Enchantress Mine (2 page)

“Ciaran St. Ronan will never know, uncle. Once the deed is done I will permit no one to come near him but me, and my chosen servants. To the world his lack of protest will appear acquiescence!” She smiled at the bishop triumphantly, her small and perfect teeth glistening whitely against the rose-pink of her mouth.

“What is it exactly that you want me to do, Blanche?” His niece had certainly considered it all very carefully, he thought, impressed by her determination.

“The church must declare that the child known as Mairin St. Ronan is bastard-born, and therefore, not entitled to inherit her father’s estates as his heiress,” came the cold reply. “The church must declare that the true heir to Ciaran St. Ronan is the child I now carry in my belly.”

“And on what grounds shall the church do this, Blanche? We must have legitimate evidence if we are to succeed in disinheriting little Mairin, else I be accused of favoring my own.”

“Uncle! There is no proof whatsoever of my lord husband’s marriage to the brat’s mother. No one here in Brittany ever laid eyes upon the woman for she was Irish, and is said to have died in Ireland before Ciaran could bring her here. There is nothing, however, to prove such facts. It is only upon the word of my lord husband that the child has been accepted at all.”

“What was the woman’s name?” the bishop asked. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Her name was Maire Tir Connell. Ciaran has said that she was of royal blood, but I do not believe it for a moment! She was probably some savage peasant whore with whom my lord amused himself during his time in Ireland. It is said that my husband was wild in his youth. The whore’s child might not even be his, uncle! Perhaps this Maire Tir Connell did die, and Ciaran took the child to raise himself. You know how softhearted he is. How can we allow Landerneau to fall into the hands of a bastard whose father is unknown when I carry the true heir to the estate?”

“Why was Baron St. Ronan in Ireland?” The bishop was curious.

“Ciaran’s mother was Irish. After his father died she remarried an old friend with whom she had grown up in Ireland. Several years ago she grew ill, and my lord’s stepfather sent for him that he might be with his mother in her final days. While he was there he claims to have met and wed with this Maire Tir Connell, but he has never showed me any proof of that marriage, uncle, nor can I find any. Believe me when I tell you I have looked everywhere for such evidence.”

The bishop smiled tightly. He had absolutely no doubt that his darling Blanche had sought thoroughly for proof of her husband’s first marriage with an eye to destroying it.

“When this Irish woman gave birth to my lord’s daughter, he says she was weakened, and made ill by her months of confinement,” continued Blanche. “Ciaran returned home to Brittany leaving her to regain her strength before making the long journey here. He had been gone over a year, and felt it necessary to show himself on his estates. His mother had died shortly after the child’s birth. When he went back to Ireland to fetch the woman and her baby she was dead. He brought Mairin back with him. This is what he says, uncle, but I think he says it to protect the bastard. There are neither documents nor witnesses to this marriage.
Nothing!
”

“You are certain, ma petite Blanche?” If she were, he thought, then his clever girl had indeed found a way to disinherit her stepchild.

“Absolutely certain, uncle,” came the firm reply.

“What of the Irish giant who guards the child, my precious? Was he not a servant of Mairin’s mother? Perhaps he knows something of the truth. Have you spoken with him?”

“Dagda? He could not possibly know anything of value to us, uncle. The creature is stupid beyond belief. With your help nothing can stand in my way!”

The bishop of St. Brieuc smiled benevolently at his favorite niece, thinking again of how lovely she was. Blanche had always had a marvelous instinct for style. The blues she wore today complimented her fair hair and her beautiful eyes. The full, flowing skirt was just a shade darker than the tunic top which was embroidered at the neck and about the sleeves in gold thread and tiny freshwater pearls. Her pale gold braids with their rose-colored silk ribbons were looped fashionably about her ears, and her head was crowned with a chaplet of delicate filigreed gold that had been set with tiny, sparkling gemstones. She was a marvelous girl, he thought fondly, and she deserved only the best that life had to offer.

“If you are certain of what you say, Blanche,” he said with a beneficent smile, “then I shall arrange to solve this little problem for you. Unlike your careless husband, ma petite, you shall have a document, both stamped and sealed, that will attest to the validity of your word. Mairin St. Ronan will be declared bastard-born, and she will therefore be unable to inherit her father’s possessions. Ciaran St. Ronan’s lands will belong to your child alone, and you will hold them until that child either marries, should it indeed be female, or comes of age if you bear a son. Is that satisfactory?”

She arose from her chair, and slipped her arms about his neck as she had done so often as a child. With a little smile she settled herself into his ample lap, wriggling her bottom suggestively as she did. “Oh, uncle,” she said softly as she looked up into his fat face, “you are always so good to me!”

He beamed back at her, feeling a trifle breathless, and finally drawing a breath in he was almost overwhelmed by the wonderful perfume that she wore. It smelt of lilies of the valley. “Dearest Blanche,” he said, and he patted her dainty little hand, “how can I not be good to you? I adore you, and you are more than well aware of it, petite méchante.”

Blanche St. Ronan leaned heavily against her uncle, and the tip of her little pointed tongue flicked out from between her pink lips to run along his fleshy mouth in a teasing manner. Then she kissed him, her full breasts pressing against him as she did so. “Let it be as it was between us, uncle, before I came to Landerneau,” she murmured huskily against his lips. “Make love to me!”

The cleric’s breath came in hard, little pants, and unable to restrain himself he fondled his niece’s breasts with a groan of unconcealed desire. “You are with child, and I would harm neither you nor the baby you carry, ma petite Blanche,” he protested, but faintly.

“Uncle dearest,”
she breathed with scented breath into his ear, “I have not even begun to show. You will not hurt us, and I burn for your touch! I am wed to a sick and disgusting man who has never been as virile with me as you always were. I wonder that he bothered to take a wife.” She licked the inside of his ear teasingly.

“You are fortunate indeed that he did, ma petite, else you’d be in a convent now instead of the lap of luxury,” the bishop reminded her, and felt his manhood begin to stir.

“But he never had your charm, uncle.” She pouted, and added, “I will come to your apartments as soon as I have seen the castle settled for the night.” She smiled at him, showing her perfect little teeth. “Surely, dearest uncle, you will offer me comfort in my distress?”

The bishop’s heart pounded with excitement, and beneath the holy robes of his office he felt himself growing more lustful for his niece as each moment passed. He had taken her maidenhead in the confessional when she was twelve, and now as she rubbed herself against him he remembered other times, and other places. She was deliciously insatiable. He realized now how very much he had missed her since she had married Ciaran St. Ronan. Though he never lacked for companions, no woman had ever aroused him as did Blanche. Reaching up he stroked her soft cheek, and said in a pious tone, “My doors will be open to you, dearest niece, should you desire to make your confession to me later on this evening.”

“I shall welcome any penance you impose upon me,
uncle,
” she returned demurely. Then she was gone from the tiny private room. As she exited there was a triumphant smile upon her face, and she was certain of her total success. She had learned quickly, and early that a woman’s body was a potent weapon in the war between the sexes! The brat, Mairin, would be disposed of and dispossessed. Blanche’s child would inherit the St. Ronan lands! She thanked God and the Blessed Mother for her lustful uncle, else she and her baby might have been forced to accept their very bread from that little bastard. Of course, Blanche decided, she would have to get rid of the wench as quickly as possible. Once it became known what had been arranged, the tongues would wag, but they would wag less if Mairin were not around to remind everyone of what Blanche had done. Besides, who would take the brat’s part against her father’s legal widow? The lady of St. Ronan cared little what people might think as long as she and her child were victorious. Blanche St. Ronan smiled broadly, but the smile never reached her cold blue eyes.

THE SAXON’S
DAUGHTER

W
ithin the Forest of the Argoat all was silent, but for the occasional trill of a bird, or a soft whisper of a breeze. The beeches and the oaks soared skyward, reaching with strong green fingers toward the life-giving warmth of the sun above them. Great mossy boulders that had been contoured by the passage of time and worn into strange, almost mysterious shapes by centuries of wind and rain littered the forest floor. Following the almost invisible path that wound its way through those huge rocks, one came upon a stream that tumbled breathlessly over the large stones in its wake, only to disappear around a sharp curve and slip silently off into the deep woods.

Somehow the warm late-summer sun managed to break through the thick stands of trees casting a pale green light over everything it touched; skimming across the dark pool within the sudden clearing where a great antlered stag had stopped to drink. A shaft of light touched the dark chestnut velvet of his flank, but so secure was the beast within this magical realm that he barely raised his head to gaze with liquid eyes as with the faintest rustle the underbrush gave way for but a moment to allow a small figure to enter within the charmed circle. It was a child. A little girl of such delicate structure and beauty that it seemed as if the faintest puff of wind would blow her away.

Seeing the stag, Mairin St. Ronan stopped to greet the beast. “Hail, Hearn!” came her soft childish voice, and the stag lowered his head to once again drink, knowing instinctively that this was no enemy.

The child’s skin was snow-white and of such translucent quality that it contrasted sharply with the soft light within the clearing. The sunlight touching the crown of her head lit a flame of red-gold so intense that many seeing the little girl’s mass of fiery hair for the first time were amazed by the beautiful color. Some fingered the great cloud of softness as if unable to believe the evidence of their own sight. It was unusual for a child so young to be so beautiful, and there was speculation as to what she would look like when she was grown. She was strangely adult for one so young, and this coupled with her rare beauty made many uncomfortable. There were even rumors that she visited old Catell, the witch woman, and because the child’s knowledge of healing was beyond her years, many believed her to be a young enchantress. After all, had not Brittany been the home of the Great Sorcerer, Merlin, and the famed enchantress Vivian?

The child ran to the edge of the pool, and kneeling, dipped her tiny hand into the black water, letting its coolness drizzle back into the pond. The smooth, dark mirror reflected back at Mairin her own face, and looking at it the little girl saw a small square chin, a short, straight nose that her father assured her would eventually grow, and a mouth that her stepmother declared was much too large, and even a trifle vulgar for a female of good breeding. Mairin made a little moue with her mouth as she stared into the water. She knew certain charms and spells for whitening one’s skin and lightening one’s hair, but there was no way that she knew of for changing the shape of one’s mouth.

As for the lady Blanche with her cold blue eyes and her rosebud lips that always seemed pursed with discontentment, Mairin knew full well that her father’s new wife did not like her, although she did not know why that should be so. She was happy her father had finally remarried, for she understood his need for a son. He would not have one for Mairin knew the baby her stepmother carried was a daughter, and alas, her father now lay dying. She could see it in his sad eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she impatiently brushed it away. Death was but a doorway into another life. There was nothing she could do to prevent her father’s fate.

Shrugging she arose, thanking the pond as she did for its smooth surface which had allowed her to glimpse herself. Then, walking about the little body of water, she looked carefully for any plants that might be of use to her, or to old Catell, the witch woman of these woods, who had taught her so much about healing.

There were a few green acorns that had fallen, but acorns were best when ripe, and so she ignored them. Here and there upon the ground there were pine cones, but the best cones were those with their seeds, and she had gathered them in the late spring when they were newly fallen before the squirrels and birds got at them. On a patch of dry and rocky ground, however, she found some capers growing, and these she plucked carefully, putting them into the little linen pouch that hung from her girdle. As a decoction capers were very good for easing toothache, but one had to be careful when using them for capers were also known to draw blood and sperm into the urine, and the only antidote for that was apple vinegar.