A Kiss in the Night Page 3

  She slipped the necklace around her neck. Then she stood there, tracing the heart beneath the star as his words echoed through her soul. ...you will belong to me forever…

  Finally she forced herself away. A new day had started and she had to decide what to do. She could never go back to her village or her home. The church would condemn her again immediately But where could she go? What could she do? Where would she get shelter for herself and, praise Mary, her child, should she be so blessed?

  She needed to see an omen of where she should go and what she should do. Standing very still, she searched the forest for the divine signal. Minutes gathered. Nothing happened.

  She sat down. These things, she knew, sometimes took time. There was nothing to be heard but a gentle wind, the soft drone of heather bees, the trill of two skylarks against the trickle of the stream.

  A movement in the forest caught her gaze. Sunlight streamed through two tall trees in the forest, their branches reaching up and entwined. A beautiful doe and her fawn walked below the entwined branches.

  A good omen if ever there was one!

  The enchanting sight was surely meant to assure Mary would be watching over her and guiding what was to happen to her. After all, Mary had saved her from death. Mary had answered her secret wish and sent her Paxton.

  She would just start walking. Which way, though?

  She looked for another sign. A sparrow lifted from a tree and headed west. She smiled as she turned toward the west, her gaze still fixed on the little bird. He flew up and back around toward the south.

  She stopped. The south was a good direction too…

  Chapter Two

  Sunlight glinted from the round towers of the Chateau Gaillard, sparkling over the wide river that rushed through the valley. The chateau had been built from a castle's remains, and still showed many elements of the ancient castle. The stone structure rose at the southern end of the township of Gaillard, and Paxton, accompanied by two of his knights, rode at full speed through the outlying village to the gatehouse.

  The chateau was an enormous structure, as large as Notre Dame in Paris and completely enclosed by a deep freshwater moat made by the river at its side. The wide moat circled the outer bailey, which was a three-story stone wall topped by battlements connected by wall walks. Surrounding the chateau were the domestic buildings: the knights' barracks and servants' building, the stables, piggery, garden, and exercise yard. There was a lesser bailey that enclosed the castle keep, its towers and fore building.

  The famous Gaillard vineyards stretched up and over the hillsides in every direction. The barley, oat, and wheat fields reached from the north all the way to the valley's end. Thickly forested mountains enclosed the whole. This day was made of blue skies and bright sunlight, and the Gaillard valley, its castle, and the wealth of its rich farmland stole Paxton's breath. The profound beauty of his land would always strike him.

  Nay, he thought. Not my land. My brother's land.

  Morgan de Gaillard Chamberlain, his older brother by an absurdly meaningful two minutes. They had shared the space of their mother's womb for nine months, where even then Morgan had tried to squeeze him out; his brother had been born hale and heavy, a goodly weight for a babe, while he had been half his brother's size, frail and sickly and expected to die before the winter months were through. His mother and her ladies saw this at once—and to everyone this seemed to explain his mother's indifference to him and her blind adoration of his brother. And so it had begun: the joining of their two lives. They were like two rams that had locked horns in a battle, only the battle seemed to last forever. Brothers and enemies by turns or heart...

  The warhorse thundered over the wooden planks that led to the gatehouse. Two guards rushed down the stone steps to greet Paxton, but he continued to stare straight ahead as he crossed over the moat and under the wide stone arch of the entrance keep His knights galloped behind him. A trumpet sounded, alerting Morgan and his men to his brother's return. As Paxton came through the entrance gate, he first saw John Chamberlain, his uncle and his brother's steward. The older man rushed down the stone steps of the keep to greet him as well

  Paxton drew the horse up sharply, dismounting before the great stallion's legs crashed back to earth. His knights headed straight for the stables. Paxton's black cape billowed behind him as he approached his friend. The gray-haired man's gaze filled with anxiety, so much so that Paxton stopped and asked, "What say you, John?'

  " 'Tis bad, Paxton, 'tis very bad. Henry returned just before you. He's in the hall with Morgan now, telling of...of lurid deeds that he lays at your feet."

  Hands on hips, Paxton demanded, "What deeds be these?"

  John met Paxton's level gaze, his arms reaching up to firmly grasp Paxton's muscled biceps, as if needing more of his nephew's attention. "Henry claims you abandoned the battle and carried off a condemned witch to the forest, that he followed you there and came upon your lustful coupling. He says you stayed away half the night, abandoning the search for Lady Belinda to lie with this witch."

  Paxton swore softly, viciously.

  A curious assortment of half-truths. Nay, he realized with sinking dread. 'Twas no half-truth. He had done just that. Worse, after the magic of the one night with his virgin witch, he would do it all again. The entire ride back he could think only of her, his witch-child, and how, as soon as he found the Lady Belinda, he would find the silver-eyed girl and bring her to Gaillard. Even now, he could close his eyes and see her with her strange beautiful eyes, her red mouth, the cascade of her hair, the curves of her slim form, her pants and cries as he filled her...

  He had no excuse. There was no explanation.

  "Deny it, Paxton!"

  Paxton's dark blue eyes seemed to turn black with his thoughts; his gaze remained steady, unwavering. "I cannot."

  Paxton's honesty was a rare thing, John well knew. Rare and presently regrettable. He shook his head in wonder of this ill news. "God's teeth, Paxton, if it be true, Morgan will not forgive you this.”

  Morgan had spent over two years negotiating the dowry and land acquisition for his marriage to Lady Belinda Saint de Beaumaris, daughter of baron and baroness De Beaumaris of Nancy. Two years. The discussion of the lady's travel plans alone had taken two months, every detail taken into account: the route, the number of knights to accompany the lady, footmen and their livery, the provisions for her serving woman, the inns to be stayed at, which party would pay for the knights lodging, every detail gone over and worked out to mutual agreement.

  Then word had arrived from faraway estates that the so-called archpriest, an outlaw who had been joined by fifty or so men, was relentlessly marching over the land, raping, pillaging, and setting to flame all villages and homes that could not pay his ransom. Paxton had wanted to gather Gaillard's knights and meet the army at once, but Morgan, like most other lords, said, "Nay, 'tis not our problem. Perhaps when they ride farther south…” Morgan's indifference, or what Paxton always saw as cowardice, had infuriated him. It always infuriated him. Then the Bishop Comte de Berry's word had arrived and it was realized the Lady Belinda would be crossing this outlawed army's path on her way to Gaillard. The news had alarmed Morgan as nothing else could, and at last he had granted permission to Paxton and their men to ride out to battle the archpriest and rescue the Lady.

  Now this lurid tale of a witch and a coupling .

  He appealed to his uncle for help, "John..."

  "Morgan swears he cannot forgive you this time. He imagines you acted with malice of purpose, in the perverse hope of denying him a wife and heir, that he will see you banished—"

  The great wooden doors above them opened at that instant.

  Morgan appeared on the top step between two stone lion heads mounted there, the knights Henry and Clifford behind him. Indeed Morgan's handsome face was filled with fury as he raced down the steps, cursing Paxton's name.

  Though twins, the two men did not look alike. Paxton's face was arresting and the strength there almost frightening; like John the Baptist, people always said. His brother was, by consensus, the more handsome. And despite his auspicious head start at birth, Morgan was not as tall as Paxton. Whereas Paxton was built lean and muscular, like the warhorses he loved, Morgan was heavier of bone and limb. Once as a tailor was fitting them, Paxton had made everyone laugh by the wry comment, "From the day we were born and every day since, my brother has insisted on taking up more space than me..." His brother had darker hair, too, and dark eyes. A full beard hid the same dramatic thrust of square chin, softening Morgan's appearance somewhat, and with a far more modest nose than his brother's, Morgan's features appeared regular and more conventional, altogether less dramatic.

  "Brother," Paxton started to explain as the two men faced each other, his blue eyes offering sympathy when he knew it would not be accepted. "We have not found the lady yet. We crushed the outlaw army and I have half my men searching for the lady, while the other half are chasing the renegades through the forest. I came to get—"

  Paxton was utterly unprepared for the hard blow of Morgan's fist. Bent over, he put his hand over his face, trying to gain himself a moment to overcome the shock. Morgan waited the precious minute for Paxton to rise, and when he did, the silence that followed was filled with the weight of understanding.

  The two brothers had grown up fighting each other, or rather Paxton had grown up enduring the near daily humiliation of being beaten to a bloody pulp by Morgan. The last time they had taken blows to each other, they were fifteen and both had returned to Gaillard from their individual stretches as squires. Paxton would never forget that day. Morgan had taken one look at him and knew that it would no longer be Paxton who suffered defeat in a physical battle. They were twenty-five now. These ten years had been filled with a lifetime of resentments and grievances, and as Paxton rose to his full height and looked at Morgan, he understood that he had waited for this moment all these years.

  With the reflex honed by a hundred battles, Paxton's arm shot up to block Morgan's next blow, while his fist shot to Morgan's stomach. A grunt sounded before Morgan swung again, but Paxton ducked, swung back, and sent Morgan flying to the dirt.

  John shouted for them to stop in the name of God and then their mother, but they were far beyond any reason now. As Morgan came to his feet again and lunged toward him, something snapped deep inside Paxton, letting loose the rage he had suppressed all his life. Blow after blow followed. All too soon Morgan lay on the ground, his arms shielding his head, and still Paxton's fist pummeled his body.

  Henry and Clifford leaped to pull Paxton off Morgan, but it was too late. Paxton was crazed. He turned his strength on them, and this saved his brother's life. The near deadly force of his blows dropped first Henry and then Clifford to the ground. Henry did not get up. Clifford lifted partially up, feeling his broken jaw, which would not move, and pain throbbing through his body.

  Breathing heavily, Paxton stared in shock at his brother. John was lifting Morgan up in his arms, Morgan's lips were bloodied. He spat out more blood and wiped at his mouth with a trembling hand. One eye was swollen shut, but his other eve searched for and found Paxton several feet away

  He hid none of his hatred as he pronounced the punishment. "The lady will be dead now!" He tried to catch his breath, feeling the dull ache of a broken rib. "And I lay her death at your whoring feet!" He struggled up to stand, needing to face Paxton as he said his last words. "I banish you forevermore from my Gaillard, do you hear me? Banished! By God, if I ever see you here again, I will have your head hung from the battlements! This I swear!"

  Paxton heard John and Clifford gasp in shock, and watched as the older man he loved and trusted immediately stepped between them and tried to make Morgan take it back. Morgan pushed him away violently. It was too late.

  The words had been said.

  Banished forevermore.

  Paxton turned his back to Morgan for the last time.

  A sudden grief almost dropped him to his knees. Only the absolute refusal to ever suffer another humiliation at his brother's hands kept each booted foot moving until he reached his waiting horse. He mounted and turned the beast away, not daring to take a last glance at the land, its chateau, and the people he loved. With his back ramrod-straight, he stared only ahead to the road that led away from Gaillard and into an uncertain future.

  "Good riddance, brother mine," Morgan said, his voice rising to cross the distance as if it might possibly reach all of Gaillard. "I want no one to mention his name to me ever again. I have at last finished with my nemesis, my brother, my enemy in this life."

  * * * *

  Linness still remembered the night her mother had crept up behind her with a thick wooden staff and struck her hard across her head She had just turned five. Thunder and lightning had lit the darkened sky. She had been standing in the doorway of their small stone cottage, watching the rain fall in sheets. The river where her maman had taught her to swim was rising. Mud had poured from the hilltop behind the cottage, rising halfway to the window and making her mother say, "God have mercy," over and over. A vicious cough kept interrupting the prayer, reducing it over and over to pitiful gasps for breath.

  Poor, poor Maman...

  Water from the well had spilled over, making it look like a fountain. It had made a puddle in the front of the house. She remembered her excitement as she thought she could swim in it in the morning, how, if she grabbed a log and made a sail, it would carry her out to the sea where she would at last see Neptune. Her mother had told her the magical stories of Neptune, Zeus, Athena, and all the gods of olden times. She loved these gods very much. They were not like the prickly cruel God of the church, though she must not say this out loud, she knew. Her mother told her, "A body could burn for that heresy..."

  She had clapped her hands as the puddle grew deeper and wider still, lapping now at the side of the sheep's water urn and against the old tree trunks. The animals had been brought inside. One of the sheep, Monsieur Henry, named after a king, nudged her hand, where he often found treats, baying when the little girl held out her open hand for inspection. He licked it anyway and she giggled. The chickens had been brought inside, too. They filled the cottage with a musty scent of wet feathers. They cried and bawked and her mother cried too because the moist air made her cough worse

  Poor, poor Maman…

  She knew it was her mother creeping up behind her because she heard her cough. She started to turn to her and from the corner of her eye had seen her mother holding a staff high over her head. It was the last thing she remembered from this world, because the violent act sent her to another place, into the world of the spirits and the unborn and God.

  She beheld heaven.

  Infused with a strange and magical light that was meaning and depth of benevolence, she understood the light was God. An angel, Mary, spoke to her without words, telling her she was not yet ready to leave the earthly world below, but that her mother would be coming to be with Mary in heaven. But first her mother was to take her to the Benedictine Abbey, where the good sisters would love and cherish her.

  She remembered wanting to explain that she didn't want to go to the abbey, that she would very much like to go to the ocean to see Neptune, but there were no words in this place. Then Mary began showering her with love as a warm light cascaded over her and changed her forever.

  The contrast between the dream and reality had been startling when she finally opened her eyes again. Her head hurt and her mother hovered over her with a warm cloth. The sun shined through the clouds and the rain had stopped. Her mother coughed blood into a cloth. Once upon a time her mother had been beautiful, but the cough made her look old and haggard.

  "Poor, poor Maman," Linness said gently. "Mary's taking you to heaven soon. Mary said I must go to the abbey." The silvery eyes widened with sudden hope. "Maman, I want to swim. In the big puddle."

  "Linness, did you see the blessed Mary?"

  "Aye. She was beautiful. I want to swim.

  Her mother had nursed her until she was well enough to make the four-day journey to the abbey. In truth her mother's coughing fits made the journey slow, but Linness was glad for it, for her mother had told her many strange and sad stories that she never forgot. And they were all she had of her.

  Her mother had also taught her the story they would tell the sisters. This story was made of truths and lies, all mixed up, so that first it became a confused jumble in her mind, and then, when they had finally reached the white stone abbey nestled in a valley surrounded by high green hills, Linness believed every word she told the abbess.

  Only the richest and most noble families could afford the dowry the church required to accept a child into its many religious orders. The noble families who could afford the hefty fortune usually gave up one and sometimes two children to the church. The child was then educated, taught to read and write and molded to assume a place in the order, be it priest or nun. To have a child accepted was considered one of the greatest blessings. It was known as the easiest and most expedient means of getting to heaven.

  Linness's mother was a poor woman, barely etching a meager living from a small plot of land and fingers put to a spindle. God had graced her with an unusually bright, beautiful, and healthy child whom she loved more than life itself. She had known death waited nearby and there was no one with whom she could leave her little girl. She had to somehow get Linness into the abbey as a novitiate before she died. Her desperation had given rise to this far-fetched plot. The blow to her head was to create a convincing bump. She'd tell the sisters her little girl was struck by lightning and lived; that 'twas a miracle they could not ignore. She hoped it was enough to win a place for Linness, and when God Himself aided the effort by taking the child, even momentarily, up to heaven, she knew it would work.

  "Lightning struck me here." The little girl pointed, proud of the bump. Five nuns had already examined it before they had led the little girl down a clean corridor to the wooden door that had a cross hung on it. An older woman, The Abbess Constance, sat inside. She wore a white robe that reminded Linness of Mary. "It shot me up to heaven."