A Kiss in the Night (35 page)

"Aye, aye, that precious papal concordat.”

'Twere treacherous waters, these, Francis knew. The pope, Leo the Tenth, had granted him the right to control church appointments, a prized agreement that came at the conclusion of the most harrowing and fierce battle of the king's young life. He knew now that he'd rather raise his sword against a hundred warring Goliaths than to meet a single Vatican lawyer in debate.

"And besides," Duprat continued, pressing his king's uncertainty, "why would you want to rob the court of the high amusement brought by those priceless letters our faithful servant keeps sending?"

Duprat referred to the letters from the zealous Bishop Luce. Letters that seemed to imply all of Christendom was threatened by a single obscure lady no one had ever met or heard of before. Lord General Paxton Chamberlain's sister-in-law of all creatures. The poor lady was a Jezebel, deceitful, scheming, and perhaps, the last letter suggested, evil incarnate. She was a practitioner of witchcraft and a killer of babies, able to bewitch men with nary more than a glance or a look. The madman even went so far as to claim the lady was a pretender to her modest title, that he would be providing proof of this soon. As if the great towering ranks of French nobility would be set to trembling by a pretender to the Lord General Paxton Chamberlain's brother's wife.

There was apparently some truth to the assertion of the powers of bewitchment, as Lord General Paxton's letter had followed, signed by his lesser-known brother and his good uncle. It seemed clear that the lady had won what all the other ladies of court had found unobtainable: the prize of Lord Paxton's affection.

He grinned every time he thought about it. A love-struck Paxton—how he would love to see that! How he would love to meet this lady.

The bishop's letters had become high entertainment. The whole ridiculous affair might be dismissed with the court's laughter, after he had pressed Lord Morgan to present his beautiful wife at court so they all might meet the infamous lady, if only the bishop had not also sent these letters off to the Vatican. Those hallowed halls took an entirely somber view of such absurd accusations.

Still breathing heavily, and tired of this dance, Francis got to the point. "Confound it, Duprat. Paxton signed the marriage contract. We owe him. We both owe him the favor."

Laughter erupted from a group of ladies nearby and Francis looked over at the gathering and spotted his mistress, the beautiful duchess d'Etampes. She was showing off his latest present, a tiny six-pound dog shrouded in long white hair. The miniature dog had been brought from faraway Malta, and it had cost a good deal more than his weight in gold. Today the duchess wore a pale orange silk that matched perfectly the tiny creature's ribbons, but more alarming—at least to his treasurer—the duchess had told him she was having her jeweler create a gold and diamond necklace to match the little dog's new collar.

He turned back to Duprat and with a capricious change of thought added, "Besides, Paxton claims the bishop's treachery was responsible for Simon's death!" He pointed to the hilt of his sword. "And you know what that means!"

Indeed, Duprat knew exactly what that meant. Simon's father was the head architect of the magnificent chateau at Chambord, Francis's latest architectural project. The architect had to stop work for his grief.

Duprat sighed, thinking on this. The huge estate was just one of many projects Francis had started to execute. Apparently his king wanted to be remembered as the greatest patron of the arts; he had begun discussing plans for a new college de France, a place that would attract scholars—"real scholars," Francis had said, "not those despotic fanatics of church doctrine!"

He had already begun attracting the continent's greatest artists, including the old eccentric and revered Leonardo da Vinci. For Francis wanted to be remembered as the king who saved the world from the Dark Ages and brought the sun upon the age of learning and glory for France.

Duprat drew in a deep breath; he understood his king's tone. Francis always rallied to calls for justice; the man was filled with romantic, archaic notions of chivalry.

"The Dark Ages are over!”' Francis declared again. "If Paxton wants to get rid of the fatuous zealot, then get you rid of the bastard!"

Duprat contemplated this, weighing it against the costs. Vatican relations were strained, and since the concordat with the Vatican at Bologna, they were more strained than ever. He even imagined it was possible that the bishop's dismissal could rally the extremist wing of the Vatican to press for reneging the concordat. " Tis not so simply solved, Your Majesty—"

Too late. . . Francis had already made his decision. "It is if I say it is." And that was that. Or so Francis always thought. He turned back to his mistress's husband and his friend, d'Etampes, and raised his sword again.

"Very well, Your Majesty." Duprat sighed, and clasping his hands behind his back, pretended acquiescence as the furious battle of swords resumed After all, he had not reached his lofty position without learning how to manage things. Things like his king. He knew well how to mediate between conflicting issues and desires, his king's direct command and the starker reality in the messy political chambers of the Vatican.

Like all bureaucrats, he would simply stall.

* * * *

Bernard looked up at the setting sun, then at the lady riding in front of him. She wore a pleasing blue riding habit with slit sleeves that revealed a lace under dress of snow white silk. Tiny drops of mud spotted the expensive cloth. Her dark and graying hair was lifted into an attractive crown atop her head. She sat straight and majestically on her prized mare.

She was a wonder, the Lady Eleanor Marie Beaumaris.

Every bone in his body ached from their long days of traveling, from his skull down to his ankles bumping against the horse's side. He was convinced he would never walk straight again. His face was burned and his hands were raw from handling the leather reins. He never did like horses. He liked riding them even less. He could sleep ten days and still be tired.

Yet there sat Lady Beaumaris bouncing sprightly in her saddle, hardly a hair out of place. She was almost forty, and she was burdened by the weight of her great worries. All the bishop's letter had said was that God had called her to Gaillard, that it would be the most important journey of her life and she was to leave at once. The bishop had not said her daughter was dying, but they all knew otherwise. What else could such a letter mean?

Though, oddly, no one else had written. Not her son-in-law, nor Belinda's good servant, Clair. They could only deduce the situation was so dire, so tragic, these loved ones were too distressed to pen a letter, leaving the chore to the church servant.

So, after spending half the night in prayer, quite certain she would arrive at Gaillard to learn her daughter had died before she had the chance to see her again, the indomitable Lady Beaumaris had left the next day. She took no coach or pack animal, nothing to slow them down—her trunks would arrive later. The lady was escorted by only two young men from the ranks of Montegrel's fourteen knights, Gregorio and Paul. Bernard was serving in the capacity of steward since the death of his distant cousin, Lord Beaumaris, and she had asked for his companionship on this journey.

Lady Eleanor Beaumaris allowed no sign of her inner turmoil to show as she pressed her mount tirelessly forward. Sweat glistened on the creature; the horse was tired, but she could not rest until she reached Gaillard. There was a bitter irony in the situation, she knew, for once upon a time she would not have grieved very much to discover her daughter had died. In fact, as incomprehensible as it would seem to most mothers, she might have felt a twinge of relief that her daughter had at last found peace in death. For she had none in life

This was not so now. Now she was losing something very precious to her soul, and she felt the full weight of a mother's grief threatening her. The miracle of Belinda's transformation still seemed so strange and novel to her. Belinda no longer suffered from "black spells," had no more violent fits and tantrums, or periods of a despondency that used to leave her bedridden for months. No more blind and cruel disregard of others. She had been cured.

For the birth of Jean Luc had brought Belinda an inspiring devotion to Mary and the church, which had saved her. Belinda wrote over and over how very sorry she was for all the trouble she had caused her loving parents. Now she found happiness through love, and she was often overwhelmed by feelings of gratitude to God for the blessings in her life. Just before her father's death, she had written, "Gratitude, I have come to recognize, is one of the most undervalued emotions. Knowing gratitude is finding a heavenly joy. " Her intelligent letters were full of love and goodwill now; it was as if they were written by a different person.

Tears appeared in Eleanor's eyes as she thought of these things and confronted the idea that it might be too late to see her daughter again. She was fond of saying she had not fallen in love with her daughter until after she had lost her. Her husband's death had washed her in grief and she had just begun toying with the idea of journeying to Gaillard to see her precious daughter.

Now it would be too late.

From the corner of his vision, Bernard caught sight of the tears in his lady's eyes. He pulled his horse from a muddy puddle brought by recent rains just as bells rang from the distance ahead. He sat suddenly straight in the saddle. "Do you think a church is up ahead, milady?"

"Let us see!"

She set her boots into her mount's sides and spurred the creature forward. They rounded a bend and she stopped the horse and stared.

A breathtaking view spread before them. The sun set behind a low mountain range. A river carved through a deep and green valley. Vast, tree-lined meadows were washed emerald green by a summer rain. There were no buildings or signs of civilization, except for the white stucco walls of a small monastery.

"We can stop there, milady, and water the horses," Bernard suggested, trying to keep the pleading from his voice. The two knights who accompanied them waited expectantly as well

She was not looking at the three men staring at her, or even the distant monastery. She was staring off at the river. "Gregorio? That river?"

"Aye, milady." Gregorio grinned. "‘Tis running to Gaillard. 'Tis but a day's ride from here. We should spend the night and ride through on the morrow. We should reach the place sometime in the afternoon."

* * * *

Jean Luc and Pierre crouched behind a gangling vine heavy with fruit, peeping up to view the lecherous black knight and his two men riding alongside. He carefully kept his fingers wrapped around the arrow strung to his bow. "Be you ready, red knight?"

"Aye," Pierre replied. He was the red knight, Jean Luc was the blue. Irrepressible excitement filled the two boys as the black knight approached ever closer. The black knight would be shot straight to hell with one arrow. "Look! A lady's with them1 Kidnapped, I bet!"

"Aye. " Jean Luc nodded. "Ransomed, too, 1 wager. We'll—"

"Rescue her," Pierre cut in, looking to Jean Luc for his approval.

Jean Luc nodded. His blue eyes narrowed. "Here they are! Aim true! Aim true! Ready! Fire!"

Lady Beaumaris's gaze fixed intently on the township just ahead when two wooden arrows flew past her head, dropping to the ground on the other side of the road. Gregorio and Paul drew up their horses; Bernard and the lady reined their mounts just behind. "What the devil—"

Two small heads appeared in the grapevines. The boys could not believe the riders had actually stopped. Even the old tinker had not bothered—he had only shaken his fist at them.

"We are doomed," Pierre whispered, amazed and scared now. His gaze shot to Jean Luc, he wanted to run but did not want to be a coward.

Jean Luc leaped to his feet and demanded, "Halt in the name of law!"

Lady Beaumaris sat regally on the saddle as her mount danced a bit. "Well, now that you have us, what shall you do?"

He looked back at Pierre, who crouched even lower, terrified. "You must say your names and state why you have come," he said boldly. "We are stopping all knights of the Black Prince. We shall rescue all ladies in need."

"We are not that," the lady said with a smile "We have come from Montegrel to see my daughter, the Lady Chamberlain. So, if it is quite all right with you, good knights, we shall continue on." And she kicked her mount's sides. Her knights chuckled as they moved forward.

His
grandmere!
The one who sent him all those presents, most recently the saddle, one better than his father's and almost as fine as his uncle's.

He leaped forward, racing alongside the horse, excitement on his young face as he shouted up,. "Milady! Milady! I am Jean Luc! You are my
grandmere!'''

"What?" Lady Beaumaris pulled tight on the reins, stopping her horse. She stared down at the boy, who smiled up at her. In the next instant she had dismounted and was now kneeling in front of him, her gloved hands on his arms.

Tears shone in her eyes, her smile shone with love. "Jean Luc, you are Jean Luc?" The boy nodded. "You are just as she said, tall and healthy and so beautiful!"

His blue eyes widened upon hearing this. "Beautiful?
Grandmere,
I am not that! I am a boy!"