Fallen Angels (46 page)

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 round 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, childlike, 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 towards her, knelt, and put his hand on the coat.

She shook her head.

He bent towards 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 round 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 grey light, a wolf-light, to the east.

The embers shivered the air above the grey 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 unnecessary 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 afterwards 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.

Bertrand 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 honour 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 tricolour 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 centre, he walked beneath the stone archway into the main street of Auxigny. The Colonel walked beside him.

Marchenoir looked right and left. The street was hard rutted and dusty. Dogs scavenged its gutter. One lifted a leg against the Tree of Liberty a pole with a red hat perched on top that was an essential now in every French town. Those of the townsfolk who saw him kept their faces turned away. Marchenoir seemed not to notice.

He walked towards the bridge and, reaching it, leaned on the stone parapet to stare into the shallow river. The Colonel was nervous. The revolution was undoubtedly splendid, and had undoubtedly brought liberty, equality, and fraternity, but that did not mean that members of the Committee for Public Safety were safe when they walked among their subjects.

Marchenoir pointed downstream to where some low hovels appeared to grow out of the mud banks of the river. 'My home, Colonel.'

'Indeed, citizen.'

Marchenoir nodded. 'One day that hovel will be a shrine. Frenchmen will travel miles to see it. They'll forget Versailles, Colonel, but they'll remember that hovel! Proof that strength belongs to the people, not the bloody aristos.' He pointed further away, to where a gap in the range of hills showed a deep shadowed valley where stood, far in the dusk's gloom, a great, white building. 'The Chateau of Auxigny, Colonel.' He shook his head. 'When they rode from the chateau they sounded a trumpet to tell us that our betters were coming, that it was time for us to grovel in the mud like beasts, to bow our heads lest we looked upon the daughters of Auxigny!' He took the hat from his head and made a mock bow towards the chateau. 'The daughters of Auxigny! Do you know, Colonel, that the old Duchess used to let manservants come into her room when she bathed? She'd be naked and they'd bring firewood. Do you know why?'

The Colonel shook his head. 'No, citizen.'

'Because a servant was not a human being! She didn't mind a lap dog seeing her in the bath, so why not a servant? They were the same in her eyes.' He smiled a bitter smile. 'They say she was ugly as sin, which is why her mad husband took his God-damned pleasures elsewhere.' He stared at the far valley, then waved his hat towards the shambling hovel where he had grown up. 'You see that house, Colonel?'

'Yes, citizen.'

'That house was assessed for tax. We paid tax! We had nothing, but we paid tax! And you see that house?'

The Colonel stared at the chateau. 'I see it, citizen.'

'They paid no taxes! They were the nobility!' He spat over the parapet. 'But I sent the last Duc d'Auxigny to sneeze in the basket. I did that.' He laughed to himself. 'My mother died in what passed for a bed, but I put him beneath the blade!'

The Colonel had heard that it was the d'Auxigny family who had plucked Marchenoir from his muddy obscurity, recognized his talent, and paid for his training as a priest. This did not seem the moment to ask for confirmation of the story, nor to mention the other gossip that tied Citizen Bertrand Marchenoir, tribune of the people, even closer to the great chateau that stood in its lone valley. No one now would dare to voice the rumour that the town whore had given birth to the Mad Duke's bastard.

Marchenoir put on his cocked hat. A green feather rose from the inevitable tricolour rosette. 'What's your name, Colonel?'

'Tours, citizen.'

'Ah! You're the man who caught
Le Revenant
!'

'Indeed, citizen.'

Marchenoir led the Colonel towards the inn. 'You did a great service, Colonel, and tomorrow you will do another!'

Tours had been ordered here, but he did not know why, nor what was expected of his regiment. To ask was to court disfavour, to earn disfavour was to court death, and no man was so liberal with death as Citizen Marchenoir.

Marchenoir stared at the town with dislike. 'Tomorrow, Colonel, you obey my orders. Tomorrow night, at dusk, you surround the chateau. What happens inside is none of your business, and once the night is over, Colonel, you will forget that it ever happened.'