Authors: Jennifer Horsman
The deafening noise became a backdrop for troubling thoughts as the archbishop studied the courtiers surrounding the duke. They wore elaborate costumes in a shadowy spectrum of dark reds and black, gold and silver, their contorted, even hideous masks depicting the whitened caricatures of the saints. Count de la Flabreir appeared as a bloodied horror that could only be Saint Sebastian; the Count and Countess of Ramsey Las of Bourbon, as a mad, crazed-looking Saint Brigitte and her pope, Nicholas I; all among various other obscene distortions of the saints. The longer the archbishop stared, the more sinister they became—
A chill raced up his spine.
As if aware of the archbishop's scrutiny, Rodez chose that moment to turn to him with an inquiry couched in politeness. “Are you not enjoying the show, your Grace?''
Perhaps he only imagined the derision in his tone. The archbishop spent several long moments attempting to discern whether the duke smiled or no, as if that might shed light on his motive. "Well, I, I am enjoying it as much as it is possible for me to do so, as much as a hawk enjoys the hood. Perhaps if the repairs in the great hall had been finished in time and the celebration were not held here in the very cathedral—"
The archbishop found himself abruptly staring at the leering grin of the horned god as Rodez replied, "Ah, but the sacrilege was bought with a papal dispensation, which, of course, you know. Condoned by the one 'true' pope himself." He turned back to the celebration, adding, "I must say the cathedral gives the celebration previously unreached dimensions."
The archbishop abruptly realized he still nodded as if in acquiescence and he stopped, his entire being abruptly focused on the word "true," the one word that underlined his own personal struggle more than any other. Like so many others, he had never, but never, questioned the authority of the church, its most noble aspiration to lead humankind to the kingdom of God. While the church was run by mere men, and men had their failings and faults and sins, some of these damning and leading to corruption, the church itself was the physical manifestation of God's own hand. Or so he had always believed until the world began reaping the result of the great schism between two competing popes.
Two popes in one world. All because over a hundred years ago the Pope had traveled from Rome to Avignon, bringing with him half his bishops and court, and leaving half behind. Upon Clement's death, the Roman clergy elected one pope, the Avignon clergy another, and to this day neither successor would abnegate his seat to save the church.
Now the great schism lay between the Roman Pope and the French Pope Benedict in Avignon, and each side pressed the world with its claim of rightful pope, forcing countries to choose sides against one another, forcing bishops to fight bishops, priests to fight priests, lawyers to fight lawyers, men to fight men. The schism, like no plague or war or famine, brought unparalleled chaos and tumult to earth. A great, widening black hole opened in man's already dismal spiritual prospects, a hole filled with warriors desperate to lose their lives for the "righteous" pope. This resulted in the poverty of spiritual leadership as bishops seemed only to argue interminably over this benefice and that tithe, while greedy priests ran from town to town collecting coins so that now 'twas popular to say, "The gates to heaven do open, but only for a coin or two." The most pious and devout became consumed with rage, a rage often carried unto death in one of the many battles.
A wave of despair washed over the archbishop as he sat and watched the proceedings. What was happening to him? Was there no hope for salvation? Mon Dieu, was this what they were reduced to? A Feast of Fools?
While the archbishop lamented the state of affairs, Rodez searched the boisterous crowd for the sacrifice to the black rose. A darkly shrewd gaze surveyed each person in the great torch lit church from beneath half-closed lids, a dispassionate expression permanently planted on his long pale face, but hidden now beneath the mask of the Pope of Fools. The drunken noise rose with laughter and gaiety: pestilence, bankruptcy, war were not enough to dampen the ardor with which the people pursued their pleasures on this day, and as the wine flowed, the noise grew ever louder.
A familiar spirit hovered nearby, begging, threatening, pleading for him to repent before it was too late. Sensing it, Rodez laughed, the wild rancor of the celebration fading in his mind as he stared off into space as if he could see it. The black rose had always inspired fear in Papillion and he felt it now, the old man's fear of what he could never control. It surrounded him, his fear—palatable and thick and sweet to his lungs. He remembered the old man's fear, as his own youthful powers had surged and grown like a wild weed in the heart, had sparked his own early interest in the occult arts. Just to see the omnipotent old man afraid of anything was a strange kind of thrill. Even now he felt the spirit recoil from the noise and defamations and sacrileges of the people.
You old fool! You always tried to hide this fear from me, and yet I had only to look in your eyes. I had only to look in your eyes. With the pathetic desperation of a condemned man, you tried to explain it all away with your precious science and philosophy: "Ah, let us pull this darkly sinister ruse into the harsh light of scrutiny," you would say, but then later, "Well, surely if only I had some cassia or senna. But you see, Rodez? 'Tis only a reaction to the compound. It has nothing to do with that chant or a goat's heart ..."
All those explanations, like the last echoes of a hanged man, sounded too loud, stretched too far, tried too hard. The harder you tried to convince me, Papillion, the more you yourself came to doubt. The experiments became ever more grand and ambitious, with ever more incredible results, and all the while your excitement and terror grew. Then came your first dream, the start of your increasing power of prophecy. And your precious science could never touch that, now, could it?
Yes, you failed, Papillion. You failed! How could science explain the dream in which, before you had even fallen in love with Roshelle's mother, before the girl had even been born, you held a blossoming white rose to the sunlight, marveling at the beauty you possessed? Yet the fire started in your hand, and in horror you watched the flames consume the blossom until it turned black.
The black rose, you had foreseen its triumph.
For the girl was born and surely without your consent, she was christened Roshelle—the White Rose. How wonderfully ironic. And only then did you begin to understand the nature of the battle, but it was all too late. Much too late.
“
You fool! Did you really think banishing me from your life would stop it? It was too late by then, far, far too late!"
The vicious outburst drew masked gazes. Masks dropped as people looked in the direction of where Rodez shouted, only to find themselves staring into empty space. The masks returned as gazes returned to the masses below. No one commented; everyone, especially Terese, pretended that nothing unusual had happened.
Yet suddenly Rodez gripped the banister as an image burst in his mind: the image of the sacred text exploding into flames just as his hand enclosed over it. The terror of that moment seized him. He felt the steady escalation of the pounding of his heart, a wave, of panic as he relived it—the moment he lost the only love he ever knew. Angelique...
How strange, too, it seemed so pitiful ...
"I might have killed you then, Papillion," he whispered with feeling. "I might have forced my knife through the soft flesh of your throat, but I didn't. Death was too merciful for you."
"Milord." Terese beckoned nervously, but, aware of their friends' interested stares, she forced herself to say only, "Such a thoughtful expression. What are you looking at?"
With a slight jerk and feeling startled from a dream, the duke suddenly saw Terese. He relaxed. "Why, I am searching for our sacrifice, my dear."
"Milord! Did Mary not tell you? I have found her. She's perfect, too. Here, let me find her."
Terese turned toward the archbishop in the pretense of searching the masses and Rodez smiled at her trick. She wore the robes of the Virgin; the carefully chosen material at first appeared chaste, drawing the eyes with a promise, yet leaving it maddeningly unfulfilled. Unless one stared long: as if by magic, the longer one stared, the more one saw, until the robes became a transparent shroud over the lascivious, voluptuous curves of the most enticing woman in all of France.
Several years ago, when the duke had been about Tournay, examining his troops for readiness, he had come across a common scene: a young peasant girl flat on her back with legs spread indulging a man, while two others waited. She had immediately caught his knowing eye: with her shoulder-length, tousled blond hair, her sparkling almond-shaped eyes, the ripe, naked curves of her youthful form. He had glimpsed in these raw materials what he could make of her then: the most ruthlessly seductive and beautiful creature in France. He had her immediately removed to Burgundy to initiate her instruction, discovering in a year or so that his apt pupil had far exceeded his initial expectations.
For no man alive could resist Terese's seduction. With a little help from him, she married into the landed class, first Baron Philip de Comines; then, upon his untimely demise, Count Bercuire, who—how unfortunate!—had died in one of the more minor skirmishes with the Swiss. Or so it was said.
Terese then pursued what was her greatest challenge and what became her greatest triumph: the seduction and marriage of Lord Edward of Suffolk. Few could resist Terese's sheer provocative powers, and Lord Edward was certainly not one of them. It had taken her only three months to get him to break with his famous brother and marry her, secretively, unannounced, in the middle of the night, on All Hallows' Eve. A date that had left them all laughing.
Terese had had the child just in time. The power of the black rose was growing stronger with each passing night. It would soon swallow the last of Papillion's power on earth. Now Rodez knew how she would get him the sacred means that would convince Roshelle to offer herself to Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk, an offer that would kill him just as surely as it had killed his brother. And those death bells would land Rodez himself nothing less than the duchy of Suffolk.
I said I would use the curse against her, Papillion ...
Rodez pretended not to notice as the Archbishop of Flanders fixed his gaze on Terese's person before suddenly finishing the wine in his goblet. Another two minutes and the poor wretch's hands would be a tremble with temptation—the effect she had on all of his sex. Her seductions accounted for half of all dispensations in Burgundy, many of these from the lofts of the bishops themselves. Her effect was unaccountable by her beauty alone, though she was no doubt beautiful: tall and voluptuously proportioned, blond hair framing her oval face, unnaturally pale skin, richly pouting lips in the perfect shape of a budding flower—Frossant's words, not his; he still laughed when he thought of those words!—and carefully thinned brows over almond-shaped gold eyes, eyes shining with the bountiful pleasure brought by her senses. A single dark spot sat on her chin, like the signature to a painting that was intriguing and ripe with promise. The black rose sat magnificently against the white skin of her bosom, and while the bishop's gaze kept darting there, the duke had little doubt the man had yet to notice it was not the traditional gold cross.
The archbishop coughed, trying not to stare, but the material of the lady's gown held his gaze, so, against his will, he stared. A cruel trick; he almost didn't believe what he saw: as the gown became transparent, he made out the black outline of two hands on her naked bosom. The jest was on him.
She was laughing at him. "Something wrong, your Grace?"
Terese turned her gaze away to follow the archbishop's. His eyes were on the opening of the cathedral doors. A dog raced into the church toward the altar. The dog sniffed as if searching for something, a scent leading the creature to the very altar where the men still played dice. Before anyone realized what was happening, an enormous black dog appeared, quickly finding the bitch at the altar. A brief dogfight ensued. Wild screams and hoots greeted the next sight, one that made the archbishop abruptly stand. The other bishops followed, staring with shocked, reddening faces at the bizarre sacrilege of dogs copulating on the altar. The archbishop tore his gaze from the sight and turned with an accusation to his host.
Only to find the leering grin of the horned god.
He quickly led the clergy out.
Terese noticed the strange light in her lord's remarkable eyes again. Mon Dieu! Each day he lost his thoughts more and it scared her. She'd have nothing without him; she could not live without him. He was like air to her lungs . . .
She followed his gaze below. She saw nothing amidst the chaos and mayhem of the dancing, flailing bodies, the wild cries and rancorous laughter. The girl who would be sacrificed danced seductively in a circle around the rutting dogs at the altar. Terese's eyes sparkled with the pleasure of watching her—Rodez had whetted her appetite for uncommon pleasures indeed. Intoxicating it was, and her heart started pounding like a slow, savage drum. She wanted to be in it...