Sweet Enchantress (10 page)

CHAPTER VII

"What happened to the knight?”
Dominique paused and remembered to add, "my Lord Lieutenant.”

They were alone in Paxton's
pavilion with the injured man. Spars of sunlight shafted from the open tent flaps to fall where Paxton sat, next to the soldier stretched out on a straw-filled pallet.

Paxton glanced up from the man to her. "Patric was struck on the upper part of his breastplate by his opponent
’s lance. It glanced off the breastplate and entered his neck.”

"The physician?”

The visor of Paxton’s helmet was pushed back to expose his dirty and sweat-sheened face. “I sent him away. He said nothing could be done.”

She crossed the
pavilion to stand near the end of the pallet and stared at the Englishman who had highhandedly summoned her from her gallery. Like Baldwyn, even sitting as he was on the temporary, wooden-framed bed, he was nigh as tall as she. Why did his presence impose on her, as Baldwyn’s giant form never had? Because the Englishman’s beliefs threatened her feminine power as no other male ever had?

“
You want me to save him?”

“
Aye. As you did Arthur.”

“
And, should I succeed, you will banish me from your sight, as you did when I saved your cat?”

His frown stretched the scar at his lip even deeper. “
Save Patric, mistress.”

She moved to the other side of the pallet. Her fingers pushed back the man
’s chain mail collar. No bubbles of blood foamed from the deep slit of his neck. “I fear his life force is absent.”

Paxton closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “
Then what I need is a resurrection,” he mumbled.

“
'Tis happened before.” He glanced up at her, his dark brown eyes penetrating, and she reminded, “The blessed Jesus Christ, among others.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, stared hard at her. She sustained his raking gaze. "Do what you have to,”
he said abruptly, rising. He left, closing the tent flaps behind him.

In the darkened room, she sought to shift her awareness from her
rational to her intuitive powers. She blocked out the roar of cheers and shouts periodically erupting from the galleries. Motionless as a rock, she sat, insensible to her surroundings.

Concentrating only on her own breathing, she achieved that measure of serenit
y she sought at last. Vainly, her hands began to seek the man’s aura.

She experienced that subtle change which made her e
yes see in almost another dimension, a phenomenon she would have been hard put to explain. She searched for that vital breath that Chengke had claimed was the basis of Chinese medicine and the flowing movements of the dance of the Chinese warrior.

Sunlight retreated from the tent. Silence seeped in. The evening grew cooler. Mildew from da
mp canvas clogged the stale air. Still, she worked. When, at last, she stood, she was so shaky she did not think she could cross to the tent opening.

Outside, starlight gilded the heavens. A handful
of people remained from the hundreds who had filled the galleries that afternoon. She saw anxiety in their faces— Beatrix, John Bedford, Jacotte, Marthe and Manon, and, especially that of Baldwyn's and Iolande’s.

Paxton stepped forward. "Patric is alive?”
She hung her head and bit her bottom lip. "No. His spirit has left the body.”

"Why could she not save my man?”

Hugh had led Paxton to the Templar, who had been pacing the eastern ramparts. The night wind tugged at the old man
’s gray hair. He shrugged his Samson-like shoulders. "I do not know how to describe what she does. 'Tis like a high-pitched, almost inaudible sound, she has told me. Sometimes, no matter how hard she attempts to heal a person, the sound cannot complete its circle from the patient back to her because—”

"Because why?”

He shrugged his shoulders again. "Because of a lack of faith. All I can tell you is that the patient must also subscribe to a belief in this healing gift. Your man obviously did not. My Lady Dominique claims we have enormous self-healing capacities.”

The peculiarities o
f this southern society, and this southern county and it aristocracy in particular, intrigued Paxton. For the moment, he ignored his weariness. The tourney's battles had left him fatigued. He motioned toward the Templar's face. He had forgotten to be disgusted by the reddish knobs that blotched its flesh. "You subscribe to such a method of curing?”

Baldwyn ra
ised his hairless brows waggishly. "I subscribe by faith—should our illustrious Bishop ever inquire."

The bishop's savoir-faire nettled Paxton. "What is he to Dominique de Bar?”

"Her confessor.”

"I have the distinct impression she eschews Church doctrine.”

Paxton’s expression must have betrayed his impatience, because the Templar said, "They have been friends since childhood.”

Paxton turned his gaze up to the scythe of a moon that stared down upon them. “
Does he know of this . . . gift of hers?”

"He encour
ages her esoteric interests, especially the alchemical ones. She has her own laboratory in the dungeon below, you know.”

"No, I did not know. I find that interesting.”
He also found Dominique de Bar cryptic, sharp-tongued, and frank—for a woman. They walked a little farther along the ramparts, Baldwyn moving at a ponderous pace. Paxton asked, "Are you doing a spell as sentry up here?”

The old leper glanced askew at him. "No. I was trying to decide whether I should kill you or not.”

Paxton laughed aloud. He had also forgotten humor. "Why so?”

"I think you an agreeable man, Paxton of Wychchester. You are a sol
dier, like myself. So you will understand when I tell you that I shall lay down my life in taking yours before I shall allow you to harm my Lady Dominique.”

Paxton peered over the edge of the parapet to espy far belo
w the mill, its paddles glistening with river water. His smile was grim. "I shall keep that in mind, Baldwyn.” Then he asked what had been on his mind since the jousting earlier that afternoon. “This Denys Bontemps, who is he?”

“
Another childhood friend. He is constructing a hospital for my Lady Dominique.”

“
Constructing a hospital? He is a mason?”

"He is an architect-engineer, a graduate of the University of Montpellier.”

Paxton braced his hands on the parapet’s stones. "And he believes himself in love with the countess?”

The Templar's reply wa
s guarded. "He owes her his loyalty. You see, the mother of my Lady Dominique had granted manumission to his father, a stonecutter. Denys displayed such a flair for his father's work that the Countess Melisande had me tutor him alongside her daughter, my Lady Dominique, so that Denys learned mathematics and geometry, in addition to other masonic knowledge that is a professional secret. I also taught him a little of sword play. Without fear of boasting, I might add that the infidels had reason to fear my prowess with the blade.”

"He wishes to take Dominique de Bar to wife?”

The Templar peered at him innocently. “He would honor her so. Nevertheless, he is but a peasant and she a countess.”

"For the present,”
he answered, repeating her own words to the worldly bishop the day before. Did Francis de Beauvais act as the pope’s emissary, as she had stated, or as the pope’s agent provocateur?

"You must realize my Lady Dominique has been raise
d in a society dominated by women," Baldwyn entreated. "As a ruler in her own right and a free thinker, it is difficult for her to behave as do ordinary women."

Reflecting
with irritation on her indomitable pride and resolution, he answered, "She will, my good Templar. She will.”

"Well, as the peasant says,
‘When donkeys fly, we shall see that happen.’”

A sullen pall overcast the day. Trumpets signaled the start of the second round of the tourney, the battle between the knights earning the most points the prior day. Two ranks of knights spurred their steeds to collision in mid-field. The shock of their encounter reverberated throughout the galleries. After that, the clang of the swords and the groans of the combatants drowned out everything else.

Dust erupted, fairly choking Paxton. Through its haze, he was able to
spot at least a good half of the knights, unhorsed by either the skill of an opponent’s lance or by sheer weight and strength. Still mounted but with his lance broken, he withdrew his sword and swung it in an arc at his nearest foe. He was allowed to strike but not jab.

A corpulent knight wielded a battle axe that would have surely hit mid-plate on his armor. At the la
st moment, Paxton dodged the stupendous blow. His mastery at horsemanship had saved him, and the momentum behind the knight’s lunging swing pulled the man off balance so that in the next moment he was unseated.

Sweat rolled into Paxton
’s eyes, yet he fought on, as if his honor depended on it. And in a curious way, it did. Here and there he dealt sweeping blows. Then he sighted Denys Bontemps, afoot. Mounted as he was, Paxton could not engage the man by tourney regulations. With a movement that was most agile for a man of his brawn, he dismounted amidst the mayhem to confront the momentarily startled architect.

"I win this encounter, Sir Denys,”
he shouted against the din of battle, "and you render me your services for seven years.”

Unexpectedly, Denys sliced horizontally with his sword, and reflexively he jumped back. The sword missed by a hair
’s breadth.

“
And if I win?” Denys asked, already short of breath. "The Lady Dominique is released from your custody to me?”

For answer, he thrust his notched sword at the young m
an’s chest and scored a point. Denys struck back, catching him on the shoulder. Two points.

For an interminable time they struck a
nd parried with a tour de force that elicited furious applause from the galleries. By now, he realized that if Denys could kill him, he would without any qualms.

Gradually, the field thinned until there was only the two of them. Paxton realized Denys was a
man of considerable skill with the blade and a strength in shoulder and arm that must have come from years of stone cutting. The whacking of their blades vibrated all the way to the bone. Denys Bontemps fought recklessly.

So did Paxton, but with a purpose
. He felt drained of every last ounce of energy. His broadsword weighed like a boulder. Denys was using both hands to wield his blade. The man swayed. Paxton chose that moment to swing his weapon with a force that sent the man reeling. He stumbled to his knees. The crowd went wild, yelling and cheering and clapping.

Paxton ignored them. Placing his blade tip on the man'
s shoulder, he asked with shortened breath, "Your services are mine, Sir Denys?”

Denys stared up at him with dull eyes. "Yes,”
he got out in a wheeze. "But not my loyalty.”

"The devil take your loyalty.”
He wheeled away and crossed to retrieve his splintered lance, with its shorn tresses attached. The French called that reddish cast
la cendre
. Hell fire, he called it. His gaze sought out Dominique de Bar. Her features were expressionless. Well, he was not yet finished for the day.

Nearby, waiting nobly for its master, was his steed, which he had trained to bite, kick, and trample in warfare. Especially trample. After mounting, Paxton trotted th
e war horse across the expanse of tiltyard toward the gallery where the royal standard of a lion against bright red silk proclaimed the king’s presence.

Cheering spectators and wavin
g handkerchiefs greeted Paxton. Several women flirtatiously tossed brooches and rings toward him, and his mouth curled in a sardonic smile. Halting before the throne, he raised his lance in a salute to his king.

Edward III, regal in purple satin, rose and announced, "You acquitted yourself superbly and did well by England, Paxto
n of Wychchester. The honor, valor, and chivalry that was King Arthur’s lives again. As a Round Table knight, you have taken the tourney and its grand prize.”

With that, he extended a gold garland adorned with rubies and dropped it over Paxton's lance tip.
There would be other prizes awarded the knights who had proven themselves—a suit of armor, a war horse, golden spurs fashioned in Toledo, a fine saddle. But, traditionally, this prize was given by the victor to the fairest maiden of the land. More often than not it was bestowed upon a damsel for political purposes.

He cantered across the field to the opposite gallery. All eyes were upon him. Naturally, it was presumed he would offer the garland to the Countess of Montlimoux.

Instead, he stopped in front of the Lady Esclarmonde, a winsome damsel with fair skin as white as snow on ice. Better yet, she possessed wonderful malleability and, best of all, was Francis de Beauvais’s sister.

Astonishment rippled along the benches. The young woman hesitated demurely
but in the end could not contain her pleasure and plucked the garland from his lance.

Dominique de Bar stared straight ahead, but a noticeable flush flowed up her neck and into her cheeks, crimsoning even those small, shell-like ears.

Regret at having to break her thus took him by surprise. He had supposed he was empty of all compassion for womankind, and women who spoke the
langue d’Oc
tongue at that. He shrugged away the feeling. Tonight, perforce, he would deliver the
coup de grace
.