried, widowed twice, and suppose this beautiful maid had developed—no doubt by her dead husband's clumsy hands—a distaste for the marriage bed? And suppose this lady dreamed up an amusing charade that not only saved her from another disastrous marriage, but also afforded her absolute protection from every red-blooded male in two kingdoms—"
"You are a fool! A fool—"
"Rodez said the curse was a lie."
Her blue eyes widened. "He wants you dead!"
"He is my friend."
"That beast is friend to no man!"
"You lie to save yourself."
"No, no—" She frantically shook her head. "Rodez tricked my second husband in the same way. He told Millicent my curse was a trick, a ruse, but really all he wanted was Millicent's lands, which he got when Millicent died. I tried to warn Millicent, I did, but it didn't matter. Even though he never forced his matrimonial rights to my bed, he still died one week after our vows. He died of sudden apoplexy on the way to Flanders—"
She stopped with a gasp as Edward's fingers strayed to the long line of her neck and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I do not believe this wild tale of fancy. I have a wager with my men, a wager that says I live to see the light of day after I lie with you, that this whole fabrication is little more than a precious key to an imaginary chastity belt."
"Nay, 'tis not! I have two dead husbands to prove it!"
The humor in Edward's gaze told her he only toyed with her. So! The fool merely found a little fun in frightening her! Like a well-fed cat toying with a mouse, he found great amusement in frightening her with this pretense.
Her fists clenched, indicating the rise of her temper, well known to be at least as menacing as the very curse itself. "Milord," she began in a deceptively angelic voice, "while I am well aware of the rumors that lords of the House of Suffolk are godless whoresons, made of equal parts deprivation and savagery, all the while maintaining pretensions to finer, higher things, until this moment I had not believed it. I had been thinking you simply lacked the common graces given to pigs—"
A strong hand came over her mouth. To say that Lord Edward of Suffolk was unaccustomed to hearing a litany of insults from a woman he meant to seduce was an understatement; he had in fact never heard a disparaging word against his noble family, especially his famous brother. Not even his ill-mannered wife would dare that!
No one had until now. Until Lady Roshelle.
"You are as reckless and wild with your tongue as you are on that horse. My men think its sting, like that of a honeybee, protects a sweet wealth within—"
That did it! Roshelle ripped his hand from her mouth. "Mercy! Spare me your poor metaphors and even worse poetry—I have no wish to hear either. Now let me pass in peace—"
He laughed. "Oh, my lovely lady, I have far more than poor metaphors for you. I have waited long for a chance to win your favor."
"My favor? My favor is a deadly poison!"
Roshelle started forward, but he held her firmly. She still did not quite believe this was happening, that he truly meant to harm her. Nor had she assessed quite how drunk the man was until he said, "Come, come, my lovely lady, confess: you've been waiting for the man bold enough to challenge the lie told about you; you want me as much as I want to—"
"You are mad!"
She pushed with all her strength. Edward laughed and grabbed her hands, suppressing her brief struggle before bringing her hands up sharply behind her back.
"Loose me! Loose—"
"Why should I?" Then, not at all wanting a raping and certain this was but the pretense of a reluctant maid, he changed the tone of his voice, like a shift of a breeze. "Roshelle, Roshelle," he whispered in a lover's voice, and as he kept her hands behind her back, he let his gaze drink in the scope and power of her beauty, a beauty cursed, yet sung across Brittany, he knew. A loosened mass of auburn hair framing the delicately sculpted face, the high color rising on her cheeks, the small, pert nose raised with indignation and the thin dark brows that arched like wings over those lovely blue eyes, eyes sparkling with the light of her fury. Fury he'd melt with but a touch of his mouth.
His pale blue gaze dropped to the ample curves of her breasts. Dear Lord. The combined assault on his senses of her nearness left him dazed and weak with desire, though her breath came hard and fast and he'd have to be blind not to see the wild fear in her eyes. A wild thing for sure; he knew well her impertinence and rebellious nature, the way she took pains to avoid him, indeed all of his men; and with an effort he tried to harness the hot blood coursing through him to show her an easier way. He released her hand, but only to bring her fingertips to his lips for a kiss.
Which merely confused her. She suffered a moment's misunderstanding by his changed tack, grasping the hope that he'd let her pass in peace until he whispered, "Easy, my lovely lady." His curled fingers fell to the long lines of her neck. "I will not hurt you, Roshelle. Never that. Lend me half a chance for your heart. I could give you things."
"Give me things? Give me—" She suffered an incredulous moment of disbelief, at once forgetting the curse and the whole disastrous situation as her entire fury greeted the idea that he thought her a simple maid willing to spread her thighs for a trinket or a coin!
With an open hand, she raised her arm to land a well-aimed slap to his face. He caught her hand midway but she twisted free, her strength catching him by surprise, and with this surprising force, she landed a hard blow to his face. His gaze went glassy; he suffered a brief moment's dizziness before he realized he was staring at the satisfied smirk brought by a job well done. "Why, you little vixen!"
He recaptured her arms, then her hands. Pain made her cry out as he forced them high against her back, suppressing her struggle with the weight of his body. Then, to her horror, he laughed.
Sweet Madonna, how she made his blood race!
“I 've seen your claws, milady, now let me hear a purr.''
"Purr! You are an arse! Purr! Methinks I shall be ill before too long—" She stopped as-he laughed and, ignoring her words, held her with one hand.
She cried out, squirming violently as his free hand brushed the full circle of her breast beneath the worn green gown, then cupped its soft weight in his hand. Through
the voluptuous flesh he felt the frantic pounding of her heart, but pleasure made him weak. He reached behind her to grasp a handful of hair. He tugged once, bringing
her head up for his kiss. "One taste of these lips, Roshelle, one—"
Lips pressed lightly over her mouth, muting her frantic "Nooo-"
Her entire being recoiled from the kiss as fear and fury surged. She opened her mouth, and just as he thought no woman was ever more ripe for seduction, he felt the sharp, merciless bite of her small white teeth on his tongue. He leaped back, clasping his hand over his mouth. "Blood! I am bleeding!"