Angel Of Desire

Prologue

October 20th 1289

Midi-Pyrénées, France

The moon shone bright against the solid backdrop of the night, a silent witness to the measures of the world. Like an all seeing eye, it never blinked, even as the tortured screams ceased to ring from the grand manor house upon the high hill. It never blinked, although it could not see within the mortared walls. It could only wait, patiently, while the screams began anew, laced now with terror.

One shaky voice rose above the horrified cries, raspy and fervent, but no less fearful.

"Our father that art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

The old priest paced nervously, crossing himself at intervals as the midwife cleansed the still body of the child with rosewater. It had yet to make a sound, and he hoped it was dead. Not a very charitable thought for a man of the cloth.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

As she moved, he could see the child, between the folds of the woman's loose robe. Each glimpse of its tiny body confirmed his fears. Confirmed what he had seen when the child first slipped into this world. Confirmed its evil. God let it be dead.

"Give us thus our daily bread."

He peeked at it again, his fingers sliding against the beads of his rosary, clicking softly with each tug. The blood from its mother's womb had made the tiny body seem a mottled pink, but now that it was washed, wrapped in fine linen, its skin was a sickly white, streaked with dark blue veins. Its eyes fluttered open, staring straight at the priest, who gasped in horror at the bright red orbs that sank into his soul.

"F-forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

The child held his gaze for no longer than a second before its tiny lids sank back to its cheeks, unable to withstand the light from the two oil lamps that blazed on the walls at either side of the room. But the aged priest continued to stare at the child even after.

The midwife was raising it to her shoulder, looking expectantly at the wasted form of the child's mother, who rested against the pillowed headboard of the great bed. Dark burgundy swatches of the finest silk spread across her lap and were draped over the huge clawed bedposts, pooling like blood on the thickly carpeted floors. To either side of the bed a small, mahogany table, with withering roses in a porcelain vase. Roses covered the walls too, pale mauve instead of burgundy, reflecting off the many gilded mirrors that lined the walls.

The new mother shut her eyes tightly and shook her head, long sable curls bobbing against her tiny, heart shaped face. She, too, had seen the creature as it slipped from her body.

The priest sighed, relieved.

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

The midwife glared, first at the priest, then at the young woman in the bed. Then the woman's husband, who had been cowering in the entryway since his wife's screams had begun, stepped to her side and placed a thick, but supportive hand on her shoulder, attempting to stare the midwife down as well he could while trembling with fear. The older woman lifted her head high. The light from the lamps flooded the hood that had covered her features, basking her noble profile, tight with anger and pain. She stroked the child's head and walked straight out the door, sparing neither the relieved parents nor the dotard priest with a backward glance.

"Amen," the priest whispered, crossing himself once more as the child began to wail. The midwife would do her job, leaving the evil thing to the mercy of God. Or the wolves. It happens sometimes. The woman will give birth to a stillborn child, or one so deformed and hideous that it had surely been touched by the devil. Then it is the responsibility of the midwife to dispose of the creature, while he, a holy man, comforts the grieved parents and assures them that the right thing was done. He didn't expect any difficulties this night.

The moon seemed to shine more brightly, if just for a moment, as if widening its great eye in surprise at the cloaked form of the woman dashing into the night. Although she was often hidden from view by the forest, the moon's light could penetrate even the smallest gap. She ran fast and sure, although there was no path, weaving through the ferns and bushes like a hind from a hunt.

Finally she stopped. There, in a vast clearing, deep within the wood, the stars had sunk into the earth, twinkling in bright, undulating waves.

Walking to the edge of the small lake, the midwife glanced down at the child slumbering in her arms. She smiled gently, smoothing the wrinkles from its still too new cheeks. Carefully she set the small bundle at her feet and backed up one single step, staring intently at the wiggling child. She didn't move for a long moment, then, quite suddenly, removed her robe in one swift movement, and tossed it aside. Naked in the moonlight, her long, jet-black hair streaming down to her wide hips, she gently lifted the child into her arms again and began to wade into the water, unwrapping the swaddling as she went.

When she was waist high, she tossed the cloth back to the shore, onto the heap of her own robe and held the child before her, bathing it first in moonlight. Gazing up at the glowing orb, her lips parted in a wide, almost feral smile, and the child began to cry in the chill of the night.

"Celina," the woman whispered, addressing the moon by her Christian name, if she had had one, and dipped her wiggling burden completely into the waters. When she lifted the child out again, it was screaming in pain. The surface of the water was only recently melted from an early frost.

Quickly the woman waded back to the shore, taking the swaddling first and wrapping the squirming child warmly. Then she donned her own robe, holding the child tightly to her breast, warming it as best she could. Finally it ceased to cry, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Picking her way carefully through the low branches, the woman followed a well-beaten path up into the deepest part of the forest. Within ten minutes, she reached a small cottage, with a tiny garden hewn around its edges. Once inside, she laid the child onto a soft, but small feather mattress and immediately went to the hearth. The cottage was only one room, and smelled strongly of the herbs that hung from the rafters beside an assortment of cooking utensils. Colorful woolen blankets lined the wood walls, keeping the heat inside.

After lighting the fire and starting a pot of water to boil, the woman lifted the child gently into her arms, watching it in sleep. The child's skin was pure white, luminescent like the moon. Tiny blue veins stood out in sharp relief, like coursing rivers along its body. The fuzzy down on its crown was almost transparent, as were the lashes that fell nearly down to the soft, round cheeks. And the woman remembered the eyes, bright red like the heart of a fire. Aside from its coloring, the child seemed normal in every way. It had all ten fingers and toes. Its features were smooth and pure, touched not with even a hint of disfigurement.

The woman smiled down into the perfect, colorless face, and traced one finger along the child's round cheek.

"Celina."

Chapter 1

October 26th 1307 Toulouse, France (18 years later)

A single shaft of light pierced through the hole in the paper panel that covered the high window. It drew all eyes to the center of the room, and to the man who stood there, beside a crude, three-legged stool. He wore the black cowl of the Dominican Order, but any who saw his face would know him for more than a lowly friar.

He had the face of an aristocrat, long and worn from worldly cares instead of pain and starvation. Thin, hard lips that could disappear when pressed firmly together in displeasure were set upon a clean-shaven jaw. A long straight nose sat above them, leading to thick, dark brows. They were not bushy, although they might have been if they were not greased down so heavily.

Then one reached the eyes. If the eyes were truly the windows to the soul, then one would see in his the wrath of God smiting sinners on the Day of Judgment.

"Bring in the accused." His voice was deep, soft even. It rumbled like thunder in the distance.

A knight in light chain mail and a muddied white tabard, bearing his emblem, the cross of the Knights Templar, walked to the center of the room, his long black hair nearly covering the dark brown eyes which were staring down the glances of the other men who quickly avoided his gaze. When he sat on the stool, he appeared at ease, but an observant man could see how tight he held his body. He'd been listening to the screams of his brothers all night as they were forced to confess to terrible atrocities. Pierre knew they hadn't committed any of the crimes they admitted to, having known several of the men since they first became men. They had all joined the order together, giving up their lands and titles to the church in order to serve a greater purpose. Now that same church was persecuting them, and Pierre was greatly conflicted. He would not lie, no matter how they tortured him. He was the captain of his men, and if he admitted to the evils, they would always be doubted if there was a chance to recant. He was prepared to martyr himself so that the others could avoid the shame of their false confessions. He had glanced around the room and noticed that there were no torture instruments, however, and his confusion added to his anxiety.

The Inquisitor approached, his oiled brows drawn together in consternation as he prepared to lay out the accusations. He didn't like these Knights Templar, but this one in particular was the best tracker in France.

"Pierre L'Hoareau, you have been charged with heresy, sodomy and blasphemy as part of your initiation and participation with the Order of the Knights Templar. What have you to say in your defense?"

"I have never denounced my king or my savior, Jesus Christ, during my time with the Order, or before. Neither have I ever committed any deviant sexual act. Your accusations of me are false, as are the confessions you forced from my brothers through torture."

The Inquisitor pressed his lips together tightly, and the thin pink lines disappeared entirely. He nodded to the knight, who seemed so sincere. They were liars, all of them, but even liars had their purpose.

"Your fellows all confessed to their sins because they wish the forgiveness of the Church. Don't you also wish to be forgiven?"

"I have already been forgiven for my sins, all of which were committed to further the glory of God and protect the innocent. I feel no shame in my past. What about you, Inquisitor? Do the acts you commit upon these innocent knights keep you up at night? Do you think God will forgive you for the torture of his champions?"

The Inquisitor sneered, not in the least moved by the knight. But now it was time for this heathen to serve his purpose.

"Your actions have damned you, but you have the opportunity to be penitent for your sins. The Bishop has given me a task that is unique to your talents. If you can accomplish this task, then I will grant you and your men an indulgence. Your lands will be returned to you and you shall be spared the stake."

Pierre had to keep a tight rein on his emotions. This was unheard of. He was being given the opportunity to save all of his men, but they would no longer be part of the Knights Templar.

"I have not confessed."

"The confession of your compatriots is enough. I grant you forgiveness for your sins. Now, shall you accept your punishment, or accept this task in the name of your king, Phillip IV the Fair, King of Navarre and Count of Champagne and his holiness, Pope Clement V?"

Pierre was torn. He did not want forgiveness for sins he did not commit, and accepting this task would be as good as a confession. He also wished to remain a Knight Templar. However, he felt an obligation to save the men under his care, his brothers in arms. The betrayal of his king and pope had created many doubts in his mind about his chosen life, but he was not ready to leave it all behind.

"May I complete this task as a Knight Templar?"

"An order has been sent for the arrest of all Knights Templar. Continuing to wear their crest would hinder your quest. If the Order is able to redeem itself and prove its innocence, I'm sure that you will be accepted back into its ranks."

It was the best answer the Inquisitor could give, since he did not wish to let this man know that King Phillip intended the complete suppression of the Knights Templar. Letting him know the king's intentions might change his mind, and neither the king nor the pope wanted to send any of their own men on such a dangerous mission. They wanted someone expendable. Someone who they could make disappear afterwards.

Pierre watched the Inquisitor's face while he contemplated his decision. The other man gave no clues in his stony expression, so Pierre had nothing but his gut to go on. His gut told him to just let them kill him. His sense of honor, however, would not rest. If he could gain a pardon for the others, would it matter if he allowed himself to be dishonored this way? His men had already confessed lied to protect their hides. He knew God would forgive them, they were tortured beyond their ability to reason. He, however, would be making a calculated decision. Would God forgive the deliberate lie? Was he prepared to suffer the consequences for his men? Coming to his decision, he answered the Inquisitor, his dark eyes nearly turning black as he spoke.

"I will take this quest, in honor of our king and pope, and to receive indulgences for my fellow knights."

The Inquisitor's voice showed no emotion as he accepted Pierre's confession. He didn't notice how Pierre didn't actually ask for an indulgence for himself. He began to explain what Pierre would be required to do.

"We have received a disturbing report from a friar at a local village. Many years ago, as the priest to a wealthy keep, he delivered the demon child of an aristocratic lord. He left it up to the midwife to dispose of the child, as he expected her to. But he later discovered that the midwife kept the child. He has become the friar to that province and has spent nearly a year in the village. He believes that the midwife is a witch, who has harnessed the demon child's powers to do evil. You, Pierre L'Hoareau, with the help of your former knights, need to capture the witch and destroy the demon. Once she has been delivered to us, we will grant you all indulgences and return your lands."

Pierre nodded in understanding. It was a noble quest. He and his knights would normally feel honored to be chosen for such a task. He listened patiently while he received directions to the town. Then he was led to his men in their cell, who watched their commander warily. They were looking for the beaten expression that told them he had been broken. Instead, they saw the determination in his square set jaw, and hope filled them as he explained how they would all be saved from the fires of this world and the next.

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Pierre and his men had been riding for days. When they reached the village, near midnight, they went straight to the small, new looking chapel at the outskirts of the other structures. It seemed strange, apart from everything else, both in its placement and its newer construction. Pierre got the feeling that this town had not been happy to welcome the chapel and its friar. The man himself, however, was positively ecstatic to see them. He had them all put up in the adjoining barn, and the former knights wearily slept.

The first to awake, Pierre felt the dust of the long days ride clinging grimily to his skin. He wanted to wash, badly. Taking his single change of clothes, he slipped out of the barn. He headed into the forest, having seen a small river that wound into the tree line as they journeyed in. The village used a well as their source of clean water, but Pierre was far too dirty to wash in a bucket. He picked his way carefully through the brush, along a well worn game trail. He knew it would eventually lead to a water source. Moving silently, he noticed the thinning foliage and deduced he must be coming up on a clearing. When he reached the edge of the trees he found the river. The water tumbled over a pile of rocks, creating a small waterfall and a large pool before winding back into the forest. In the center of the pool was a barely surfaced, flat stone, covered in soft, green moss. Pierre smiled with delight. This would be a perfect place to wash off the dust of the road. Before he stepped out into the clearing, though, something caught his eye. A ripple under the water and a flash of something white, and very large. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, unsure what kind of creature would be living in such a shallow spot. When it surfaced, he stood gaping in awe. It was a woman. Perhaps an angel.

The water sparkled off of her pale, milk white skin in the soft dawn light, making her seem to glow. She was young, with high, firm breasts and a firm backside attached to legs that seemed to go on forever. Pierre found that he was nearly panting, watching her. The girl was everything he had ever dreamed about missing when he took his vow of chastity when entering the order. Long, baby blond hair was plastered to her body and richly pink lips curved into a gentle smile as she lay down on the mossy rock. His breath caught in his throat when she brought her knees apart and gently stroked the pale fuzz between her legs. It took Pierre several moments to remember to begin breathing again as he watched the angel gently caress herself. One hand cupped her breast while the other fondled her mound. When she spread her legs a little wider, he could see her inner labia was as rosy as her mouth, and finally he began to gasp for air. The grip on his sword hilt was turning his knuckles whites and he released it, pausing for a moment as he considered his sudden compulsion to open his breeches. Listening to the silent wood around him, Pierre decided to chance it. Never once taking his eyes from her, Pierre undid the fastenings to his breeches and slipped his already rigid cock into his hands. He shuddered as the rough skin of his hand made contact with the silken texture of his shaft and began to slowly thrust, while watching the gorgeous creature before him.

Faint gasps and mewls of delight reached him from across the clearing and his cock twitched in response. She was tracing the inner folds of her lips with one finger, dancing it around her swelling clit. Her labia was growing puffy with her arousal. Pierre felt his mouth and eyes actually water with the desire to taste her. His sexual experiences were limited to a single tavern wench who had initiated the lord's youngest son in the art of love. Her tutelage, however, was extensive, and had left him with a fine appreciation for the female form. Giving up women had been the hardest vow he had made, but he was a knight in heart, as well as name, and knew he would want to bed a wife, not whores. As the seventh son of a minor lord, he had little to offer a woman in marriage, and had concluded early on that matrimony would not have been in his future anyhow.

Finally, the girl's lazy fingers reached her engorged clit and flicked it gently. He watched her body arch in pleasure and she cried out softly into the still air. He nearly came right then, but the long years of self pleasure had given him excellent control over his desires. He would not release until he was ready. She took the tight nub between her thumb and forefinger and gently rolled it, whimpering in pleasure. Then she raised her hand and put one finger into her wet, pink mouth and sucked. A shudder ran down Pierre's spine, and his balls tightened painfully. Taking her moistened finger, she lowered it to her silken mound and slid it inside her tight opening. She threw her head back in a moan and Pierre had to fight the urge to close his eyes with the intense pleasure he felt as he watched. He had never watched a woman pleasure herself, had not, in fact, even known that they did. Her finger slid in and out of her glistening sheath, her hips bucking wildly into her hand as she ground against herself.