Awaken My Fire (13 page)

'Twas madness, or so she thought, remembering all the many times Papillion had sent her on wild-goose chases before confessing, "I suppose I was wrong about that… Ah, well . . ." Yet as they rounded the corner of the far cornice of the cathedral tower, she heard the whisper of a voice: "Helpmesavemehelpmesavmehelpmesaveme..."

A terrified young girl sat waist-high in mud beneath the pounding rain, her arms and legs pinned in the locked wood scaffold of the stocks. She had been forgotten. The street cleaners had piled a small mountain of manure mixed with hay nearby, and in the pounding rain the pile drained in a river of mud higher and higher against the scaffold. Abject confusion and fear mixed with the desperate whisper of her plea, a plea that echoed through her dreams even now, many years later: "Helpmesavemehelpmesaveme ..."

"Potiers, your halbert! Quickly!"

"Milady," another man said as Potiers raised his halbert to free the girl. "Interfering with the church's punishment could land a death sentence—"

"Just do it! Now. I will take the responsibility."

"Helpmesavemehelpmesaveme..."

"I will save you, I will help you ..."

No one ever discovered why the girl had been punished, a punishment that more often than not resulted in death. Afterward, when it became clear that Joan was not suffering from shock but was simple, Louis made the inquiries. Yet no one in the church seemed to remember the girl or her crime, or even, strangely, her condemnation. To know Joan, too, was to know 'twas absolutely impossible for her to have ever committed a crime, any crime...

For Joan's spirit shined as sweet and pure as sunshine, more precious than any other. Which was why Rodez used Joan to command Roshelle's obedience. For Joan was the one person, the only person, whom she would always keep safe; forevermore she vowed to keep her from the fear of rain-washed nights...

Roshelle's hand came to Joan's lovely face. The girl was so beautiful! Unlike many other simpletons, she revealed nothing of this by her appearance. The girl's strength defied her average height and slim, comely figure. A flawless complexion added to her healthful good looks and, of course, the uncut hair—long gold hair that fell in neat plaits to her knees.

"You have come," Joan repeated.

"Aye, but Potiers, he hath been killed."

The deep brown eyes lowered with sadness before she genuflected. "Potiers hath been killed," she repeated in her strange, even tone. "This is sad."

"Aye." Roshelle's eyes filled with fresh tears. "My heart is weak with grief. You must go tell the others. Tell them Potiers died after we warned the countryside of the advancing army." She closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts, but somehow she could only think of the hands ripping at her person. "I need, I very much need a bath. Tell the kitchen maids to heat the water. And"—she cast her gaze on her fallen friend—"ask Jean Luc to come here and put Cisely to her bed."

Joan nodded and set off at once.

Within minutes, the bells had rung and the guards lowered the French colors on the battlements. Father Martin prepared for mass to be sung in Potiers' name. Jean Luc, one of Roshelle's personal guards, hurriedly arrived to lift Cisely to her bed. A hot bath was being prepared as three maidservants fussed over and comforted Roshelle.

Within an hour, Roshelle's head lay on Joan's lap. Joan's gentle fingers soothed back Roshelle's wet hair, while she listened to the large orange cat purr and Roshelle's last words: "I know now why Papillion gave the curse to me." Roshelle closed her eyes, shuddering visibly as she remembered the hands, the terrible hands grabbing, ripping, hurting, the threat of a fate worse than death. "To save me from a fate worse than death."

"The curse kills men. They are dead now." This apparently was all Joan had gathered from Roshelle's story,

and she added as habit, knowing she should, "Mercy for

their souls." After a moment she said, feeling she ought,

"Bless the lord who saved you."

"The lord who saved me?" The erroneous idea gave Roshelle a sudden burst of energy and she sat halfway up. "He was a brute! Like all English lords!"

"Aye, brutes. All men are bad."

"Well, not all men," Roshelle said tiredly, feeling she should correct this idea. One never knew where Joan's ideas might lead, and though usually they led nowhere at all, she knew from experience to be careful in explaining things. "Think of Papillion. Was he bad?"

"Papillion cursed you."

"But that is my point. The curse saved me, Joan, it saved me."

"Bless the lord who saved you."

Roshelle sighed, seeing it was no use. Sometimes Joan seemed to understand almost everything, while at other times it was obvious the girl did not grasp the simplest statement. Although Joan could easily follow a series of ten orders given only once, she could never repeat one of them. Then out of the blue she might become confused, not knowing where she was or what she was doing. Papillion had believed her feeblemindedness was the result of a blow to the head that injured her reasoning faculties, damage that fluctuated according to unknown conditions.

As Joan gently eased Roshelle's head back onto her lap, a vivid memory sprang to mind to counter the passionate exclamation, a memory of his consuming warmth and great strength, the compelling light in those remarkable, darkly intelligent eyes. The unexpected memory made her thin dark brows go cross and she repeated harshly, “That English lord was but the means, no more. 'Twas my curse that saved me!"

"Aye, bless the lord."

Roshelle sighed. ' 'I hope you mean the one in heaven and not the one destined for hell."

"We will see Potiers in heaven."

"Not soon, I hope," Roshelle replied distractedly as she thought of the future. "If we can just hold out against the duke's army for another month, maybe two, then Charles will be able to persuade those impotent old counselors of his to secure enough men of arms for another French army! And if that happens, then do you not see, Joan, Rodez will have to show his French colors! He'll have to! Surely the Duke of Suffolk is as pernicious and greedy as his brother and he will tire of paying his army to do no more than sit under the battlements." A deliciously wicked thought entered her mind. "And perhaps, why, yes, I shall put a flux in their drinking water—Papillion gave me the recipe for one once. I believe it's listed on that worn parchment in the book.''

"Flux is bad. Edward is bad. Men are bad, but not him, not the lord that saved you."

Roshelle no longer listened as Joan lovingly stroked her long wet hair. A good two feet of wet auburn hair lay across the bed; Roshelle's skin glowed pink from her womenfolk's scrubbing. Yet dark red rings circled her eyes from weariness, a bruise formed on one side of her face, more showed on her arms and her hands were raw from the relentless tug of leather reins. Just as sleep pulled her gently into darkness, the image of a handsome face, darkly intelligent eyes, wide, full lips and the perfect cleft chin emerged unbidden in her mind. She tried to banish it, but the image remained, spinning into her dreams...

The warm sun filled the afternoon sky, appearing as a heavenly sent light shining through enormous billowing white clouds. Into the quiet afternoon air, Reales' bells suddenly sang out, ringing in a quick succession of frantically clanging sounds. A fine, strong breeze rippled through the bright green grass edging the woods where a group of barefoot peasant girls gathered what they might to subdue the persistent roar of their stomachs—nuts, berries and an occasional root or two for the porridge pot. The ringing of the bells made them stop and look up.

" 'Tis the English duke and his army! Mon Dieu!"

The girls burst into a dash down the hall. "Mama said to find her before going to watch—"

Too late. Despite the word that this English army's approach had been peaceful and orderly with no raping, pillaging or even looting, the French had long ago grown wary of any advancing English army. And every child had heard the fanciful stories of coin-tossing into the crowds by certain members of the English aristocracy, and though the duke had reason to punish the entire township of Reales, the idea of a coin in their hands and what it would mean for their families, on top of the excitement of the march, bade the girls, indeed all the people, to toss caution to the wind and race outdoors to see the famous man.

The townsfolk arrived first, gathering four-deep at the roadside. What little business remained in Reales came to a stop as the large Boulanger family—all eleven of them— set down stoneware and cooled the ovens before stepping outside. The smithy workers—also the armorer, the work-less tailors, even Phillips, the township's poor, ailing shoemaker—who everyone knew refused to stop work even on the Sabbath—stepped outside his modest shop to watch.

Phillips tried to flex his three dead fingers as, gathering his squashed courage, he forced his gaze down the road. God help us all if the Duke of Suffolk has even half of his dead brother's brutality. God help Lady Roshelle...

Stony-faced and silent, the people of Reales held their breath as the first of the two hundred and four foot soldiers appeared, marching straight and proud twelve abreast in seventeen neatly formed rows. The people stared in wonder and awe, for none had seen such fine livery as the neat blue-and-green uniforms on these men—even the foot soldiers wore the colors! Surely, they would bring coins to the township!

The banner of Suffolk came next. Ripples of wonder raced through the crowd. The honor of carrying the banner went to the Lord of Huntingdon, Joseph Eyes, and his knights. The knights of the House of Suffolk followed. Necks turned and gazes riveted to none other than the Duke of Suffolk.

With his dark features, straight, proud back and broad shoulders, Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk, looked like a mythological being atop an enormous black horse. The creature needed only wings to be transformed into myth. The coat of arms of the House of Suffolk emblazoned beneath the richly carved metal plates on his chest. Two swords and a dagger fell from his thick black belt, his only weapons—that is, if one did not notice the metal caps on his gloved hands. A red band circled his head, and he wore absolutely no jewels. And still he looked more prideful than Satan. Indeed, aristocratic arrogance marked the strong, strangely compelling features of his face, and plainest of all, it appeared in the noticeable narrowing of his remarkable gaze. A startling contradiction appeared there as well.

For unlike all others who were highborn, Vincent did not pretend to see through the people's very skin, as if they were invisible beings of absolutely no consequence, not worth even seeing. Instead, each person there felt the intimate brush of his intelligent eyes. A startled hushed silence came over his victims. Without at first realizing it, they abruptly straightened and squared their shoulders, nervously smoothed down disheveled hair, adjusted breeches and smocks; mothers hurriedly wiped smudges from children's cheeks before raising their own chins. A few found themselves offering hesitant smiles before abruptly realizing this man was their sworn enemy, the one man who thought to bring Lady Roshelle to her knees.

Two men of his personal guard rode on either side of the duke, eight men behind, knights each, though noticeably without the cumbersome weight of armor. "Not seen a more arrogant face on a mere mortal in all my days," Thomson, the Reales sheriff, whispered, adding, "And that includes the day my eyes beheld King Henry himself on his march through the town of Go."

No one could say who started it; it would be argued for days, but as the duke rode through the town, a bold voice suddenly sang out Roshelle's name. Another took it up and another. A chorus of voices took up the chant made of Roshelle de la Nevers's name, and by the time the duke reached the end of town, the chant had become a chorus of scrutinized voices.

He raised a gloved hand, that was all. The one hundred and fifty-two knights behind him, their horses, the two hundred or so servants behind them, all the women who followed—of ill repute, hoping to live nicely off the wages of this fine army—the young boys and their dogs who chased after that, all these people came to an abrupt halt. The chant died an instant death. Silence filled the air. Each person became unnervingly aware of his escalating heartbeat, more symbolically aware of his limited mortality as Vincent turned his mount around. That strangely compelling gaze searched the sea of frightened faces; he selected a man at random and brought his stallion to dance in front of him. "My good man, your name?"

The crowd stared in horror. The great and mighty duke could slay the poor man in a half second and no one and nothing would move. Fully, terribly aware of this fact, the stout man dropped his jowls, his face blanching. Certain this was his end, his absolute end, he tried to swallow. "Saul, milord, the name is Saul."

"Indeed, Saul." Vincent smiled as if the name pleased him, a smile that did not reach his eyes until the man fell to his knees to beg his mercy.