Authors: Jennifer Horsman
A trembling hand went to her forehead. Papillion would not likely make it back in time! Dread filled her chest; she went weak with it.
"Roshelle, child," Louis said as he reached to hold her up. "I did not want to tell you. Not like this. Come to me, petite, and let us get ye to your women, where I can spend the rest of my miserable life begging your forgiveness—"
"My forgiveness?" she repeated, startled by this as her own pain and anger met the fear in his eyes. "You need not bother begging my forgiveness! I am but your vassal after all, a pretty pawn you must sacrifice in this deadly game of chess played with your awful brother. You think Henry be thine enemy and aye, he and his unholy ambitions cast a dark shadow over France indeed. But the true threat to Charles and a united France sits upon a throne in Burgundy, and he hath the deadly combination of France's royal blood, Papillion's teachings and a leaden heart. Rodez is our enemy!"
Louis clenched his fists and mouth as he demanded, "Would you rather I give Henry the French crown?"
Roshelle stared for a long minute, the fateful question singing in her mind. She turned away at last and marched back to her waiting horse. She grabbed the fallen reins, lifted the bell-laden ropes over her mare's fine high head before agilely vaulting the strong back. Before she kicked heels to the creature's side, she said, "Papillion did warn you, my Grace. When you sacrifice me, you will be full of goodly reasons and holy cause. So, it hath come. My destruction is writ in stone."
Roshelle Marie Saint Lille knelt at the altar before the Bishop of Orleans, a prayer turning over and over, faster and faster, as the bishop's soft-spoken Latin mass resounded off the towering stone walls of the Cathedral of Orleans. The four most powerful bishops of the Avignon papacy stood to the right, their bright crimson vestments contrasting sharply with the cold gray stone of the church and the darker, somber colors worn by the priests who surrounded them in two long neat rows of twelve. An even more impressive array of color and personages stood to the left of the altar: gathered there among various barons and counts of the Valois court stood the two most powerful grand dukes in France: Rodez Valois, the Duke of Burgundy, and his older brother, Louis Valois, the Duke of Orleans.
The young and frail Dauphin, Charles VII of Valois, the boy who would be king, stood between his two powerful uncles. Though he had always lived under the protection of his older uncle, Louis, for the first time in his life he stood as an equal next to his uncle Rodez.
The mere pretense of equality with his frail, doomed nephew filled Rodez Valois's dark gaze with sardonic pleasure, somewhat less of a pleasure than that which he received from staring at the famous young girl at the altar. She was his now, and for nothing more than a promise, the elaborate charade of standing alongside his nephew for all the world to see.
A long pale hand reached to the black rose that hung at his neck, and his eyes lit with the passion of his victory.
Roshelle is mine, Papillion, mine! With Roshelle comes the third of your loves and the triangle is complete; the lowest apex points to hell. For I shall hold your precious rose beneath a slow-burning fire until the white petals darken unto ash and the fear of God is burned from your soul!
As you burned it from mine, for mine...
"I saw your fate in a dream, Rodez!" Papillion had interrupted a long-ago sword fight, and with a pointing finger he announced to all: "You are doomed, doomed-torn asunder from God Almighty! The girl's unanswered love be only a mask for your relentless thirst for this power. Dear God, you will be separated for eternity..."
Papillion's words echoed louder than the monotonous drone of the bishop's Latin, and he remembered the occasion as the very last time he had known fear. The very last time. No more Papillion, for it was done. He was separated...
Thinking of it at this moment of triumph, Rodez felt a strange energy begin to radiate from his tall, princely form, a power surpassing that which could be brought to bear by his unparalleled status, surpassing the simple lift of his hand that sent legions of servants scurrying like rats in fire to escape his wrath; or his signature, which mobilized and moved whole armies across France. An energy he used to become the invincible and legendary swordsman, reputed to be the best in all the Continent and probably England as well. One had only to draw close to feel the occult power of his presence, and while his dark gaze usually revealed only a supreme indifference to the world, to solicit his interest, as many unsuspecting servants had learned, was to feel an awful mesmerizing effect alight every strained nerve of one's body.
Standing at Rodez's side, Louis felt it as a precursor of doom, his very own, but he had felt it since the day of his brother's birth and every day since. He felt it in force now, and just as he felt Rodez's strange aura of energy, he also felt the presence of Papillion's ire as he watched Roshelle at the altar of sacrifice. Mon Dieu! He glanced up, cursed the archbishop for his slow musical incantation of each sacred word, then his younger brother for his hatred, then Roshelle herself for looking so ... so beautiful. As if she had maliciously wanted to make it even more difficult for him to see her taken away.
She looked more beautiful than words. The elite personages of her audience saw only the long trail of the girl's famous auburn hair cascading over the pale rose silk of her long-sleeved, loosely fitting gown. A crown of early-spring white roses—her namesake—cleverly concealed the white streak that marked her hair and her life, and though many tried to see it, none could. Her lowered lids were like a curtain on her heart, concealing the sheer desperation of the emotions plain in her large, widely spaced eyes, a desperation increasing each moment Papillion failed to appear to save her.
Through sorrowful brown eyes, Charles watched helplessly as his dearest childhood friend listened to her betrothed echo the words that would bind them before God and all of Christendom unto death. Unto death. Tears welled in his eyes; he felt certain he could feel the fear pounding in Roshelle's heart as her wonderful blue eyes darted frantically to and from the old man at her side, a man only forty-seven years older than her ten and three. Roshelle, the jewel of the Valois court, joined to a beast unto death. Unto death, dear Lord; why did Charles expect the man to be struck down dead as he said his vows?
Because of Papillion, the old man of the forest. Most people, and especially the learned, felt Papillion was all sage and saint, the disseminator of the combined knowledge of five countries and three dead languages, healer of the wounded and sick, God's greatest gift to the Valois court. Others thought he was made of the elements and their magic, of the secrets of the alchemist, secrets that drew upon darkness as often as upon light. Still others—a certain political faction within the church, jealous as it was of the man's miracles—believed that he was nothing more than a clever deceiver, a purveyor of magical tricks, tricks that relied on the susceptibility of foolish old women, hysterical young ones and the pervasive ignorance of common folks. Yet no matter what one believed, no one had any doubt that, unlike most other mortal beings, Papillion owned the awesome power to make his will manifest in reality.
The bishop's voice broke through Roshelle's frantic reverie and she heard the awful last words that bound her to the man at her side unto death. The sudden silence came as a great shock; her eyes flew open as a weathered hand came beneath hers to assist her to stand. The room held its collective breath as the Duke of Normandy kissed his young bride. The first unchaste kiss of her life, and the cold, demanding mouth on hers brought the terrible reality of the near future crashing down on her, a sick dread rising like bile in her throat; and as he broke the kiss and encountered her obvious distress, he replied with a smile at once condescending and maddening.
"You look so surprised," he whispered as he beheld his third and by far most beautiful bride. "Did you, too, truly believe that poor trickster could save you from your destiny as my wife?"
Roshelle’s antipathy for her husband shimmered in her eyes as she drew herself up to squarely meet his gaze. They were nearly of a height. Graying dark hair framed his face: his small dark eyes and pinched mouth; and as if time and its dispensation were the clever hand of a sculptor, cruelty had etched hard, deep lines there. Papillion had taught her the intuitive art of physiognomy, and what his face said scared her to the depth of her soul: his blackened heart was indeed merciless enough to kill an innocent child in order to punish a helpless parent.
An impertinent reply trembled on her lips, but she knew to stop herself; the last thing she wanted was a demonstration of her new husband's hostilities on this of all nights. She would have his lifetime to express her animosity. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes as, chuckling, indeed hardly able to contain himself, he took her elbow to escort her down the rose-petal-strewn aisle to the cathedral doors.
As if as he, too, were the groom, Rodez stepped to her other side, against protocol. Her blue eyes shot to him, his tall, slender and awfully graceful form, lifting to view the thin and very pale face set against the raven black of his long curly hair and the oddity of his pointed goatee, a meticulously trimmed point that made his long face seem even longer. Always his hand rested on the pommel of his sword. Reputed to be the greatest swordsman in all of France, and she believed this, as he exercised darkly occult powers Papillion had so vehemently denied her. A chill raced down her spine as Rodez's wide, dark gaze came to her, as if sensing hers. She could feel it, as if he claimed her by his gaze alone!
Fear and dread filled her, like a great weight on her chest; she could hardly breathe. She just couldn't believe this was happening, that it had happened to her. Twas a nightmare she desperately needed to wake from—
She found no comfort as Charles and Louis followed them; her handmaid, Cisely, her other women and the multitudes of churchmen fell into step behind them; but as if in answer to her prayers, as she stepped outside beneath the dark clouds to the frantic clanging of the heavy church bells, a curious numbness swept over her from head to toe. She felt suddenly as if she watched the proceeding from a safe distance far above, as if she were not the sad, doomed and abandoned creature being escorted across the courtyard.
The people of Orleans gathered behind the thick iron bars of the castle gate at the far end of the grassy courtyard, their faces solemn and hostile and disbelieving as they watched the wedding parade proceed to the great hall. To lose Lady Roshelle Marie Saint Lille to Philip, the Duke of Normandy, felt like a knife put to heart, for the girl belonged, if to anyone, to the people of Orleans who loved her.
The young lady might be wild, but she also owned God's greatest grace in an abundance that many felt would make her a saint—marked as she was by the white streak and Papillion's teachings. The young lady herself was often seen at the nunnery she had founded, dispensing the wealth of Papillion's medicinal knowledge and skill, just as she appeared on the doorsteps of the unfortunates in Orleans-women and children whose husbands had abandoned them, the sick or the infirm—with a basket in hand, her highborn women in tow, and often with some miraculous means to alleviate their suffering. The people loved her, this unlikely young girl who crossed the long high bridge that separated the nobility from the masses as if it weren't there at all; they would always love Roshelle Marie. And while the weddings of the highborn normally brought cheers and festivities throughout the land, this did not happen now. As the people watched their young champion walk to the great hall on the arm of Philip the Bad, murmured disapproval rippled through the crowd, disapproval growing with a chant:
"Wedding day rain
Be God's angry curse
The groom will get pain
And then he gets worse!"
Distant thunder rolled over the mountains and a few fat drops fell, spotting Roshelle's lovely gown. The people pulled mantles and shawls over their heads as it began to rain heavily. They chanted more loudly now, but Roshelle still neither heard nor noticed them. She felt the moisture seep through her silk slippers, the cold numbness through her fingers. Fingertips felt hot to the touch and Philip abruptly withdrew his hand as the wedding party quickly passed through the tall, tapestry-lined walls of the wide, grand entrance hall, down the corridor and into the great hall itself.
A long white-clothed table was set on the dais above the main floor. Four other long tables stood in four neat rows below the high table, separated by a center aisle for serving. Elaborate tapestries hung on the walls and each depicted a scene of Orleans' history. The finest musicians in Orleans serenaded the bride—still dazed and seemingly lost in a soul-saving trance—and groom as they took their seats at the long table on the dais.
The lords and ladies of the court quickly filed in, everyone wanting to witness the historic setting as the Dauphin took his rightful seat, beneath the bright orange-and-white canopy, and between his two warring uncles for the first time since his birth. Poor Charles! Sneezing into his mouchoir, his hand trembling as he signaled the others to sit, his mistrustful eyes darting to and fro, as if to spot a would-be assassin.