Sweet Enchantress (23 page)

He stared at her as if she were little better than a performing mon
key. "What?”

"For defense and protection. Please, just have it done. Please.”

He gave into her, but not without rolling his eyes as he left the tent. Feverishly, her hands worked with her energy. Once more, she caressed and fondled the space bordering Baldwyn's body, but this time she did so with a determination that would not reckon with any outcome but life returning to this physical body.

Paxton reentered the tent and watched, horror a
nd fascination warring for dominance in his expression.

In an altered state of consciousness, she transmuted
her breathing, her body temperature, her heart rate so that the Light within her, that same Light within everyone, was allowed to move into her outer consciousness.

She was the first to detect the pulsat
ing of Baldwyn’s life forces and knew that he was reentering this dimension. Paxton and, yes, even old Iolande, were astonished when the Templar's lids quivered. His foam-spittled lips barely moved. Only Dominique heard his ragged whisper, "Manifest what is good for the whole . . . not merely what is good for the individual . . . then, you will move permanently . . . back into the light, woman. Remember . . . only the heart that truly loves truly lives.”

The statement, the tone, the form of address all jolt
ed her. When Baldwyn's lids at last opened, she saw within his rheumy eyes another factor, something that had been added. She realized then his spirit had seeped through the cracks of this world to meet with that Greater Spirit of which it was a part.

She
turned away, shaking with exhaustion, and Iolande moved to take her place, to tend to her beloved Templar. Paxton put his arm around Dominique and guided her from the tent into one next to it that had been set up as his headquarters. "Come rest,” he said gently. He pressed her down upon his cot and covered her with a woolen blanket. With guarded eyes, he stared down at her.

"You mistrust me more than ever, do you not?”
she asked so weakly she could barely lift her hand. "You think me a sorceress, for certain.” The last was not a question but a weary statement.

"I do not know what to think.”
He plopped down onto a three-legged stool. "You confound me at every turn, Dominique. I know not what I shall do with you.”

Her eyes had closed but at this last they snap
ped open. "What do you mean by that?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Simply that I have never dealt with a woman
—or man—like you. I do not know what action is wisest for everyone concerned.”

She was too exhausted to try and divine his words for deeper
meaning. She sank into a restless sleep that was disturbed when Paxton shook her shoulder minutes—or was it hours?—later. "The Templar calls for you.” She roused herself enough to understand Paxton tell her he was making a round of the camp to check on his soldiers. His face was grim. "I have to tell you that this seeming miracle-heeding has alienated many. The people in the caravan might have considered you merely fey before, but now there is open talk of you being a sorceress.”

"Then they are fools,”
she said with a shrug, but she was concerned more than she wanted Paxton to know. She splashed some water from a basin on her face, then made her way back to the other tent. Baldwyn was sitting up, while Iolande put a fresh dressing on his wound. He appeared as white as the strips of bandaging, and still looked as if he tottered on the brink of life and death.

"I told the leper to let you rest,”
Iolande grumbled. Though her tone was waspish, Dominique sensed some kind of refined thread had been woven between the' Jewess and the Templar.

"I have something important to say,”
he managed to get out. "Something to tell you should I still not . . . make it.”

She flashed him an encouraging smile. “
You will make it. You are too knavish to leave this world yet.”

He did n
ot return her attempt at joviality. “In my journey between here and to another life, I was told to return to you, that my time here wasn't finished.”

Her mouth opened in astonishment. "Who .
. . What was said?”

"I think you are both out of your minds,”
Iolande said, fussing with Baldwyn's bandaging.

He made a face. "I know I sound crazy.”
He looked up at Dominique. "But I know you, if no one else, understands. It was only a warm, loving voice that coaxed me to return here. That’s all I know. Except one other thing.”

"Which is?”
she asked, greatly interested in this phenomenon she had long believed to be possible.

Baldwyn fixed her with a hollowed gaze. "There is something else you should know, my Lady Dominique. There is another who, even before the runes we
re inscribed, has been orchestrating events through another close to you in order to gain your soul.”

"Do what was best for the whole” Baldwyn had said. The phrase lingered in Paxton’s mind.

Beside him, Dominique tossed in a restless sleep. H
e had more than Dominique to consider. He had the whole. Not just his own men, but the whole English army, the whole of England.

Then there was the whole of France. For which side did God lend His support?

On Francis de Beauvais’s side?

Was the bishop an a
gent provocateur? He had the Pope's ear, but he appeared not the type to be politically interested in mere feuds between countries. Something grander, something more personal beckoned Dominique’s confidant.

CHAPTER XVII

Though ramparts built centuries before by the Romans ringed Avignon, the city itself was dominated by a
giant, fortress-like palace considered Europe's greatest building, the palace of Pope Benedict XII.

Construction on both the papal palace, which had bee
n combined with an old bishop's castle, and on the city itself was continual. Night and day, stonecutters and carpenters, woodcarvers, and glassmakers labored to keep up with the demand for dwelling from the swelling numbers of people immigrating to the international capital and new papal capital.

How Denys would have loved to be a part of this creation, Dominique thought wistfully. Sawdust scented the air, and the sound of
hammering throbbed in the ears and the blood. The sophisticated and lively Avignonese possessed an air of youthful
joie de vivre
.

Here, next to a licensed salt shop, a rich burgess's houses was going up; over there on the Place de L'Horloge a chapel to Saint Pierre was under way; and fronting the Rhone river was the remodeled countinghous
e of the Lombard Companies. Of course, everywhere were palaces of prelates and princes, but new ones were being erected in the suburbs where vineyards had predominated.

Located near the Comtat Venaissin, a papal territory, Avi
gnon was virtually neutral, neither French nor Italian but more Provencal. Because of its site near the confluence of the Rhone and Durance, the holy city was also a thriving commercial port. Foreigners from all over the world crowded its narrow streets.

When Paxton's party passed the
forbidding commandery of the Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem near Rue Rouge, Baldwyn spit from his perch on one of the equipment wagons. "Bah. Sons of Lucifer!"

Iolande, who watched the Templar like a falcon for any signs of relapse, found no humor
in the remark, but Dominique had to chuckle. The Knights of Saint John had been bitter rivals of the Knights Templars during the Crusades, but when the order of the Templars was abolished, the Hospitallers took over almost all the order’s property and had since become rich and powerful.

Past the prostitutes
’ quarters, a stone bridge, the Pont St-Bénézet spanned the Rhone. On its far side rose the imposing tower that garrisoned King Philip’s soldiers. It had been built to counterbalance the stronghold of the papacy.

With a rai
sed hand, Paxton halted the procession at the bridge to stare broodingly across at the fort and its tower. For a fleeting second his expression was forbidding, so much so that she shivered and bumps raised on her flesh. Then the wind from the Rhone ruffled his hair and he appeared almost a boy.

So that was what Paxton of the village of Wychchester h
ad looked like as a child, working the earth, plowing it and planting it and fertilizing it. Did he not realize this was a tremendous love they both shared? At that moment, she wanted to kiss his brow and hold him and love him with all the love that over-flowed her heart.

But the moment quickly passed, and he signaled for the procession to continue on to a bourg that was the residential quarter
of the rich. Ancient patrician families had built rambling mansions reminiscent of the aristocratic towers of Italian cities. Here, the entourage had to move to the far side of the street for two red-hatted cardinals. Even though it was still daylight, torchbearers preceded them.

At last, they reached the abode Paxton had rented for their stay. The H
ôtel de la Prefecture, built by a Florentine banker, was a squat mansion with a wrought iron gate opening onto its outer courtyard. Moss grew between the courtyard’s cobblestones, which were hard on the ankles. Statuary was artfully placed amidst the greenery where, incredibly, peacocks strolled in the peaceful coolness of the afternoon. Moss-sheathed blades of a water wheel creaked over a stream meandering through the grounds.

Inside, the
mansion was a labyrinth of frescoed corridors, chambers, and halls, all furnished lavishly. The ornament over the fireplace was a chevron of gold, no less. For their arrival, the tiled floors had recently been covered with fresh grass and rosemary. So, Paxton had planned ahead for everything.

Like a boy, he grabbed Dominique's hand and pulled her along with him up the flight of marble stairs to inspect the rooms. She was delighted with the water from a well that was piped into t
he garderobes. No more need for chamber pots.

Paxton was pleased with the multitude of bedchambers on the upper floor. He threw open the triple doors to the main one. A bed canopied in red damask dominated the warmly paneled room. The bed was so enormous t
hat a long stick had been provided for the maid to use in straightening the bed linens.

"Had I kn
own that the post of Grand Seneschal included such benefits as this, I would have insisted on coming sooner.”

Recalling Baldwyn's warning, she felt uncomfortab
le both here at the hotel and in Avignon itself. She knew not what to guard against, but she trusted her inner signals. She tugged at Paxton's grip. "Do we have to stay here for the remainder of the year?”

He turned to give her an appraising stare. "I do n
ot know yet just what turn events will take. Does it matter? We are together. Is that not enough?"

She held his gaze. "Enough would be for you to tell me you love me.”

His eyes released hers. He tunneled his fingers through his hair, growing longer now that he was not soldiering. “I do not know how to love you, Dominique. You are not like—like other women.”

Her laugh was short. "Like other women? Or like Elizabeth? Look at me.”

When he did not, she said, "Look at me! I have a womb for you to implant your children.” Her hand splayed across her stomach. "I have two breasts to nourish them.” She cupped her breasts then put her hand to her chest. "I have a heart with which to love them. And I have a mind to teach them what they will need to know.”

"
’Tis your mind that I cannot grapple with.”

"Oh, since I have a mind, I cannot be a woman? Is that it?”

He threw up his hands, and his mouth pulled taut in a frustrated expression. "Why can you just not be—”

"Be what?”

"Like other women.”

With a provocative walk she crossed the room to stand before him. She laid her hand on his chest. "Would you want me as you do, Paxton, if I were like other women?”

He wrapped an arm about her waist and caught her tresses in one hand to draw her head back so that she was forced to meet his gaze. Anger blazed there, but it was directed at himself. "If you were like other women, I would have left you back at the chateau, Dominique.”

Her eyes sparked. "And doubtless girdled my loins with a chastity belt.”

"Like a knight on a crusade, I would have abandoned you without another thought.” Her lips parted, and she found herself hungry for his strong mouth loving hers. "But you could not. I tell you, Paxton, you will never rid your mind of me. Never!”

His mouth tigh
tened. "I know that. If I could have, I would have. But I find a certain pleasure in trying to satiate myself with your love, though I have yet to succeed.” He bent his head over hers, murmuring, "Shall we try out our bed?”

Dominique had to admit to a measure of excitement about calling on the pope. Certainly not because she felt he was any divine source of guidance for the human spirit. Far from that, for amoral deeds of the popes had been the rule rather than the exception for centuries.

Never
theless, the mental stimulation she anticipated encountering in that cosmopolitan court was as tempting an apple as lust was to self-gratification.

The palace itself bore witness to
the fabulous wealth of the papacy. Its high, honey- colored walls were pierced by narrow windows but for the Indulgence Window from which the pope gave his blessing to the congregation in the courtyard below.

The Pope's Tower jutted out like a prow of a ship, dwarfing the city with its high, thick walls. Massive pointed arches r
hythmically punctuated those walls, and huge machicolations made the castle practically unconquerable.

Dust fro
m the pope’s ambitious construction project flurried in the air. Followed by their requisite retinue of servants, she and Paxton passed under scaffolding and through the Great Gateway, surmounted by Benedict XII’s coat of arms. A vaulted passage led them into a cloistered courtyard and the Pope's Tower, guarded by twelve sergeants at arms.

In that apostolic fortress-like palace, the Pope's Tower sa
feguarded the Holy See’s most valuable possessions—the sacred person of the pope himself, who had his bedchamber there, the Great Treasury, and his library, replete with manuscripts.

The hall was packed with theologians,
princes, cardinals, clergymen, and eminences of the Sacred College, Italian and French artists, not to mention the courtesans. Judging by their tall, gilded cone-shaped headdress, from which diaphanous veils floated, Dominique realized her clothing was sadly dated. How on earth did these women avoid knocking off their headdresses when passing under low lintels?

The men wore clothing that was shorter and tighter than that of the women. Scandalously, the male hosiery conformed boldly to the most private parts. A law had recently been passed in
France, prohibiting such flagrant flaunting of these sexual parts by those below the title of a knight's rank.

Even more scandalously, the monks combed their hair over their tonsures and openly dallied with the courtesans, according to gossip the most bea
utiful women in the world. Dominique had to agree.

She glanced about the milling crowd for sight of Francis, but he was not among the prelates, clerics, deacons, and novices.

After a Florentine ambassador was admitted into the presence of the pope, Paxton’s papers, bearing the royal stamp of King Edward of England, Duke of Aquitaine, gained them entry at once. The Salle du Consistoire was where the pope conferred with his cardinals and received with great pomp and circumstance distinguished visitors—sovereigns, ambassadors, and legates who had accomplished missions on his behalf.

The ceiling was covered with a blue fabric simulating
the heavens, with stars of lapis lazuli. Four casement windows were placed just so in order to throw light on the Universal Shepherd. No one could possibly overlook the pope. Jacques Fournier, for all his humble origins—the frail Cistercian was the son of a baker from Foix—possessed a charisma that netted every eye in his presence. He was the Fisherman on earth.

Before being elect
ed pope, he had been referred to as the White Cardinal because of the color of his habit. His habit was still white but was now embellished with sacerdotal jewels. The crook of the pope's crosier rested against his high-backed, pontifical platform chair, and his feet were propped on an embroidered stool. On his narrow head sat a tiara of three crowns. An emperor could wear a tiara of two crowns, and a mere king only one.

After a page announced them, the pope's wrinkled lids dropped halfway over eyes that re
garded them closely. "Welcome, my children.''

With Paxton, she proceeded to the chair and knelt on painted tiles to kiss the ring of the Vicar of Christ. When she rose, however, it was not the pope
’s scrutinizing gaze her own encountered but Francis's intense one. At once, her interest was captured completely. It had always been like that, the way he dominated one’s attention. Certainly, he had more of an aura of the supreme pontificate about him than Benedict XII. He smiled reassuringly and then leaned close to the pope and whispered something behind his hand.

Benedict nodded and then began to discuss with Paxton his role as proxy for the Duke of Aquitaine. She noted that the pope did not once refer to Edward as King of England but always as King Philip
’s vassal.

Not for nothing was the pope French. King Philip knew exactly what he was about when he had maneuvered for the majority of the cardinals to
wear the French mitre. The power of the monarchy and the Church combined would be a formidable opponent against England.

Paxton responded adroitly to the pope's questioning, adding, "I shall eagerly be
looking forward to King Philip's arrival next month so that I may personally do homage for my own fiefdom as well as that of the Duke’s.”

Under other conditions, P
axton’s presence at the pope’s palace might be questioned, but as Avignon was the intellectual center of Europe, he was but one of many foreigners in that court of intrigue. As it was, Benedict was more concerned about the ongoing conspiracy against him by the Roman patricians and princes. Because of this, Paxton was treated with nominal, though cautious, respect.

Later in the privacy of their bedchamber, Paxton explained to Dominique, "King Philip might not trust his English cousin, but he
certain is not yet ready to go to war over Edward's legitimate claim to the French duchy of Aquitaine. In this one matter, Edward is at least King Philip’s vassal, an arrangement I would imagine Philip finds immensely satisfying."

She paused in the midst of unknotting her
girdle and smiled wistfully at her beloved. His features were so powerful. And so closed. "I find you immensely satisfying, my Lord Lieu-tenant.” Forgetting her girdle, she went to him and slipped her arms around his neck. Those long-lidded brown eyes grew wary. "Paxton," she pleaded, "I want the intimacy and warmth between us that we once had.” Beneath her palms, she could feel his neck tendons pull taut. "I want trust between us.”

A muscle at the comer of his mouth ticked. "Can there be such a thing between any two humans?”

She kissed the end of his mouth, where the twitching had been. "Yes, with mutual work.” His mouth moved slightly so that her lips were beneath his. "Mmmmm,” he murmured. "Is this mutual work?”

Her laugh was husky. Her head lolled back. Her eyes clo
sed languorously. "Mutual pleasure, I would say."

He put his hands on her arms and set her away from him. Her lids snapped open. She did not mistake his forced smile. “
A pleasure I must forego for the moment. Affairs at the pope’s palace demand my attention."

With an aching hunger that she feared would have no end, she watched him take up his sword and knife and leave, dropping only the lightest of kisses on her cheek.

The departure was the first of many, and she did not know which she found more unbearable—the loneliness of the Hôtel de la Prefecture without Paxton's presence or the toadying of the courtiers those days she accompanied him to the pope’s palace.

Paxton seem
ed most interested in attending the frivolous
appartements
. At these events, she had to witness the open flirtations of the women in attendance, among them, naturally, Esclarmonde. Was it possible . . . could Esclarmonde hate her enough to work evil against her? Admittedly, Francis's sister was little more than civil to her, which was not the case with Francis.

Despite
the demand upon him by his service to Benedict, Francis found time to introduce her into the academic gatherings of the papal court. The lure of intellectuals and artisans like Andrea Pisano succeeded in drawing her often to these salons, so that she and Paxton occasionally passed each other coming and going. The majority of their exchanges, however, occurred in the privacy of their bedchamber late at night.

Piqued at hi
s lack of attention, she associated more and more often with the learned minds while ignoring the flirtations of the other adepts in Avignon. One afternoon, as she was leaving the hotel with Iolande and Manon, and Baldwyn as guard, she met Paxton just arriving at the courtyard gate. In court dress, he appeared devastatingly handsome. The sleeves of his doublet were split so as to show the fine white shirt, and he wore cordwain shoes of goatskin from Cordova.

"You look tired," she
said, inflecting her voice with an insouciance she was far from feeling. Where had he been this time? He told her so little now that they were quartered in Avignon.

Holding the gate open for her, he stared down at her with a peculiar look in his eyes. Was
it yearning? Suspicion? Why could she not read him as she did others? But then, even that gift seemed to have dimmed for a long time now. "Where are you going?” he asked.

"Only to the home of Cardinal della Provere.”
Perversity made her add, "Petrarch will be there.” Despite the love poetry he wrote about an anonymous woman named Laura, the Italian evidenced a great deal of enjoyment in flirtatious conversation with Dominique. "You know how stimulating Francesco can be.”

"Yes, I am aware of that.”

Could she not even stir that impassive English face into jealousy?

As they made their way to the cardinal
’s house, Iolande grumbled continuously. "Outrageous, the morals of this city. Yet the law forbids a Jewess to touch the fruit in the market stalls. Bah. I spit upon it.”

As a papa
l enclave, Avignon was a sanctuary. Jews, on payment of a small indemnity, were safe, as were escaped prisoners and adventurers fleeing litigation. Smuggling, forgery, and counterfeiting were rife, and brothels and bawdy houses flourished.

Dominique could sympathize with Iolande. After a short three weeks, she was restless to return to the familiarity of Montlimoux. "The time here will pass quickly, Iolande,”
was all she could offer.

Although dusk still provided
enough light to see by, torchbearers guided Dominique’s retinue to the cardinal's home just beyond the narrow Rue Peyrollerie. The mansion was richly appointed with gilded chests and cupboards, easily disassembled for traveling. Arras tapestries graced walls frescoed in yellow foliage on a blue background. Servants hovered at every staircase and screened passage.

Iolande was not impressed with the women who painted their faces and dusted them with fine white flo
ur nor with the superficial discussions of the works of Ovid and Vergil, and least of all with Petrarch and his friend, Giovanni Boccaccio. Several couples were listening intently as Petrarch expounded. “The care of mortal things must be first in mortal minds,” he told the painted woman nearest him.

“
Bah, words,” Iolande said beneath her breath. “So many words. Where are their actions?”

Iolande was
right, of course. But the afternoon was a diversion. An event to occupy Dominique’s thoughts which were forever turned toward Paxton and the subtle change she could only vaguely perceive yet not specifically identify. He evoked the worst in her . . . and yes, the best.  She was learning to care beyond hope, to love without limit; to reach, stretch, and dream in spite of her fears.

Tonight, Esclarmonde was no
t present, but Martine Blanchard was. A renowned court beauty, she was the wife of a portly Flemish merchant who specialized in cargo insurance. Martine specialized in seduction, so it was said, and Dominique suspected that Paxton was her prey. The Belgium woman's cold beauty chilled the length of the room, reaching its frosty tentacles even to Dominique.

Although she had been at the affair less than an hour, she was thinking of leaving. Only the knowledge that her early return would confi
rm her attachment to Paxton prevented her from doing so.

Then Francis was announced. Dominique noticed tha
t all the women in the salon became alert, almost as if he were a lodestone, magnetizing their attention. And why not? With the shock of raven hair and those piercing black eyes, Francis was irresistible. The prohibition of his calling, the taboo of loving such a man, made him all that more desirable. In addition, he was most proficient at playing the political game, of navigating through the nuances of the papal court, a valuable asset for the courtesans among the crowd.

Like peacocks, those courtesans and the wives and daughters present preened. But after first pau
sing to discourse with a politician from Philip’s court, then a diplomat from a foreign nation, and next another ecclesiastical, Francis wended his way directly toward her, bypassing even Martine.

Iolande gave an impudent snort, and he grinned. "I swear, Iolande, I am not here to
coerce your charge into some indiscretion. Although I would have long ago if I thought I would have had a chance at succeeding.”

He focused his attention on Dominique then and it was that very attentiveness, that sophistication
, that made the rest of the evening pass all too quickly. "You know, Dominique,” he said, as she prepared to leave, "the pope’s palace has the most extensive alchemical laboratory outside of Islam. I suggest on your next visit to the palace I show you its wonders. You can become a pilgrim to a greater knowledge at which mere villeins scoff.”