Awaken My Fire (49 page)

A fortune in a matter of minutes.

He would be late for his supper at this pace.

"Father Herve!"

The whispered reprimand visibly jerked Father Herve, and he glanced nervously behind. If only the cardinal had not viewed the prospect of the girl's fortune with such transparent eagerness! Greed was the devil's limb, he knew, and while he did not feel comfortable contemplating his superior's motives, much less the nature of his soul—

A harsh whisper said, "I am warning you!"

Oh, Roshelle Marie, my poor dear child. His gaze swept across the small chapel, as if looking for a source of heavenly intervention. Having no choice, it seemed, he drew a deep breath, released in the full rise of song. He would draw the ceremonial mass out as much as possible, yet would it be long enough?

Long enough for what? What was he expecting? Another of Papillion's miracles? Perhaps the Duke of Suffolk himself? The duke was at war, though, on a battlefield far, far away, and unless the good man could fly over the hundred or so miles between them...

Slowly the crescendo built and Father Herve's hauntingly beautiful voice filled the chapel. Bishop Gregory de Borne sighed, listening, almost willing to forgive the father his sins for that voice. A voice from God, the people believed, a voice that had assured Father Herve's place in the church the first time Papillion had presented it to the papal court, and the Pope claimed afterward that he had heard the Gregorian chants sung the way the angels sang them in heaven. Then, too, Father Herve's masses always brought a significant emptying of pockets into the collection box...

The deep, rich voice of Father Herve's song in the stilled air of the church stirred his listeners with its beauty as he sang the traditional mass, though all gazes remained fixed on the girl Roshelle Marie. The Latin words would lead Roshelle Marie in humility and love to become Sister Sharon. The rose of Sharon. With that transformation, the curse would end for all time. It would be over. She would step into a new and different life and, God willing, she would be graced with peace. The peace would be the gift for making Vincent safe for all time.

Vincent. The name was her own incantation, one whispering through her heart, stirring her soul with the burden of its love. Her eyes were closed and her mind conjured the image of his face: the thick dark hair that framed the jutting raven-black brows, arching over the darkly intelligent eyes, eyes filling with passion and love; the impressive crook of his nose, the mark of his cleft and his mouth, dear Lord, his mouth as he bent to kiss her, turning hell into heaven with the touch of his lips ...

Vincent, I love you, I love you, forever ...

For you, my love, for you ...

Cisely would send her word of his safe homecoming, a message that would bring salvation. For her life depended on receiving that message; she anxiously awaited this, though she knew it would not, could not, come until after the vows were spoken. The whole of these past long and tumultuous years was spent in an arduous journey to reach this point of his safety.

For you, my love, for you ...

The priests joined Father Herve to sing the next verses and the chapel filled with the collective sound of this prayer. Roshelle Marie still did not move, not even to wipe the tears sliding down her pale cheeks. The raised voices faded at last. There came a shuffling of feet, more silence, broken only by a distant sound of horses' hooves, a rowdy group of birds outside, a fly furiously beating against the glass in an effort to escape.

Soon. Very soon now.

There was something wrong in the silence, though, so lost in her tragic circle of thoughts, Roshelle did not notice. The clamor of horses drew nearer and nearer still, though no one at first noticed as all gazes lifted to Father Herve, waiting. Yet the priest seemed to have forgotten his place and purpose as his bright dark eyes stared intently at Lady Roshelle kneeling at his feet.

The entire force of Father Herve's consciousness went into a prayer for heavenly intervention. An angry clap of the bishop’s hands jerked him back to the cold reality of the chapel again. The congregation waited patiently for him to begin. The simple lift of his hand felt like the lift of a tabernacle-size boulder. Smiling, unmindful of the father's struggle, the abbess knelt and lifted the shears. These were kissed. The older woman genuflected once and rose. Three steps brought her to Roshelle's back. Roshelle closed her eyes, waiting to feel the lifting of the weight from her back for the last time.

For you, my love, for you...

A loud commotion sounded outside, immediately mobilizing an alarmed Bishop. He motioned violently to the abbess to cut and she might have, if only she had seen the violent motion. She did not. Because her gaze, like all others, was fixed on the door to the chapel. The sound of horses neighing angrily echoed into the church as the riders reined the beasts to a fast stop, men flying off mounts with a rancorous clang of metal and curses, English curses greeting the excited French of the two or three sisters outside, who warned against interrupting the sacred rites and holy vows…

Doors pushed open with a loud bang. Heads confronted the unconventionally tall figure silhouetted against the afternoon light. A rush of outraged voices greeted the man. Priests issued warnings; some, soft explanations. Still, other voices sounded with shaking fists, "How dare thees," and harsh warnings of the consequences of halting holy ceremonies. The sisters all seemed to stare with open mouths, all of them genuflecting as if the intrusion were an evil that needed warding off. Everyone waited for Father Herve's voice to put an end to this sacrilege and send the man out—but a strange, very pleased grin changed the father's weathered face as he rocked back on his heels. In fact the good fatherimagined the argument he might have had with Papillion: whether this constituted a true heavenly intervention or not.

He would say yea, Papillion would argue nay. Which was the whole point. Papillion had never believed in magic at all, not even the heavenly inspired kind. The war with Rodez had all been to show that awful man there really was no such thing on earth, or rather, that someday man's knowledge would explain the whole of the great mystery. Papillion would argue that because we witness a "miracle" or do not understand the mechanisms of an event does not imply the mystery was either magical or divine. "Say a man comes to see a little green dragon on his shoulder," Papillion would explain. "He sees it, feels it, he can even hear it. Does this mean the green dragon is real? Of course not. Our experience, even the knowledge of the senses, is not, cannot be, a criterion for reality, as this very knowledge is often erroneous."

Sometimes, though, the mystery seemed so great...

A number of men at arms had come up behind the tall man at the church's open doors, filing past him to come inside, and the assembly heard. "Did you see that, Wilhelm? Did you?"

"Aye," he said. "One more minute and you would have lost that hair."

“
I would have used the rope of it as a noose."

No one knew whether he meant a noose for the abbess, holding the shears, or for Roshelle herself, but no one wanted to clarify the point, a moot point now, for the sheers fell with a loud clamor on the floor.

The blaze of his coat of arms worn on his padded leather tunic said his name and gave his title: Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk. Harsh lines, deeply etched on his strong face, lent a deadly air about him. Blood mixed with mud on his boots. The now stilled chapel echoed with the clang of his spurs as he walked down the center aisle, approaching the kneeling figure.

Vincent stopped suddenly, grabbing the back of a pew as a fierce wave of dizziness washed over him. After the many furious battles fought and won, the three arduous days and nights without sleep, the long, hard ride to reach this point, blackness, merciful but deadly now, threatened. Just as he felt the blood vacate the muscles of his legs, Wilhelm's strong hand came to his arm, lending him the necessary support for the crucial next minutes it would take to state his claim and take his stand at her side.

Forever, Roshelle, forever...

Upon hearing that voice, Roshelle froze where she knelt, just froze. The sudden hard pounding of her heart brought a slight tremble to her hands, but still she did not, could not, move as his voice echoed through her mind, and with it the knowledge that he was alive.

He was alive!

Tears of gratitude blinded her. She collapsed into a heap on the floor, tears falling onto her hands as she kissed the rosary beads over and over. He was alive. He was alive!

The sweet miracle of it seized her. It worked, it worked. The curse was over. The sacrifice had the awesome power to end the curse and save his life. She had not even said the holy vows yet and he was saved.

Blood pumped hard and fast into Roshelle's overworked heart. She managed to stand on uncertain legs and move toward him until, stumbling, she felt those strong arms come around her form, and hold her tightly against his body.

For the last time, she clung to him desperately, for the last time. He held her slender form so tight he feared he might hurt her, yet it wasn't enough; it would never be enough. The love pounding through him felt so physical, so alarmingly physical, that it acted as a powerful tonic able to sustain him for a few precious moments more. His lips gently grazed her forehead and closed eyes as he drank in the sweet perfume of her being. He caught a tear as it slid down her cheek. Dear Lord, he wanted her now, in a chapel full of priests and nuns; weak with blood loss and mind-numbing fatigue, on the very edge of collapsing, he wanted her.

"Roshelle, Roshelle," he whispered against her lips. "I love you. Forever, Roshelle, forever."

She was crying, overwhelmed and utterly unable to speak. Had she been able to speak, it would have just been to say what she said with her eyes as she looked up at him, with her lips as she took his large hands in hers and kissed them as if they were more precious than life, and they were, they were.

Bishop Gregory de Borne weighing the difficult equation: the odds of winning a battle in the chapel and if they won, a huge if, the likelihood of the lady willing to say the holy vows over the slain body of her lover. Added to that was the greater difficulty: Pope Benedict had Henry's support lately and the English king's support was badly needed, yet what would Henry do if one of his favorite Dukes was slain by French priests?

Still, the fortune here was so large, so very large...

Vincent had but moments left to him. All consciousness rested on his goal, the only thing that mattered to him: taking his place at Roshelle's side, forevermore. To the neat row of priests he said: "The lady is mine. I claim her." He withdrew the parchments from behind his belt and waved them in the air, ignoring the widening pool of blood at his feet. "I have decrees from Henry, the King of England and Wales, and Louis Valois, the Duke of Orleans, now the young lady's custodian, and the seals of both." He tossed the papers to the altar. "You are commanded by the highest authority—"

"This cannot be tolerated!" Bishop Gregory shook his finger, unable to release his precarious hold on the girl's fortune. "The highest authority is and always will be the church. She has made her choice—"

"I warn you all," Vincent said to the priests as his free hand gripped the pews, his voice giving no sign of his physical weakness or agony as it thundered loudly through the chapel, "God will lose such a battle and simply"— his voice lowered compellingly to Roshelle—“because I want her so much more."

"Oh, but of course you do!" Father Herve agreed, smiling, as if this were a perfectly happy conclusion to the dilemma, and it was, it was. Yet his eyes remained firmly fixed on the warriors' hands that gripped the pommels of swords, and with this in mind, hoping to ease the Bishop’s objection, he added, "And naturally, you would be willing to, ah, offer"—a dark brow rose with the suggestion—"some financial compensation for the honor and privilege of marrying the lady?"

Roshelle started with a shock. "No, no—"

Vincent's hand came unkindly over Roshelle's mouth as he waved his free hand in acquiescence, willing to ride a banner through Hades to reach that point. "Very well. Is that in agreement with the bishop?"

For anxious minutes Gregory de Borne did not speak, only glared, first at the Duke of Suffolk, then at Father Herve. Better than nothing, he supposed, though no compensation from Suffolk would offset the loss of the lady's wealth. On the other hand, he knew Pope Benedict, and that man would hold him personally responsible if this skirmish resulted in losing King Henry's support.

Oh, women, curse them! Thank the good Lord he would never feel such violent, unpleasant emotion for such impossible creatures.

"Agreed, but reluctantly." He found the tear-streaked face and sighed, softening despite his better instincts, though nonetheless he had to ask. "Only with the lady's concurrence. What does the lady say?"