Authors: Jennifer Horsman
"The man also dabbled in alchemy and, aye, he was well known for his knowledge of medicine." Turning directly to Vincent, he said, "His lectures at the Sorrentino were famous, one of the best thinkers since Thomas Aquinas. I have given you some of them. Remember?"
“
Yes." Vincent nodded, remembering a good deal more and suddenly curious. "Was he not also a heretic, chased and finally caught by the church?"
An amused smile lifted on Bogo's face. "Why, yes. Yet I never heard of his fate after that, though his secret writings still circulate—" He stopped and, suddenly curious himself, he demanded, "How is it you, Countess of Reales, came to be associated with that man Papillion?"
The question instantly subdued her temper but gave her pause. She exchanged glances with Cisely, an unspoken message passing between them.
"Among other things," Cisely shyly ventured, her voice but a whisper. "The countess was Papillion's student for many years."
"A female?" Bogo asked, as if drawing into question the very wisdom of such a thing. "And you are so young!”
"Papillion always said Roshelle was the smartest girl he ever met."
"Aye, I can see that, but I'm curious," Vincent wondered out loud. "Did this man Papillion also comment on her penchant for trouble?"
"Oh, yes! He used to say—"
"Cisely!" Roshelle stopped her before she could impart Papillion's disparaging words about her penchant for trouble.
"Well—"
"What fate befell the famous man?" Bogo asked. "Is he still alive?"
Roshelle's blue eyes held Bogo for a long moment before their dark lashes closed; the thought of Papillion's fate, never far from mind, rocked her back on her heels. The answer was aye and nay. For she had watched his death, and yet when she knelt in prayer in the forest glen, she would suddenly feel Papillion's transcendence. A miracle, it was! His spirit, the very essence of his soul, came from the heavens, a place of light and love and peace, and she'd feel his love cascading over and around her, putting tears in her eyes and joy in her heart.
Then, like from a dream, she'd wake all of a sudden, greeted by the whispering, soft lyrics of the forest, and he was gone. It was all gone, as if it had never been. Had she imagined it? Was she so desperate to see Papillion that her mind conjured this wondrous vision of his transcendence? She did not know...
The poetry in her eyes transfixed Vincent for a long moment. There was something here, a mystery, and he wanted to know it. He wanted to ease the sadness in those eyes...
From the deep blue sky Greyman's cry sounded, bringing her blue eyes up. The magnificent creature circled overhead, spiraling lower and lower—the beast was ever cautious of his mistress's predicaments. Roshelle reached into her apron pocket, withdrawing the leather cloth that bore the many marks of his claws.
Seeing it, the falcon descended in a graceful swoop to her hand. Wings outstretched, he curled his claws around her hand before his small, keen eyes absorbed the surroundings and the foot-long feathers curved gracefully against a sleek brown body.
The men seemed to gawk; even Vincent appeared taken aback by the bird on her hand. None had ever known or heard of a woman falconer before. The sport of kings, the precious few trained falcons belonged to the wealthy nobles who could afford the magnificent bird warriors for sport hunting. "Ah, Gawd, he's a beaut, milady," Wilhelm said in awe. "He be yours?"
"In a manner of speaking," she said coldly. "As much as any creature can belong to another."
"Yet you do not have a falconer here, do ye?" Wilhelm questioned. The training of falcons was no easy task. One bird often required a year or even more of painstaking and patient training before it could be used in a hunt. Traditionally, the job was passed from father to son, but in recent years, owing to the ravages of the plague and war, then to a strange falcon's disease, the expertise necessary to train the birds had become increasingly hard to come by. Vince himself had searched for nearly a year, finally giving up the hope of ever finding a qualified falconer. Henry gave him two well-trained birds last year, but both had been struck by the falcon's disease, dying before the year's end.
"Nay. We do not. I trained Greyman myself. Or," she corrected herself, "I should say I tried to train Greyman myself. One of my best friends was the old man Gasper, the Falconer of Orleans, who taught me the necessary patience and tricks."
A brow rose and Vincent said, "I am impressed."
"What hunts does he work well?"
"None, that is, besides his own, of course. I do not countenance the hunt, so I did not train him to it."
Like all men, Wilhelm had oft heard these foolish notions from the gentle womenfolk. "A shame," he said with feeling. "He has the look of a strong, quick hunter."
Vincent removed a piece of dried beef from his pocket, a treat normally saved for the dogs. He brought this to Greyman's beak while gently reaching a long forefinger over the bird's belly. Greyman quickly saw he would have to perch upon the new hand in order to get the flesh. The greedy fellow did not hesitate overlong.
"Greyman." Roshelle hissed his name as a warning, displeased with his easy affection. Like the cat! The bird made no move to eat the treat. Roshelle did not allow him to take food from anyone else. "Give it back." The bird hopped from claw to claw. He wanted that meat. "You wicked fellow! You heard me!"
The bird dropped the morsel to the ground, then lifted with angry squawks and flapping wings. He dove toward Roshelle's head, making her duck before he rose with flight into the air. The men's laughter drowned out Roshelle's string of curses aimed at her feathered enemy. Even Cisely smiled for her embarrassment. Wilhelm slapped Vincent's back. "That's what ye get when ye put a woman out to do a man's job!"
The men's laughter pricked her temper. She saw she would have to force the duke's compliance. So be it. "Again we are diverted. I want you to stop your wretched hand of destruction. So, I will warn you: I have a powerful potion. It brings a deadly flux to thine enemies." Her determined blue eyes did not waver as she added, "I am not adverse to using it."
The threat brought surprised, nay, she realized, shocked silence. She could see he had not expected this, that she would force his way. She had to! She would not let him.
His hand suddenly came around her arm, his hold gentle, not threatening until she tried to pull away. "Unhand me—"
Vincent ignored her request as he motioned to Wilhelm, who still was uncertain he had heard right. Uncertain simply because he could not believe a woman would dare. A dawning look of outrage on Bogo's stark face told him otherwise, while sweet Lady Cisely quickly lowered her gaze with horror and uncertainty, uncertainty not of Roshelle's meaning, but of the duke's retribution.
The red-haired giant gently slipped his arm around Cisely to lead her away. Frightened and uncertain, Cisely looked back, hesitating, but a tightness in Wilhelm's gentle hands left her no choice. Bogo abruptly decided to mind the armorers and oversee certain repairs that were in progress.
Then they stood alone.
He seemed suddenly a whole pace taller, that much more menacing as he stared down at her. She tried to step back but his hand still held her arm. "Loose me! You're hurting me—"
"Loose you! I've a mind to turn you over my knee. You know, Roshelle," he began calmly, "I have warned you. Henry even now wants your head after the pretense of a mock trial, and your guardian, the Duke of Burgundy, refuses to stand for you at this trial—"
"Nay!" She shook her head. "I do not believe you! Even he would not dare it! If I die he will lose all my lands to the church—"
"And he is inexplicably unconcerned about the prospect, no doubt imagining his rapacious band of merry lawyers could weasel out a goodly portion of them in the bargaining."
"So! You will execute me!"
"This is the point, Roshelle; I might if I wanted to," he said in an intense whisper of a voice, and his free hand took hers, as if to emphasize the point. "What I will not suffer is these miserable manners of yours, far less these ridiculous threats."
"The only way you will not suffer them is to leave—"
She stopped with a pained gasp as an exquisite pressure shot through her hand. Exercising miraculous control, he had gently pressed his thumb and forefinger over the pale extremity, and applied the lightest of pressures. Roshelle's eyes shot to her hand. Her free hand came over his to stop it. To no avail!
She gasped again, unable to stop and utterly unable to bear it. The pressure mounted until she suddenly cried out, not with pain but with the shock of an unbearable torment of sensation. Like being tickled past the point of tolerance, but worse.
Much worse. With a small, pained cry of surprise, she dropped to her knees before him.
"Better, milady," he addressed her supplication, utterly unmoved by her helplessness. "From this-point on you shall be on your knees before me. As is my due. And just so you understand how I deal with threats, for every one man I lose to this, ah, flux of yours, any flux for that matter, I will personally slay two Frenchmen and I shall do so with the just sword."
Roshelle gasped, whether in agony from his words or his hold, she didn't know. Tears sprang to her eyes, yet the unbearable pressure did not cease and she desperately began fighting not to cry out again, her free hand clawing feverishly to stop him.
"As for your manners, you shall henceforth address me only with the veneration and esteem due my title."
Her blue eyes shot up with furor and outrage.
"I will hear this now from thine lips."
Fury mixed with the unbearable agony, mounting, mounting, the former greater in force, and through clenched teeth, she spat, "Never! Never—you can kill me first-"
Yet he did not have to kill her. The pressure increased ever so slightly. She could not bear the pressure a moment longer, and in desperation, she uttered, "Thy ... thy Grace."
"Not good enough."
She spat in anguish, "Your . . . Grace."
"Not good enough still."
"Stop . . . please, I—" _
"Say it."
"My . . . Grace!"
"Again."
"My Grace!"
He released her hand and, holding her arms, he brought her to her feet, only to realize he had to hold her up. Her knees shook like reeds in the wind.
Yet not from pain. There was no pain. The sensations floated away from her hand as if they had never been there. Dissipating like magic, and yet she would have welcomed pain. She drew a shaky breath and fought back tears, absolutely the last thing she would let him see.
Yet it was through the veil of tear-washed eyes—eyes as tempestuous and dark as a storm-lashed sea—that she met the intensity of his stare. An unspoken message passed between them, emotions trembled through her, more as he whispered the surprising words, gentle words ushered with a strange intensity: "God, girl, you are wild and beautiful, more tempting than I ever knew a woman could be. I do not want to tame you. Do not make me."
Then he released her and turned away. The weight of his words made her collapse all of a sudden, more frightened than she ever had been. Mon Dieu, she was in trouble!
She was hardly aware of Cisely running to her, dropping to her side, taking her in her arms. "Roshelle, Roshelle, dear God, Wilhelm hath said, he just told me that the duke will see you tried on the morrow for his brother's death. That Henry makes him. And that Rodez Valois, the Duke of Burgundy, hath refused to stand for you—he is not coming."
Roshelle nodded, but she was barely listening.
"He hath refused! Wilhelm says that Henry wants your head, and without your guardian to speak for you, he will force the duke to execute you. On the morrow. Wilhelm says the duke hath planned the means to satisfy Henry's thirst—"
Cisely could not say the words. She collapsed into tears and Roshelle took her against her breast, holding the girl tightly as Roshelle finished for her, "Thirst to see me dead, to have his revenge. On the morrow."
Yet death was not the worst possible fate she faced.
*****
Chapter 6
“
Are you sensing what I am?" Wilhelm asked Vincent with a toss of his red head toward the place where Miles Hartman sat uncomfortably on a hard wood bench before the dais in the great hall. Vincent, Bogo le Wyse and Wilhelm sat on the dais overlooking the great hall where the high court convened. They now waited for the appearance of Countess Roshelle Marie de la Nevers. There were no French people present. On two long benches on one side of the stone wall sat the twelve men of the duke's personal guard—to serve as legal counsel, a necessary formality. "About the last of Edward's guards there? Our witness?"