Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  "Nothing will change the way I feel about Maríana." He had counted on his mother's support to convince his father that the match with Maríana was good for la Guerche. "I love her, mother." But she stood before him, next to Geffroy, holding his father's hand.

  "You are still needed here." A grim pulling of her lips mocked the broad smile that he remembered. "Until your father is healed." Geffroy startled, his mother laid a finger across his father's lips. Geffroy subsided.

  "I could go to Assisi for you." Stories of miracles at the church of Francis di Bernardone had swept up from the south and entered the hall of la Guerche in trembling whispers. "They say prayers offered at Assisi work miracles." Reuilles-la-ville lay on the route to Assisi. His hands curled into fists as he watched his mother's eyes widen. She leaned forward. His father pulled her back.

  A sharp intake of breath, then the lines drawn on his mother's face settled, hardened. Her fingers dug into his father's hand. "Assisi."

  "I will not let you go that far away. I need you here," Geffroy said. He patted Marguerite's hand and she bowed her head and leaned into Geffroy's shoulder.

  The texture of his mother's sorrow coated the air. He forced his own hands to unclench. There would be no help from her and he could not burden her with his own misery. But he would not give up. Someday his father would throw off the mantle of illness he had wrapped about him. He would make his father understand. He must. Richard bowed his head and backed away, but his father's voice stopped him.

  "There is another match."

  He froze.

  "It is with Bourdeilles. The girl is young yet -- you need not wed her for another three years -- but the match is good. She will bring the income from her own lands her father is giving as part of her dowry. Bourdeilles is a large holding and Beatrice is the only daughter..."

  Richard saw his father's mouth continue to move, but did not hear the rest of Geffroy's speech. Frost settled along the rim of his heart, formed wintry spikes that drove into his chest. He looked away, caught only one word in three. Finally, the hall was silent. He looked back to see his father leaning away, eyes closed, but his mother watched him. Despair painted a bleak web that trembled from her lips to the fingers clutching his father's hand. He lowered his head and focused on the train of her gown.

  Another match. Beatrice? He had never heard the name. Stale rushes clung to the edges of his mother's skirt, where it pooled on the floor. What could he say? "Repairs to the north gate are going well." He made a quick bow and strode toward the open doors.

  "Richard." A whisper.

  He stopped, but did not turn. Silence lapped at the corners of the hall; the stillness burned his ears. Finally, his mother spoke.

  "I am sorry."

  THE SEA never changed. It drew him with its crashing pulse, its dark scent of fish and floating weed. Richard had missed the sea, had almost forgotten the peace it brought him. He dropped his palfrey's reins and stood at the edge, where restless water met the land.

  He had tried to forget Maríana. His mother was right, he and Maríana had only been children. How could he have loved her? He had been too young for such a love. Yet, he remembered everything about her. When she had run from Arnaut and Jean-Pierre, her heart had fluttered against his chest, he remembered this. It was odd, how he had thought that he held a butterfly in his arms when Maríana collided with him and he felt the tripping of her heart. Yet when Arnaut insulted her, her back had straightened, formed an iron rod underneath his hands.

  He held up his last stone, a red-streaked, green bloodstone, much like the stone he had given Maríana so long ago. He could still smell the earth from which it had been torn. It turned in his hand, fitted snugly against his palm. For the past week, he had clutched the bloodstone in his hand each night. Held it close. But it was not nightmares that plagued his sleep. He stood gripping the bloodstone while the sun slipped toward the drowned cities that lay just beyond the shore.

  Maríana had come to him. For three months now, nearly every night. No one knew this and he would not tell anyone. Certainly not his father, who would haul him before the priests. Not even his mother, who would at least understand these things.

  At first, Maríana had appeared standing at the side of his bed. He had not realized he was dreaming: he thought she was really in the room with him. It had been nearly three years since he had last seen her. He sat up and she disappeared. The next night she was there again. Why was she silent? If it was really a dream, why did she stand so far away? He wanted her closer.

  THE NEXT time she appeared, he took her hand. It was solid, pliant and warm. Richard was startled; he almost let it drop. How long he had sat there, holding her hand, he did not know. Just before she disappeared, he had felt the pressure of her answering squeeze.

  After that, he had sought her every night. At times, his dreams were ordinary -- small things he had done during the day, riding his palfrey Baldur, teasing his sister. When Maríana did not come to him, he awoke cross and empty, and snarled at everyone all day. When she did appear, the air shimmered and life filled him.

  She never said anything. Not ever. But gradually, he pulled her closer, and closer still, until she lay beside him on his bed. For many nights, he was content to lie with her pressed close against him, tracing the bones of her face with his forefinger, spreading her dense auburn hair across the bare skin of his chest. When she lay beside him, her eyes were always closed. At first, he was sad. He wanted her to speak, to look at him. Later, when the throbbing in his groin was more than he could bear, he was glad she did not open her eyes to witness how much he wanted her.

  It was the wanting that drove him to cast her out of his dreams. He had tried to kiss her, but she drew away and then disappeared. Three days passed before she appeared again, and another three before she would again allow him to coax her to lie beside him. There she lay, night after night, as he stroked her hair and told himself that this was enough. He filled his head with minor business of the château, the price of oats, a new design for a wagon wheel, anything that would cool the pounding surge of his blood.

  Nothing worked. His yearning was driving him mad. If she would not have him, this dream Maríana, he must banish her. He could force her, that was true. Yet he would not dishonor her. Even in his dreams, he would not do this. The next time she came to him, he said his farewells, tried to explain to her why he could not have her visit his dreams. She said nothing, but would not release his hand when he tried to pull away. She had shivered so much that he drew her into his arms and lay next to her, his loins heavy and aching, till morning.

  That day, he stole a bloodstone from his mother's chamber and took it to the long barrow that lay between la Guerche and the sea. He buried the stone at the center of the barrow, among the bones of a great warrior. His own mother had taught him this -- a warrior's grave always increased the power of magic. That night, he retrieved the stone and held it nestled in the palm of his hand when he went to sleep.

  Maríana did not appear. He had barred her from his dreams. His empty arms ached. He could not seem to catch his breath.

  It was this that sent him to his father, asking for permission to wed. If he could no longer hold his beloved in his dreams, he must have her, in truth, as his wife. With his father's blessing, Maríana would be his wife.

  If only his father had given this blessing.

  A single spray hit the rocky shore and sent its streamers across his face. He flinched back and hefted the bloodstone, tossing it from hand to hand. It would be four years before he would be expected to marry Beatrice. Gulls screamed a warning as he trod closer to the breakers. Four years. A long time until he would belong to another. The bloodstone was shiny from the rubbing of his fingers. Would Maríana return if he did not use it? Could he bear to have her next to him? Froth kissed the toes of his boots. Could he bear to never see her again?

  He flipped the stone from his right hand to his left one more time, then let it fly and watched as it made a hurtling arc into
the froth of breaking waves. His horse stood where he had left it, waiting patiently while he had hurled stone after stone into the sea. He jumped onto the horse's bare back, blinking his eyes until the sting settled deep into his chest. Then he dug in his heels and turned toward la Guerche.

  Chapter 6

  SHE KNEW him; she was sure of this. Ibrahim handed Maríana a steaming cup of manzanilla that he had boiled over a lamp and strained through cloth. She accepted the earthen cup and wrapped her hands around the sides. Who was he, this Ibrahim? She searched her memory for where she could have seen him, but the kohl outlining his eyes, the gown that clung to his slender form defeated her. He should look ridiculous wearing that gown. But he did not. He was beautiful.

  Ibrahim shook his long, silver-laced black hair back over his shoulders, his golden earrings jangling with a delicate, slithering chime. Then he folded his legs underneath him and sat opposite her. "I have known your father a long time. I knew him before you were born."

  She looked into her cup, watching bits of leaves that escaped Ibrahim's cloth swirling around as the steam moistened her upper lip. "You look familiar." She raised her eyes.

  "You have seen me," he stirred his drink with his little finger, "but not like this." He stretched out his right arm and rattled his bracelets.

  She could not take her eyes away from his face. When he turned to jingle his bracelets she saw a woman sitting opposite her, but when he lowered his face to drink from his cup, she saw a man again. It was making her dizzy. "Did my father build this place for you?"

  He did not answer at first. His head swiveled around. She followed his eyes, seeing the clean white walls, the repeating patterns of the tapestries that graced them with undulating forms in scarlet and gold and deep blue, the low wooden chest that stood at the back. "No," he said, looking at her again. "Not for me, but he lets me stay here sometimes."

  She drew in her breath and coughed. He reached toward her, then stopped when she backed away. "Are you ill?"

  She shook her head. "It is nothing. Why are you dressed like that?" How did he know her mother?

  One black brow rose. "You mean, why the costume? It is my penance." He lifted his cup and drank deeply.

  "Did my father leave here because of me? I mean, I know I was not allowed to come up here." Her voice quivered and she stared down at her cup. A feathery touch told her he had leaned forward. His fingers caressed her cheek. Looking up, she saw flecks of gold swimming in his eyes.

  "He often does this, petite. Every time he comes to me up here, he goes back to the chapel and spends the rest of the night on his belly in front of the altar." The man regarded her, his face still and grave. "He has never been able to face his nature."

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. "But if he is, if he is..." She could not find the words.

  "A lover of men?"

  Maríana gripped the cup and gulped the cooling liquid. Her eyes raised to stare unblinkingly at him. "How can he marry? And what does that make me?"

  "His daughter." Ibrahim's voice was wry but his eyes were warm. "This," he touched his earrings, his bracelets, his gown, "must go away. Louis-Philippe thought this costume would fool people." Frown lines formed at the corners of his mouth and across his forehead.

  "Grandmother said my father is to marry Ysabel de Gréves." There! What would he say to that?

  He shifted his weight, setting the bangles and necklaces gracing his arms and neck jingling. "And so he shall. We have been careless, you see." He waved his hand at her when she jumped. "Oh, most in the château do not know that the secret woman your father visits is me."

  "Then why change things now?" She was not sure about this woman-man. She knew his face, of that she was sure, yet she could not place him. When she thought of him and her father together, she shuddered. But she found herself drawn to him, to the way he listened to her.

  "Who can say why change happens? Perhaps because he and Johanna would both like to see a male heir in place." Ibrahim lifted his chin. "Perhaps because the Church has turned its eye this way."

  "The Church?"

  "Didn't you know?" His lips curled now in a smile. "It is a sin, what we do. Father Gregory can no longer ignore it. But everyone here would stand to lose if the Inquisition comes." He leaned forward when she could not suppress a shiver. "Oh, you would probably survive. They usually spare daughters, especially if they are pretty and young. It is much easier to hold a claim when you have married one of the family."

  "The Inquisition." She looked at the bits of leaves in the bottom of her cup and puzzled over the aroma and pungent flavor. Manzanilla and something else she did not recognize, something that gave her the taste of bitter earth in her mouth. "I have heard rumors. Stories of Toulouse."

  "Do you know of the Cathars?"

  Her hands were sweating, the sides of her cup slick with moisture. She placed it upon the floor and shook her head.

  "The Cathars are Christians," he said, "but they do not accept the established Church and they do not revere the Pope." He paused and his eyes closed. "Rome launched a crusade against them. A man called de Montfort fought for the Church and seized many châteaux larger and richer than your father's holdings. He gave the daughters of the rightful owners to northern lords." A sigh rippled through his frame and his eyes opened. "And even though de Montfort died, that slaughter is still not finished."

  Silence now. She straightened her back and waited. If this Ibrahim thought to intimidate her with his silence, she would make him reconsider. She could be silent, too.

  "Geneviéve was the wife of a Cathar knight," he finally said.

  She startled, then licked her lips. Her mouth was dry and her tongue rasped. She shifted her weight and blinked when the walls slid to the left. Turning her head, she watched the walls slide back to her right. "What?"

  "Do not be alarmed." He waved his hand again. "Her husband died long ago. No one has forgotten, but we do not think they will come for her." He bowed his head in a graceful nod. "After your father has married, he should be safe as well."

  "How did my mother die?" Her voice was not her own. It rang out into the room and echoed off the walls. Her head spun for a moment, then cleared. "You knew my father before I was born." She leaned forward and the room circled again. "No one will tell me! How did my mother die?"

  He stared at her in haunted anguish. She sagged toward the floor, pressed her hands against it, but could not find the strength to stop from slipping down. He took her arms and steadied her. "I am sorry, petite. That is something I cannot tell you. I gave my word."

  The walls of the room now made slow arcs around her head. "Ibrahim! What did you put in my drink?" she tried to ask, but her tongue had grown thick and sticky, the words would not form properly. As she pitched forward in a panic, she felt him catch her in strong arms and lower her gently onto the pillows. She felt his hands cradling her head and his gentle kiss on her hair. Then she sank into oblivion.

  "LAVENDER," Ibrahim whispered, laughing softly. "You got that from the garden and bathed in lavender before the festival, didn't you?" he said to the now slumbering girl. He checked the pulse beating steadily in her neck and listened to her chest. Some congestion. No matter, that was soon remedied. He would pick some white horehound for her. Bittersweet, colt's foot and lady's mantle would be good too. An infusion of these would soon set her right.

  He stroked her hands. He had waited so long for this, to see her up close after all the years of watching her from afar. When she was a baby he had been able to visit and hold her. Later, he had gone away to Montpelier. When he returned, Johanna and Louis-Philippe told him to keep his distance.

  "But for those green eyes and fair skin, you could have been mine," he whispered in her ear. "My daughter."

  The liquid trill of the nightingale flowed into the room. He shook himself. It was getting late and he needed to move quickly or else the plan he had just set in motion would be lost. He pulled off the gown and jewelry, except for a gold chain with a small key
that remained around his neck. Then with meticulous care, he folded and put away each item of clothing and placed the rest of the jewelry in a box. He locked all in a low chest against the wall using the small key on the chain around his neck.

  Good bye, secret woman. He strode over to another, larger chest next to the windows. Opening the chest, he pulled out a tunic, breeches and hose all worked into the livery of the de Reuilles, and a leather belt with a compact pouch attached to it. For the past nine years he had worked as the gardener and healer of the château, his special knowledge of plants earning him the elevated status of master on a par with the master of the hounds. Most of the palais servants knew him as "Jacques." He tied his long hair back and slipped into the tunic, breeches and hose. Then he pulled a length of cloth out from underneath other tunics in the chest.

  She would be safe there until he returned. Striding outside to the fountain, he splashed his face and vigorously scrubbed kohl and flour off, wiping the last traces away with the corner of the cloth he had brought out with him. Finally, he moved to a quiet section of the fountain where the water formed a still pool and stood looking at his face in the moonlit mirror. Hello, Jacques! He saluted the face in the water, then walked out of the courtyard into the night without looking back.

  LOUIS-PHILIPPE was snoring. As Ibrahim moved through the entrance to the chapel, he was greeted by the rumbling dissonance that echoed off the walls. He walked over to where Louis-Philippe lay on his stomach in front of the altar and tapped him on the shoulder.