A Kiss in the Night (30 page)

He stared down at the body with disgust. The night fell fast around them. His new liaison sent by the Vatican, Father Andrew, now spoke the burial rites over the dead man. He watched the new priest offer up the familiar Latin in a slow and halting voice.

The rush of the river drowned out his words.

Father Andrew had been raised to the church in one of the more severely ascetic monasteries in northern Germany. He spoke little. A feverish intensity surrounded him, that of a zealot awakening to his call, and thus he sensed the man would be a great ally in the upcoming battle for the very souls of the people of Gaillard. Tomorrow he would send him to spy on the woman who had wickedly stolen the title of Lady Chamberlain.

The letter urging Lady Beaumaris to Gaillard had been sent. She would not be able to refuse. The bishop expected her to arrive within the month. The pretender of Lady Belinda would be revealed at last; her demonic presence would be punished by death.

Father Andrew concluded the rites and genuflected, as did the other four priests. The body was turned in to the shallow grave. The last prayer was said with a toss of dirt and then the priests began covering the hole.

Father Thomas felt a tremor of shame and anger. This was not right. No matter that the wretch surely deserved his death; or that the death was not Bishop Luce's intent. No matter. Death, he knew, should not be delivered by the holy church.

There was nothing he could do about it, though.

They silently turned and followed Bishop Luce into the darkness. Father Andrew, like his silent brothers, hid his long, thin, trembling hands in the folds of his robe. The whole tragic scene of the poor ignorant man's death reminded him of another...

The single row of darkly robed priests reached the road to Gaillard, less than a mile away from the township. Moonlight and shadows played across the road. The bright orange glow of campfires and torches rose in the distance. Hundreds of people camped along the river and road, waiting for the morrow's fair.

The bishop stopped, staring off at the swelling numbers of country fools, their tents and tired pack animals. In a low, impassioned voice, he whispered to his fellows, "How corrupt and odious be the common man's love of shallow entertainments! Look how they gather! Hundreds of them!" He shook his head, his narrowed eyes filled with pity. "They are so stupid, worshiping the frivolous and meaningless bursts of false thrills: a wrestling bear or a poorly writ play, even a fire-eating fool!"

Father Aslam nodded in agreement, staring off at the distant lights blinking in the night. "Few churches ever see the same numbers as a town fair; the faithful are few..."

"Aye, but so, too, will the fires of everlasting hell swell with their numbers, damning them all for eternity," Bishop Luce continued. “That foolish Lord Morgan refused to honor my directives and stop the play; indeed he refused to stop any of the necromancy attractions. He especially refused to stop his wife from sinking to the damning pit of practicing her witchery in public—"

The sound of a rider coming at a fast clip from behind made the bishop swing around in the opposite direction to look He and his priests watched the fast-approaching horse and rider. As the man came closer, the bishop made out the bright livery colors of the crown. He held up a hand.

The rider slowed and finally stopped before them, drawing up his horse. He examined the bishop's crimson vestments. "Milord?"

"Evening tides. You have ridden from?"

"Paris. With orders from the king!"

"And who would the royal command be for?'

The horse shifted nervously "Lord Paxton de Chamberlain, milord."

"Ah, I am seeing him now. I will take it to him directly."

The man hesitated but briefly He had orders to drop it in Lord Paxton's hands, but then he knew the content of the letter and he supposed all the world would soon know its secrets. Besides, he hardly had the rank or right to refuse a bishop's favor. "Very well, milord."

He withdrew the sealed envelope from his saddlebag and handed it down.

"Very good," the bishop said. "Follow the road straight to the chateau. A groom will see to your horse and accommodations. May God be with you."

The rider bowed and kicked spurs to mount Dust rose in his wake. The bishop slipped the envelope into the folds of his robe. He needed light.

Chapter Nine

“
I see questions of health are worrying you.”

Widow Moulin drew back in surprise. The lady had uncanny insight, surely divine! “‘Tis the source of all my woes!"

Linness nodded as she let her gaze go blank, pretending to be lost in a deep mediation on Widow Moulin's problems. Her dark hair had been pulled tightly back into a single braid, woven with a gold ribbon that matched the Turkish costume she wore.

Linness, and four of her waiting women, had worked for a month to make the costume, drawing upon illustrations from a precious illuminated manuscript of Turkish treasures. This had been shown to her by a traveling merchant, and with delight, she had bought the book for a fair price. Manuscripts were becoming more common now. She had finally convinced Morgan to start a collection for Gaillard.

Clair and she had studied the drawing endlessly. Many of the townspeople asked to see the book as well, and today it seemed just as many people came to see the Turkish costume as to have their fortunes told.

All earnings were to be given to the leper hospital in nearby Saint Bertrarid de Cormninges, though this was not generally known. Common folks did not like their monies going to lepers, who, most people felt, deserved their wretched fate. Having heard she worshiped the Virgin Mother, three sisters from that hospital had traveled all the way to Gaillard, seeking her patronage. After a brief audience, their sad stories of suffering had captured Linness's sympathy.

Sunlight filtered through the gold tent, casting the Turkish fortune-teller in that illuminating light. Inside, the sounds of the Gaillard fair seemed subdued. Like a trick of magic, the noise of the crowds, the music of the wandering band of minstrels, the wild applause rising from the bear-wrestling ring, the constant hawking of vendors, the slow pick of steady pack animals weaving through the crowds, were muted.

Linness spread her jeweled fingers over the silver cloth that covered the low table where they knelt The woman's worries were for naught, and in fact, she was blessed with rare good health, but she knew better than to tell her so. Widow Moulin was one of the wealthiest women in town. Her family, free people for as long as anyone could remember had built and run the two mills in Gaillard for over a hundred years. She had only one son, Peter whose late wife had remained sadly barren. Peter ran the mill now. Widow Moulin lived in a handsome house alongside the busy place. She had two servants to do her work. She had little with which to fill the many empty hours of her day but all these imaginary worries. The town gossips claimed she had called her overworked son to her deathbed so many times, he had begun sleeping on a cot alongside her to save himself the trip.

Linness whispered, "The spirits are speaking to me."

Widow Moulin looked about as if to see these disembodied beings before she nervously adjusted her elaborate maroon gown. "By the saints, spirits?"

"Aye." Linness appeared confused. "The spirits are telling me your health, especially your…your—”

"Arthritis?"

"Aye." She nodded. "Your arthritis and your…your..."

"Digestive problems?"

"Aye. Your arthritis and digestive problems.”

Widow Moulin could hardly believe the lady knew her exact problems. She was a marvel! "Oh,” she cried, rushing to explain, "they are so bad some days that—"

Linness held up her hand to cut her off, as if hearing other voices. "The spirits are saying these problems will be much improved if...if..."

Widow Moulin leaned forward, listened intently. "Aye, aye?"

"If you cease eating heart-beating creatures."

A skeptical look fell over the older woman's face. Heart-beating creatures? That would never do. She liked her meat as well as any, perhaps better than most.

"They are urging you to eat more bread, cheeses, and fruits. They suggest a glass of wine with your supper, too."

"Oh, I never indulge in spirits,” the widow divulged. " ‘Tis so costly, you see! Two ducats a barrel some days."

"The wine shall be less expensive than the meat, and besides,” Linness added, "the benefits shall outweigh the costs." She closed her eyes again. "Why, I also hear them mentioning in particular the fruit of one tree that grows near your house—"

The woman gasped, "That would be an apple tree!"

"Aye." Linness nodded vaguely. "You are to fast for a day and night. On the dawn of morning where a waxing moon hangs in the sky, they say you should break the fast with two of these apples. This will cure your fatigue, and replenish your energies."

Opening her eyes now, Linness presented the older woman with a charmed smile,

Widow Moulin sat absorbing this amazing information. She could fast. After all, she fasted during the high holy days of Lent, did she not? 'Twould be grand if it replenished her energies and cured her fatigue too.

"Does the good widow wish that I look into her future?"

An expression of fear drew the plump woman up again. She shuddered slightly. Only a deathbed could be in her future, she knew. Yet her son would no doubt be glad to have the exact date. Then he could make arrangements to have extra workers at the mill, slowed as he'd be by the weight of his grief.

She nodded, bracing to hear the worst.

Linness appeared to go into another trance. She swayed and rocked. A low humming sound came from her.

Clair bit her lip. She shifted restlessly as she watched.

"Why, I see a remarkable event happening to you."

"Ye do? My deathbed!?"

"Nay, not that—"

"
Mon Dieu
, a long illness!?"

"Nay," Linness shook her head. “There is . . Mercy! I see the blessing of love coming to you in your sunset years."

Nothing could have shocked the woman more, "What? Love?" She laughed nervously, "At my age?!"

"This love is...how strange, 'tis already in your life, but you do not perceive it. You walk blindly past this good man almost every day, never realizing the design God has placed before you. Do you know who this could be?"

Widow Moulin sat on the edge of her seat, a look of intense concentration on her face as her thoughts raced over the familiar faces she saw each day. The idea struck her like a lightning bolt from the sky. "Why..." She drew back, quite shocked. "Not the ... why, ye couldn't mean Hansberg, my son's old mill worker!"

"Is he kindhearted?"

"That he is! He always has a kind word for me in passing and he's good with the creatures, but he's just a poor man—"

Linness said only, "He thinks of you often."

Clair could hardly believe it when the old bat blushed like a maid in her first bloom. After the first few customers to come to the tent, Linness had confessed with vexation, "My sight has fled today. I shall have to draw upon intuition and common tricks."

These common tricks were a kind of magic themselves. Almost every person left the tent thrilled with her miraculous powers of prophecy. Many based decisions, which changed their lives, on the things Linness predicted. Like old Widow Moulin.

For Clair, 'twas more fun witnessing firsthand the foolish gullibility of her fellow citizens than the last ten fairs she had been to. She peeped outside. ‘Twas almost over. Only one man left in line outside her tent. Everyone was preparing for the play.

Widow Moulin fluttered with excitement, "Does he really care for me?"

"Aye. I believe he would welcome an invitation to sit at your table. And I see there is someone else, too. A child is calling to you. How strange!" She closed her eyes and appeared deep in thought "The spirits are telling me this child needs you."

"Needs...me?" She asked, amazed

"Aye, you were picked for this child. To help on her long road through life. In return this child will be a comfort to you in your old age.' Tis a little girl, I see. She has no mother. Who could that be?"

"Hansberg's granddaughter! Why, she has no mother, and I am always thinking the child needs someone to dress her proper and find shoes against the winter cold. They are so poor, you see, and I know the old man tries, but he is rarely picked for work anymore. He has back trouble." Widow Moulin never really gave much thought to the little girl always peeping from behind Hansberg's legs, her curls ruffled and in need of a comb. She might be a little angel if someone only dressed her up proper.

She had always wanted a little girl.

The young, tall man outside the tent watched the old woman emerge with a huge smile and a glossy, bewitched look on her face. The old woman paused to tighten her loosened purse strings before drawing a deep breath and tilting her head to the late afternoon sunshine. She hurried into the thinning crowds of people.

Clair pulled aside the flaps of the tent and motioned for the man to step inside. His shrewd dark eyes searched the queer surroundings. Gold and silver and white, everything gleamed like a treasure. A dark velvet cloth covered the low table Gaillard's lady sat behind as she told the fortune seekers the secrets of their lives.