Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
The men echoed his cry and they moved out at a walk.
In her cell, Seur Philomine stood on tiptoe to see out the window so that she could watch the little cortège leave.
Pierre broke their journey at sunset, motioning his men off the high road onto a pleasant lane. “We will stay at this villa tonight,” he informed his men and Évêque Amalrie. “It is not wise to be abroad after dark."
"Indeed not,” Évêque Amalrie said, crossing himself. “Devils and brigands and all the dangers of...” He stopped, not wanting to frighten himself more than he already had. “What place is this?"
"Oh, you need not think we would bring you to some low soldiers’ haunt, mon Évêque,” Pierre said smoothly as they made their way through the first, fragrant gloom of twilight. “This villa is the home of a noblewoman who is often in the company of Cardinals and other high Churchmen."
Évêque Amalrie nodded, his smugness returning as he listened. “You are most proper to observe the courtesy of my rank, mon Duc. You, being a man of arms, may be at liberty to move in places that would bring odium to one such as myself.” He drew the curtains of the wagon back even further. “It is a pleasant building."
As they approached the front of the villa, two pages came running out, one of them holding a torch to light the entrance which was now fallen into deep shadow. “Good strangers, we—"began the nearer page.
"Jaques, tell your mistress that Pierre Fornault is here, will you? And say that I have brought Évêque Amalrie as well as a few of my men.” He was already dismounting, rubbing his eyes that ached from a day on the road. “We are hungry and thirsty."
Jaques bowed deeply, as was proper to honor Pierre's suzerainty as a Grand Seigneur of France. “You are welcome, mon Duc."
Pierre, who knew this display was for the benefit of the Bishop, assumed his most imposing hauteur. “You may inform your mistress we have arrived."
"My mistress,” Jaques said as he took the reins from Pierre, “is in the pavilion in the garden and would be grateful to receive you there."
"The pavilion in the garden?” Pierre asked with a speculative smile. “I will visit her before I eat. But pray attend the rest of this company and be certain that le Évêque is properly honored."
"It shall be as you wish,” Jaques said, signaling the other page. “Have grooms come, and then prepare the table in the smaller salon. I will inform the cooks that a meal is to be set.” He bowed again to Pierre as le Duc strolled away around the corner of the villa.
Évêque Amalrie, puzzled at this unusual reception, permitted the pages to help him dismount, and instructed his own page to accompany the others to the servants’ quarters while he sought the smaller salon with the men-at-arms. He was tired and very hungry; the heat had made him surly for a time, and then turned to lethargy. Now he felt the renewal of appetite and interest and he determined to make the most of it. He addressed the page Pierre had called Jaques. “What place is this, mon serve, and who is its mistress? I fear I do not know of it."
Jaques inclined his head and paused in his progress through the corridors. “This is Un Noveautie, and the mistress is Comtesse Orienne de Hautlimois. You are most welcome here, mon Évêque."
Ordinarily, Évêque Amalrie would have been terribly offended by the familiar tone of the page, but he was too overwhelmed by what he had heard. This was the infamous Un Noveautie, a place reputed to be the center of every vice and the home of every degraded person in the whole of the south of France. Of Comtesse Orienne, he had heard such tales that he dreaded having to meet the woman. He was certain that she was not French at all, but Roman, so appalling was her reputation. “I ... thank you, mon serve,” he managed to say through his suddenly tightened throat.
"The salon is there on your left,” Jaques pointed out, and stood aside for the visitors to enter. “Refreshments will be presented shortly."
"I...” Properly, Évêque Amalrie knew they he ought to refuse anything offered him in this iniquitous place, but he could not quite utter the words; he was too hungry and thirsty to be able to watch others eating and drinking without desiring the same for himself. He was able to achieve a kind of inner compromise. “I will wait until le Duc has come to us."
Jaques shrugged and left the room, but the men-at-arms chuckled.
"That may be some little time,” Ivo suggested as he found a padded bench and sank down on it.
"I am prepared to wait,” was Évêque Amalrie's austere reply.
Oil lamps were hung in the pavilion, and their light gilded everything within it, including the shell-shaped bath, where Comtesse Orienne lounged in scented water while her musicians played to her.
"Well met, Orienne,” Pierre said as he strode through the doors. “I see you are—"
She gave a squeal of delight and flung water at him. “Pierre! Oh, thank goodness. I was ready to die of boredom and exhaustion, and then you come!” She half-rose, her flesh glistening where the lamp light struck it. The water running off her was like golden tears. “I have missed you, Pierre. Where have you been?"
"No place you would enjoy, ma belle,” he said, indulging her with his grin. “Bathing again? What does your confessor think of it?"
"He thinks that I am steeped in sin, of course,” she replied, sinking back in the water. “Doubtless he is right. But still, there are those who do not mind that I am steeped in sin. And some of them are Churchmen.” She trailed her fingers over the surface of the water. “Do you care to join me? There is room enough. I could scrub away the dirt. You look as if you might be able to use a wash.” She was teasing him, but carefully; many of the nobles were chary about baths.
Pierre was about to refuse, then changed his mind. “Very well. I've never bathed in a tub like a seashell. That will be new."
She laughed and made a sign to her musicians. “Play outside the pavilion, my dears. Accord le Duc's dignity some respect.” When she had been obeyed, she gave an arch smile to Pierre. “Do you need a valet, or will I do?"
"I dress myself when traveling,” he answered austerely as he began to tug his surcote over his head. Shortly all his clothes lay in a heap, his grimy chemise being the last item he cast aside. The linen was dingy and there were large stains on it.
"I will have that washed in saffron water, if you would like, mon Duc,” Comtesse Orienne offered, the smell of the garment even stronger than her perfume.
"As you wish. Just provide me one of those Turkish robes until morning and I will be well-content.” He came toward her, completely naked now, and got into the tub as if mounting a fractious horse. “How am I supposed to sit in this engine of torture?"
"Just bring your knees up,” she instructed, sliding between them. “There. You see how well it works?” She kissed him long and slowly. “It is good to have a man here again. This last month, it has been nothing but Churchmen and their retinues. A soldier is more welcome to me."
Pierre put his arms around her shoulders and was disappointed that he did not feel the rush of desire she usually inspired in him. He sighed. “I am afraid I have brought you another one."
She drew back a trifle. “Another one what?"
"Another Churchman,” he said, thinking that she was a beautiful woman with her lush body and her cat's face. But he could not free his mind from the tall, lithe form of the vision of Mère Léonie that tormented him so. “I have the honor to escort an ass of an Évêque back to Avignon."
She giggled. “Oh, dear. Is he that bad?"
"I fear so. He has spent several weeks whipping nuns and he is disappointed that he will not be permitted to do so in the future.” He sighed as she took a sponge and squeezed water over his shoulder. “That's very pleasant."
"Yes. I know.” This time she took the other shoulder.
Pierre moved a little, sinking deeper into the bath. “Ah, how good of you to do this.” He let her wash him in silence, so that only the splash of the water competed with the airs of the three musicians outside the pavilion. Finally he decided he had to explain more. “The Bishop was sent to Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion, to investigate the claim that there were demons possessing the nuns there. He chose the most direct means to discover the truth: he beat the Sisters and set them long and arduous penance until the demons should be revealed."
"Oh, my poor Aungelique,” Orienne said with a sudden rush of sympathy. “She is not the sort of woman who benefits from a beating; she only becomes more headstrong and stubborn."
"She has not been much beaten,” Pierre said with a trace of bitterness. “She is with child, and Évêque Amalrie will not touch her until it is known if the babe is demon spawn."
"With child?” Orienne gasped. “But how could she?"
"She had plenty of opportunity here. She insists that her courses came after she went back to the convent, but that may be a ruse. She is a sly creature, that one, and she would lie if she thought it would benefit her.” He propped himself more firmly by hooking his elbows over the side of the shell. “You know what she is like. Do you believe that anyone here had her maidenhead?"
Orienne frowned, and for a moment she ceased her ministrations to Pierre while she thought. “There was Thibault Col, of course, but I did not think that they had gone beyond fondling and bussing. Perhaps I am wrong; she is a clever child and she may have decided to do the act in secret.” She recommenced her sponging of his chest and arms. “What of this Churchman, then?"
Pierre gave one angry laugh. “He is one of those godly eunuchs, who despises the flesh, or so he says.” He grabbed her roughly and clutched her to him. “You can fire the loins of an angel, Orienne. You are more than Lilith ever was."
She slid her hands between his legs. “I do not seem to be doing that well with you, Pierre.” She was not chiding him, but there was disappointment in her eyes. “I would rather fire you than an angel. You know how to enjoy a woman; these Churchmen have no more notion of it than those pious camels.” Gently she kneaded his thigh. “Say you will take me, mon Duc. Say you will rut with me."
It was difficult for Pierre not to call out “Mère Léonie” as Orienne worked his flesh with her hands. He felt oddly dizzy at first, and his breath came quickly; yet there was no answering thrust of his flesh. “I ... I am tired, Orienne. I did not know that I was so tired. It is the bath. Water enervates a man."
She went on with more determination. “It stimulates a woman."
He released her and pulled her hands away. “Leave off, woman! I am tired, I tell you! When I am rested, I will fuck you until your eyes bulge from their sockets.” He fell silent, and she was wise enough to say nothing while he gave himself to his thoughts. “This Churchman, though. He is one that might profit from your touch. I'll warrant he has never known any sheath for his dart other than his hand."
Her brows raised. “What pleasure then, for me?"
"Perhaps not pleasure, but satisfaction. You do not wish to have Churchmen here—well, then, take this baby and make a man of him, and you may be sure that they will know of it in Avignon. He will crow his guilt like a cock in the sunrise."
She leaned back from him, considering it. “If I do this, what will you do for me in return?"
He sighed. “I have little to offer you, ma belle. You know that the power I wield has little weight in Avignon.” He scowled down at the water. “What should I do that would benefit you?"
She lifted her shoulders, making that commonplace motion seem more sensual than anything else she had done. “Have I your word that you will serve me if I have need of a champion? It may come to that with all these rumors of the men from Rome. I have your vow that you will defend my right?"
"You have,” he said promptly, confident that he would never have to honor his promise. In the back of his mind there was an element of caution for he knew that once given, he could not be released from his vow except by the specific exoneration of the Pope himself. “I am your champion to death."
She smiled, and began once again to wash him, this time concentrating on his thick-muscled thighs. “Very well, then; I will have my way with this Évêque and give you proof of it by first light."
"I will welcome it,” he said, contented now that he knew for certain he would have the opportunity to revenge himself on Évêque Amalrie.
Seur Aungelique was on her knees tending the herbs when Seur Philomine came upon her. “The rosemary's not doing well,” she said when she noticed that the other nun was nearby.
"That is unfortunate,” Seur Philomine answered. “One of the lambs was killed last night; one of the village dogs got it, I think."
"What a shame,” Seur Aungelique said, straightening up to ease her back. “The babe grows. They say that I cannot feel it, but I know that it grows."
"Does it trouble you?” Seur Philomine could not help wondering.
"No. There are plenty of bastards in the world. I have six or seven cousins who are not legitimate but who have been advanced by my uncle. He could not get a dispensation to marry his mistress, and so they have done without.” She started to lean forward again, then stopped. “You are not permitted to marry that Chevalier of yours, are you?"
"Tristan? No, I am not. If I had been, I would not be in this habit now. Even in tertiary Orders, I find this life is not what best suits me.” She got down beside Seur Aungelique. “Here. Let me help you."
"As you wish,” Seur Aungelique said and went on with her weeding. “Do you think you will leave the Order?"
It took a while for Seur Philomine to answer. “If that is what is needed, then yes. If it cannot be possible, than I must remain here.” She pulled out four insidious creepers of morning glory.
"How can you be so serene when you know that you are being kept from what you want most? I would not stand for it.” Seur Aungelique sighed. “I will not be able to tend this garden much longer, not if the babe gets larger."
"Which it will, given time.” She found a large, pale green spider hanging in the savory and pointed it out to Seur Aungelique.