by Jane Feather
“There comes a time, niece, when I grow awearied of make-believe,” Bertrand said almost casually, polishing the ruby eye with the end of his dagged sleeve. “Have a care.”
“I have a husband—” Magdalen began shakily.
“Edmund de Bresse is dead.” It was Charles d’Auriac who spoke. He had been standing behind her, but now he moved round the table so he could see her face. “You know he is dead. He has challenged your lover, the man who betrayed his marriage bed. There could be but one conclusion to such a combat.”
“Guy de Gervais would never deliberately have Edmund’s blood upon his hands.” She spoke with the clarity of absolute confidence and felt the sudden attention from the men in the room. This was not something they had ever considered. The recognition brought her renewed courage, and an imprudent touch of scorn laced her voice. “Having wronged Edmund as he believed he had done, he would never take his life in fair combat.”
“What nonsense is this!” Charles exclaimed, but they could all hear the hint of uncertainty in his voice. “What possible choice could he have? He is far and away the stronger combatant.”
Magdalen’s eyes met his. “I do not know what choice he would have,” she said quietly. “But I do know he would be more likely to choose his own death than Edmund’s.” It was the truth and it tore at her to say it, but because it did, her conviction was unassailable. The quality of the silence in the room changed, sharpened, and she could feel Charles’s unease.
“The courier has not yet returned with confirmation?” Bertrand raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet,” Charles said. “Something must have delayed him upon the road. But there is no doubt as to the outcome. No man would choose his own death over another’s.” He managed to sound dismissive.
“You couldn’t imagine it, could you?” Magdalen looked at him with contempt, then her gaze ran around the table. She forgot her fear under a surge of contemptuous loathing and the belief that while blood ties might connect her with these men, those ties were as nothing compared to the ones that connected her with the Lord Bellair, Guy de Gervais, Edmund de Bresse, and John of Gaunt. Those ties had their roots in shared codes of honor and morality, in the knowledge of what was right and wrong, in the knowledge that people would in general prefer to behave well rather than ill, even if their own goals were not served thereby.
“None of you could understand it,” she said. “Because it comes under the name of honor—something you do not understand, something you cannot—”
The dagger buried itself in the door behind her. It had sped past her ear, so close she could feel the air vibrating with its passing, so close the skin of her cheekbone burned in response and her right eyelid fluttered uncontrollably at the thought of what nearly had been.
Nausea rose in her gorge, her shock so powerful she was afraid she would be sick where she stood. She fought it, closing her eyes tightly against the image of the right side of her face sliced cleanly with the dagger, losing herself in this private struggle to bring her shattered nerves into alignment again, to quell her heaving belly, to still the violent tremors of her knees and hands, the wild pounding of her heart.
Her face had a gray cast, blue tinged her set lips, and the five men watched her struggle with interest. They all knew the fear of that dagger, even for those accustomed to it, even for those who were no strangers to the battlefield horrors of mutilation, the pain of wounds.
When she finally opened her eyes, her battle won, there was the faintest look of respect in the eyes regarding her. But when Bertrand spoke, there was no acknowledgment of that respect.
“Daughter of Isolde, you belong now to your mother’s family. You will work with us as your mother did, and you will put aside all previous allegiances. Your cousin Charles has expressed the wish to manage your obedience to this family. When the courier brings us confirmation of your husband’s death, you will wed your cousin. In the meantime …” He glanced significantly at d’Auriac, then shrugged. “In the meantime, we leave matters in Charles’s hands, to be managed as he sees fit.”
Magdalen shook her head in mute dread. In the tension of the last half hour, her very personal fear of Charles d’Auriac had been subsumed under her need to stand up to these men, to stand true to her core, to reject the taint they would put upon her. But now the full horror of her situation rose vivid and implacable. She was without rights or protection, in her cousin’s power, and he had been given leave to wield that power as he chose.
She looked at him, and he read the panic in her eyes. His own eyes contained the hunger she knew well and the calm satisfaction of one about to achieve a long-awaited goal.
“I will never swear allegiance to this family,” she said, her voice a mere thread. But she had managed to speak through her fear.
“It will be for your cousin to persuade you otherwise,” Bertrand said, sounding suddenly bored with the discussion. He got to his feet and went to a table against the wall where a pitcher of wine and tankards stood. He poured and drank. “Take her away. Bring her back when you have done your work.”
Charles d’Auriac bowed to his uncle in acknowledgment. “Cousin,” he said with gentle mockery. “Shall we go?” He moved to open the door, where the dagger was still implanted in violent reminder of the phantasmic savagery of the last half hour.
What choice did she have but to go with this man into whatever species of hell he had planned for her? She walked past him, drawing her surcote aside as if she could not bear to touch him. His smile grew thinner.
When they reached her chamber, he opened the door and curtly dismissed Sister Therese, sitting beside the cradle. He stood looking down at the sleeping child. “You continue to nurse her?”
There was something sinister in the question, something that set her skin crawling with alarm, yet it was reasonable enough on the surface. Just the sight of him standing so close to Zoe brought sick quivers to her belly.
“Yes,” she said. “Do not wake her.”
He turned away from the cradle. His eyes rested on her, speculative and rapacious. “So, I am to make a good and loyal de Beauregard of you, cousin.”
“Never!”
“That is a long time,” he observed. “I do not believe it will take so long.” He moved toward her, and she forced herself to stand her ground, knowing that if she showed her fear it would only render her more powerless.
“If you but knew how long I have waited for this time,” he said softly, standing over her, his body seeming to become massive in its closeness. Her eyes were fixed on a sparrow hawk embroidered on his tunic. The bird seemed to dip and curve with each breath he drew. “I know you do not hold the marriage bed sacred, cousin, but you will stray from ours only with those to whom I send you.”
“You would make a whore of me!” Her voice was a whisper of outrage.
“You were born of a whore,” he said. “A whore who knew how to do her work well.” His finger brushed her cheek, and when she recoiled, he put a hand on her shoulder, holding her still. “You also know how to do that work well. You have proved that you can satisfy a husband and a lover at the same time. You have the power of the temptress in you, too, Magdalen of Lancaster. You are your mother’s daughter, and we will harness that power for the good of the family and the good of France. And through you we will be revenged upon Lancaster for the murder of Isolde.”
He brought his mouth down on hers, hard and bruising as he forced her lips open. For one dreadful instant, his tongue lay upon hers. Her hand went up and raked his cheek, her nails leaving livid lines. He pulled back with a vile oath just as the child awoke and a hungry wail filled the chamber.
Magdalen moved instinctively toward the cradle, but the hand on her shoulder closed painfully. He looked down at her for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.
“See to her!” He released his grip on the curt instruction.
Magdalen hurried to the cradle. She lifted the child, trying to calm herself so that Zoe would not sense her
agitation. Under the cold gray gaze of Charles d’Auriac, she changed the baby and then fed her, turning sideways to the watcher, drawing the sleeve of her surcote over her exposed breast as if she could thus preserve some modesty. But his voracious eyes did not once leave her.
Her appetite satisfied, Zoe was inclined for play. She sat on her mother’s knee as Magdalen refastened her gown, and stared around the chamber, her eyes wide as she included Charles d’Auriac in her examination.
“Put her down,” he instructed in the same curt tone.
“But she is not ready to sleep yet,” she protested. “She has only just wakened.”
The marks of her nails had reddened against his cheek, and there was a deep, cold fury in his eyes. “Leave her.” He strode to the door, flinging it open.
Outside stood the two men-at-arms who had escorted her earlier.
He gestured with his head toward Magdalen. “Take her down.”
“What … ? Where … ? I do not—” Stammering, she stood up, retreating as they advanced on her, the child still in her arms.
“Give the child to Sister Therese. You will not wish her to go where you are going.”
The nun had entered the chamber after the soldiers, her features as harshly unmoving as before. Magdalen’s terror surpassed anything she had ever felt. “Where … ?” But the one-word question was a mere whimper. The nun took the child from her nerveless arms.
“To a place where you may reflect at leisure, cousin,” Charles said. “Take her!”
The two men grabbed her arms. She struggled for a minute before realizing the absolute futility at the same moment that she realized d’Auriac was watching her pathetic efforts to free herself with a sardonic smile, the scarlet marks of her nails standing out even more vividly now. She yielded abruptly. Whatever they were going to do with her, she could do nothing to avert it.
She walked between them, although they still held her arms, and they went down … down and down until she could smell the cold earth and knew they were below ground level. The darkness of the passages was lit infrequently by pitch-pine torches in sconces, and the walls oozed a greenish slime. They saw no one, and she began to shake with cold and terror.
At last they stopped. A trapdoor was set into the floor at their feet. Magdalen knew immediately what was below it. The oubliette of her nightmares.
It took both of them to grasp the massive ring bolted to the slab and haul the door open. She cowered on the edge of the black hole yawning at her feet. Then she felt the hand in the small of her back and knew they would push her. God alone knew what she would fall into. She dropped to her knees at the edge and slowly lowered herself into a darkness so black it was beyond imagination. The stone slab crashed closed above her, and a scream ripped through her. It came back at her, and then there was silence … the most absolute silence, as absolute as the darkness. She thought her heart was going to stop with her terror. What was in front of her? Was she standing on the edge of some deep shaft, some pit that would swallow her if she took a step? She shrank back, felt something cold and wet against her back, but at least it was solid. She was breathing in little petrified sobs. Blindly she moved her hands to either side of her. They encountered cold, slimy, oozing stone, then her fumbling fingers closed over a steel ring. She leaned backward and tears of relief filled her eyes at finding something solid to hold on to. Her heart was pounding so violently in her ears that the noise filled her head. Her feet were wet. She was standing in water. How much water? Now she heard a steady trickle from somewhere, but the darkness was so complete it was disorienting, and she could not decide whether the sound came from right or left or ahead.
She was entombed, the great weight of the earth pressing upon her head. There was no air; it was as if a thick velvet cloth were being held over her mouth, and her chest began to close, her lungs heaving, hurting as she grabbed for the air that was not there. Her body was bathed in an icy sweat, and she knew she was going to die.
But she hadn’t been put here to die.
Slowly, the thought took hold. She began to see the words, shaped in her head. She hadn’t been put here to die. She heard them, spoke them, rolled them around her tongue.
Zoe was safe, and they would let her out of this place. But when? What else was down here, invisible? Rats, snakes in the walls, in the water, beetles, spiders … Before she could stop it, another scream escaped her. Again it was returned to her, and the silence, broken now by the incessant dripping, took over.
Courtney Durand was dozing the doze of the justly satiated in his tent below the walls of the fortress of Carcassonne. He had been paid for a job well done and now took his ease, one hand lazily stroking the curving hip of the woman who had led him to that ease during the long, somnolent hours of the summer afternoon. The taste of wine and garlic and the rich sausage of Toulouse was upon his tongue, and the woman was full-breasted and eager, lifting to his touch, her mouth stained with wine, her rich earthy scent of sweat and fulfillment and the beginnings of arousal stirring him anew. She moved over him, taking him within the capacious welcome of her body, and for a moment he saw a pair of wide, candid gray eyes, a full, passionate mouth, a sloping white shoulder above the wide-necked cotehardie hinting at the subtle curves beneath.
His turgid flesh shrank. The woman looked down at him, startled, a little aggrieved. He pushed her off him and stood up. The tastes on his tongue were now sour and he grimaced, pouring wine from the pitcher on a low table, drinking it down in one deep gulp. He reached for his purse, shook out a handful of coins, and tossed them toward the woman. They fell in a bright, jangling shower upon the ground.
She scooped them up, pulled on her shift and coarse linen gown, thrust her feet into her sabots, and disappeared without a word through the tent flap.
“My lord?”
“What is it?” It was a snarl, and the page flinched as if expecting a blow.
“A man to see you, my lord. He says he has an urgent message.”
“From whom?”
“He will not say, my lord. He says it is for you alone.”
Durand pushed past the lad and stepped out into the late afternoon. His hose was untrussed, his tunic unbuttoned, but there was no one to whom he would make apology for such dishevelment.
A lean, agile, swarthy-skinned man was sitting on a pack roll beneath a tree. He was eating olives and spitting the pits with a careless indifference to where they fell. As Durand emerged from his tent, he stood up.
“I’ve a message for you, Sir Courtney.”
“From whom?” Durand scratched his chest.
“My lord.” The man seemed to think that sufficient. He turned to rummage in the pack roll.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Durand examined the figure with a frown.
The man shrugged. “Could be. I’m to be found here and there.” He drew forth a parchment and handed it over, then resumed his seat and began again on the olives.
Courtney Durand read the missive. He read it twice, and a slow smile spread over his face. He glanced over his shoulder at the fortress, looming in its malevolent mass at his back. His smile broadened.
“An interesting challenge,” he murmured. “You may tell the Lord de Gervais that I find his proposition appealing. The figure named seems sufficient, and our combined forces might prevail with cunning. I await his arrival most eagerly.”
Olivier nodded, got to his feet, slung his pack over the sturdy roan tethered to the tree, untied the horse, swung awkwardly onto his back, and trotted off.
Courtney Durand laced up his hose and buttoned his tunic, feeling the evening sun on the back of his neck. It was indeed an interesting and appealing proposition: having taken the fee of the de Beauregards to deliver the lady and her child into captivity, he would take the fee of the opposition to effect their release. He laughed aloud, the sour, jaded aftermath of surfeit vanished.
The black time was interminable. She was engulfed, only the death grip of her fingers on the steel ring
keeping her hold on reality. Her legs ached from standing, but she could not sit while holding the ring, and besides, there was the water at her feet and she did not know what else. So she stood, her back welded to the oozing slime of the wall. When the stone door above her crashed open, the sound was so terrifying in the absolute silence, she let go the ring and slipped forward onto her knees. Her hands sank into a viscous mud, and she cried out. But she didn’t fall any further, and there was light behind her now. Her eyes hurt for a minute, stinging from the acrid smoke of pitch and tallow. She struggled back to her feet, but before she could orient herself to her dungeon, hands seized her arms and she was hauled up, out of the oubliette. The slab crashed down on her prison and she was in the passage, trying to control her sobs.
The same two men-at-arms stood impassive, waiting for her to get to her feet. She saw the slime coating her slippers, drenching the hem of her gown and surcote. Her hands were black with it. She could not see the wildness in her eyes, the ghastly hue of limitless terror on her face. Her escort saw it, but it was usual for those released from the oubliette, and their flat peasant eyes, accustomed to cruelty, did not remark the signs of suffering.
They took her back, up and up to where the air smelled fresh and the cold of the stone was that of an aired stone, stone that saw the light of day. But it was full night. She could see only blackness filling the slitted windows, occasionally a silver star glimmer. They opened the door of her chamber, and she stepped in.
Sister Therese was there, holding a wailing, desperately hungry Zoe. Charles d’Auriac lounged against the far wall. His eyes read and understood every terror-filled moment she had spent, and the cold gray gaze was touched with satisfaction.
“The child is hungry,” the nun said, holding out the baby.
Magdalen looked at her hands. She could not touch her child with the indescribable filth of the oubliette upon them. Without a word, she went into the garderobe. The water in the pitcher was cold, but she scrubbed her hands with a vigor that belied her absolute exhaustion … the exhaustion of a spirit that has clung to sanity by a merest thread. Satisfied, she took Zoe and sat down, heedless of her wet and filthy hem and slippers. As the child suckled, some element of peace entered her. She would not look at her cousin, who remained by the wall watching, but as her body responded to the baby’s elemental needs, she began to feel her own hold on reality reassert itself.
