by K. M. Grant
Aimery whirled around and around. “Where are you now, Raimon! Are you defending the bear? She doesn’t need a telltale like you, you know. She’d be better off defending herself.” He peered through the mist, his fury growing rather than diminishing as he realized that without Raimon’s interference, he would have had his bear’s head by now.
“Put the spear down, Aimery, and I’ll stop.” Raimon’s voice was muffled and distorted as the air thrust his words back in his face.
“I certainly won’t.” Aimery was unable to tell if the bear was advancing or retreating. He felt Raimon at his back again. “Grab your sword, Hugh, and let’s see off this self-confessed heretic.” He didn’t care what he said.
At once, Hugh dived for his weapon and felt Yolanda kick it away. Never mind. The Occitan was certainly living up to its riotous reputation. He would have quite a story to tell the king. With his spear tucked under his arm, he advanced on Raimon from behind—at least he hoped that was what he was doing. Fighting in the mist was like fighting underwater. He didn’t want to kill the boy, but if the boy was intent on killing Aimery, he would do what he had to do. Then he felt a thud on his back. He was around at once, and now there were two thickenings in the mist, one surely Raimon and the other so formless that he might have been part of the cloud itself. Only his steel was not cloudy, and his hands shone strangely white. Hugh felt a stinging in his thigh. In seconds he heard Aimery exclaiming. He had encountered the gray shape too.
Then, just as quickly as it had engulfed them, the cloud sank, leaving them stranded in a world above the world. Momentarily disorientated, Aimery stumbled, and when he looked again, there was no gray man, only Raimon.
The hounds knew before the humans that the bear and her cubs had slipped away and that with the sun beating strongly again in this newly washed world, her scent would evaporate quickly. Farvel was up and ready but no order came. He stood, disconsolate, as the running hounds, back in picnic mood, snapped at butterflies and the greyhounds stretched their thin muzzles. At last, the mastiffs and alaunts sat down. Their day was ruined. The dogboys would suffer later.
Raimon was poised. “You’ve never called me a heretic before.” He didn’t care. He was still full of the bear and the Flame.
“But that’s what you told us you are, Raimon.” Aimery gripped his spear anew.
“I’m a loyal Occitanian. Is that what you are?”
“Oh, we’re all loyal Occitanians,” said Aimery, highly irritated at Raimon’s deliberate affront. Every moment he spent in this silly conversation gave the bear more opportunity to escape, for the land beyond the river was flatter. She would be half a mile away by now and the horses were at the bottom of the climb. Cursing silently he turned back to Raimon. Here was one quarry he could dispatch. “I care about the Occitan just as much as you do.”
“But about yourself first,” Raimon said.
“Are you accusing me of being a traitor?”
“There are lots of ways of being a traitor.”
“And there are lots of ways of being a fool. Come on, Raimon.” Aimery dropped his spear. “If you really want the Occitan to survive, you must do more than save bears.”
“And you must do more than arrange marriages.”
“Ah.” Aimery paid more attention. “Now we’re getting to the crux. This isn’t about the Occitan at all, is it? It’s about Yolanda. You want to prove yourself, don’t you, and win her, with all the dowry she’ll have. Then the Belots would be rich, eh, Raimon? You might even be able to buy a knighthood for yourself. I mean, even Cathars like money and it’s not as if Yola is unattractive.”
Raimon kept himself steady. “You’re going to sell her to a Frenchman, and then perhaps you’ll sell the Amouroix too.”
There was a noise from the hunt followers as Raimon’s accusations rang out. Already frustrated, some were looking for a fight. They looked at Hugh with new eyes, and at Aimery. Aimery threw back his shoulders.
“That,” he said very clearly, “cannot pass. Give me your sword, Alain.”
Yolanda sprang forward. Hugh blocked her. “My dear, you must let them fight it out.”
“But it’s quite unfair,” she cried, not stopping to think. “Raimon’s never learned to fight with a sword. He’s just a weaver!”
Aimery lowered his sword at once. “Oh my goodness, thank you, Yola. That’s a very important reminder. Of course I can’t fight just a weaver. It would defile the whole notion of knighthood, a bit like fighting a woman. What shall we do? Wait! I’ve an idea! Somebody send for some spindles and we can fight with them. Yolanda would like that, Raimon, because then the advantage would lie entirely with you.” The effect was just as he intended. People laughed and the mutterings ceased. Now this was just a fight over insults.
Raimon, though, was not looking at Aimery, he was looking at Yolanda. “Just a weaver.” He couldn’t believe she’d said that. “Just a weaver.” It was like that laugh all over again, except worse. Knowing what she’d done the moment she’d done it, Yolanda put her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Aimery saw at once. Yolanda really was helping his cause today.
“Look, Raimon,” he said so that everyone could hear. “You’re finished here. Leave Castelneuf. Leave the Amouroix. Your life lies elsewhere. Go on. I’ll not pursue you. I’ll not even tell Girald you’re not wearing your heretic’s tabard.” He waited, and when Raimon didn’t move, he shrugged. So they would fight and Aimery would win. It was a pity, in one way, but then, so many things were.
Raimon began to circle. It was quite true that he’d never fought properly with a sword. However, he did not need to be taught that hot anger is less helpful than cold strategy. He wondered, as he tried to balance himself, about the Flame. Would it suddenly decide to help him? Would Parsifal? He prayed not. The Flame was for the Occitan. This was for himself. He would show Yolanda that he was not just a weaver. And he would show Hugh too.
There was limited space in front of the hollow where the bear had been and Aimery stood more or less stationary as Raimon launched his first assault. Their weapons thudded dully against each other. Raimon circled again. Again the weapons thudded, and then again. Neither made any headway. At the bottom of the slope the horses moved uneasily in the ever-changing shadows.
Aimery warded off Raimon’s blows with lazy ease as he calculated how best this could end. Should he simply kill Raimon outright? That would be very simple. Or should he beat him down and force him, at swordpoint, to crawl away? He glanced at Yolanda. No. That wouldn’t do. He knew his sister. Perhaps the best outcome was to kill Raimon, but purely in self-defense. Yes, he could maneuver that. He began to move.
But it was not as easy to direct the fight as he thought, for Raimon quickly understood that he had one major advantage. Against a trained man, Aimery would have been confident, for the moves each made would have had a certain predictable choreography. Against the untrained Raimon, there was nothing predictable at all. Nor, which was not helpful, did Aimery know if Raimon really wanted to kill him. It took him quite a few minutes to realize that Raimon did not know himself.
Thud, clash, and always the rush of the river.
Thud, clash, and the river singing the chorus.
When no progress was made on either side, the squires and pages began to whisper among themselves and the hounds began to whine. Rain threatened, and the day that had started so brightly soured even more.
The two combatants galvanized themselves. They couldn’t go on like this forever. Raimon’s strokes became wilder swipes and Aimery began a steady onslaught to press him back toward the hollow. A quick underarm thrust and blood was drawn on both sides. The pages stopped whispering.
Raimon had to move back, but would not be pushed toward the hollow. Instead, with the same instinct as the bear, he moved toward the water, step by step, blow by blow, forcing Aimery to follow. At last, he could feel the edge of the bank. The river ran flat here for a short length before abandoning itsel
f to the rocky pool about forty feet below. On the boulders set at crazy angles across the top of the waterfall, the prints of the bear and her cubs were still clearly visible. Raimon leaped onto the first. Aimery lunged at him and missed, then leaped himself. His landing was inelegant, for the surfaces were very slippery. Raimon was slithering too, onto the next boulder, and then the next, until there was no more water, only the forest forming an unyielding barrier at his back. Raimon knew he had to kill Aimery now, but he knew as well, with a sudden sinking of his heart, that he didn’t want to. Killing Yolanda’s brother might well kill something in Yolanda herself. But how to stop?
Aimery sensed Raimon’s reluctance to punch home a final blow almost before Raimon himself, and he relaxed. At once, the water, weighty and powerful, took action of its own. For a long second Aimery stood, feeling his feet lose their purchase. Had he let go of his sword he might have saved himself, but he would not. Like an unsteady skater holding a precious object, he leaned forward, arm out, then back; fell once, tried to rise, and fell again, this time more awkwardly and where the current was strongest. Only as the river picked him up like a piece of driftwood and slid him inexorably toward the edge of the cascade like a body riding a sled in the snow did he realize he had a much more implacable foe than Raimon. After all, the river was not even deep. It was only when he was right on the brink that with a sudden blind movement, he let go of his sword and thrust out his hands.
Raimon didn’t have to think. Dropping his weapon, he plunged in, his own hands outstretched for Aimery’s. It should be easy, surely. Their hands joined. But the water was relentless and Aimery was beginning to panic. From the opposite bank, others plunged in to help. One seized Aimery’s tunic just as a branch, whipping over the fall itself, smacked hard against Raimon’s chest, knocking him flat. Aimery, safe now, after only a second’s hesitation let go of Raimon’s hand. Let nature do what it would.
It was a strange sensation, going over the edge. Raimon felt nothing to start with, except that the deafening world of the hunt, the riverbank, and the duel had been suddenly and very completely turned off. Nor did he feel any fear as he dropped headfirst like a diver, until just before he smacked against the hard, bright surface beneath him. Then he felt a fear so pure it almost stopped his heart. “I’m going to break into a thousand pieces,” he thought. After that, everything went black.
Yolanda screamed and strained over. She shouted his name. She begged him to surface, but all she saw was heedless spray and white vapor drifting from earth to heaven.
12
After the Hunt
Easter passed in a daze. Yolanda could not and would not believe that Raimon was gone, but searches down the river proved fruitless and she knew from other drownings how long water can hold onto its victims. She had nightmares about that. Her father sat with her as she rocked, her eyes shut tightly to block everything out, but he could not sit for long.
I could not help. My waters and meadows, my trees and my winds simply served to remind her of her loss.
Girald’s courts, at which the count’s presence was obligatory, were gaining in intensity. The road to the chateau had become a kind of Via Dolorosa, a path to Calvary, with many trudging up—woodcutters, joiners, cooks, the bailiff’s mother, artisans, shopkeepers, and a small, moon-faced messenger boy who had been lame since birth—but fewer trudging back down. Girald’s stomach, more settled since the Lenten fast was over, allowed his inquisitorial skills to bloom. He himself had become less cadaverous and more like a baleful magpie. He employed a full-time scribe to record his genius at tripping people up and the chateau’s cellars were gratifyingly full. It would soon be time for him to present his evidence to the Inquisitor General and gain permission for a fire. When Berengar protested, Girald threatened to try him as well. Blood loyalty came after loyalty to the Catholic church, and Girald had a feeling that the Blue Flame itself was waiting for the burning day. As the pyre rose, it would reappear and the Occitan would be claimed completely for the Catholics. Berengar should be pleased, for a completely Catholic Occitan should be safe from King Louis. He’d have no excuse to invade. For his work at keeping the Occitan free, Girald could see himself hailed as one of my greatest heroes and a hero of the church. He trusted that Berengar would make sure that due recognition was given.
This made Aimery laugh, although not in front of Girald. How deluded these churchmen were. Well, let Girald believe what he wanted to believe. For Aimery, things were turning out well and he defended himself firmly when Yolanda railed against him about Raimon. “I didn’t pick a fight with him, he picked one with me. What could I do?”
“You shouldn’t have let go. You shouldn’t have let go.” It was all Yolanda could say.
“I didn’t let go on purpose.” This was almost true. When Yolanda went on and on, he lost patience. “Look, Yola. If you hadn’t called him ‘just a weaver,’ he’d never have gotten so angry. If it’s my fault he’s drowned, it’s yours as well.”
She had no answer to that, as Aimery knew she wouldn’t.
A week went by and Aimery began to press his father about arrangements for Yolanda’s party. Berengar was horrified. There could hardly be a more unsuitable time for a party. Aimery disagreed. A fourteenth birthday was important. It turned a girl into a lady who would need no reminding that it was time to secure her knight. Berengar must think of the future, not the present, and not just Yolanda’s but Castelneuf’s too. He did not dispute that Yolanda was highly distressed by Raimon’s demise, but she could not mourn forever. He was very persuasive. When Yolanda was told, she reacted first with horror and then with a kind of appalled indifference.
Hugh watched and bided his time. He was pleased about the party. It would provide the perfect opportunity to secure this southern prize and then leave. He was not growing impatient with Yolanda, although the tight, tense figure who now sat on the dais eating nothing was hardly the wild bird he had found so charming, or even the cool shell-like creature from the hunt. Far from it. He even found himself hoping that he might succeed in bringing some light back to her eyes and heart. He did not, however, find the household knights particularly friendly or his quarters particularly comfortable and there would be no more bear hunts for a while. What was more, Girald, to whom Hugh was always scrupulously polite lest he find himself on the wrong end of that rasping tongue, was insufferable at dinner. All in all, it was time he went back to Paris.
Three weeks before the party, Hugh judged her ready to receive small presents. He began with a soft doeskin collar for Brees, then another comb, a silk belt, and a set of hairpins decorated with small fragments of jade—“To match your eyes,” he said. Yolanda showed no interest in the gifts and he did not press them on her, just made sure that Brees wore the collar and that the rest found their way into her chamber. That was not his only line of attack—a strange metaphor for a lover, perhaps, but apt, for it began to please Hugh to view this new, closed Yolanda as a citadel to be breached. Slowly and carefully, he began undermining her defenses, as a miner undermines castle walls. He kept people away from her, particularly Girald, and when Aimery grew angry with her silence, protected her. It was he who, in the absence of the troubadours—now in the cellars for singing the “Song of the Flame” with an added verse that poked fun at the inquisitor’s dignity—told her stories, not caring whether she was listening, just seeming content to sit beside her. He tried too to make sure that she never saw the lists of prisoners, and when he failed he was with her when she begged that Beatrice be released and argued that Adela should not be imprisoned for returning to the town to shout insults at Simon Crampcross. He played his part without a fault. He only had to bide his time. Soon Yolanda would love him because it was the easiest thing to do.
Parsifal supposed it was luck that pushed Raimon up behind the waterfall rather than in front. He had climbed down through the trees as fast as a man half his age, and after more terrible minutes than he would ever like to relive, had seen something in the blackly s
himmering backdrop that didn’t quite belong. Stones and water had done quite some bruising and battering but Parsifal hitched Raimon onto his back and half staggering, half walking made his way back down the mountain, through the valleys and over the rivers and hills until, three days later, he reached his old refuge behind the scree, where he and Raimon had first met. He was more than determined that the boy wouldn’t die. He was not so sure, however, in what state he would live. He seemed sodden as a sponge all through. Without thinking, Parsifal used the Flame to light a fire, risking the smoke, then he patched Raimon up, placed him on his side, and sat down to wait. If the boy did die, he would take his body to the cemetery and bury him with his mother.
It was days before Raimon stirred, a week until he put his hands to his head and demanded to be untied.
Parsifal was with him at once. “My dear boy, you’re not tied up. I’ve just wrapped your cuts in spiders’ webs. It’s an old trick my father’s groom taught me. Cobwebs tie up the poison. Spiders are very clever fellows.”
“Sir Parsifal. Thank God.”
“Just Parsifal, please. Are you hungry? You’ve had almost nothing except river water. I’m afraid it’s rabbit again. I tried dormouse, but there’s not much on a dormouse.”
Raimon rolled over and went back to sleep.
Two days later, he eased himself painfully into a sitting position. “How long have I been here?”
“A couple of weeks. You’ve been quite ill.”
Raimon didn’t think he was hungry at first, and picked at the food Parsifal gave him. Two weeks? What had happened in two weeks? He ate a bit more, and was suddenly shoveling it in.
“Steady on,” said Parsifal. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Raimon slowed down for a little. “I can’t remember very much,” he said.
When Parsifal began to tell him, his face darkened. He remembered now. “Just a weaver.”
