"The catamites," I said. "Yes."
He squirmed, then drained his cup of wine and quickly poured another. "Would they do this for someone... someone who wanted a certain kind of experience?" His eyes met mine now.
"What do you mean, my friend?"
In answer he put his cup down and reached out to me, his fingers stroking the skin on my chest and moving slowly down to my belly. My body responded as he must have known it would. I was so frustrated from wanting Thérèse that the slightest touch would excite me, and, once aroused, my need was urgent. "No." I started to reject him even then, but he moved forward and took my head in his hands. I felt the strength of his embrace, his power. He pulled me to him and my will dissolved.
I had wanted to shatter his reserve, his self-composure. Well, I had done that now. He trembled so much that he had difficulty removing his breeches. He started to caress me everywhere with one hand while he groped behind us with his other hand, seeking the candle.
"Why put it out?" I asked.
"No lights," he said, his voice thick and heavy. "We must not have any light." His fingers found the wick and he snuffed it out. He truly was a novice. Once I removed my clothes his touch was clumsy. His need was too great. He pulled me down on the carpet and shuddered with a groan that sounded from deep within him.
I showed him what could be done between two men.
Afterward he sat up and continued to tremble. I reached out for him, now.
"What is wrong?"
"I am doomed," he said, his voice muffled by his hands held over his face.
"What?"
"I have had many women, many!" he said. "My friends out there are even jealous of me." His voice took on the jocular intonation of Bernart. "The women, they always come to Louis-Philippe, eh?" Now his voice grew quiet. "But there was always something missing, something not quite..." He could not find the words.
After a long silence he continued, "When I was a boy there were two cousins -- both men -- who loved each other as you and I have." He spoke quickly. I could see his chest rising and falling in the dim light. "They tried to hide their love but someone discovered their secret and told the priest." I could hear him search around in the darkness for his clothing. "They burned them alive. I saw them burn." He pulled his breeches on, grabbed his tunic and lunged for the entrance to the tent. When he got the flap open, he turned back to me. "You must tell no one about this! Promise!" He waited at the entrance.
"Who would I tell, my friend?" I said. "And why?"
That seemed good enough for him. "This will never happen again," he said. Then he slipped out into the night.
I sat for a moment in a daze. "If you felt this way then why did you do it?" I asked the air. "And why did I?" I should have gone after him but I did not. I felt stupid and belittled, and lay in the dark for a while hating him but I could not hate him for long. If it was true that where he lives they burn people for what we did, then he must surely have suffered from such a long denial of his own nature. I stayed in my tent and slept.
IN THE morning I crawled out of my blankets and made my way to the water trough just outside of Thérèse's tent. We had replenished it yesterday with the clear cold water that flowed off the mountains. I was splashing this over my face and neck when the flap to her tent opened and Louis-Philippe stumbled out. His breeches were unlaced and his tunic was thrown across his shoulders. I watched him stop and pull his tunic over his head, sliding his arms into the sleeves, while my mind refused to believe what I was seeing.
He went to my Thérèse, I thought. He went from my tent to the tent of my beloved. I doubled over as a cramping pain seared my gut and remained bent for a moment, gasping and waiting for it to pass. When I straightened, he was walking away.
I sprinted after him and launched myself at his legs, knocking him over. If he had been expecting this I would never have been able to bring him down. As it was, he soon recovered and had me on the ground, his hands closed around my throat. His skin paled when he recognized me and he released his hold. I slid out from under him and rolled away, using the momentum of this action to leap to my feet. My eyes glared my hatred at him.
He made a gesture toward me. "Ibrahim, I..."
I would not listen, turned on my heel and strode to Thérèse's tent, entering it without even thinking of what I was doing.
She was sitting in a tangle of blankets, holding her sides with her arms and rocking back and forth. Her eyes were red from crying and tears still glistened on her cheeks.
"Has he hurt you?" I asked. My voice was harsh in the stillness inside the tent.
She looked up at me and gave a little laugh that turned into a sob.
"I have hurt myself," she finally said. "Oh, I knew his nature. I have known for a long time. But I thought I could change him. I thought I could make him love me." Her lips twisted in scorn. "I saw the way he looked at you. I knew that he would never love a woman, but my heart could not accept that." She pounded the ground. "I will not accept that!"
Her hands covered her face and she shuddered. "He came into my tent last night looking so lost, so bewildered. `What is wrong?' I asked him. He could not tell me. I held my arms out to him and he came to me and loved me." She dropped her hands and her eyes glinted up at me. "But while he was with me he whispered your name." Her voice broke. "Over and over, while his hands and his body were loving me he whispered: `Ibrahim. Ibrahim.'" Her hands gripped the blankets. She looked so forlorn that I went to her and took her into my arms. I murmured the things parents say to children who are hurt, while she buried her face in my chest and sobbed.
"It will pass," I told her. "You will feel differently later. Just wait and see." I had never been this close to her before, never held her before. The scent of jasmine drifted from her hair. Her body curved into mine so naturally I felt that I had come home. This was where I belonged. In the dim light with her soft body in my arms I felt an edge of the wave that Djalal-od-Din had loosed within me rise and wash over my being. I could see her clearly then, her stubborn determination, the tragic beauty of her strength. She would not bend. But now she trembled against my chest. "Beloved," I whispered. Then I could not stop myself. I lifted her face and covered her mouth with mine. She responded, opened to me as her lips parted and she moved into my embrace. Paradise! But she pulled away.
I closed my eyes and tried to master my breathing, tried to still the tremors that shook me now. The familiar dull ache that had throbbed through my body welled up inside with such fury that it was all I could do to bite back a cry. I sealed my lips and shuddered. But her hands touched my face.
"Ibrahim?" I opened my eyes to see her pulling her gown over her head and tossing it aside. There she sat, naked and glorious among the blankets.
She held her arms out to me. "Ibrahim, my dear friend," she said, tears spilling out of her eyes again. "Please. Come and love me."
I needed nothing more than this. Oh, I knew she wanted me at that moment to chase away her despair. But it was enough for me. And though I wanted her so badly that I feared I would burst the moment I entered her, I was skilled in the arts of love. Louis-Philippe was not -- didn't I know this from his bumbling performance with me? I gave Thérèse such pleasure that her entire body shivered and she cried out.
Still, as I held her later, she sobbed.
"I am sorry, my friend," she said. "I cannot stop loving him."
I stroked her hair until she slept. Then I dressed and went to find Louis-Philippe.
"I will marry her," he told me when I confronted him.
I laughed. "Even I know that marriages among your people are arranged to unite noble families, and Thérèse is not of your kind," I scoffed. "Tell me another lie!"
"Nevertheless, I will marry her." He looked directly into my eyes without flinching, with the same look of cool reserve and calculation he showed before he killed the bandits.
In the end, Thérèse and Louis-Philippe went into Roncesvalles and found a priest. Iranzu and Bernart were with t
hem. I remained in our camp and drank the rest of the wine Louis-Philippe had left behind in my tent.
So he did marry her. And that way he made certain that I would remain with him. He knew I would not let her go alone to his château. He knew I would not be parted from her.
As we entered the outer court of his château, I urged my mount forward to ride next to Thérèse. "Are you well?" I asked her. Her eyes were shadowed and she was pale. She looked at me for a moment.
"I am as you see me, Ibrahim," she said. Then she reached out and brushed a lock of my hair away from my eyes. Her expression softened. "There is a carving in one of the caves that eat into the mountains surrounding our valley." She took my hand. "It is on the ceiling so it is hard to see at first, but if you look you can see three serpents so closely entwined that you can hardly tell where one ends and the others begin." She settled back on her horse, dropping my hand, and her eyes turned to where Louis-Philippe stood, at the base of a tower that reared into the lowering sky.
Chapter 8
MARÍANA turned the page and drew in her breath. "Mama." Tears blurred her vision as her fingers reverently touched the faded sketch of a woman with curling black hair, her head bent and eyes gazing in adoration at a chubby baby held in her arms. A drawing of the same repeating tile pattern that graced the borders of the palace windows surrounded the portrait. She rifled through the rest of the book, seeing the flowing dance of lines she had found in the beginning. She could not read this. Cradling the book in her hands, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her tears made soft threads of moisture on her cheeks.
The clank of dishes and crockery, muffled clatter of leather shoes across the thick rugs, whisper of fabric against the low table opened her eyes. Geneviéve was there, her skirts rustling against her legs as she moved around the table.
"Hungry, are you?" Geneviéve asked.
Maríana rubbed the tears from her face and looked up. The sky was darkening outside. Geneviéve had lit several candles and was bustling around a table she was setting with goblets and platters. "Come and help me," she said.
Maríana jumped up to help her aunt, but had to catch herself as the walls started to spin and she felt the stab of a thousand needles attack her legs. Rubbing her left leg vigorously, she hobbled over to the table, setting places for three.
"You have been there on the pillows for most of the day," Geneviéve said. "I left you alone to finish reading. Didn't make much sense to disturb you."
"Thank you." Maríana moved the goblets aimlessly around on the table. "Have you read it?"
"Of course not! It is for you. Anyway, I don't need to, do I? Your mother told me enough. I know the story very well." Geneviéve took her hand and led her through the back of the chamber into a small room. A hearth filled one wall. Over the fire crackling within, a three-legged iron stand held a kettle; an entire chicken was spitted and roasting next to it.
"Not very big," Geneviéve remarked. "But it will do for the three of us." She removed the chicken with a wooden spear and placed it upon a trencher.
In the main chamber, the muted tapping of feet across the Saracen rug pushed Maríana toward the hearth. She was not ready for this, did not want to see him.
"Ah, here he is." Geneviéve straightened her back and beamed at the man who entered. "Hello Ibrahim, or is it Jacques for good, now?" He favored her with an engaging smile and ran his finger over the crispy chicken skin, licking the fat that dribbled down.
"Excellent as usual," he said. "I am still Ibrahim here."
Maríana could not meet his eyes. His words had brought her mother to life, but his brutal honesty had stolen her voice. There was so much she still wanted to know, so much she wanted to ask.
She could not find the words.
Geneviéve turned to her. "We have an agreement with your father. You and I will stay up here with Ibrahim for a year." She uncovered the kettle, her hands encased in a thick cloth. Steam arose from a soup of cabbage and onion. "Next midsummer, you and I must return to the main part of the château." She handed the cloth to Ibrahim and he carried the soup kettle into the main chamber.
THROUGHOUT the meal, Maríana kept her eyes fixed upon her plate. Across the table, she could see Ibrahim's square hands; heard his low, resonant voice as he spoke to Geneviéve. Once she raised her eyes when her aunt asked if she wanted more chicken and caught Ibrahim watching her. His gold-brown eyes were sad, yet he smiled.
Geneviéve laughed. "I don't know about you, but I intend to enjoy every minute up here away from the palais and that musty old donjon!"
Ibrahim moved his left hand; his fingers curled, then extended. She looked up at his face. He was nodding at her aunt.
Geneviéve gave a tremendous yawn. "Well, to bed for me." She waddled off to the tiny chamber next to the kitchen, where she had shown Maríana the large straw pallet they would share.
The whisper of Ibrahim's steady breath filled the room. An ember fell in the kitchen hearth, its momentary glow entering the larger chamber before it faded. The door stood open to the night and she could hear the fountain murmuring.
"Writing this was a risk I had to take." He held the book and turned the pages. "I could have left things out, I suppose. But I owed it to her."
"You left out the most important part." She leaned back in her chair.
His body shuddered and lines formed around his eyes. He looked down at the table, his hands clutching the book. "I would tell you," he finally said, his voice a low rumble, "but I promised your father and I will not break my word."
"Very well." He had loved her mother. That would have to be enough. "How did you get Grandmother to allow me to stay up here?"
"Johanna likes me," he said. "She always has."
"And what is this agreement Geneviéve was talking about?" Maríana met his eyes. "What will we do here?"
Ibrahim's face relaxed and he placed the book on the table. He poured more of the sweet clear wine into his goblet. "I promised your mother to teach you as much as I could about her way of life." He lifted the goblet and regarded her over the rim. "And perhaps also of mine."
"What kinds of things would you teach me?" She held her breath. He knew Egypt, had seen Byzantium! He had known her mother. Through him she could, too.
He smiled warmly, set his wine down, and, standing, drew her to her feet. He led her out the doorway, his arm around her shoulders. Water spilled and gurgled in the fountain. Light from metal lamps spilled out into the courtyard. He pointed to a bright diamond scattering of stars, dancing across the deep velvet blue of summer sky. "That bright one there is Jupiter." His fingers traced a line from Jupiter to a cluster of winking stars. "Draco, the dragon."
Her heart trembled in her throat. "How did they get there? What are they?" She turned to see his eyes reflecting the starlight, soft upon his face.
"I will tell you."
MARÍANA pushed her hair back. Sweat made tracks down her temples and beaded on her cheeks. She counted the tiny sprigs of rosemary she had just planted and sorted through the pile of seedlings at her side. The sun had ridden the sky and now hung in a golden orb just above the crest of Irati. The rest would wait until morning. She gathered rosemary and earth into her hemp bag and tied it closed, then reached over to the pond and sprinkled the bag with water to keep the seedlings from drying. Rising to her feet, she brushed at mud and leaves clinging to her skirt and climbed onto the stone seat Ibrahim had recently placed next to the pond, turning her eyes away from Yves and his scythe. Ibrahim had ordered him to pull out the blackberry bush where she and Richard had taken shelter.
Wiping her hands on her skirt, she lifted two books Ibrahim had given her. De Materia Medica was written in large block letters on the cover of one; the other was inscribed with the same flower petal symbol that graced his journal.
"What does Dioscorides have to say?" Ibrahim sat beside her.
"I could not find his section on rosemary." At that moment, Yves ripped the blackberry bushes from the earth. The books slipped f
rom her fingers as she cringed and looked away, out over the pond.
"Why does this distress you? The bushes were too close to the water -- their roots are rotting." Ibrahim retrieved one of her books.
"I used to go inside them." She still could not watch. "They remind me of someone." Leaning down, she lifted the other book and opened it. Her mother's hand, neat and small, underlined a tidy drawing of the straight stalks and dark seeds of fennel. "When did she make this?" Every time she touched her mother's book her chest warmed, yet her throat clogged with tears. She wiped her cheeks and forced herself to continue turning the pages.
His eyes were on the bushes. "What?" He glanced at the book. "Oh, before you were born." He gestured and Yves stopped pulling at the branches. "These blackberries remind you of someone?"
She nodded, eyes on the careful lines, the precise letters. "Two years ago Arnaut and Jean-Pierre knocked me down. Richard helped me get away from them." Would he disapprove? "We came here to the pond." Glancing sideways she could only see his profile. His face was expressionless, eyes hooded.
"Knocked you down?"
"I hit my head when I fell." She watched Yves stripping the leaves. "They were sent home for doing that." Her lips twisted in memory. "Grandmother insisted." She closed Thérèse's book. "But I want to ask you about something that happened that night."
He motioned for silence. "That is enough for now," he told Yves. "Go back for your dinner. You can finish tomorrow." He waited in silence until Yves was out of sight.
"You must be careful about speaking of such things here," he said. Hooves clattered on the stones of the bailey. Birdsong ebbed and flowed. He leaned toward her, whispered, "What happened?"
"I am not sure even now. I was unconscious, then suddenly awoke. A light floated in front of me, a light that moved." Her fingers described the pattern in the air. "It was like two snakes writhing. Inside the light was a dark spot. Richard said it was a door." She bit off a cry as Ibrahim grabbed her wrist.
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