Sweet Enchantress Read Online Free PDF Page B

Baldwyn. What help can I expect from my vassals?”
    "In truth,” he mumbled at last, "little.”
    She stared at the Goliath ’s visage. This warrior/monk, soldier/mystic had tutored her in geometry and astronomy as well as astrology, knowledge he had acquired while serving as a young knight in the Holy Land. There he had, also, acquired leprosy. "Surely, I have feudal service owed me.”
    "You know yourself that the last few years, in the absence of wars, your tenants have paid scutage in place of military service.”
    "Yes, but those shield taxes have gone to building a hospital and other improvements. On how many of our local knights can we depend?”
    "Well,” he said, ticking off on his thick fingertips, "Richard, son of Jacques holds fifteen knights' fees. Andre of Gaston, six knights'. Robert holds half a knight’s fee. All in all, mayhap thirty-five knights' fees and a half.”
    "I see,” she murmured. She wondered what Francis would advise.
    The T emplar looked up from his interlocked fingers. His eyes held the regret of a man reduced by the years. "Dominique, I have battled the fiercest warriors of the lot, the Muslims. I know whereof I speak. A thousand knights' fees would not save Montlimoux. Should we battle and defeat Paxton of Wychchester, we would still have his English king to deal with. At Edward Ill's hands . . . well, I can only dissuade you from the follies of such a rebellion.”
    She saw that he suffered as much as she at their predicament. She placed her hand on his stooped shoulder. "I know, I know, Baldwyn.”
    "No, you cannot. For an old soldier, it's much worse. Being helpless, being weak. It’s like being castrated. Like being an eunuch!”
    She almost smiled. She wanted to gainsay him, to tell the old soldier that it was far the worse for a woman. She attempted jocularity. "It was you who instructed me in Latin, impressing upon me that its word for ‘woman’ suggested her weakness, this one in faith – fe-minus.”
    “ Well, as the peasant says, ‘life and death are in the power of the tongue.’ ”
    She smiled wanly. "I need time alone to think, Baldwyn. Send me Martha, then see I am not disturbed, will you?”
    In silence, a bewildered Marthe helped her change from her tight, tailored gown into a simple undergown of russet linsey-woolsey, then add the peasant’s loose surcoat. The maid-in-waiting knew better than to break into Dominique's agitated ruminations.
    Sending Marthe away, Dominique made her way dow n a back turret staircase. At its base, an English sentry stopped her, demanding her identity.
    "I am the Comtessa de Bar,” she said, barely controlling her temper at this latest impertinence. "Go tell that to your Lord Lieu-tenant.”
    Abashed, he let her pas s with a muttered, "My apologies, Comtessa.”
    Miffed, she swept by him, heading toward her herbal garden, her greatest source of inner peace. She had acquired her knowledge of plants from Iolande, who, like herself, was a member of a matrilineal society.
    Over the years the old Jewess had instructed her in how to cup a plant in her palm and determine its nature and distinctions. By observing the leaves, stems, and roots, she knew whether the plant could be used for healing or food; whether it needed a flood of sunlight; whether it grew harmoniously with other plants.
    The fame of Montlimoux's vineyards was a tribute to both Iolande ’s skill with plant life and her reverence toward all living things. Having absorbed these lessons at her nursemaid’s knee, Dominique was loathe to kill even a spider, much less a garden snake.
    For over an hour she worked furiously. The warming sunlight of March never reached the chill of her heart. She felt none of the inner attunement that usually came with gardening. Her hands car essed the rich soil, but she received no corresponding comfort.
    At the quivering of the lichen, she paused. Someone was coming. The alteration in the lichen affecte d even her body’s vibrating emotions,