A Kiss in the Night (28 page)

Mary, save me now. . . .

The answer was Mary, the long-ago bump on her head, a child's flight to heaven. He had already equated Mary with Satan, and her love for Mary would be seen as love for the Great Deceiver; her sight would be declared of a darkling, sinister nature.

"I am waiting!"

Mary, save me now…

* * * *

The three riders, Paxton, Morgan and Jean Luc, rode through the township as workers dispersed to their various homes through Gaillard. Paxton drew his horse to a stop, turning to watch Jean Luc expertly do the same. The boy was a quick learner, and even better, his mother's reverence for life had embedded in the boy a great love of the creatures. He was congratulating Jean Luc on his new skill when Michaels's voice beckoned his attention.

Paxton turned to see an odd-looking monk standing behind Michaels. Beige robes hung on his corpulent frame, a thin rope gathered at his waist, accenting his girth. He carried a sack tied to a pole on his back. Neatly cropped dark hair covered the sides of his balding head. The man was tall, almost as tall as himself, and his eyes were as blue and mild as the afternoon sky.

Jean Luc chased after the grooms and disappeared in the stables. Michaels cast a nod in the man's direction. "Boswell, milord. From England. He's been traveling about France and, well..." His gaze brushed the ground as he withheld the tragic news. "He needs to speak with you."

Morgan came up to Paxton's side.

The two men were an imposing sight, but Tom Boswell was not easily, if ever, intimidated. He bowed and, in a loud and booming voice, introduced himself.

A tremor of alarm passed through Paxton. "Aye, what news have you?"

"Sad, methinks, milord. Very sad." He looked away, mentally deliberating on how best to begin the story. "It concerns a knight by the name Simon. I witnessed his death at the violent hands of a band of lecherous thieves."

Paxton's eyes blazed with emotion. Morgan put his hand on his brother's shoulder as if to steady him.

"Simon, dear God, not Simon ."

"I am sorry to bear the news. I was walking along the road to Amboise. I stopped by a stream to cool my feet, and while I was sitting on the bank, I heard shouts and the clang of steel in the distance. I hurried to the spot to see what it was about." Actually he had imagined it a common jousting between men and he had hoped to amass some coin in wagering on the outcome; he was famous for his ability to pick winners in battles and fights.

Only he saw it wasn't a joust at all.

"Well, the man, Simon, was outnumbered by these robbers. Three men attacked him. I hid in fear. You understand, having sworn holy oath to God never to raise sword or arms against another man in honor of Christ. And…when 'twas done, he lay in a pool of blood."

Paxton couldn't speak. Not now. Simon was a dear friend, his favorite, a man he dearly loved.

"You say they were thieves?!" Morgan demanded.

"Well, there's an odd bit. The evildoers searched through his saddlebag and over his person. They seemed to be looking for something. I do not know what. They left all this." He brought out a bag and untied the ends, spreading it open. "They did empty his money bag but left his jewels."

Simon's purse contained two of his rings, a velvet doublet, and an envelope with a broken seal; that was all. Paxton knelt down to pick up one of the rings. 'Twas a platinum band with a large oval in the center. The Lady Joan of Orleans, lady in waiting to the duchess, had given it to him as a betrothal promise, the year before she had died. Simon had worn it always in her memory.

"Did you see what they did take?"

Paxton asked the question in a controlled whisper.

"The money, 'tis all, and oh, the man's sword. I was...hiding, you see, and there was a good distance between me and the robbers."

"This--:Paxton picked up the letter."—was Simon's letter to his father—"

"Aye." The monk nodded. “'Twas how 1 knew to come here."

"He carried two other letters," Paxton said.

"I did not see any, milord. I searched the body; I gathered his things up before I buried him."

"They took my letters," Paxton said.

Morgan wanted to know, "What would robbers have to do with a worthless piece of parchment?"

Paxton gave no clue of his thoughts. He struggled to believe the bishop's treachery went deep enough to kill an innocent knight carrying a letter. Was he that devious, that determined to thwart Paxton's attempt to get him removed from Gaillard? What twisted mind would allow him to kill for it?

Perhaps he was wrong, though. Perhaps the bishop had nothing to do with it.

Not that he would take the chance; he couldn't.

To Morgan he said, "It could be treachery—"

Paxton abruptly caught sight of Clair racing down the steps of the keep to where they gathered Morgan turned, too.

"Milords, please come!" Clair screamed. “'Tis the bishop. Linness went out today for the first time since...since the incident with that madwoman, and the bishop caught her on her way back and demanded an audience. At first she refused, but he insisted. She's in the hall now, and she has been with him for some time—"

Morgan searched Clair's face before he drew a deep breath. For a long moment he stared at her, trying to understand what her words meant. His gaze lowered uncertainly then, and she realized he felt guilt and shame. It was just as Linness said; he skulked about with the pathetic look of a naughty child, all but begging for her forgiveness. Clair wondered if Linness hated him for it.

But Paxton would not endure his brother's cowardice now; he couldn't. Linness needed him, needed both of them, in a show against the bishop. He needed Morgan to appear with him in the hall, to demonstrate they were united in protecting Linness from the bishop's threat. In a voice that was sharp and clear and commanding, he said, "Morgan, you must be strong. You must protect Linness now!"

Morgan's dark eyes lowered to the ground with hesitation. It wasn't that he was afraid of the bishop; he wasn't, and God knows, he did want to protect his wife. But would no one ever let him forget that wretched night? He just wanted to forget it happened, the whole sordid incident with that stupid mad wench. The outrage of her appearance in his hall with that hideously deformed child—

He muttered, "God's teeth, but I do loathe the day I parted those thighs!"

"Morgan..." Paxton said his name in a warning.

"Oh, aye, I will appear with you for her. But you do the talking. I have no facility with words as you do."

Paxton patted his shoulder before telling the monk to wait for him in the guards' quarters, to not speak a word to anyone. He turned and raced inside, followed by his brother.

They stopped in the arched entrance to the hall and stared. He saw only her back. The long hair fell in a dark cascade over a pale blue gown, held back by a darker blue band. The gown made a pretty circle of color.

"Answer the question!"

"That's enough," Paxton interrupted as they stepped inside the hall.

A hot wave of relief washed over her as she turned to see Paxton step inside the hall. There was no mistaking the natural authority of a man who commanded whole armies of men. He wore it in his stride, his raised voice, the depth of his stare, as he looked over each priest in turn, as if dismissing them. His hand held a jeweled dagger as though he might use it; Linness had long ago noticed that he always had a weapon in hand or within reach, a remnant of too many wars fought in one life.

"Milords." The bishop's brow rose questioningly. "I am conducting an investigation of the tragic affair the lady played a part in, and I would ask you both to leave—"

"You may ask till doomsday and our feet would remain planted." Speaking for both of them, Paxton said, "We demand an explanation for this investigation. Now."

The bishop stared stonily for a moment, then at Morgan, who stood behind his brother, an air of uncertainty about him. He had to concede. For now. "As you see fit. This is a preliminary investigation only. I have not yet called for a formal ecclesiastic court to hear this case—"

Paxton stepped alongside Linness. "What case would that be?"

"The case to consider and assign guilt for the unspeakably hideous crime of murder."

Unmasked irritation sprang in Paxton’s tone, "We all witnessed the hand that committed the tragic deed."

"Did we?" the bishop asked rhetorically. "I am quite sure there was a diabolical force employed behind the hand that murdered."

Paxton's eyes blazed with emotion. "She was mad. It was a horrid misfortune for sure, but no more."

"I am not convinced. I am interested in the diabolical motives behind the wretched act—"

"That is enough!" Paxton said with the strict authority used to direct and dispatch a dozen blood thirsty warriors. "Quite enough." He stepped over to Bishop Luce, and met the man's brass stare. "You forget whom you are addressing. This lady is no cottar's brat or lowly servant. She has the full protection of her husband's title, her parents before him, and the lawful protection of the king of France!"

"Aye," Morgan verified with a nod of his head.

"By Jesu!" Paxton's voice thundered, "I have already warned you. You will not accuse the lady or subject her to this imbecilic form of harassment again!"

Anger bristled through the bishop. Lord Paxton would openly threaten him and, therefore, the authority and strictures of the holy church, of God Himself. He had sunk so low! All for a woman. She had pulled him down into the deep and filthy cesspool of her own lusts and sins, and he was blinded by his wicked appetite. Blinded. So help him God, he would get around this man. This woman would be made to fear the indictment of the holy Church.

Especially for practicing witchery!

He saw immediately he would have to address the issue in his report to the Vatican. The details of the lady's idolatry and witchery grew; he would collect them all until even the pope would want the matter resolved by ecclesiastic trial. He would get the authority, so help him God…

Morgan reached a hand to Linness. He felt her tremble as she rose. "Milady." Then with apology and affection, "Linness," he said to her, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Withdraw. You need not answer any more of his questions. Ever."

A shock went through the bishop.

Linness, he had called her Linness.

Linness. He knew that name. The distant memory burst upon him, riveting his attention to the woman as she rose to leave. In one graceful movement, Linness curtsied ever so slightly before she rushed from the room. Paxton stepped alongside the table, moving slowly across the row of silent priests, his gaze condemning. These men, arms of the bishop, had not been picked randomly. Each man met his stare with icy condemnation. He let his hand rest on the hilt of his jeweled dagger, the threat so explicit, it might have been voiced.

He stopped, realizing what he should do. He would ask the monk for his silence and then pretend he had not heard of Simon's tragic fate. He would send yet another letter, but this time in secret. And this letter would reach its destination.

The bishop was so lost in his startling train of thoughts, he failed to notice Paxton until he heard his low and threatening voice. "I will not warn you again that there are things and people both my brother and I would protect with our lives, that foremost among them is the lady.”

As Paxton withdrew, the name continued to echo eerily through the bishop's mind. He waved away the priests who rushed to his side. He needed to understand. He needed to understand how an orphaned and penniless convent girl, a girl who did not even have a surname, a girl accused long ago of witchery and evil ideations and who had slipped from the church into the darkness of night, how this girl could reemerge many years later as the Lady Chamberlain of Gaillard.

Long ago he remembered being brought to the room where the girl slept. He had stepped out to the window from which she had escaped into the night. He remembered thinking it was God's judgment, that no child would survive long in that night.

How terribly wrong he had been.

She was a great pretender indeed.

Only one explanation came to his mind. She, either alone or with the aid of treacherous beings must have killed the real Lady Beaumaris. It must be so! Yet would not someone have discovered this secret? How could she possibly maintain all the pretenses?

His thoughts spun over this awesome dilemma Satan's dark powers must be growing! 'Twas so awesome! So incredible and unbelievable. It occurred to him no one would likely believe him. No one but his own priests...

Perhaps he was mistaken; there might be another explanation—

He immediately squashed these doubts, the devil's tools. She was the same girl! Somehow she had managed the impossible, murdering the true lady and taking her place.

How was he to expose her?

He stared unseeing at the stained glass depiction of Mary with Child. Was not the dowager Lady Beaumaris still living? Aye, he had heard her name mentioned. Did she not correspond with her daughter at least? What did she make of the pretender in place of her daughter? How could she not know?