The driver scrambled down immediately, opening the door to the coach and offering his hand.
Lenobia felt as if all of the air had been knocked from her body. She looked wildly at her mother.
Tears were washing down her mother’s face, but she simply curtseyed deeply and said, “Bon voyage to you, child.”
Lenobia ignored the gaping coachman and pulled her mother up, hugging her so tightly the rosary beads dug painfully into her skin. “Tell my mother I love her and will remember her and miss her every day of my life,” she said in a shaky voice.
“And my prayer, to the Holy Mother of us all, is that she let this sin be attributed to me. Let this curse be on my head, not yours,” Elizabeth whispered against her daughter’s cheek.
Then she broke Lenobia’s embrace, curtseyed again, and turned away, walking with no hesitation back the way they’d come.
“Mademoiselle d’Auvergne?” Lenobia looked at the coachman. “Shall I take the casquette for you?”
“No,” she said woodenly, surprised that her voice still worked. “I’ll keep my casquette with me.” He gave her an odd look but held out his hand for her. She saw her hand being placed in his, and her legs carried her up and into the coach. He bowed briefly and then clambered back to his position as driver. As the coach lurched forward, Lenobia turned to look back at the gates of the Château de Navarre and saw her mother collapsed to the ground, weeping with both hands covering her mouth to stifle her wails of grief.
Hand pressed against the expensive glass of the carriage window, Lenobia sobbed, watching her mother and her world fade into mist and memory.
CHAPTER TWO
With a swirl of skirts and throaty, low laughter, Laetitia disappeared around a marble wall carved with images of saints, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the remnants of unsatisfied desire in her wake.
Charles cursed, “Ah, ventrebleu!” and adjusted his velvet robes.
“Father?” the acolyte repeated, calling down the inner hallway that ran behind the chancel of the cathedral. “Did you hear me? It is the Archbishop! He is here and asking for you.”
“I heard you!” Father Charles glared at the boy. As the priest approached him, he lifted his hand and made a shooing motion. Charles noted that the child flinched like a skittish colt, which made the priest smile.
Charles’s smile was not a pleasant thing to behold, and the boy backed quickly down the steps that led up to the chancel, putting more space between the two of them.
“Where is de Juigne?” Charles asked.
“Not far from here, just inside the main entrance to the cathedral, Father.”
“I trust he has not been waiting long?”
“Not too long, Father. But you were, uh—” The boy broke off, his face filled with consternation.
“I was deep in prayer, and you did not wish to disturb me,” Charles finished for him, staring hard at the boy.
“Y-yes, Father.”
The boy was unable to look away from him. He’d begun to sweat, and his face had turned an alarming shade of pink. Charles couldn’t tell if the child was going to cry or explode. Either would have amused the priest.
“Ah, but we have no time for amusement,” he mused aloud, breaking his gaze with the boy and walking quickly past him. “We have an unexpected guest.” Enjoying the fact that the boy flattened himself against the screening wall so that his priestly robes didn’t so much as brush his skin, Charles felt his mood lighten. He shouldn’t allow small things to distress him. He would simply call for Laetitia as soon as he could free himself of the Archbishop, and they would resume where they’d left off—which would put her willing and bent before him.
Charles was thinking of Laetitia’s shapely bare bottom when he greeted the old priest. “It is a great pleasure to see you, Father Antoine. I am honored to welcome you to the Cathédrale Notre Dame d’Évreux,” Charles de Beaumont, Bishop of Évreux, lied smoothly.
“Merci beaucoup, Father Charles.” The archbishop of Paris, Antoine le Clerc de Juigne, kissed him chastely on one cheek and then the other.
Charles thought the old fool’s lips felt dry and dead.
“To what do my cathedral and I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Your cathedral, Father? Surely it is more accurate to say that this is God’s house.”
Charles’s anger began to build. Automatically, his long fingers began to stroke the huge ruby cross that always hung from a thick chain around his throat. The flames of the lit votive candles at the feet of the nearby statue of the beheaded Saint Denis fluttered spasmodically.
“To say this is my cathedral is simply a term of endearment and not one of possession,” Charles said. “Shall we retire to my offices to share wine and break bread?”