Free Sweet Enchantress by Parris Afton Bonds

who appreciated Francis de Beauvais for more than his religious administrations.
    Iolande neve r took her eye, nor her purple-veined fingers, from her distaff and spindle. "Eleven months by my count.”
    A respite from her boredom! Memories of the fascinat ing conversations and heated debates she had enjoyed with Francis quickened her blood. "Marthe, make haste and help me change.”
    Marthe, with her fine eye toward fashion, chose for Dominique a ribbed indigo-violet satin undergow n and over that a long, silver-belted houppelande of red silk lined with linen. The horned headdresses that were becoming the style took far too long for Manon to accomplish so Dominique settled for having her hair plaited and coiled in templets over her ears.
    As a final touch, Manon insisted on powdering Dominique's face with fine white flour and scented her throat and ear lobes with musk of jasmine and orange blossom that Baldwyn had purchased at the annual trade fair at Montlimoux and which he had sworn had been brought from the Orient.
    When at las t she descended the solar staircase into the great hall, there was only one thought and that was relief that Paxton was away, finalizing the last details of the tourney. Then even her preoccupation with Paxton subsided at the vision of Francis in conversation with Baldwyn.
    Francis ’s profile was strong, with clean lines and noble features, and his presence was commanding. He wore the long black robe of the clergy that decreed respect and authority. However, his was hardly austere, with gold cord trimming even his priest’s brocaded stole. He did not even bother with the tonsure. Over his thick black hair a sable cap angled rakishly.
    It had been her mother who had knighted his father, a distinguished lawyer and loyal advisor, for outstanding service in negotiating a treaty with the Infante of Majorca, at that time a threat to the comté. Initially, Francis had been, like his father, a canon lawyer, able and energetic. And then, after his parents died, tortured on the rack during one of those fanatical periods of the Inquisition, he had turned to the solace of the Church.
    “ Francis,” Dominique said, joy lightening her voice as she hurried to him.
    He half- pivoted toward her and smiled. One beringed hand stretched forth, beckoning her. “Dominique, your loveliness and intelligence are wasted here. I have come to lure you away to Avignon.”
    "If I but could.” Placing her hand in his, she had to smile at the way he believed he could command everything, including the seasons.
    "Then 'tis true? There is a claimant to your county? The man responsible for staging this tourney?”
    She grimaced. “ An Englishman, no less. Paxton of Wychchester.”
    The aura of Francis's male force was heavy, dark, confusing her. Her pleasure at seeing him was instantly diminished by the sight of the y oung woman who entered the room at the head of his entourage. His sister, Lady Esclarmonde. That explained the dark undertone Dominique had sensed around Francis.
    His sister, a t all blond beauty with a retroussé nose, possessed little of his brilliant learning and penetrating insight. But then Esclarmonde had not had the opportunity for education as Francis had had. Still, the young woman was intelligent, and Dominique would have liked to have had her as a friend.
    It appeared that Esclarmonde had never shar ed the yearning. As a child, isolated by her rank and privileges, Dominique had joyously turned for companionship to the daughter of her mother's advisor. Gradually, though, Esclarmonde had revealed herself guileful and petty. Having no parents, Esclarmonde’s domineering spirit had warred on equal footing with that of Dominique’s for Francis’s attention, and Dominique had always been left feeling embattled.
    Esclarmonde halted beside him and, lightly placing a glo ved hand on his arm, said, “Dominique, we have come to pay you our condolences.” Her tone was light and airy, for all the darkness