Fantin de Belgrume awoke with a smile on his face.
At last, his destiny was clear. He felt light and free and very sated, only part of which was due to the warm body that slumbered next to him.
The only disappointment, the only thing that kept him from being completely serene was the knowledge that Gavin Mal Verne still lived. The mere thought of the man caused Fantin's insides to roil with anger and hatred-but the added knowledge that the evil man had Fantin's own innocent daughter in his possession served to make him near mad with the bloodred fury that seemed to rear in him more oft as of late.
An obsession...mayhap Rufus spoke aright. In the dawning light of day, abovestairs and away from the beckoning power of his laboratory, Fantin could admit that his venom toward Mal Verne was perchance more of a distraction than it should be.
Did he indeed allow his need to annihilate Mal Verne sway him from his holy work? Aye, it could be true.
Yet, he could not allow the man to keep him from his purpose, and Mal Verne, should he have the chance, would destroy Fantin's life and any opportunity to finish his work. 'Twas self-preservation, Fantin acknowledged as he trailed a finger along the sweeping curve of Retna's spine.
As the woman next to him shifted, brushing against him in her sleep, Fantin could not help but recall the many times Mal Verne's own Nicola had done the same. The woman's body had been sleek and sensual, and she fancied herself in love with Fantin. He, in turn, had believed she was the woman God had provided him in the replacement of his dead wife Anne. Mayhap not as pure, but worthy to bed with Fantin and become one with him. After all, God had given the earthly pleasures of coupling to all humans, and, like his patron, The Whore Saint, Fantin did not deny himself that release.
It had been no hardship to avail himself of what Nicola, Lady Mal Verne, offered the first time he'd met her at court. Fantin had had merely to give her his measured, haunting look from the lute over which he labored with such melancholy, and to sing of beauteous maids and the perfection of the love bestowed upon them by their champions ...and the woman had been lured in like a mule following a carrot.
Of course, being wed with a gruff, silent, stupid man such as Mal Verne should drive any woman to one with the charm and striking countenance that Fantin possessed, he reflected as his lips shifted in a self-satisfied smile. God had blessed him well, indeed, in making him attractive to both women and men...at the least, those of whom he wished to have find him attractive, and to follow his way and support his work.
Retna opened her eyes, hazy with sleep, and allowed the blanket to shift nearly to her waist, baring herself to him. Fantin looked at her, the stirrings of lust returning to his nether regions, and considered whether he should make love with her once more before sending her to her fate in the laboratory.
'Twas a messy fate, but necessary.
This was, in fact, his weakness. The physical coupling with a woman-any woman-who did not bear the same purity that God had bestowed upon Fantin was the vice that he must battle, the cross he must bear, the temptation that he must set right. He knew he compromised his gift, his Purpose, by enjoying the flesh of whores and women who gave their bodies to any man who asked-true whores, or even the ladies of court, such as Nicola Mal Verne. She had not been the pure woman he'd believed, and that had caused Fantin much grief.
Yet, David had had his Bathsheba, and God still gifted him with his kingdom. Aye, David'd had his punishment, but Fantin did not fear that. So long as the Lord continued to show him the way to the formula for the Philosopher's Stone, Fantin could manage any penance that might be foisted upon him.
If Anne had not perished.... Ah, Anne, his wife, the one woman who possessed untouched innocence and was chosen as he was. The one woman worthy of his physical love.
Fantin had searched for one to replace her these ten summers past, and had never found one worthy of him. Nicola had been his greatest error, enslaving him with her whoring ways whilst causing him to believe she was innocent and pure.
Until he found the woman God meant for him, his transgressions would only be forgiven if he removed the temptation-the sluts, the whores-from his sight, from his life...from this world.
Only then-when he found perfection in a woman and needed to look no further-would he be forgiven his transgressions.
Madelyne heard the horrifying crash as the roof groaned and folded into the house where Mal Verne had disappeared. She shrieked and ran toward the collapsed building as smoke poured forth. Jube, who had shadowed her since she left her chamber, was right on her heels, shouting for Clem and Arden to assist. He pushed her to one side, giving her a curt command to stay there, as he approached the rickety structure.
She stood there obediently, gnawing on her fist, watching the three men dash toward the building. A small crowd of women and children, led by the woman who had alerted Mal Verne to the missing people, clustered behind Madelyne.
Jube, followed by Clem and then Arden, stooped and gingerly pushed through the entrance to the house. They disappeared into the smoke.
Madelyne saw flames beginning to flicker through the roof, and she clenched her fist tighter, her attention fastened on the building. What if all of them were lost?
After what seemed like an age, a figure stumbled through the entrance, dragging a heavy burden, and was followed by two more soot-blackened men, carrying a body between them. Madelyne's heart pushed up into her throat as she ran forward into the circle of heat blasting from the house. The first man was Arden, and he pulled his burden well away from the building, letting it drop onto the ground as he sagged against a nearby tree. One quick glance identified the lump as a woman, her skirts mussed and torn, and her face and hair cut and bleeding.
Madelyne saw that she was being attended to before rushing on to meet Clem and Jube, who carried what she feared was Gavin Mal Verne between them. They staggered, choking and coughing, with their heavy burden, to the perimeter of the crowd of people before allowing the body to sag onto the ground.
Madelyne was on her knees in an instant, sinking onto the stone-covered ground next to the limp, blackened body of Lord Mal Verne. She felt immediately for a pulse, touching the side of his neck and gasping with relief when she found it. Then, she placed her palm flat on his bare, scarred chest and bent her ear near his mouth and nose to ascertain whether he yet breathed. When she felt the rise and fall of his chest and heard the raspy breath coming from his nose, she sat back and scrambled to her feet.
"We must get him, and the other injured, to the keep immediately," she commanded unnecessarily, gesturing to a man-at-arms she did not know. The alarm had already been raised for the lord of Mal Verne, and two men-at-arms were preparing a litter for him.
A sudden gust of wind buffeted Madelyne's shortened gown and caused the flames to billow more furiously. She looked at the next home in line for the fire, and saw that it too would be up in smoke shortly. Scanning the line of houses that would be the next victims of the fire, she saw they were built so close together that the chain would continue, flattening most of the village if the flames were not subdued.
Madelyne looked over at the first of the buildings to catch fire, and saw that the line of bucket-passers had adjusted their efforts from that one to the others, since it was long past saving. They seemed to be able to do little to contain the blaze. Mal Verne would awaken, God willing, to find that his whole village had burned.
Suddenly, just as she was turning away to join the group of men carrying the injured up to the keep, Madelyne had an idea. Grabbing Clem's arm, she spoke rapidly into his face, glad to see that he had seemed to recover from his rescue mission in the collapsed building.
"If the fire is not stopped, the whole town will burn," she told him. "It leaps from house to house, and we cannot stop it. Why do you not destroy the next two houses so that the flames have nowhere to go, and then they will be contained."
He looked at her as if she were mad, but then a dawning light crept over his face. "Aye, my lady, 'tis a good thought! It is too bad for those who live in those houses, but 'tis a better option than seeing them burn." His voice, though rough and raspy from smoke, showed his enthusiasm for the idea.
She started to resume her walk up the path to the walls, and he stopped her with a brief, gentle hand on her arm. "Thank you my lady, and care for Lord Gavin if you can save him. He may not have the will to live, but you must infuse it in him, for he has traveled a long and hard road." With that, he lost the remains of his hoarse voice and became encompassed in a fit of coughing.
Madelyne touched his arm in response. "I shall do what I can for Lord Mal Verne. And do you come to me when this is over and I will give you aught for your cough." Then, she turned away and began the trek up to the keep.
It was she, his Madonna, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Gavin's lids were painfully heavy, scratching over eyes that were gritted like sand, but there was nothing wrong with his vision.
Her pale oval of a face reflected concern and determination. Its beauty was marred by a thick streak of soot over one high cheekbone, running along the length of her face to the chin, and tiny flecks of black over her forehead and nose. Wisps of night-colored hair framed her high forehead and caressed the curve of her jaw.
A sudden fit of coughing caught him by surprise and she immediately rested a cool, soothing hand on his chest as if to help subdue it.
She turned to the table, then back. "Drink this," she offered, slipping her fingers around the back of his neck and bringing a cup to his lips.
He drank thirstily, feeling the cool soothing taste of mint slide down his throat. When he drank, he smelled its camphoric aroma and felt his lungs begin to expand more easily. As the heaviness of his breathing subsided, he became aware of a throbbing pain on his leg, and a more subtle ache to his head. As if reading his mind, Lady Madelyne spoke.
"I have wrapped your leg with a poultice to ease the burn there. You have other cuts and scrapes, but I do not believe they are much more than nicks to you." She smiled. "It appears that the ceiling landed on your head when it collapsed, and though it most likely aches, it does not seem severe."
He crooked his lips slightly. "It seems that no matter what it is that befalls me, you appear upon my awakening to care for me."
Her smile faded and she stepped back. "'Twas a foolish thing you did, Lord Mal Verne. Though you accuse me of attempting to take mine own life, you should make a meal of your own words! 'Twas naught but foolishness, rushing into a burning building as you did!"
"Foolishness." Whatever tenderness he may have felt for the Madonna-like woman before him disappeared at her reprimanding tone. "It may be no great loss to you should a villein perish in such a way, but each life given by God is sacred-"
"Indeed it is," she interrupted calmly, her level voice somehow overriding his. "Including your own, my lord. If you had been killed for your rashness, would not the lives of more have suffered with the loss of their liege, their protector? 'Twould have been more prudent to have assistance in your quest, do you not think so?"
So great was Gavin's surprise at the concern clouding her eyes that he did not take umbrage with her pointed words. "I am used to taking such risks," he replied in his rough, scratchy voice. "'Tis my duty."
Madelyne nodded, leaning toward him with a cloth that she used to dab at his pounding head. "Aye, my lord, 'tis your duty. And is it your duty to wish for death as you take those risks?"
Gavin stared at her, suddenly caught in the moon-like pools of her gray eyes. She was so close that her warmth and serenity covered him like a thick blanket. The cloth on his face was cool and soothing, and he was surrounded by the scents of mint and smoke and, beneath it all, woman. "I did not wish for death this time," he admitted, hardly aware of what he was saying, so strong was the sudden urge to pull her to him.
Madelyne stilled, as if she sensed his churning emotions. "Death would not become you, my lord," she said at last, brushing gentle fingers down the side of his face. "And methinks you would leave much sorrow behind you in this world."
