Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  Maríana's hands twisted the skirt of her gown. A dragging thump outside their door signaled the change of the tower guard. She heard the steady scrape of his sword against the stone of the outer wall, his heavy step.

  "Mother," Geneviéve leaned toward Johanna, "That is exactly why I came here today. This situation," she waved at the walls, the bed, the table and stools, "simply cannot continue. Oh, I know it is not my place to chastise my brother." She shook her head at Johanna's raised brow. "Yes, he took me in after Charles was killed, and I am grateful. But he ignores the girl. This cannot go on forever." Her lips set. "There has always been talk among the servants. And the squires torment her."

  Maríana held her hands in tight fists next to her belly. "Father spoke to me."

  Geneviéve turned to her. "When?"

  Maríana stared into her lap.

  "I thought so." Geneviéve reached out to Johanna. "Mother, we must both see him."

  "Which squires?" Johanna asked.

  "It does not matter." Maríana held a hand out to Geneviéve and shook her head in a silent plea.

  "Nonsense. What happened?" Johanna looked from Geneviéve to Maríana.

  Maríana drew back in alarm as Geneviéve's hand snaked toward her and pulled her skirt above her knee.

  "Here." Geneviéve's mouth set in a grim line. "You can see what happened."

  Maríana pushed at her aunt's hand, but she heard the sharp intake of breath as Johanna rose and moved to her side. Johanna touched the angry red blotches stretching from Maríana's knee to her ankle. Just below her knee, her skin had blistered in painful bubbles that had oozed at first, and later bled. Now her leg was a mass of crusting scabs and tender pink skin where the scabs had rubbed off.

  Maríana ducked her head and yanked her skirt out of her aunt's hands, dropping it once more to her feet.

  "I was clumsy and spilled the wax," she muttered. "That is what happened." She looked over at Alys, but Alys would not meet her eyes.

  "You mean someone threw it at you. It went right through your gown, didn't it? You can't get that type of burn in a spill." Geneviéve turned to Johanna. "Louis-Philippe has to acknowledge her. Until he does, this kind of thing will keep happening."

  Johanna's eyelids had dropped over her eyes so they were slits of blue-gray. "I have not been able to move him in all these years. What makes you think that I will have any success now?"

  "This is not like him. I am shocked that he does not acknowledge her, even though she is a daughter, not a son." Geneviéve fell silent.

  Maríana stared at her grandmother. Her jaw ached from biting back her words. Yes, tell us! Why does he ignore his only daughter?

  "Well, I am sure has reason for what he does," Geneviéve said.

  "Yes," Johanna said, "There are reasons."

  "But there have been whispers recently, about Ib..." Geneviéve's words broke off. "Well, we will talk later."

  Johanna clasped her hands before herself. "Later," she agreed. "But there is something I can do about this now. I will take this matter to Guillaume. He will deal with..."

  "No!" Maríana fell to her knees before Johanna and grabbed her hands. "Don't say anything. It is nothing, really. I have almost healed." If her grandmother said anything, then they would know how they had hurt her. Their scorn, she could bear. But not their pity.

  "Silly girl." Johanna brushed back a lock of Maríana's hair. "Thérèse was the same. She would not let me intervene."

  "Then you won't say anything?" Maríana stared into her grandmother's face.

  Johanna did not speak for several moments. Her eyes were opaque, measuring. "No," she replied. "I cannot let this pass." She shook her finger at Maríana. "Your mother was a grown woman. What she did was her own affair. But you are my granddaughter. I will not allow them to bully you."

  "There, now." Geneviéve reached out and patted Maríana's arm. "Things will be better for you after this."

  "So you say," Maríana whispered as she watched her grandmother leave. The early summer heat and the hearth fire had brought a moist sheen to Geneviéve's skin. But Maríana shivered.

  Chapter 3

  RICHARD STOOD in the palais's great hall, watching Louis-Philippe de Reuilles read the message he had just handed to him. Golden light from the enormous hearth glinted off the planes of the Baron's face. Voices echoed around the cavernous hall. The palais was filled with a company of monks who were passing through Reuilles-la-ville on their way to St. James de Compostella. They were the last of the pilgrims who would come through Reuilles-la-ville this year. The final moon of summer came next week; already wind from the south -- the bochorno -- was scattering leaves and fraying tempers.

  Johanna had ordered château butchers to slaughter three pigs. These now turned on great spits over the central hearth, the fat sizzling and sending its heavy scent into the air. Monks were everywhere. They crowded onto planks pulled up to the seven tables set around the hall's perimeter, milled about in its open center, their feet shuffling stalks of dried lavender and rushes carpeting the stone floor, or stood in groups conversing in hushed voices on the broad staircase leading to the palais's second floor.

  One of this company had sought Richard and given him the message, saying, "This is for de la Guerche's son." Richard passed the message to Baron de Reuilles when he saw the tangle of lines spreading across the parchment it was written upon. He could now read and write well enough to jot down words to the songs that were always dancing in his head, but this message was beyond his ability to decipher.

  Louis-Philippe slowly read the words scrawled in an unsteady hand on stained vellum. "It says your father has the wasting sickness. They are asking you to return."

  Richard held his breath. Hearing the words spoken so baldly chilled him. "When can I leave?" he asked.

  Louis-Philippe gripped his shoulders. "Bernart will accompany you. You can go at first light tomorrow." He waved his hand and a page from Béarn trotted over to them. "Gather some bread and meat into a sack for Squire de la Guerche," he told the boy, then caught him by the arm as he started to dash away. "And some ale," Louis-Philippe added.

  THE WASTING sickness meant death, didn't it? It had taken a fortnight for him to travel from la Guerche to Navarre. What if his father died before he got home? Richard halted at the edge of the stables. His mind had been turning the Baron's words over and over. Now, he heard the sound that had jolted him out of his thoughts, heard again a muffled thump.

  He listened. Horses moved restlessly. Then the rustle of cloth, another dull thud and a smothered pleading drew him forward, into the stables.

  Richard stopped where he was, dropping the sack of meat, bread and ale he carried In the gloom, shapes huddled around a body lying still upon the ground. Hair spilled around the body's head. Richard silently unsheathed his knife and glanced around the empty bailey. No help there, he must confront them himself.

  "Get up!" One of the shapes spoke. It was Arnaut, his voice cracking as he grabbed the shoulders of the person lying there, shaking her.

  "Why did you hit her?" The other shape asked, his voice shaking as he grabbed Arnaut by the arm. Jean-Pierre!

  "She would not say it!" Arnaut spoke hoarsely. "All I wanted was for her to say it." He leaned over the body again.

  "Say what?" Richard sheathed his knife. "What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?" He looked down at the girl who lay between them, at the fine-boned face, the tilted eyebrows, the tumble of auburn hair.

  "You bastards!" he shouted. He thrust Arnaut away and dropped to his knees next to Maríana. He put one hand underneath her nose to feel her breath and the other on her chest. "What have you done?"

  "She told Guillaume about the wax," Arnaut said, his face surly and aggrieved. "She told him!"

  The air surrounding Richard seemed to curdle. His mouth moved soundlessly, then he found his voice. "I think you have killed her," he whispered.

  "No!" Arnaut leaned over Maríana again, seizing her shoulders and shouting into
her face. "Wake up!" His spittle marked her skin. "See!" He placed his fingers lightly on her throat. "Her heart beats in her neck."

  Jean-Pierre put a hand on his arm. "Leave it, Arnaut. Let's get Father Gregory."

  "No! We will get Jacques the healer. I will look for him," Richard said, then froze. Maríana's eyes blinked open all at once, rimmed in white.

  "What?" Arnaut turned his head from Richard to Jean-Pierre. Maríana had lain beneath him, arms still and limp at her side. But now her hands shot up and locked around his neck, her knuckles growing white as her fingers dug into his skin. Arnaut uttered a single, choked cry, tearing at Maríana's hands, striving to pull them away from their grip on his throat. His skin darkened and mottled.

  Richard grabbed her right hand and pried at her fingers. He looked over to Jean-Pierre, who knelt there, eyes wide.

  "Rhomboid!" Richard said. "Help me here."

  Jean-Pierre's hands fluttered around, nearly touching her fingers. When he brushed against her, his face drained of color. "She is like stone! What sort of creature is she?" He moved back.

  Richard pulled another of her fingers loose and jumped at the hiss of air rushing into Arnaut's lungs. "Hold on, Vaillancourt," he said, then, "Blessed Mother of God!" when the fingers he had freed clamped hold again.

  "Maríana," he strove to keep his voice steady, "you must stop this. Damn!" he shouted when Arnaut convulsed. "Gelditu!"

  Maríana released Arnaut and her arms flew outward. Richard stumbled back. Jean-Pierre scuttled away from her left arm when it grazed his leg. Arnaut fell on his bottom and sat holding his throat and wheezing.

  "Maríana." Richard struggled to his feet and took her by the arms, pulling her up beside him. "Can you walk? I will help you to the palais." Her eyes were open but he thought she was not seeing him. "Can you hear me?"

  "No! Don't take her away." Arnaut had risen also and stood there swaying. "Guillaume gave me extra duty-only me!" He rubbed his throat and his voice sounded raspy. "How did he know I threw the wax if she did not tell him?"

  "Leave it, Arnaut," Jean Pierre took his friend's arm. His hands shook so his shaking was jiggling Arnaut. "Let's go."

  "I warned her what would happen if she told anyone," Arnaut glared at Maríana and shuffled forward toward her, pulling Jean-Pierre with him.

  "How do you know that she told them?" Richard asked, his hands chafing Maríana's arms while she stood unresponsive at his side. "I told you not to hurt her. She has never harmed you, has she?" Arnaut's lip curled in a snarl. Richard sighed and looked away. "Anyone who was there could have told and just about everyone knew about it." He kneaded the skin on her arms. Soft, she was soft. But her skin felt cold to his touch.

  Arnaut's puzzlement gave way to comprehension. Rage consumed his features. "Is that it? You want her for yourself?" His lips stretched across his teeth. "Well, why not? She has lost her senses. You could take her right here! We won't say anything. She is mad. Just like her mother." His gaze fixed upon Richard, he grabbed Maríana's gown at the neck, then yanked it toward him. "See for yourself!"

  Maríana's gown split and tore. Fury boiled in Richard's belly. He swung his right arm back to strike Arnaut.

  Three words stopped him. Words that issued from no human throat. Words that dropped Arnaut to his knees, his hands digging into his ears, that drove Jean-Pierre back several paces, his arms windmilling in his effort to stay on his feet; words that forced Richard's arms to fall limply to his side.

  Then silence. Maríana stood where he had left her. Her extended hands cradled a shifting light that writhed between her palms.

  Arnaut lifted his hands from his ears and his eyes bulged as he looked upon the light that danced around Maríana's hands. Richard tried to move but his limbs would not obey his will.

  Maríana stood there, her face impassive and severe. She appeared to look into the shifting beam that bent and twisted within her curved hands. It glowed green-gold, its luminous strands throwing the planes of her face into a trembling play of light and shadow.

  Richard felt himself drawn to it, deeper into the pattern it formed. Sweat beaded his brow. The pattern was pulling him into the center of the glow, where a dark spot widened, a door was opening... .

  He blinked fiercely and forced tears to blur his eyes. Then he clamped his lids down and forced his body to wilt, to pitch forward.

  He fell to the ground, his arms unfreezing just enough to stop a bruising blow when he hit the cobbles, and lay there panting. Then he glanced up to where Arnaut and Jean-Pierre still stood. Arnaut's face had grown slack. He was drooling. But Jean-Pierre was still fighting the pattern, his face rigid with fear.

  Richard crawled to Maríana, using the glow from the light pattern as his bearing, but keeping his eyes unfocused. He could not risk being drawn into it again. When he was next to her, close enough to smell the rosemary and lavender bag she wore at her waist, he put his arms around her legs and drew her slowly down toward him.

  Her body resisted at first, then succumbed to his insistent pressure. He risked a quick glance at her hands to see that she still held the pattern. Keeping his eyes unfocused, he reached up and pushed her hair back from her ear. Then he said, "Maríana. Close the door. Send it back."

  She did not respond.

  "Maríana. This is Richard. You must send it back now." He felt a shudder course through her body as her lungs sucked in the night air. Then words.

  "Richard? But what is..." She looked upon the glowing green-gold form that floated in front of her, no longer in her hands. She reached for it.

  He grabbed her hands and repeated. "Send it back. You must tell it to go back."

  She met his eyes. Her body curled around her middle, her hands pulling her torn gown over her breasts. Then she turned toward the glimmering light. It was larger now and he was sure it was trying to form words.

  "Go back," she said. "Go away. Begone!" She turned to him. "It is still there."

  "Damn!" He put his head against her shoulder, fighting the pull of the light. "Can you look into it?"

  "Of course, but..."

  "Then look at it." But how to send it away? "Look for a dark spot inside it."

  He held his breath until he heard her speak. "I see it."

  "That is the door. You need to close it." He felt her reach out again. "No! Don't touch it." He paused. How had he broken her grip on Arnaut? "Tell it in Basque."

  "What?" Her voice was breathless now. Was it drawing her in?

  "Just do it!"

  He felt her body shudder again, then uncoil, her back straightening and her chin raising. She seemed to inhale forever, but it could only have been the space of ten heartbeats before he heard her scream, "Aldegin!"

  From the corner of his eye, Richard saw the shifting light fold in on itself, curling into nothingness like a burning piece of parchment. A burst of light brighter than the sun lit the night sky. Thunder bellowed, echoing around the bailey. At the same moment, wind slammed into them, tearing wooden slats away from the livestock pens and sending these crashing against the chapel, the stables, the donjon. One piece scraped his arm as it hurtled past; he shouted and grabbed at his torn sleeve. He had to get Maríana to safety. Screams rose above the roaring of the wind and the doors to the great hall of the palais flung open, but bits of ice now pelted him, and the path to the palais was blocked by a cart that tumbled end over end across the stones of the inner bailey. He pulled Maríana away from the stables, his hand holding her head tucked down, while he grabbed his sack of provisions with the other hand and fled with her toward the garden. He did not look back to see where Arnaut and Jean-Pierre had gone.

  The long stone wall that surrounded the garden lay ahead. His arm looped around Maríana, Richard passed through the gate. Outside, the hawthorn trees' branches bent before the force of the wind, but inside the gate it was still. He stopped in surprise, but Maríana tugged at his arm. "This way," she said. They ran along the path that led to the pool. Shouts echoed over the roar of th
e wind outside the garden. She pushed a strand of blackberries aside, then ducked and crawled between the bushes.

  "Where are you going?" He dropped to the ground and pushed in behind her, the sack he carried catching on thorns.

  She sat huddled on the earth, her arms crossed over her chest, fingers smoothing the tear in her gown. There was room for him to sit across from her in the space between the bushes. The pool shimmered behind her. They must be right at its edge.

  "How bad is the rip in your gown?" he asked, tugging at his sack until he got it all the way into the space where she sat.

  She shook her head and her hands dropped to her lap. "I cannot repair it."

  He averted his eyes from the creamy skin that showed through her bodice. The ground was soft with pine needles, but no pines stood around them. "Did you bring these in?" He grasped some needles in his hand and held them up.

  "No." Her face turned away. "This place was already here when I was little."

  The howl of the wind had faded to a whisper and the shouting voices were far away now, but there would still be people in the bailey picking up debris. He shrugged his arms out of his shirt.

  "Here." He held out his shirt. She stared at it, then at him. "You will need it in order to get back to your chamber."

  "But you..."

  "I will be warm enough." He tried to drape it around her shoulders, but she held her arms across her chest. "You can wrap it around you." He held the shirt out to her until she took it from his hands. "Do you want to go back now?"

  "You can go back if you want to." She slid her arms into the sleeves and held the garment around her. His heart quickened at the sight of the shirt, warm from his body, enveloping her.

  "Do you want to tell me what happened?" He saw her start, then she raised her eyes from her fingers to his face.

  "Arnaut was angry," she said. "He grabbed me when I came out of the chapel and pulled me with him to the stables." She spoke softly. Richard had to lean forward to hear. "Jean-Pierre was there and they both, they both..." She bit her lower lip. "Arnaut wanted me to say I was like my mother, so I told him that. Then he wanted me to say that I had told Guillaume about the wax. But I did not tell Guillaume, so I would not say it." Her jaw set, but he could see her hands trembling. "I would not say it."