by K. M. Grant
Raimon tried to see that she was right, but somehow, the vision of her dancing with Hugh was the only image he could conjure up. He stood and, for distraction, called to Brees. The dog came willingly. Raimon bent over him. It was a minute before he felt something different.
“The collar’s new,” he said. “A present?”
A half-guilty, half-angry blush suffused Yolanda’s face. Now it was she who was thankful for the dark.
“It’s nothing, Raimon. He was just trying to be kind.”
“Ah,” said Raimon, and his voice was flat. “By ‘he’ you mean the man who’s not ‘just a weaver’?” Pride and jealousy prickled him again.
“Please, Raimon.”
He struggled with himself. She caught his hand. He half pulled it away but she wouldn’t let him because she wouldn’t let what they’d had only moments before dissolve like a dream. It had not been a dream. It was real—real as me, Castelneuf, real as the Amouroix, the narrator of this tale, real as the Occitan, real as the Flame they both believed in. Even in his jealousy and pride, she would not let him forget that. So she held onto his hand, refusing to let it go. They stood in a silent battle, each determined not to give in until Yolanda, moving her hand to take his whole arm, began to sway, and forced him into a silent dance. At first he was stiff and unyielding but she would not be thwarted. And then somehow they were moving together. They did not need music. Around and around they circled, tracing familiar patterns, their limbs always in rhythm, never having to guess where the other’s feet were. They were stopped only when Brees pushed between them, wanting to join in, and that made both of them laugh.
Parsifal, still crouched and very uncomfortable, raised his head, rigid with alarm. What on earth were they doing? He shook his head. He didn’t suppose he would ever understand much about that side of life now.
When, finally, Brees made it impossible to continue, Raimon and Yolanda talked and this time there was no awkwardness. Yolanda was right, Raimon said. They would use the night of the party. Her part would be to make sure the guards had plenty to drink and to keep the celebration loud and busy. With Girald away by then, and if she seemed at least a little happier, Aimery, who was Raimon’s chief worry, would relax, and a relaxed man doesn’t notice much. With a catch in his voice, but wanting to prove something to himself and to her, he told her to dress with care and, clenching his fists, brush her hair. That, more than anything else, would please her brother, because—well, because. She touched his cheek. It was the nearest they got to speaking of Hugh again. He told her to leave the rest to him.
It was only when a pink dawn striped the mouth of the cave and the chorus of birds forced them to raise their voices that they realized they were now sitting in gray damp rather than black damp. Raimon got up at once. Yolanda must not see Parsifal. She must go. With his heart in his mouth, he crept out to make sure no early woodcutters or axe sharpeners were hovering in hope of extra work. He could see none, so he came with her out of the cave to the bottom of the scree with Brees nosing about at their heels. In the brightening light, neither Raimon nor Yolanda looked their best, even to each other. The magic of the night was past. It was not until Yolanda bid him a final, slightly shy, good-bye that Raimon caught her and held her so hard that he really did hurt her.
“Just this one thing before you go,” he said. “Never, never interfere on my behalf again. Do you understand? Never.”
“Not even if your life depends on it?” She tried not to flinch as she said it.
“Not even then. I’d rather die than have you plead my cause.”
“Why? Are you ashamed of me?”
“No. It makes me ashamed of myself.”
He let go of her then and she scrambled away through the woods.
An hour later, with the day truly begun, she reached the meadows. Brees was padding silently beside her, her guard and her uncomplicated friend. On impulse, she leaned down, removed the collar, and threw it away. She would find another. When she reached the river, she found the wet clothes she had discarded on her way out, tied her dry ones in a bundle above her head, and swam back over. Creeping in through the hole and the little door, she made it, unnoticed, to her bedroom.
That night, at dinner, she was just as silent as usual. Only Hugh noticed that a slight spark was rekindling itself, and he was almost vain enough to believe that it was for him, except he noticed that Brees was no longer wearing the collar with the mother-of-pearl clasp. Then he looked at the girl he now thought of as his, and he wondered.
14
The Theft
It was the waiting that Raimon could not stand and after a week of Parsifal nodding his head, unable to be of much help since he’d never been inside the town, Raimon threw down the stick with which he had been drawing a rough plan of Castelneuf’s streets and defenses and scuffed it into the dirt.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. The forester and his woodcutters had gone, leaving only sawdust and six raw tree stumps behind. The Flame burned solidly, with no tricks now, and they kept it before them as they deliberated whether they should take it with them and hope that its appearance would be enough to have the chateau servants and at least some of the knights, possibly including Berengar, rally behind them, or whether to keep it hidden. Yolanda did not return. In his head, Raimon knew there would be good reason for this, but still. Surely she could have crept out just once more?
Parsifal tried to divert him, with no success until he produced two coarse swords from his pack and began, rather absent-mindedly, to polish them. They were rough things, not swords any knight would have wanted, but they would need them.
Raimon picked one up. “I didn’t know you had these. Where did you get them?”
“The bear hunt. I suppose they pulled them off when Sir Aimery was in the river and forgot them. Somebody’ll have gotten an earful.”
Raimon held the weapon out, feeling its weight. “Teach me.”
Parsifal concentrated on his polishing. “It takes years of practice. Not much point in starting now.” In truth, Raimon’s suggestion panicked him. In his whole life he had had only three lessons in combat, given to him by the old de Maurand armorer because Parsifal had pestered him so badly. The lessons had started as a joke, for Parsifal had been much too small for a sword, but the armorer had been impressed by the little boy’s determination. Nevertheless, though Parsifal knew he had shown promise, three lessons a lifetime ago hardly qualified him to teach somebody else.
However, Raimon was as determined now as Parsifal had been then.
“I wish I’d kept Aimery’s sword,” he said. “That was much better balanced. This one is too heavy at the hilt.”
He threw it over and Parsifal automatically caught it.
“You’re right,” Parsifal said. “Very poor smithery.” He tried to put that one away too, but Raimon was too quick. He snatched it back and held it flat against Parsifal’s stomach.
“Hey, hey,” Parsifal protested.
“Defend yourself, Sir Parsifal. Come on.” Raimon gave the sword a jerk.
“Just Parsifal, please.” He had little choice. Gripping his hilt with both hands, he swung up, knocking Raimon off balance. Now he had the advantage, and setting his feet as the old armorer had taught him, he deftly turned his blade so Raimon was helpless and Parsifal could have run him through in a second.
“Forgive me,” Parsifal said, pleased with himself, “but if my memory serves me, the first lesson of the sword is anticipation. What am I going to do next?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Think, boy, think.”
“Step back, having made your point?”
Parsifal threw back his head and snorted. “A very good answer,” he said. His panic receded and an excitement he hadn’t felt for years took its place. “Now, let’s begin.”
For the next hour, Parsifal was the ghost of the old armorer, hopping and nodding, darting in and darting out, prodding arms, nudging legs, and poking ribs.
“Think ahead,” he instructed. “That’s the secret. That and your grip. My father’s sword was longer and heavier and only built for two-handed swinging when mounted. I often wondered how he didn’t swipe off his horse’s head. These are lighter. You still need two hands, but you could thrust with one if you had to. Now, up and around, and up and around again. That’s right. Once more. Up and around.” They fought on until Raimon, by a lucky strike, tripped Parsifal onto his knees. Dropping his sword at once, Parsifal bowed his head. “I beg of you mercy, Sir Knight,” he said.
Raimon, hot and flushed, put down a hand to help the older man to his feet. “Hardly,” he said, but he did not hide the fact that he was pleased.
The following day, he woke Parsifal at dawn. “I’m going into the town,” he said, his face set. “I need to see.”
Parsifal wisely didn’t ask what it was that Raimon wanted to see. “And if you’re caught?”
“I won’t be.”
Parsifal took his hand and held it for a moment. “I’ll be waiting right here,” he said. “God be with you.”
Raimon gave a peculiar smile. “Will I be better off with God or without him, I wonder?” he asked. Then he was gone and Parsifal was left to ponder the question alone.
Crossing the river was easy. Raimon chose a spot much farther up than the mill, farther up than Yolanda had chosen, because even though the river was wider, it was more discreet. He stripped quickly and bundled his clothes onto his back. The river was cold, but not as cold as that first dip he’d taken in what seemed another life. He swam without a splash and then, avoiding all but the vaguest of goat paths, he headed for the sheer rock on the east side of the chateau and began to climb. It was hard work, for the fingerholds and toeholds were tiny, and several times he slipped. But at least he didn’t have to worry about being seen. Nobody ever looked down this side of the valley; people had called it impregnable for so long that they never stopped to wonder whether it really was.
It took him three hours to reach the cavity in the chateau wall, a journey that on the normal road would have taken barely twenty minutes. His limbs ached as he glanced down and saw the familiar patterns spread out below. He could even pick out the roof of his own house. No smoke curled above it. It looked quite dead, but now that he could see it, he was filled with an unexpected desire to see inside it again. Perhaps, even though her bed was empty, if he stood by it he could say the kind of good-bye to his mother that he’d like to have said. Once he’d had this thought, it wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t take long. He covered his head with a cloak.
The main street was busy with traffic but the side streets were nearly deserted. Only the goats and chickens wandered around without restriction, and though the day was fine, most shutters were closed or nearly closed, like the eyes of old men at the seaside. Those few people who were out had shawls over their heads just as he had and slunk rather than walked. The slinking was contagious and by the time Raimon got to his own front door, he was slinking himself.
In contrast with everyone else’s, the Belot door was wide open, or so Raimon thought, until he saw with a shock that the door was in fact not there at all, and nor were the shutters. He peered in, expecting chaos, but the place was perfectly tidy because every stick of furniture in the house, every chest, every trestle, every bench, had been turned into neat bundles of kindling. Raimon could see the remains of his mother’s chair, the spinning wheel, Adela’s pallet, and his father’s weaving machines, all smashed and stacked. Even the staircase had been dismantled and the pieces stored in piles small enough for one man to carry under one arm. Raimon walked around and around, almost unbelieving. Girald meant Adela to burn with wood from her own bed.
He said not a word, just walked around the room faster and faster. He could feel an explosion arising, right from his toes. He would wait until it reached his throat and only then would he give vent. He opened his mouth. He had no idea what he would roar. He had no idea afterward what he had roared. He felt himself consumed by a fury so great that he lost all care for his own safety. Nothing would stop him from rushing at the bundles, kicking them over, scattering the pieces, and then running around, legs flailing, and scattering them again. Had he a flint, he’d have burned the house down himself. Then, with a final blast, he was gone, running up the street, careless of everything. Only when he reached the chateau wall again did he appreciate the enormity of the risk he had taken. His fury was still with him, but he lay on his front, his face crushed into the soil until he could hold onto it and distill it into a tiny burning stone lodged even deeper inside him than his heart. Only when he was sure that it would not flare out and make him roar again, did he drag himself into the courtyard using the spring growth of weeds as cover.
In contrast with the town, the chateau was full of movement. Already, guests from all over the Amouroix, the Occitan, and even farther afield had begun to gather for Yolanda’s party. To house the plethora of horses, temporary stables had been knocked together. Grooms, squires, and pages were chattering, comparing, and boasting. Under Berengar’s vague direction, workmen were busy repairing bits of the roof deemed unsafe and cleaning the uncleanable. The place was heaving with unfamiliar faces and in his unremarkable clothes, Raimon hoped he would just be one among many. He chose a moment to rise and then walked swiftly under the small bridges and up the linking stairways. When he saw someone who might recognize him he turned his head away, but he had no difficulty approaching the small door up the turret stairs. He was hoping to get to Yolanda’s room, when out of the door came Berengar and Girald, heading straight for him. Girald was dressed for travel. Swiftly, Raimon turned to the side and ran down several different sets of steps toward the main barn, where the Castelneuf horses and those of their more permanent guests were housed. Skirting the main door, it was a familiar climb onto the roof, one he and Yolanda had done many times, and a familiar drop through the trapdoor where there would still be enough of last year’s hay to cushion him.
The stalls were full, with the Castelneuf horses set apart from the visitors’, five of whom, coursers and warhorses, caught Raimon’s eye at once, for their flanks were protected from the dust by fine coverlets of yellow silk embroidered in each corner with two crimson crossed lances and a Latin motto Raimon couldn’t understand. Hugh’s horses. Raimon was sure of that. He waited until the grooms went out for some refreshment and then dropped onto the floor.
Galahad, standing with his rump to the manger, whinnied. Raimon recognized him at once as Yolanda’s mount at the bear hunt. He ran his hands down his neck, but his eyes fixed on the surcoats emblazoned in Hugh’s colors draped carelessly on the wooden partition, and the saddlery banked up against the barn wall. So intent was he that he did not at once hear the tread of feet and when he finally dived under the manger, he didn’t know whether he’d been seen or not. He tensed right into himself as the feet stopped and Aimery leaned over the partition, continuing what had clearly been an earlier conversation.
“I think she’ll like that,” he said.
“What girl wouldn’t?” Hugh replied. “Gallant old warhorses appeal on every level and they don’t come much more gallant than these two.” He patted Galahad, but dismissively. He had had the best out of both him and Bors and was happy to give them to Yolanda for her own. He had three new ones waiting for him in the north, all of which were proving to be worth the money he had paid. “Galahad gave her a good ride on the bear hunt and where Galahad goes, Bors goes too.”
Aimery laughed. “I must say, it hardly seems necessary to give her another present. She’s yours already. Your stories about Paris have quite turned her head. If you’d asked her to ride there with you last night, I think she’d have done it. Does the city never sleep?”
Hugh ignored the question and Aimery found himself scrutinized in a way he found very disconcerting.
“Yolanda does like me, I think,” Hugh said at last, “but at this moment, I’m more curious about you.” Aimery blinked. Hugh did not. “Why do you off
er the Amouroix to King Louis?” he asked. “I doubt whether I would, in your place. I mean, if I were Occitanian and my father was count of this place, I doubt I’d want to be thought a traitor.” He stroked Galahad’s neck in exactly the same place Raimon had only moments before, never taking his eyes from Aimery’s. “And the Flame. I’ve heard the song and what everybody says about it even though they’ve yet to find it. Does it mean nothing to you at all?” He gave one of his characteristic half-smiles.
Aimery was sure this was a test and he fiddled with Galahad’s mane as he answered. “Is it disloyal to want to minimize suffering? We both know that the king won’t be stopped. The Flame’s all very well, but even it can’t produce fighting men out of nothing. Unlike us, King Louis has an endless supply of troops. I understand that even if nobody else wants to. As for the Flame—” He stopped. “Frankly, Hugh, it’s time it was snuffed out. That’s what I’ll do if I get ahold of it. There’s no room for such things anymore. Look at this place and tell me truthfully. Is it not time we became part of something bigger than ourselves?”
“I don’t think Yolanda sees it quite like that.”
Aimery gave up with Galahad’s mane and pulled splinters from the partition. “Not at the moment maybe, but she will in time.”
Hugh leaned against his horse. “You underestimate her, Aimery.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Yolanda’s not a fool. She may be a bit dismal right now, but with the weaver out of the way, I don’t think she’ll be too reluctant to join her fortune with yours. Haven’t you noticed? His skeleton won’t even be washed clean yet and already she’s more cheerful.”
