Sweet Enchantress (11 page)

CHAPTER VIII

The gala feast held at the great hall that evening rivaled any dinner Dominique had ever given. The adherents of The Laws of Saint Robert would have unanimously approved of the proper seating order for the guests.

She supposed the evening’s fete was attributable to Paxton’s largess and not Montlimoux’s revenues. It was, in her opinion, ostentatious, but then this was in honor of the Duke of Aquitaine and King of England, titles in that order of importance, which Edward himself preferred.

Essen
tially, he was French by his mother, his language, and part of his possessions. It was said that he was driven by an antipathy for his father, who had been a reputed homosexual. But then it was also said that Edward was King Arthur reincarnated with his noble words and deeds and fair ladies who graced his court.

The knig
hts had scarcely had time to remove their armor and wash away the dust and sweat and the ladies to freshen their toilets before the dinner commenced. Banners of various colored silks draped the tables. On each one was placed a bowl containing lavender. A considerable staff of retainers and varlets served the nobility.

The dishes were brought in by servants in full armor, mounted on caparisoned horses. Their dung in the hall infuriated Dominiq
ue, and she found her hands gripping her table knife. She should have expected as much from a mere serf who aspired to rise above his station!

Incredibly, a hunting horn announced the main course that would be
flambéed at the table. A roasted peacock in full plumage, stuffed with spices, rested on a mass of brown pastry, dyed green to simulate a grassy meadow.

As a lesser knight, Denys did not sit at the main table. Although she did, she was placed at its far end, with the King and Paxton installed in the p
ositions of importance at the center. Esclarmonde, Queen of the Tourney, sat at Paxton's right. Her shimmering blond hair was drawn up through and overflowed the garland of gold and rubies he had bestowed upon her.

“
Your Englishman has done well by the feast,” Francis said, finishing the last of his wine.

"You know he is not my Englishman.”
The vermillion sugar plums were ashes in her mouth. “By tonight’s end, he will be officially my lord.”

"Look at me, Dominique.”
His seriousness drew her regard. Around him was a mystic aura that she could not ignore, had never been able to. Beneath his striking mane of ebony hair, his eyes held hers. "You well know that if conditions were different I would take you as my wife.” A wry smile pleated the corners of his supple mouth. "But the Church has a problem with married priests.”

"Francis . . .”
She paused, then verbalized her curiosity, "Do you . . . uh . . . ever have a problem with celibacy?”

To her, Francis had always seemed steeped in a luxury and sensuality that di
d not dull but rather embellished his graceful masculinity. The Church had long been having difficulty with homosexual priests as well as the married clergy. Could she have misjudged Francis’s sexual preference?

His outburst of sincere laughter reassured h
er. "Come with me to Avignon and discover the answer yourself,
m'amie
.” Then he turned serious. "I do want you to come to Avignon. I assure you, you would be quite safe there under my tutelage.”

Her eyes laughed. "What kind of tutelage is that, Francis?”

His smile was one of mock innocence. "Why, t’would be like the days of old, when together we explored the works of Abramelin the Mage and Albertus Magnus in your mother’s laboratory.”

"No, t
’would not. Nothing remains the same but is forever changing in the instant. I thank you for your offer of a haven, Francis, but I cannot forsake Montlimoux.”

Her gaze sought out the English lieutenant again. He was conversing with his king, but at that instant Esclarmonde said something to distract him and he laughed. Hi
s grin took away Dominique's breath. That smile transformed his ordinary features into an arresting face. The bold dark eyes flashed with a humor that made any woman watching declare him unequivocally handsome.

Every woman, that was, but Dominique. She wou
ld grant him no boon.

She turned back to Francis. "Paxton of Wychchester may deprive me of my title. He may drive me from my chateau, but he cannot hound me out of my county. I know every valley, every cave, every pond, every plant. If need be, I could liv
e off the land as he never could.”

Too soon for her, the dinner was over, and the ballet was set to begin. At some time
during the dancing, she would be forced to make public her renunciation of title. The tables were removed, and the gallery's musicians started to play.

At first, the dances were lighthearted, like the
roundeau
or chain dance, and the torch dance, in which each dancer held a long, lighted taper and endeavored to prevent the other dancers from blowing it out.

As the evening passed, the dance
s waxed more romantic. The code of the courts of love, entitled
Arresta Amorum
, the decrees of love, specified that each gentleman was to bend his knee before his lady at the end of the dance.

Throughout Dominique had watched with her maids-in-waiting, particularly Beatrix who glowed like a wax taper when John Bedford presented himself before her.

On her part, Dominique declined to participate. Certainly, her heart was not of the merry vein. She would have even refused Denys when he bent a knee before her, but she did owe him a great debt of gratitude for fighting in her honor today. Her hand in his, they joined the circle of dancers, taking three steps to the left, marking time, then taking three steps to the right.

His expression was brooding, and he moved stiffly. When next they marked time, she teased, "Are you bruised and sore from tilting today, my good friend?"

He made a face and lifted her hand aloft, as the dance steps prescribed. “More than I would have thought." He squeezed her hand, almost hurting it "Dominique, I would tell you before someone else does. Paxton of Wychchester and I wagered for you today.”

"What?”

"If I won this afternoon’s jousting, you were to be released into my custody.”

She halted in her steps. Her eyes expressed their disbelief until she saw the determined intent in his. “
And if Paxton won?”

His determination gave way to an anguished whisper. "I have given him my services for seven years.”

"Seven years!” she gasped. "Whatever for?” Other couples were circumventing them, but she scarcely took heed.

"His captain, John Bedford, tells me that my skill will be needed in constructing bridges, forts, things of war instead of things of beauty.”

Her hand clasped his arm. "Oh, Denys, you should not have risked your future for me!” "My future is you. I could not be happy knowing that you are here, endangered by this English churl.” He was speaking rapidly now, as if there might not be another chance. "There is yet another reason why I would stay, Dominique. The people who are not locals, they are talking about your efforts in the pavilion yesterday, about your attempt to save the wounded knight.”

"I can well imagine what they say, that I am a sor
—” She broke off at the tugging on her sleeve and glanced down. It was Hugh. He pointed from her to his new master, Paxton, whose broad back was to her at that moment. The towheaded boy did not need the gift of speech to make her understand she was being summoned.

A flourish o
f trumpets interrupted the dancing. As the duke-king approached the canopied dais that had been transported from the tourney gallery to the great hall, the vociferous revelers cleared the center of the room. Paxton and Edward's advisors took chairs arranged on either side of him.

For this occasion Edward had donned a sleeveless scarlet robe over his short, tightly fitting cotehardie. If she separated his position from his person, he appeared not much older than herself. Young. Determined to rule. Headstrong.
His advisors, it was said, counseled restraint. Among those who did so was Paxton.

The advisors were richly bedecked in plumed c
aps and mantles trimmed with embroidered velvet. Beside them, Paxton's dress was sober, yet his physique was so commanding that all eyes were drawn to him as well.

When a crier called out, "Oyez, oyez,”
her heart began to beat in her throat.

Edward I
II began speaking in a calm, almost conciliatory manner. His tone was warm, his voice firm, as he told the assembly that the tourney and gala feast following it were being held in the honor of Montlimoux's new Lord and Grand Seneschal, Paxton of Wychchester. He was treating her ousting as nothing more than a change of administration.

He fixed his imperial eye on her. "Countess Dominique
de Bar, I bid you present yourself.”

She drew a steadying breath and walked toward the dais, where she knelt, then rose to stand proudly. The duke-king nodded toward a paunchy man
on his right, the sergeant-at-law. He completely lacked calves, and the points of his shoes were so long they were attached to his knees.

In a stentorian voice, the man
began reading from a scroll: "I, Dominique de Bar, Countess of Montlimoux, make known to those present and to come that I have become liege lady of the King of England, Duke of Aquitaine, who from this day holds the County of Montlimoux in feud. Whereupon, I commend myself to his representative for guardianship, Paxton of Wychchester. I have made faith and pledge homage to His Highness and his heirs. In return, I seek the security and protection of the Duke of Aquitaine, through his representative, Paxton of Wychchester. By the Lord before Whom all is holy, I submit myself to Paxton of Wychchester and choose his will as mine.”

Her gaze locked with the dispassionate one
of Paxton's. It could have been worse, she told herself. Nominally, at least, she still held the tide of countess.

He rose and came to stand before her. His eyes were dark, deep, and demanding. He held out his hand. She placed her cold one in it, signifying
she was his vassal. His palm was warm and large enough to hold both of her hands.

"I do so swear as a vassal of my Lord Lieutenant, Paxton of Wychchester,”
the sergeant-at-law prompted.

She could not help herself. She, who never cried, could not contain th
e tears that welled in her eyes. She had failed her feminine forebears. Thankfully, only this man who now owned her services could see those tears of shame; "I do so swear as—”

Her throat was choked with her tears. Her hand trembled, and Paxton squeezed it
, whether as reassurance or as prompting, she could not tell. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Triumphant as always was he.

She started over,
“. . . swear as a vassal . . . of my Lord Lieutenant, Paxton of Wychchester.”

He raised a brow, waiti
ng. Everyone waited for her to perform the last traditional step in the ceremony. She swallowed hard, forcing herself into action. Closing her eyes, she stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek. He had to lower his head for her lips to reach him, and even then she just barely grazed his jaw.

His skin was smoothly shaved, and a pleasant male smell reached her.

Quickly, she stepped away and blindly signed the document that the sergeant-at-law held out. Another flourish of trumpets and clarions signified the end to the humiliating ceremony.

She would have gratefully withdrawn from the floor, but Denys picked that moment to come forward. He took her hand, the one she had just r
emoved from Paxton's. Her childhood friend’s face was taut, his color high. "Your Majesty and my Lord Lieutenant, I come to seek a boon. The hand of my Lady Dominique in marriage.”

Silence claimed the great hall. All eyes watched in expectancy, all ears strained to hear any words of exchange. Edward
’s amused gaze deserted her and Denys and moved to Paxton. "Me thinks this is your domain.”

Paxton took the cue. He rubbed his chin while everyone waited with pent-up breath. At last, he said, "By
droit de seigneur et regale
, Denys Bontemps, I refuse your offer of marriage with my vassal.”

Denys
’s hand tightened around hers. "I pray ask on what grounds, my Lord Lieutenant.” Paxton’s smile was veiled. His hand seemed to rest negligently on his sword's hilt. "Since as my vassal she cannot provide required military service, her husband must do so. I can marry off the maiden for far more than your military service would bring me.”

Piled atop her humiliation now was her degradation of being bartered like salt. "I will not be
—”

He cut her short. "You will be what I want.”
His words were loud enough only for those nearest to them to hear. She should have known he would not let her challenge his authority. The most she might do was throw a tantrum, for which she quite probably would never be seen at court again but instead spend the remainder of her days chained in the chateau's cellar. Which at that moment seemed a safe and desirable prospect.