Iron Lace (31 page)

After all, hadn't he brought two like it from Madrid as
gifts for his pretty young wards? He'd had them handwoven just for
them—little triangular patches of black lace with delicate
gold threads running along their scalloped edges. He even remembered
how he'd thought the gold of his Monica's curls had put those threads
to shame the first time he had seen her pale blond hair shining through
the gossamer weave of her headscarf.

The faint scent of crushed rose petals rising from the
shimmering triangle of black and gold lace immediately evoked the
girl's image and, with it, a flood of countless questions that required
answering.

"Really,
Vidal, I'd like to help you if I could, but
you can see what I'm up against. The fire is spreading by the minute,
and I'm afraid Chartres— perhaps everything from Bourbon to
the levee—will go before we even begin to get this damn fire
under control."

The dynamic little Baron de Carondelet was in one of his
more agitated moods. He had temporarily set up his center of operations
on the ground floor of Almonester's palatial residence, the only
formidable building flanking the square on the side of the fire. Once
more on hand to help the city in its hour of need, Don Andres had
opened the portals of his home to the ever-increasing number of victims
who had instinctively come clamoring at his doors seeking his aid.

The huge salon where the gala ball had been held only two
months before was already beginning to overflow with haggard-eyed,
tattered townspeople who were there, for the most part, simply because
there was no place else to go. Amid the cross whimpering of frightened,
soot-streaked children who didn't quite understand what was going on
and the soft weeping of their tragic-faced mothers, who knew only too
well what it all meant, the ever-increasing number of victims of the
fire sat lining the walls. A few sought the privacy of some far corner,
stunned and silent, contemplating the significance of what the complete
loss of all their worldly belongings would mean to their futures, while
others simply struggled to hold on to their very lives as, burned or
injured, they moaned and anxiously waited for someone to come have a
look at them and perhaps offer a few moments of relief until they could
get to the hospital or back to their homes—homes they hoped
would still be standing by the time they'd be able to return to them.

Miguel had found the governor in the center of all the
turmoil, conferring with a knot of uniformed officers and several
members of the city council, trying to decide what steps should be
taken to head off the fire before it could advance any farther.

At first the baron had been delighted to see him and,
assuming he had come to help them fight the fire, had invited him to
join the group. But when Miguel had insisted that he needed to speak of
an urgent yet confidential matter, Carondelet had finally taken him
aside to the privacy of one of the front sitting rooms.

On hearing what the frantic young Spaniard had to say, the
baron was glad he had had the foresight to withdraw to where no one
could hear them.

"In God's name! Do you realize the situation we have here,
Vidal? Between the damn wind and the low water pressure at this time of
the year, we're in danger of losing the whole damn city! And all
because of two brats playing with flint and tinder in a patio there on
Rue Royale! A few sparks in some neighboring hayloft, and look what we
have—a major catastrophe!"

The plump, energetic little man dabbed furiously at his
brow with a lacy monogrammed handkerchief. "At least we got the alarm
sounded sooner this time than they did in '88. They tell me the priest
back then wouldn't let anyone ring the bells because it was Good
Friday. Can you imagine? They let four-fifths of New Orleans burn down
without sounding a single damn bell! God help us! The things that go on
in this town! Now you want me to let you have one of my officers so you
can go off looking for some mad monk that you think might have designs
on your wayward ward! That's all I needed!"

"I assure you I have good reasons for making such a
conjecture," Miguel replied, trying to remain calm in spite of the
desperation welling up within him as he realized he probably wasn't
going to find the cooperation he'd hoped to obtain from the governor.

"I'd like to help you, Vidal. If circumstances were
different, I'd assign a man to aid you in your search; but, as you can
see, I can't spare anyone right now. Actually, I need you here, too,
helping to control the people out there on the street trying to fight
the fire. They want to help, but they need direction."

Vidal hit the hilt of his sword impatiently. "There's
nothing I'd rather do more than serve where I'm most needed in such an
emergency," he assured Carondelet, "and I promise to report to you as
soon as I've found my ward. But surely you understand my predicament.
The girl may be in grave danger, and as her guardian and sole
protector, my first duty is to her."

"Do you realize this city may burn to the ground?"

"I'll tear down this damn city myself house by house if I
don't find my ward soon!" exclaimed Miguel, his exasperation increasing
by the moment.

"Well, when you do find her, marry the wench and keep her
pregnant so she'll quit running around loose in the streets. If ever a
girl needed a man to settle her, that one does!"

"I'm afraid there were some… some rather
unusual circumstances on this occasion—some that were
probably more my fault than hers."

"In the name of heaven, Vidal! Go find the wench! If ever
I've seen a man smitten, you are!"

"But if what I suspect is true, I'll probably need
help… some officer of the law…"

"Are you certain the girl hasn't returned home by now?"

"I've just come from there, and my grandmother is near
hysteria. I'm certain the girl would have been home by now if she could
have gone there of her own volition. She's in trouble, I know it!"

"But the suspicions you've confided to me are too
monstrous even to consider."

"It wouldn't be the first time a man of the cloth has
found his vows of celibacy too heavy a burden to bear."

"Agreed, but Padre Sebastian? I can't believe that
dried-up prune could roll a woman if he wanted to! Why, the man is one
of the most notorious zealots of the Church! He usually has a
reputation for going overboard."

"Perhaps so, but his own bridled passions might be the
chink in his armor. I tell you I've seen lust in that man's eyes on
more than one occasion. Every time I've caught him looking at my little
ward, it was there."

"Good Lord, man, keep your voice down!" The baron drew
Miguel even farther away from the door and continued in a lower tone.
"If Fray Sebastian were one of those French monks, I'd be more inclined
to accept such a possibility. I can tell you about a few of those
Capuchins from the old regime who I know have their concubines on the
side. But even if Padre Sebastian does have his secret vice, there are
women enough around town who'd be only too willing to gratify him for a
few bits. I doubt the monk would risk the complications involved by
molesting a decent young girl like your cousin."

Vidal tried to remain patient, but he was in no mood to
keep going over each point with the baron while precious time ticked
away. "I admit I may be mistaken," he conceded, making an effort to
keep his annoyance out of his voice, "but I know for a fact that Monica
was in the church with him this afternoon, and I can't help but suspect
that something happened to her while she was there."

"I've been stopping and asking people about her all
afternoon, and one of the workmen who was in the new cathedral earlier
this afternoon told me that when the alarm first sounded, he saw a
young girl answering my ward's description talking to Padre Sebastian
by the altar."

"Yes, but you can't be sure it really was her. It might
have been some other young girl."

"But there's the headscarf I found as well," insisted
Vidal. "I'm positive it belongs to Monica, and she'd never lose her
headscarf like that. The girl is very careful about her things. She's
always kept her headscarf neatly folded either in her reticule or in
the pocket of her cloak. What's more, she wouldn't take it off while
still by the altar."

"Of course, I'll grant you that there's always the
possibility that some ruffian might have ventured into the deserted
church and waylaid her, but frankly, I don't think we have to look any
further than Padre Sebastian himself, when you consider that he was the
last person seen with her just as the fire was breaking out and I've
seen that very same monk ogling her with anything but a holy expression
in his eyes! That's why I want an officer to accompany me to that
Capuchin's hut to look around inside and, if possible, ask him some
questions, as well."

"Vidal, you're relatively new here in New Orleans, so you
don't know what you're asking," protested the baron. "That monk you're
referring to is one of the pillars of the Church here in the colony,
with connections that reach as high up as La Suprema in Madrid."

"Look, Vidal, all I can do is tell you that you're on your
own. Go investigate the possibility that the girl might be with this
Fray Sebastian in his hut or somewhere around the deserted church, but,
in God's name, be discreet about it."

Monique
strained at her bonds, trying feverishly to break free,
but Fray Sebastian continued to chant and turn the iron slowly in the
flames as they rose higher and higher from the brazier.

"Don't fret, child. What we do is for the good of your
immortal soul," he assured her as he paused a moment in his orations.
"The devil has made you his pawn, but we will draw him out of you. Only
through fleshly torment can you hope to be cleansed and forgiven. Satan
is going to try his best to distract us from our task, but we must be
firm and go forward."

The smooth perfection of the girl's skin glistened in the
ruddy glow of the firelight, moist with the sweat of terror and the
heat of the disagreeably humid air around them.

Fray Sebastian knew the iron was well up to temperature by
now, but he was deliberately delaying the moment when he would approach
the girl once more. Of course, after a few days of fasting on the rack
and perhaps some lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails, she wouldn't be so
tempting anymore. Once he'd raised a few welts on that flawless skin of
hers and marked her with two or three well-placed crosses, he'd be more
easily reminded of the fact that it was his sacred duty to resist any
desire he might feel for her over the weeks that lay ahead.

He wondered whether the fire was still spreading
throughout New Orleans at that moment. For what he cared, that wicked
city could burn to the ground… all except the cathedral, of
course. It would be a pity to see a house of God destroyed. He would
have thought the colony had learned its lesson by now. How many more
calamities would the Lord have to send down on that wicked city before
it would realize that, even as the Egyptians had been brought low in
Moses's day, the sinful citizens of New Orleans were going to have
catastrophe after catastrophe heaped upon them until they ceased their
rebellious activities and religious laxities? After all, the Supreme
Council had proved time and again over the centuries that treason and
heresy were often one and the same… simply the two sides of
one coin.

He toyed thoughtfully with the branding iron, turning it
about in the flames by its long handle as he watched the cross glowing
there in the midst of the flames. The hand that had touched the girl's
breast still smarted, as though the soft firmness of her flesh had
singed his palm. His heart pounded at the memory of it. The very
thought of touching her again, the anticipation of how it would feel,
now that he had experienced it, sent the blood rushing wildly through
his veins. Perhaps he should wait a bit before marring the perfection
of that smooth young body.

The girl was softly weeping now, spent from the prolonged
suspense of waiting for that inevitable moment of agony she knew to be
forthcoming. In her mind he had branded her a dozen times over.

Sebastian lifted the iron cross at last from the flames,
and it hissed and sputtered as though it were alive as he turned
resolutely toward the trembling girl. Even at that moment he had to
fight back the impulse to bend forward and taste the pink-tipped cone
of her breast as he steadied her to receive the imprint of the iron. So
engrossed was he with the task at hand and the turmoil of his inner
conflict that he was completely unaware of the fact that the tall, slim
silhouette of Miguel Vidal de la Fuente had emerged from the passageway
and was standing there sword in hand.

A law growl— like the growl of an animal goaded
into attack—sounded involuntarily from Vidal's throat as he
swept his gaze across the room and saw the dark-cloaked figure bending
over Monique's prostrate form.

"I'd rather not have to kill you," he told the monk icily
through clenched teeth. "Just release the girl and let her leave
peaceably with me."

But although Fray Sebastian was obviously startled by the
unexpected interruption, he was not to be intimidated. "You're
interfering with the work of the Holy Inquisition," he warned, turning
the red-hot tip of the still-uplifted brand threateningly now in
Vidal's direction. "You'll be damned to eternal hell if you stop me
from doing God's work!"

"You mean the devil's work!" thundered Vidal, dangerously
near the breaking point. "If you don't let her go, I'll dispatch you to
hell this very moment."

He couldn't bear the sight of Monique lying there like
that. Reaching over to where her wrists were fastened above her head,
he tugged at the straps with his free hand while he kept his eyes and
sword fixed on the monk.