A Kiss in the Night (23 page)

The last thing she remembered was the sound of his name issuing from her lips, over and over, like a spell by which she called to him.

She fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep, a place where wishes come true. Lightning cracked against the night sky. The boom of thunder awakened her with a start. She looked dazedly around the night-shrouded room.

He stood over her bed, his face hidden in a mysterious play of darkness and shadows. She could not see his face. The rush of her breath came out in a scream, but his hand came over her mouth hard, aborting the sound. Terrified eyes searched for his face but she saw only shadows. The hand forced her head back against the soft cushion of pillows.

Her thick robe parted as she fell back and he beheld the naked beauty beneath him. She heard the sharp intake of breath and her heart leaped. No words were spoken. The intensity of emotion sparked the air between them, forbade words, leaving them voiceless, just as storms forbid any glimpse of the sun until the earth has been washed, the river swollen and full, the soil quenched.

He held her hands on either side of her head and still said not a word as he came partially over her. The touch of their flesh was like fire.

A warm hand came over her side, sliding all the way down past her hip and back again, his touch summoning the long-denied need, then celebrating it before his hands came intimately over her buttocks. He fitted her tight against his hot staff and closed his eyes as he burned.

The slow thud of her heart echoed in her loins. She moaned as his hand slipped over the mound of her breast. Over and over. Her nerves went wild. She arched seductively against him and said his name in a plea.

His lips met hers. The pounding eroticism of the kiss sent warm licks of fire through her abdomen, opening the wellspring of her desire. She felt hot and shaky. His lips left her mouth to gently tease the arched line of her throat, moving lower and lower to her breasts.

The teasing of his tongue and mouth on her breasts drew fire to the surface. Her blood drained, drawn to the hot core of her pulsating center as his mouth moved lower still, gently kissing, tasting, circling the sensitive point on her flat stomach, his tongue as hot as the flesh that opened and welcomed him.

A swirl of purple exploded in her mind. She was vaguely aware as he lifted back up. Lightning cracked in the sky, illuminating their moistened bodies as he thrust himself deep inside. She was thrown off a cliff, spreading wings and catching a blast of wind. Colors and colors, a swirl of hot breath in hair, open mouths and arched backs, an ageless cry as the hot core of her sun burst deep inside, its light receding into darkness...

Chapter Seven

“
Bruises," Bishop Luce said to the abbot of Fontevrault. The room was dark, lit only by brass candles and a small fire in the hearth. The voices of a hundred priests raised in chorus echoed through the stone walls of the great monastery at Fontevrault. The distant harmony of the chorus irritated Bishop Peter Luce as he sat stiffly in the ornate hand-carved chair behind a polished desk.

Since arriving yesterday at Fontevrault on his way to his new diocese in Gaillard, he had discovered the acting administrators here selected members of their order with hardly a thought to anything but the sweetness of each man's voice, ignoring the weightier matters of the arduous devotion to the higher call. One priest he interviewed had gone from a bakery to the vows to Fontevrault with hardly a step inside a church.

"I beg your pardon? Bruises?" the tall, robust, elderly man questioned with confusion.

"Bruises on the kneecap. It is the most telling sign of religious devotion. The mark brought by the hours of supplication and devotion to prayer, you see. And there are no bruises here in Fontevrault."

The abbot saw he was serious. He wondered wildly if the bishop had checked his priests' knees for this mark of devotion. "Well, no. At Fontevrault we celebrate His Holiness with our raised voices and hearts; our supplication and devotion come with a glorious harmony of prayerful music, not as arduous on the knees perhaps but every bit as meaningful."

Bishop Luce did not agree. "You take great pride in your chorus, do you not?" He stood up with hands clasped behind his back, pretending to study the pictures hanging on the wall. "Your chorus has been presented to the king himself, I've heard."

"We have in fact." He smiled, unaware of the trap here. "Twice now. The king is quite a music aficionado. I am very proud—"

"Indeed." Bishop Luce turned to him suddenly. "You suffer from this pride. I fear your chorus has become an exercise of vanity, the way you glory in all these raised voices. And—"His mouth tightened as his eyes reflected the firelight, and he spoke slowly to emphasize each word. "—as you know, every vanity is an affront to God Almighty as it is the adversary's tool. It must be purged before Satan devours you with it."

"Purged? But—"

"I recommend a year of silence, fasting, and ardent prayer to rectify this—"

"A year?! Twould be my death—"

"It would save your meager soul and grant you the necessary humility your position demands. I shall recommend this to Cardinal Origo in Avignon—"

A knock at the door interrupted them. "That is all for now."

The horrified abbot was too shocked to realize Bishop Luce had just dismissed him, until he abruptly stood and withdrew. Through the opened door came Bishop Luce's young servant, who announced, "Father Thomas, milord. He has just arrived from Gaillard."

"Show him in."

Father Thomas stepped into the faint light of the room and rushed to kneel before his superior and kiss his ring. All other formalities were discarded; the urgency on Father Thomas's face expressed the importance of his information. He first withdrew Lord Chamberlain's letter to Francis, another to his steward, Lorenzo Lotto, duke of Nantes, and finally a letter addressed to Duprat himself. One by one Bishop Luce ripped these open and read them before he dropped each one into the flames, watching the smoke rise and curl.

Father Thomas tried not to mind this obvious trespass—the reading and destroying of a lord's private correspondence. He tried to tell himself it was all for the greater good of the faithful, that it was necessary. Just as he knew he had to relate the specifics about the unusual Lady Chamberlain.

The light danced in his dark eyes as Bishop Luce listened to the vile details of the lady's life, and when this tale was finished, he at last understood. "At least now I know why God called to me to Gaillard."

* * * *

Sunlight streamed through the canopy of green overhead and the air felt warm and balmy in the late afternoon as Jean Luc walked alongside Paxton; both were returning on the river trail after a day of hunting. Two hound dogs raced ahead of them, still excited by the catch of two pheasants

They had not found the treacherous Diablo dragon, as Jean Luc was hoping, though for many miles they had followed a fox trail until they lost it, only to pick up a deer track nearby and lose that, as well, when they discovered a hawk's nest. Finally they spotted the two pheasants. His uncle shot one with a bow and arrow and then helped him shoot the other. He was still excited by his first catch; he could hardly wait to tell his mother and father. And Bonet favored pheasants above all other foul, and Pierre would be green with envy.

"So," Paxton asked as they walked along, "I heard Morgan speaking to you about sleeping in your mother's bed all the time."

"Aye." Jean Luc smiled sheepishly as if he had been caught in mischief. "My father said 'twould not do at my age to always be found in my mother's bed. He said I could lose my strength."

"Did that upset you, son?"

"Nay. I don't mind not sleeping with my mother. I love her so, but…but..." He stopped, not knowing if he should say or not that it was his mother's idea he sleep in her bed. "She wanted me to sleep with her."

Paxton knew this, of course. Since their night of splendor, Linness had Jean Luc sleep in her bed, desperate to keep him out of it. The ploy had worked. He might be angry if he didn't so completely understand her desperation.

For their love sprang not from Eden but rather a wilderness beyond. And this magical sphere was both savage and violent, a place where their souls joined, soared, flew, discovering the place where the sun was born.

He wanted to travel there again.

Like all worthy hunters, Jean Luc carried his bow loosely in his arm with his fingers curled around an arrow fitted tightly in the bow strings, ready to shoot at any moment. "I shall tell my mother I cannot sleep with her every night. She will be sad, but 'tis for the best."

"Aye," Paxton said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “'Tis for the best."

Jean Luc's thoughts turned to the day's excitement, reliving the moments over and over. This day had been more fun than any other day he remembered. "The only thing better than bagging a pheasant," Jean Luc said, racing to keep up with his uncle's long strides as they came out of the forest and headed toward the thoroughfare leading to the town, "would be a deer or a poacher—"

"A poacher?" Paxton stopped to look down at his son. With hands on hips, he asked, "And what would we do if we caught a poacher?"

Jean Luc knew this answer. "We would hang him!"

"Would we now?" Gentleness suffused Paxton's tone as he knelt down to the boy's level. "Yet what if the winter was hard on this man and he had hungry children to feed? Perhaps this man was only trying to feed his hungry family. Jean Luc, what if these children will all starve if we kill their father?"

The idea shocked Jean Luc; he searched Paxton's face. "That would be a sorry thing," he said, greatly subdued by the idea. "Still he must hang if he is a poacher!"

"Must he? Think, Jean Luc. Which is more important to a man: feeding his children or obeying a law that will make them starve?"

His quick mind turned this over. "Well, my mother told me a man's first duty is to his wife and children; am I right?"

"Aye, 'tis true. So wouldn't it be a kinder thing to help this man?" He stood, and they resumed walking. The town was just ahead and he called the dogs back to his side so as not to let them get into any mischief. "Should we not let some land to this man and give him a plow, perhaps extending some foodstuffs to his family until the sweat of his labor could come to fruition?"

"That would be kind, and," he realized, "I think God, too, would be pleased."

Paxton smiled at his boy.

"But then, Uncle, why did my father say that poaching was a grievous offense and he would hang any poacher?"

"Well, Jean Luc…" Paxton paused, unwilling to say his brother was the type of man who probably never once considered the question from the poacher's perspective. "Times have changed, and Morgan, like many other barons, needs to change with them. You see, not long ago, during the time of the plagues, the great war with the English kings, and the schism in the church, chaos and upheaval reined in France. There were never enough foodstuffs for everyone. Sadly, many people starved; many of them children. During this time of desperation, most lords felt death was a fair punishment against poaching as they needed the animals of their forests as much as anyone. Things are different now. 'Tis a better time for France—"

Paxton stopped suddenly as they went through the chateau gates. A coach and a number of horses were in the courtyard, all of these displaying the livery colors of the Vatican. It could only be the new bishop, and yet 'twas too soon for Francis or Lotto to have overridden the man's appointment, too soon for a new replacement to have arrived. He cursed softly. He called back to Jean Luc as he raced to the castle steps, "Jean Luc, bring those birds to Bonet, and then go wash up."

"Aye, Uncle!" The boy broke into a run, anxious to show off his pheasant.

Paxton ran up the steps and through the great wooden doors. He moved quickly down the corridor and burst into the hall, stopping in the archway when he beheld the crimson vestments surrounded by a number of priests. His brother had not yet returned from his trip to nearby Cahors, where he went in an effort to recruit a dozen more cottars. John stood talking with the bishop. Father Thomas was in attendance. One look at the concern on John's face said it was indeed the Bishop Peter Luce, and John was not enjoying his introduction to his Excellency.

Paxton stepped forward. The men stopped talking and turned to him while his uncle greeted him. "Ah, Paxton. Bishop Peter Luce has arrived , unexpectedly early." And formally turning to the bishop, he began, "May I introduce my nephew Paxton de Chamberlain, lord of Bordeaux at Alsace, lord general of the king's guard—"

The tall man waved his hand to stop the long litany of Paxton's titles. "Worldly titles are of no interest to me." He held out his hand to receive Paxton's courtesy and bow of supplication.

Paxton ignored this formality as his sharp eyes focused hard on the man. The man looked nothing like he'd expected, and because of this, he realized he had been imagining a small and miserable looking creature. The bishop was rather tall, long-limbed, thin, and many would say handsome with his neat, uniform features and unlined face. Unlined save for deep crevices at the edge of his eyes and mouth. Gray edged his thick blond hair, adding to the distinguished air about him. Yet his eyes were a light amber, the color of gold, and every bit as cold as the metal. Oddly, he held a long, carved wooden staff covered with tiny demonlike heads to ward off the devil.