A Kiss in the Night (24 page)

Paxton disliked the man instantly.

John was introducing the other priests as the two men continued to stare at each other. Paxton abruptly noticed Father Thomas again and demanded, "You were carrying letters for me, I believe?"

"I passed it on to a Frederick Coursan, a messenger at the Anjou court, who assured me of their swift deliverance."

The name meant nothing to Paxton. "Did he now? And you," he addressed Bishop Luce. "I imagine you have been informed of the whole of their contents."

Everyone listening drew back with shock. Everyone except for John, who knew his nephew well enough to have anticipated just such a scene. Paxton's strength of character was mercilessly blunt; he never showed the slightest willingness to involve himself in any treachery or intrigue. Nor did he fear any reprisal, of any kind.

The bishop assessed these things at once. Only the most well-protected or conceited man would dare the outrageous suggestion that he had opened a private letter addressed to another. He suspected Lord Paxton de Chamberlain of both. "I am not in the habit of reviewing the contents of personal Letters. I know not what you speak of."

"No, of course not," Paxton said, noticeably without feeling, for he had no doubt the bishop had in fact read the whole of each letter. "I sent a letter to Cardinal Duprat, to the king, as well as to Lorenzo Lotto, the duke of Nantes and steward to Francis, requesting their effort in replacing you with another."

The bishop appeared unperturbed; only an inquiring brow rose over his staunch gaze, though, God knows, the blunt attack said much. Cardinal Duprat was a pluralist, damned because of it, and it stood to reason an adversary would draw his name. Nor did the duke of Nantes present a threat to his purpose. "Ah." He finally nodded, as he smiled condescendingly, implying that this was quite ordinary and rather expected. "And now I suppose you shall enlighten me as to your motives for such rash impudence."

"There was nothing rash or impudent in my judgment," Paxton corrected as he stepped closer, hands on hips, an arrogance in his stance. "The matter is simple. Having had your reputation brought to my attention—"

"And who did this?" Bishop Luce interrupted.

"Why do you ask?" Paxton shot back just as quick. "Is your reputation a secret thing, guarded from scrutiny and public discourse?"

The bishop's hand tightened on his staff. "My reputation stands as testament to God, no other. Milord Chamberlain." His gaze narrowed just slightly. "I fail to understand why I am being persecuted in this rude and, some might say, outrageous manner. So do tell, what have you to gain from my dismissal from Gaillard, or what do you imagine you lose by my presence?"

Paxton eyed the man as if judging his strength and finding it wanting. "My objections are many and owe themselves to philosophical arguments as well as family allegiances. You are well known for your defense of papal rights and law, and the belief that it should supersede the rights and laws and inheritances of my king. I have read your arguments against the writings of Aristotle, and on the 'divine scourge,' the absurd idea that the plague was God's judgment unleashed on the unfaithful. I can say, without hesitation, that I object to every word you have penned. I object most of all to the strictness and rigidity with which you implement church law and practice." He did not smile as he concluded, "In truth, there is little I know that you have said or done that I do not object to. So you will not be surprised when I pen yet another letter requesting Duprat and Lotto intervene to have your superiors withdraw you from Gaillard."

A brow lifted; he was impressed. "I appreciate your honesty—"

"Do you? I am surprised. Most men like you are offended by my inability to hide my displeasure."

He went too far; even John saw that.

For a long moment Bishop Luce just stared at Paxton, appalled by his brazen antagonism, his enormous pride, the doomed sentence this placed upon his soul. The man needed a dose of humility, and he intended to see that he get this.

Paxton started to withdraw.

"Your antagonism is noted, milord." The bishop's voice made him turn around and face him again. "And in time I hope to ease this unwarranted antipathy towards me. For I assure you, I harbor none towards you."

Paxton greeted this pretense of benevolence with unmasked skepticism, a hint of amusement glimmering in his fine eyes.

"However, I feel I must warn you, your letters will result in nothing."

Paxton remained unconvinced. "An interesting test of power," he replied. "We shall see."

"You shall see. The king himself would not be willing to extend the necessary energies to have me removed."

The statement brought anger to Paxton's tone as he demanded, "Did or did not Francis's concordat with the papacy grant him full authority over church appointments?"

The bishop chuckled. The man was naive. "Indeed, but as you should know, there are…strings attached. The concessions our holy pope would demand for the favor would be too high, their cost prohibitive. The king may indeed grace you with his favor, but as I am sure you are aware, there are limits to every courtly liaison. Even the relationship of king and a favorite general."

Paxton's expression—narrowed gaze, tilted chin—neatly conveyed his ire but concealed his confusion.
My God, is this a bluff? Or do the man's connections reach all the way to the pope?

He looked at John, who shook his head with the same question.

Bishop Luce pressed his advantage. "But then it occurs to me this entire tedious conversation is naught but wasted air as you are not the master of Gaillard, are you?" He did not wait for an acknowledgment of the fact and instead pronounced it as sentence. "No, you are not. And with your brother's son, and God's grace of health upon the boy, you never will be. So, while you might covet your brother's inheritance, and—" He paused before adding in an impassioned whisper, "—any number of your brother's possessions, you cannot have them. Ever."

Paxton eyes widened as he demanded, "What the devil does that mean?"

"The devil indeed." Bishop Luce's voice rose with sudden viciousness. "I merely point out that, for all your pretensions, you are left with little more than the enormity of your…unanswered desire, a state of being described in hell, sometimes even as hell. And while I pity you this unholy state, it occurs to me your colossal and shallow pride is as vacuous and meaningless as rainfall over the sea."

Violence trembled through Paxton. Until that moment he hadn't grasped the nature of this man's game. He threatened not just him, but Linness. Those words made it perfectly clear that somehow the man knew about his love for his brother's wife. He would not wonder how until later.

For now he had to make his stance perfectly clear to this evil man before him. "I warn you now. Tread carefully into the examination of my motives and purpose, still more carefully into the state of my soul. For you might discover any number of things I would be willing to protect with my life." The dark eyes blazed with emotion. "I hope that is clear."

And with that, he withdrew.

Quickly Paxton headed down the corridor and up the stairs. No one stood in sight. He stopped in front of Linness's door and quietly, so quietly, he pressed down the latch. With a quick glance down the staircase, he stepped inside.

Afternoon sunlight came in through the window and washed over the alcove Linness sat in. With startled eyes she looked up from her wood carving to see Paxton leaning against the door, staring back at her. The tool dropped to her lap and she rose anxiously.

His brow lifted as he watched her pale hands clutch at her beige skirts. The dress was plain and old-fashioned, forming a curve at the bodice, where the white lace of her chemise showed. The benign colors accented the red ribbon woven into her dark hair, the pale gray of her eyes, and the redness of her lips.

He slowly approached her and she closed her eyes, the memory of their night together swimming dizzily through her mind. The yearning grew, a yearning to be held against his strength and beneath his weight, embracing the passion and splendor of his consuming love. They were doomed, she knew. The branding he left upon her soul shined in her eyes for all to see. For Bishop Luce to see. 'Twould be too late.

She said, "Bishop Luce has arrived."

"I just left his company."

Anxiety made her large eyes even larger. "And?"

"He claims the familiarity and protection of the only man who could save his position."

She cried, "Who is this?"

"Leo the tenth."

She stepped back in shock. "The pope…dear Lord." An anxious hand went to her forehead. "'Tis said the pope has enough power now to reinstate Satan with God. Is it hopeless?"

"I do not know. I rather doubt my letters were delivered."

"How?"

"Father Thomas has guilt writ over his face, and the bishop smacks of self-righteous pomp and knowledge—I sensed it at once. I will write a stronger letter today, and send Simon himself to deliver it personally. We can still hope. In the meantime. .."

"Aye? In the meantime?"

She was desperate, he knew. "You must maintain an air of indifference to him. When Morgan presents you, act with gracious fortitude and this quiet dignity that is one of your finest graces. Linness," he whispered urgently, "you must learn to hide your fear."

Her eyes lowered as she considered the wisdom of his words. He was right—she must hide her fear, and she could, she felt certain, if only he didn't remember her. "But what if he realizes who I am?"

"Pretend ignorance. He cannot prove it. And if he does recall who you are, by the time he gets proof, if he can get proof, then either he will be removed from Gaillard or..."

She turned back to face him. "Or?"

His gaze filled with fierce conviction, but he did not want to frighten her further. "We do not have to consider the alternative now. Linness," he whispered, as he stepped to her. She started to back away, to shake her head, but the compelling light in his eyes caught hers and she was mesmerized, held still and unmoving beneath the warm intensity of his stare.

She heard the swift, steady beat of his heart, felt his lips brush across her forehead as he drank the scent of her perfumed skin and small breaths. She could not resist. With a wounded cry, she reached her arms around his neck as she lifted on her tiptoes, while his arms crossed over her back to hold her securely against his frame. She clung tightly, as the security of his arms suddenly seemed the only refuge in a world gone dark. She lifted her head back to meet his eyes. "Linness."

A shiver ran through her as he brushed his lips across her mouth. "Let me taste your sweetness before our time is stolen..."

His lips touched hers and he called up all the gentleness he owned, but dear Lord, she tasted like succulent fruit, sweeter than life itself. Gentleness vanished, replaced by a surge of fierce hunger. He tilted her back even farther and widened his lips like a man dying of thirst. Her fingers dug into the padded leather shoulders of his runic as her lips clung to him in need.

When he broke the kiss, he uttered the single promise for salvation. "Tonight, Linness...”

Her eyes pleaded with him helplessly, to deny their need, but it was too late. It had always been too late. He turned from her and stepped to the door. He opened it a crack and listened before disappearing.

Linness leaned against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes as the future wove its bleak darkness through her consciousness. Violence threatened; she could feel its waiting threat

It would come tonight…

She squeezed her eyes shut and held her head, desperate to see the cause and reason for this violence. Her vision went white. The image emerged bright and clear.

She whispered his name in a start of fear, "Morgan…"

* * * *

Morgan was to escort Linness down into the hall to be introduced to Bishop Luce. Clair had used every trick she knew to transform Linness's appearance. When one met Linness, one noticed her hair. The streams of dark hair fell in tight ringlets past her waist, so curly that its own heaviness failed to pull it straight, and it was beautiful. Everyone loved her hair. So Clair made it disappear. She pulled it into a tight crown atop her head. A red velvet square-cut cloth, trimmed in gold braids, covered the whole. The effect was severe and changed the delicate lines of her face, sharpening her features. Then she applied rouge to her cheeks and lips, coal ash to her lashes.

She wore her finest gown of a red brocade and black Venetian velvet. The brocaded material covered half the bodice and the opposite half of the long, flowing skirt, while black velvet covered the rest. The sleeves had a long black ribbon that dropped to the floor.

Linness wished she could measure the effect, but she did not have a looking glass. Not only were looking glasses very expensive, but the abbess always called them the devil's tool to celebrate vanity, and though she knew this was extreme, she still maintained a superstitious aversion to them. "Do I look much changed?"

"Aye," Clair said. "As much as it's possible. Though if Gaillard is to be his diocese, he is bound to see you as you really are someday. We can't go through this every day."