Sweet Enchantress (22 page)

Avignon was called a "sink of vice,”
where luxury, pomp, and loose morals ruled. Francis had once told Dominique that there was a church brothel in Avignon where girls spent part of their time in religious duties and prayers and the rest of their time in servicing customers, Christians only. So Dominique had not been relishing the journey toward this illustrious city on the Rhone River.

Day after day, the jo
urney was monotonous, with the redundant creaking of ox-cart wheels, the thudding of hooves, and soldiers’ voices filling the air.

With Denys
still raiding and ravaging the countryside, Paxton had taken the precaution of doubling the guards that flanked the procession of soldiers, wayfarers, and the female pilgrims who had taken the opportunity to escape the bondage of domesticity. In addition, the cavalcade included Dominique’s entourage of cooks, ladies-in-waiting, seamstresses, laundresses, and maids.

At the head of the procession, Paxton rode, sitting tall in a high-pommeled saddle studded with Bertrand
’s handicraft of silver. Paxton’s arrogant bearing singled him out from the various country squires and their own pages, riding at his side.

As usual, Hugh was never far from Paxton. She knew the boy had dreams of one day becoming a
squire, then being knighted himself in the traditional ceremony, when the chatelaine of Montlimoux would dub him on the shoulder with a sword blessed by a priest. But first, Hugh as an acolyte would be required to earn his sword.

Dominique was able to endure the long days of travel that left her saddle-sore by focusi
ng on the evenings to come. After the meals, she and Paxton would retreat into the privacy of their tent or, on warmer nights, would retire beneath a sheltering tree on a spread sheepskin blanket. She was close to rapture, just lying there with him, gazing up at the stars.

Occasionally, they would talk, but only of the commonp
lace. Vital issues such as feelings, values, beliefs were avoided. "There are weapons that have fire power to kill,” he told her in an offhand manner one night.

She did not believe him
, even after he described what he had seen. "The Italian mercenaries have used them with mild success.”

Sometimes she would tell him one of her favorite fabliaux and would be pleased when one of those short, often bawdy stories would bring him to full laug
hter. At those relaxed moments, she was closest to him.

Today, she rode just ahead of the pack mules and heavier wagons, weighted with not
only clothing needed for the next several months but, also, with camping equipment for the nights spent along the old Roman road, the Domitian Way.

On this particular afternoon, the road crawled through a narrow river valley with sharp, thickly wooded peaks. With Dominique rode her maids-in-waiting and Iolande
and Baldwyn, whom Dominique insisted upon accompanying her or else she would not go at all. Hour after hour, the caravan lumbered on toward the coast, where the traffic would increase, offering safety in numbers.

She turned to Iolande and said, "One more day on horseback, and I swear by all the pope
’s relics I shall take the veil and decamp in the nearest convent.”

Iolande was cackling. "Paxton would not let a nun
’s cell stand in his way. He would be excommunicated for consorting with a—” Iolande’s cackle turned to a choked gasp at the apparition that appeared on a rocky outcrop. It held its arms aloft, as if in succor, then toppled forward to flop near the nervously prancing hooves of Dominique’s gray. She stared in disbelief at the body of one of Paxton's reconnoitering scouts. His eyes had been pierced and his lips and nose severed.

With shrill war cries, a horde of men slid down in a slither of shale from the rocky defiles to clash with Paxton
’s soldiers. Caught off guard, the soldiers were forced step by step backwards. The woods rang with the clang of sword on shield and murderous shouts.

Along with the other females, she took shelter beneath one of the large wagons as the men engaged in a frenzy of killing. Paxton
’s voice could be heard, shouting directions to his men, disbursing some to cover the weaker ground defenses, others to protect the women. Hugh, he specifically charged with her safety. The boy’s eyes were as round as walnuts, but he quickly obeyed Paxton's order.

In the melee, she glimpsed Denys, deftly using his left hand to hack with his sword a way th
rough the throng of combatants. One man was pierced through, another’s throat was severed, as Denys fought his way toward Paxton, himself besieged by three men with maces and axes.

Despite the surprise of the attack, Paxton
’s men held their own. Training, discipline, and skillful leadership gave them the mental and emotional advantage.

Denys
muscular torso, even more developed since last she had seen him, was blood- streaked and still he battled. Time and again, Denys was obstructed from his target by an opponent. Paxton, likewise, sought to dispatch each foe like a pesky fly because his one goal was the one-handed
routier
who had dared touch his wife.

Such foolishness in the name of pride!

Her breath felt as if it were bottled in her throat by a cork. Her gaze whipped back and forth between Denys and Paxton, encircled by bodies of men they had slain. The soldiers’ shields dripped with blood. Tears at such wanton savagery flooded her eyes, dimming the two leaders who steadily inched closer toward one another.

A blurred figure sprang up behind Paxton, and she screamed. Perhaps he heard her, or perhaps it was sheer instinct, bu
t he whirled to cut down the man with one powerful swipe of his sword. At that moment Denys reached the diverted Paxton. Denys’s left hand hefted his sword for a deadly downward slash.

This time the tears in her throat strangled her warning outcry. Paxton
’s life would be snatched from her! Even though time was against her, she sprang from beneath the wagon.

At that s
ame instant, Baldwyn stepped between the two men. The red cross emblazoned on his white habit expanded to cover all of Dominique’s world. He raised his shield to ward off Denys’s blow. The blow was so violent that the shield shuddered and split. The blade glanced off Baldwyn’s helmet and angled downward to pierce his chest.

"Noooo!”
she screamed. A crazed scream that was echoed and re-echoed by Iolande.

Baldwyn swayed, and Paxton caught him, lowering him to the ground. Denys took ad-vantage of the diversion to withdraw his men rapidly, many of whom were wounded. Their
own shields were broken and their swords notched and blunted. Backing away, lashing his sword indiscriminately at the few soldiers who still dared fight, Denys scarcely noticed Dominique as she sped by him toward Baldwyn.

Some of Paxton
’s soldiers blocked her way. They leaned on their swords and halberds, recovering their breath. Pushing past them, she dropped to her knees at Baldwyn’s side. She laid her hand alongside the old giant's throat. The life force barely pulsed there. Wildly, she looked up to find Paxton standing over them. "Quick, Paxton! We need to get him to water—a stream or pond. Something. Oh, hurry, please!”

"We have been following a river for some time,”
he said, gently moving her aside. He knelt beside the Templar and pulled back his eyelid. "I do not think it will help. 'Tis too late.”

"No!”
Iolande shouted. Even to Dominique, the haggard old woman looked as fierce and forbidding as the storied witches. “There are herbs,” the Jewess said. "Incantations. Do as my Lady Dominique says. Get him to the riverside!”

A camp of canvas tents was immediately pegged in
a sheltering wood along a bend of the river where a steep cliff protected against further surprise attack.

While Dominique
’s maids-in-waiting and women pilgrims attended to the other wounded soldiers, she and Iolande worked feverishly over Baldwyn. At the old woman's bidding, men scurried through the woods and along the river's mossy banks, seeking a special type of lichen, bark from a lotus tree, truffles from the base of a white oak, and mushrooms of an exact variety.

Conti
nuously, Dominique bathed Baldwyn’s naked body with a sponge soaked in apple cider. Meanwhile, a grimly determined Iolande prepared the healing herbs with wagon grease, and Dominique implored the warrior/monk-soldier/mystic, "Hold on to your physical body, Baldwyn! Do not loose the tether. Listen to me! You are needed here. Hold on! Iolande and I, we love you, you old rogue.” Her tears washed his leprosy-wasted face.

Her hands massaged the space bounding his body. She could sense his spirit straining to pull away, and she lovingly stroked
that aura that dimmed and wavered. "You subscribe to the gift of healing, I know. Feel my intangible touch," she urged. "Let my energy complete its circuit from me through you and back.”

Throughout the night she exhorted him and begged a
nd cried. Curiously, Iolande remained stoically silent in the face of the Templar’s subsiding spirit "Tis Paxton’s fault,” Dominique cried bitterly. "All of our misfortunes began with his arrival at Montlimoux!”

At dawn, she sprang up from the tent and hurried to the river.
She ran along its bank, looking for a secluded spot to submerge herself. A small inlet concealed by reeds afforded her the opportunity to wade in unseen.

Her mind screamed for help but she knew that such inner turmoil was not conducive to communicating wi
th the spirit world. Still she cried within, calling upon her inner resources. She needed help, now more than ever!

Drawing dee
p, restorative breaths, she quietened, while the water flowed around her shoulders, fanned out her hair, and tugged at her clothing. Her eyes closed, seeking the radiant white light. Seeking. Seeking. Waiting. She chilled and despaired. There was no inner signal that help was forthcoming.

She felt depleted, utterly drained. Her foot-steps dragged as she left the river bank. She curs
ed Paxton of Wychchester with every step. The summer evening's heated breeze fanned her clothing almost dry by the time she reached camp. Fires pulsing before the tents looked like guiding stars.

When she entered her tent, Iolande glanced up from Baldwyn
’s bedside. Recently shed tears reddened her eyes. "The old leper is out of his head. Muttering, but I can tell not what. His ramblings make no sense.”

Dominique circled to the far side of the makeshift cot. The fact that Baldwyn was no longer unconscious ga
ve her hope until she drew near enough to perceive that he
was
dying. His lips were moving, and she leaned close. "Tell Iolande . . . tell her I owe her a great apology.”

She looked up and beckoned the Jewess to kneel with h
er. Baldwyn continued, “A terrible misdeed . . . I did not realize. I was indifferent with the arrogance of youth . . . to the sufferings of others.”

"Those early years at Montlimoux are past and done with,”
Iolande said, her hooked nose sniffling.

His big paw reached for her withered ha
nd. "No, 'tis not the years ... at Montlimoux of which ... I speak. Tis of St. Jean d’Acre.”

Iolande
’s eyes knitted in perplexed wrinkles. "You are daft, old man.”

"I was there. I helped
besiege the fortress . . . helped murder your father and brothers . . . helped. . . .”

The Jewess's face was strained to the point of breaking
into a thousand cracks. Her outcry was of an animal in extreme pain. "No . . . no . . . no! It cannot be so! It cannot be!”

"I was not
. . . one of the ones who raped you. But I looked away while the . . . others took their . . . did so. That I did not . . . participate was due to no knightly honor. Only that you stirred no desire in me. I was one of the knights set to guard you. I took . . . no pity on your pleas . . . your weeping. God help me . . . old woman, I need your forgiveness!”

Iolande laid her gnarled hand, trembling, across his sweat-beaded forehead. Tears dropped like spilled
molten gold. “I would still tell you, leper, that those early years—at St. Jean d'Acre—are past and done with. But then you would selfishly depart, leaving me to spend the rest of my years on earth without your churlish gests to vex me. No, old man, you owe it to stay here with me. Do you hear me?!”

But it appeared he could not. He was fast slipping away. From the entrance of the tent, Paxton asked, "How does the Templar fare?”

Wordlessly, Dominique shook her head.

Paxton dropped the canvas flap and crossed to the cot. He took one glance at t
he scene. His mouth set in a hard line. He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Dominique . . . he is dead.”

Iolande covered her face with her hands and wept in
great, agonizing gasps. Dominique stiffened. She would not give up, even though it was obvious Baldwyn Rainbaut of the Knight Templars was dead. She knew that when one changed energy, one changed reality.

She looked to Paxton. “
Order a man to draw in the dirt a circle around the tent.”