A Mortal Glamour (6 page)

Aungelique said nothing, though there were questions burning in her mind.

"My husband was like a ram tupping ewes when the desire was on him. He had as much imagination as a ram, as well.” This last was said with a weary sarcasm that puzzled Aungelique.

"But if you love the flesh..."

"There is no flesh in what he did. It was all over as quickly as it is in the barn.” She forced a laugh and glanced at Aungelique shyly. “Do you think you would want that, my little Frèrée? Just one or two plunges? No? Is nothing worth prolonging?” She let her head fall back. “Well, tonight you will learn for yourself and you can decide then."

"I hope I will do more than decide,” Aungelique said as brazenly as she could. “I want to know what it is that I am supposed to rid myself of. To be condemned to do penance for sins I hardly know..."

Once again Orienne laughed, and this time she did not sound as if she were compelled to do so. “I want to see you when you make your discovery."

In spite of her determination, Aungelique felt her cheeks redden. “Pray God it is satisfactory for ... everyone."

"Oho!” Orienne cried. “Were you planning to lose your virginity to all my guests? That is a great ambition, ma Frèrée."

"I ... I don't know. I must wait.” Aungelique smoothed her skirt and then pressed her hand over the lowest of the amber buttons. “Tell me; is my kinsman likely to be one of the company?"

Orienne gave a knowing look to her young guest. “It is possible. Why?"

"Nothing. There is no reason.” Aungelique got up suddenly. “I will assist in setting up the lesser hall. Otherwise the steward might not finish the work in time."

"How considerate.” Orienne knew that Aungelique did not want to discuss Pierre Fornault with her, and it nettled her, so she added with a touch of spite, “They trained you well, at that convent, didn't they?"

Père Guibert had been gone little more than three days when he sent word back to Mère Léonie of his progress, stating that it was his belief that Seur Aungelique had taken refuge—if it could be called such when in association with so vile a woman—in the little summer palace of la Comtesse Orienne de Hautlimois. The palace was called Un Noveautie, and rumor had it that la Comtesse was currently entertaining guests at one of her engagements. Although he was not able to bring himself to be more specific, Père Guibert did tell Mère Léonie that he was afraid that lasting damage might already have been done to Seur Aungelique. The guilt that possessed him as he wrote that was almost unbearable to the priest, and he knew it would be a very long time before he would be able to expiate his error in caring for Seur Aungelique.

There were musicians in the gallery above the Great Hall; two sackbuts, a cythara angelica, two gitterns, three buisines, and a tabor made up the consort. A number of couples danced to the melodies, but most of them paid little attention, preferring instead to eat, drink, and converse. Only an adventurous few were openly salacious, for the evening was young.

Aungelique wandered among the guests, still uncertain of what was expected of her. She could not admit to herself that she was looking for Pierre Fornault. Instead she had decided that she was not anxious merely to sport with Orienne's company, but wanted to find a proper companion, one who would not bore her or use her ill.

"Alone, sweeting?” asked a light, equivocal voice near her left shoulder.

"Rather keeping my own...” Aungelique fell silent as she turned and faced the beautiful young man who had spoken to her. “Yes. I am alone,” she whispered, caught up by his presence.

"A pity. You need not be.” He was slender and graceful, dressed splendidly in pale blue and silver that brought out the ice color of his eyes. It was odd, Aungelique thought as she stared at him, that such light eyes could be so hot.

The musicians made a flurry of sound and launched into a throbbing, plaintive tune.

"Do you know the words?” the young man asked.

"I don't ... no.” Aungelique felt her face grow flushed; speaking to him was an effort, but terribly pleasant.

"It says:

'Alas, that I should be without a dream

For my soul is parched for lack

Of their gentle consolation

Of the glamour of their touch.'

"Doesn't that stir you, little sweeting? Does not your heart know that wish?"

Aungelique was not sure if the youth was taunting her with his questions, but she did her best to answer in the approved, arch way. “Good Bachelor, I have no notion of dreams that enchant me; this is enchantment enough."

He chuckled. “Is it? What is this, but a dream?"

Again Aungelique wondered if he were making mock of her. “I cannot grasp the substance of my dreams."

"Can you not? Isn't it what you wish most to do? Little sweeting? Is there no torment in your soul that cannot be quieted outside of your dreams?” He reached out languidly and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You sleep undisturbed? Your heart is untroubled?"

"If you seek to affront me—” Aungelique began, but the young man interrupted her.

"No. Never that, little fledgling. Not I. I would only ask to bring an end to your suffering, not to burden you more.” He smiled once and moistened his lower lip with his tongue. “Perhaps another time, sweeting?” He inclined his head and passed on.

"You've caught his eyes?” Comtesse Orienne demanded as she came to Aungelique as soon as the newcomer had sauntered on.

"I don't think so. He did not ... He said a few things, but nothing to make me think that he had...” To her disgust she felt her cheeks grow rosy. “Who is he?"

"His name, so he tells me, is Thibault Col, Chevalier de Bruges.” Orienne brushed impatiently at the open neck of her houppelande to be rid of imaginary crumbs. “If manner and wealth are any gauge, he must have some nobility."

"It would appear so,” Aungelique said cautiously, taking her tone from Orienne.

"It is never easy to tell,” la Comtesse mused, then recalled herself. “He came with Ferrand. You met him? Le Baron de Montpaiet?"

"I think so,” Aungelique said, seizing on this diversion. She did not want to trouble her thoughts with the pale-eyed young man any longer.

"He comes from the north. Col, that is. Well, his name says as much.” Orienne flashed a wide, meaningless smile to three women who sallied toward them. “We will talk later, ma Frèrée. In the morning.” With that, she was gone into the crowd and Aungelique was left to fend for herself.

In the end, Aungelique was disappointed; she spent the night alone, and sometime before dawn she rose and wandered the halls, looking at the aftermath of the festivities with a critical eye. The musicians slept in the corner of the Great Hall, crowded together like a litter of puppies. Three sleepy understewards were strewing clean rushes over the floor, covering the refuse from the banquet of the previous evening. In curtained alcoves, lovers kept their trysts, some of them still awake, from the sounds that issued from behind the painted hangings. Aungelique paused to observe two of these meetings, eager to know what it was they did that was different from farm animals. Her hands grew moist as she watched and an echo of the pulse in her loins trembled along her body.

By sunrise, Aungelique was exhausted, but could not bring herself to lie down. Restlessly she roamed through the back of the little palace and then out into the gardens where the wild orchard was just starting to put forth leaves and buds. She longed for her home and the bustle of her family. If only her father would permit her to marry Pierre all would be well. She could not spend her life immured in a convent. Better to live as Orienne lived than that. She could not bring herself to contemplate the lovers she had watched; it was too painful to know that she had attached no one to her.

"Sweeting?” said Thibault Col from the door behind her.

Aungelique spun around. “Do you always come up behind...” She dropped her eyes at his lazy laughter. “You do not deal with me honorably."

"And do you? A runaway nun who watches lovers at their pleasure? Who are you to chide me, sweeting?” He strolled toward her, one hand on his belt. “You desire to taste, but you dare not. Do you lack courage, or only sense?” As he reached her, he held her eyes with his own.

"Who told you I was a runaway nun?” she demanded, taking the most obvious of his accusations.

"Does it matter? Perhaps you are more obvious than you know. Last night, the only woman who covered her hair was you. Is it because it has been cut off?” He reached out and touched her capuchon. “Don't imagine it isn't very pretty; but I doubt I'm the only one who guessed its purpose.” He moved suddenly, brushing her mouth with his own. “There. Now you have made a beginning."

Aungelique took a step back and folded her arms. “I did not ask for a kiss."

"Didn't you? Thibault asked her. “It seemed to me you did, but if I must wait for you to speak, so be it.” He, too, folded his arms, regarding her with amusement.

"Did you follow me?” Aungelique inquired, trying to find a way to disrupt him as he had her.

"Naturally. You seemed in need of company, and since you intruded on la Comtesse and me, I decided that it would be permissible to intrude on you; you have not nearly so much a reason to be private as Orienne and I had.” His mouth curved like a scimitar. “Did you?"

"I didn't realize...” she began lamely. “I thought that ... you—"

"You thought we took pleasure together, and you wanted to know how,” he stated flatly. “Did you learn anything, sweeting? Do you wish I would hold you the same way, touch and taste you the same way?"

"Don't,” she said, wishing she could turn away from him.

"Perhaps tonight? When the musicians are playing and the food has been cleared up. We could come here, or if that is not to your liking, there are rooms apart from the others, where no one would find us unless you desired more than what I—"

"Stop,” she whispered, horrified that she did not want him to obey her.

Is there not a gulf in you, sweeting? Does it not seek to be filled? Where is the fault in that, little one? It is only human need, not deviltry.” He grinned at her. “Do you deny it? Do you deny me?"

Aungelique gathered her hands into twin fists. “You must not seek me in this way. It isn't fitting."

"How have I offended you? What have I said that you have not thought already?” He did not move, but there was an intimacy in his teasing that had not been there at first.

She had no answer for him; she searched for escape. “Why do you torment me? Why do you speak to me in this way?"

"Why?” he repeated. “Is it not what you want, sweeting?"

"No!” she protested wildly.

"But it is. You know that in your heart of hearts.” He came toward her again, stopping less than an handbreadth from her without touching her. “How strong is your desire, sweeting?"

Desperately Aungelique broke away from him, shoving him aside as she ran as if she fled from rapine or damnation or the Plague. “No!” she shouted, not certain what it was she sought to avoid—Thibault's embraces or her own passion.

Père Guibert regarded Comtesse Orienne with cowed disapproval. “I have authorization to return Seur Aungelique to her convent. It is sealed by her father as well as the Cardinal.” He brandished the document as if it were a weapon.

Comtesse Orienne sighed and helped herself to a date. “Do you want one, Père?” It was the most perfunctory courtesy and neither paid much attention to the offer.

"You have the girl here, haven't you?"

"If you are here, you know that I do,” she countered. Her head rang from wine and lack of sleep; charm did not come easily to her today.

"I have not seen her for myself, but it is what I have been told,” he said, being scrupulously honest. “I have been directed to restore her to her convent at once.” He felt that he should be more emphatic, and so he hooked his free thumb in his rosary belt.

"Yes, I understand that part.” She yawned. “Tomorrow morning, mon Père. She will be ready to travel."

Père Guibert stammered out his astonishment. “But ... you do not object? You will consent to return Seur Aungelique?"

"I am not a foolish woman. If I defy the Cardinal now, I will lose his protection, and then nothing I do will be tolerated. If I cooperate, however, I will be left alone. At least, that is how it has always been in the past, or didn't they tell you about it?” Her smile bordered on malice. “Bon Père, you are naïve if you think that Avignon is unaware of what I do, and those I do it with. Some of my guests would ... amuse you.” She clapped and a page appeared. “Take Père Guibert to the kitchen and see that he is properly fed.” She beamed at the priest. “I won't offer you the insult of my company."

"Deo gratias,” Père Guibert muttered, confused by the conflicts Comtesse Orienne engendered in him. “Bread and cheese will be sufficient."

"Nevertheless, you will take what is provided and thank God humbly for it, or you will not be worthy of your calling.” Comtesse Orienne laughed abruptly. “Do I have it right, mon Père?"

For an answer Père Guibert glared at her as he followed the page from the room.

"You may come out now,” Orienne said to the air. “Ma Frèrée."

"I'm not going back,” were the first words Aungelique spoke as she emerged from behind a hanging that blocked one of the private alcoves.

"That may be, but you cannot stay here,” Orienne said, attempting to speak as gently as her raging head would allow. “I cannot risk my whole way of life for your stubbornness, Aungelique."

Aungelique set her jaw. “Why not?” It was an unreasonable question, and both women knew it, but la Comtesse deigned to answer it.

"For the time being, the Church ignores me officially, and that suits me very well. But if your father should insist that the letter of the law be served against me, then I will find myself in prison or worse, and you, ma Frèrée, would still have to go back to your convent."

"Or worse,” Aungelique said darkly. “It would be like my father to imprison me. It was bad enough being sent to the convent.” She folded her arms. “And if I go back, what then?"