Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  "You mean imagine she is someone else?" Louis-Philippe asked.

  She bristled. How dare he!

  "In the dark, who can say? She could be anyone." Ibrahim was still smiling.

  "You know there has been only one for me," Louis-Philippe said, now very serious.

  "I am sorry, but that is over now and cannot begin again. Off with you, now, you rascal! Do your duty!" Ibrahim patted Louis-Philippe on the back, pushing him toward the path, but the baron foiled him and grabbed Ibrahim in a close embrace.

  Ysabel covered her mouth to stifle her shout.

  "What was that?" Ibrahim asked, pushing Louis-Philippe away.

  She ran blindly from the grove of oaks. Her feet took her deeper into the forest. She kept running, plunging into the blackness, struggling to still the acid in her stomach from heaving out of her. She stopped when the ground fell away into a ravine, held onto a pine branch, her breath whistling in and out.

  "I don't see anything," Louis-Philippe spoke in the distance. "There are marmots this time of year."

  The other, Ibrahim, said, "That was not a marmot." He did not sound close. They had not followed her.

  Louis-Philippe spoke again. "Thank you, ami. I believe I will take your advice." Footsteps rang on the tiles of the courtyard, then she heard the tromp of feet upon the path. The sounds were coming closer. In her flight, she must have run toward the path.

  She held her breath while Louis-Philippe strode by where she huddled among the trees. Thirty heartbeats after he passed, Ysabel finally gave way to the urge to retch. She vomited until she became dizzy. Moving away from the steaming puddle she had made, she put her hands up to her hot face. She stayed there moaning, then started to shake in anger.

  He would pay for this. She hugged her arms close to her body and rocked back and forth. Ibrahim would pay. No one would take what was hers. And Louis-Philippe was hers.

  She stood, balancing for a moment on shaking legs. Then she stumbled back in the general direction of the château walls. After some time, she found herself outside the east gate. She made her face smile and greeted the watchman as if nothing had happened. Finally, she slipped safely into the great hall.

  As she climbed the stairs to her room, she kept seeing the two of them together. What would she do if Louis-Philippe was in her room? She still wanted him.

  Louis-Philippe was sound asleep in the bed. Had it taken her that long to return to the château? She dressed quickly into her sleeping gown and, blowing out the candles, climbed into bed beside him. She almost touched him, but the red and black rage again choked her.

  She turned over and faced the wall. Ibrahim must suffer. She would find a wise woman. Then she would see what could be done.

  IT WAS EASY for Ysabel to get passage across the narrow lake. Two enterprising men from Reuilles-la-ville had a thriving business taking people back and forth in their boat. She wanted to keep the château servants out of this, so she went alone, dressed in a plain black gown and gray cloak. Once in the town, she wandered the twisting, narrow streets for hours looking for the old woman Jeanne had told her about. Utarilla was her name, but the people Ysabel asked had babbled at her in a language she had never heard before. Finally, just when she was ready to give up, she discovered a dirty child crouching in the street. She gave him a small piece of gold, said "Mother Utarilla" in a loud voice, and he led her directly to the old woman.

  Ysabel frowned as she looked into Mother Utarilla's face. Jeanne had not jested when she said "old woman." All of Utarilla's teeth were gone, she was bedridden, and her arms were so thin they looked like sticks. Yet her eyes were alert and full of canny intelligence.

  Ysabel seated herself and came to the point immediately. "I want to rid myself of an enemy."

  Utarilla cackled. "Many ways to do that," she said. "The knife, the poison, the charms, the manikin." She drew her shawl tighter around her bony shoulders.

  "It will have to be something that cannot be traced to me," Ysabel said in distaste, glancing around the dank chamber where the old woman lived. It was little better than the dungeon of the donjon. "I do not want to kill him, just make him suffer enough so he will leave."

  Utarilla frowned and her lips puckered. "Why do you want to get rid of this man?"

  What to say? Well, she never expected to see this old woman again, nor had she given her real name. "Because he has twisted my lover and stolen his love from me."

  "Why not a charm to gain your lover's heart again? That is much easier and safer."

  "I want revenge." Ysabel heard her voice grow hard. Something streaked with red boiled up in her throat and she swallowed it back. "I want him to hurt as he has hurt me."

  Utarilla sighed. "That will cost."

  "I can pay," Ysabel sniffed.

  "That too, of course," Utarilla said, "but that was not what I meant." She seemed to be weighing something, then leaned forward in the bed. "Can you memorize what I tell you?"

  Memorize? "Yes, I can, but..."

  "Then listen well." Utarilla leaned back again, her mouth working silently, then she said, "You must get some hair, some fingernails and even blood if you can. Blood is best if you can get it. Then you must write the man's name on a slip of paper or cloth. It must be his true name."

  Ysabel nodded, staring at the old woman. She would remember this.

  "You must make a doll out of cloth. Inside the doll's body you must sew the fingernails, something with his blood on it, some of his hair, and the paper or cloth with his name." Utarilla coughed and smacked her lips. "Then you must wear this mannikin next to your body day and night."

  "Yes, yes!" Ysabel said impatiently. "Go on."

  "For nine months."

  "What!"

  Utarilla's face split into a huge grin. "It will be no good if you do not. At the end of nine months you must take it to a priest to be baptized."

  Ysabel's face went numb. A priest?

  "I can give you the name of one who will do it," Utarilla continued, "although that will cost you, too."

  Ysabel gritted her teeth. "I tell you I can pay." She would do anything.

  "And pay you will, in more ways than one."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Don't you know the Law, woman?" Utarilla's eyes caught the glow of her meager hearth fire in a scarlet glimmer. "If you go down this path there will be no going back. When you wear the mannikin, it will demand its own price."

  Ysabel moved uneasily on her seat. "How?" Wasn't it enough to have to wear it for nine months?

  "It will talk to you, for one thing. For another, it often makes the spell-caster ill."

  "How ill, old woman?" Well, she could bear that. She smoothed her gown and drew open her bag of coins.

  "Ill enough," Utarilla said. "Ill enough. Like having a baby."

  "Well," Ysabel said. "What must I do after it is baptized?"

  "Stick needles into it, whatever you want your enemy to feel. You can make him go away, if you are brave enough to let him know you have the mannikin." Uatrilla's voice was reedy. "But if you keep the mannikin, he will eventually die."

  "No, I will not tell him! And be burned? Do you think I am stupid? I will find another way to make him leave, but I want him to suffer. I will destroy it before he dies. I am no killer." Well, she wasn't, was she? "How much do I pay?"

  "Let me see your bag," Utarilla said.

  Ysabel looked at the coins in her bag. The old woman swiftly reached over and grabbed it, emptying it out on the bed. "What are you doing?" Ysabel exclaimed, reaching for the bag.

  Utarilla looked for a long time at the coins spilled out on her bed. "This could buy my grandson a fine horse and cart," she said. For a moment it looked like she would send Ysabel away-she turned her face to the side and closed her eyes. Then she took four coins and handed the rest back to Ysabel. "Now go," she said.

  IT WAS HIGH autumn. Ibrahim was preparing the herb beds for the long winter that would come. Ysabel followed him every day, taking her book of pra
yers and sitting on a stone seat next to the pond. When he worked, he often placed his mantle there. While he was turned away, she picked the long black and silver strands off his mantle until she had an entire lock of his shiny hair.

  Getting fingernail clippings and blood posed another problem. She had already sewn the doll to use for the mannikin and hidden it in her cabinet. She had left its belly standing open, waiting to collect all she needed to make the spell. Every time she looked at it she felt a twinge of something that might have been guilt. It looked like a man who had been disemboweled. She finally had Jeanne cut the fingernails of all the servants, telling Johanna this was what they did with servants in Gréves. The nails were neatly packaged in tiny pouches, little bags that Ysabel labeled and placed in her cabinet. She might want to do this again if anyone else crossed her. She shoved the packet labeled "Jacques" next to the doll, after she had used her knife to score out "Jacques" and her quill to write over it "Ibrahim."

  Now, blood.

  IBRAHIM BENT over the bed of rosemary Maríana had planted the year before. He was clipping them back and saving the clippings to dry later so Johanna could use them to season winter meals. He glanced over to the pond seat. Ysabel had been there when he arrived. She did not seem to be doing anything; she carried no embroidery frame, nor the book of prayer she usually held. She just sat there, still as the stone she rested upon. From time to time he felt her eyes upon him. He reached into branches he had not yet cut, then drew his breath through his teeth and held his hand up, looking in surprise at the blood streaming from a cut in his middle finger.

  Ysabel swooped down on him, her sleeve ready to staunch the blood. She had worn her oldest gown just for this moment. She had thought he would never get to that patch, the branch where she had tied the piece of broken dagger her brother had given her only last year.

  Ibrahim's eyes widened, but he allowed her to hold her sleeve against his finger until the blood stopped flowing.

  "See." He held up his hand. "It is nothing, but thank you." He smiled warmly at her. Something moved inside her throat. She turned her face away and walked over to the rosemary patch while he sat holding his hand.

  He watched her now; she must hurry. She knew just where she had placed the broken metal, but made a show of inspecting the rosemary, deftly removing it, shielding what she was doing with her body so that Ibrahim could not see. Then she turned to him. "Shall I call the physician for you?" Johanna had mentioned that the château had its own physician. Her lips caught on her teeth. She had been smiling too long. Why was he staring at her?

  "There is no need," was all he said.

  She gathered her skirts, the metal piece tucked in her hand, and hurried out of the garden.

  EVERYTHING was ready. Ysabel tore the strip of bloodied sleeve off her gown and wrapped the hair and nail clippings inside. She wrote the word "Ibrahim" on the outside of the cloth and stuffed all of it inside the mannikin. Then she got out the halter-pouch she had made and wiggled into it.

  What she would do if Louis-Philippe ever wanted to come to her bed she did not know. He had not pursued the matter after the first time he had tried and failed. He slept in his own chamber now and had not come to hers since that night. In fact, she thought he looked relieved that she did not press him about it. She would have to go without love for the time the mannikin rested in its pouch against her skin, but it would be worth it to see Ibrahim suffer. It would be worth it.

  When she was finished and the mannikin was snug against her belly, she looked at herself in the polished silver mirror on her wall. Good, it really did not show underneath her gown. She would have to forego baths, only washing up in the basin for the nine months it would remain, but that would be no problem, even though the de Reuilles bathed more often than anyone she had ever known.

  She looked at her face in the polished surface and smiled. "Nine months," she said. "Nine months."

  Chapter 11

  ANTOINE Jakintza's breath sent plumes of white into the chilled night sky. For the hundredth time, he mentally counted the money he would receive from this venture and, for the hundredth time, he knew it was not enough. No amount would ever be enough for what he had been asked to do.

  Montsegur. The fortress of the heretics rose in majestic agony above him. Earlier, he had seen the faint glow from torches at the pinnacle, where the fortress reached upward in a defiant, jagged edge. He had heard voices, the sound rising and falling on the frigid air that curled around the sheer walls of the mountain fortress.

  But now, it was silent.

  THIS MISERY had started when Henri de Bauçais, nephew of Johanna de Reuilles, had sent knights to the town under the mountain, Reuilles-la-ville, to ask for Basque "volunteers" to come to Montsegur.

  "Come with us," they had said. "We have gold for you now, and more when the fortress falls."

  Antoine had stared at their beardless faces. These knights wore red tunics slashed by a white cross. "What do the Pope's men want with me?" he had asked in their language, watching their faces for the haughty disdain he felt sure he would see when they heard his accent.

  "De Bauçais needs you," one of the knights had said. Antoine could see no change in his face. "We have a mountain for you to climb, a ridge behind Montsegur, the fortress of the Cathar heretics. We must secure this ridge to move another siege engine into place. We heard you were the best climber."

  "Cathars, eh?" Antoine had looked at his wife, Cecile. Two of their children played beside her; the third made her belly gently curve. He could almost see the sign he would place over the bakery he would buy with the money the knights offered to give him. He could almost smell the fine bread baking there, almost see Cecile growing plump with the food he could provide, almost see his children in fine clothing.

  "Who are these Cathars?" He knew the Cathars were Christian. Why would the Pope's men want to fight them?

  The knight had adjusted his leather bag and the sound of coins clinking together could be heard. "What does it matter?" When Antoine did not reply, he said, "They are heretics. That is all you need to know."

  Christian heretics. Now, they were fighting each other. Antoine looked around the crowded chamber, the tiny house he called home. Antoine's bakery had a nice sound. Maybe a larger house, too. After all, the Guardian never said anything about helping Christians fight their own.

  He looked back at the knight, who stood in studied indifference by the door. The man gripped the leather bag too tightly. Something was not right. Antoine almost said no, then his eyes fell upon Cecile. Her hands were curled protectively across her belly. Iranzu and Leila could watch over his family while he was gone. How long could it take to climb this ridge?

  He had taken the gold and come to Montsegur.

  ANTOINE blew on his hands and stamped his feet against the cold. At least the siege engine catapults had been silent today. It was Christmas Eve, after all! Those bloody French bastards could not pound away at the fortress forever, could they? They usually stopped the battering before the middle of the night, although recently they had been continuing the bombardment throughout day and night.

  "Kaixo, Antoine!" He heard the Basque greeting from Pierre Brounnan before he saw the hulking figure approaching him. Pierre was from Reuilles-la-ville. He had taken the knights' gold, too.

  Antoine knew both he and Pierre avoided looking at the siege engine that squatted beside them. The lever that released the catapult was loosened now, but both had seen what it could do to the walls above. Antoine did not want to think about the people inside the walls. Demolishing walls was one thing, but setting this thing upon people... he had heard children's voices up there.

  "You have night watch, too?" Antoine blew on his hands again.

  Pierre spread his arms. "Such a fine night. How could I refuse?"

  Antoine snorted. "Night watch is better than manning this thing." He jerked his head toward the siege engine.

  Pierre had started to reply when the sound of pebbles tumbling down the
sheer eastern face of the mountain stopped him.

  Antoine examined the sheer wall of Montsegur. It was only the height of twenty men, but impossible to climb. He released the breath he had been holding and turned to his friend.

  Pierre pointed to the fortress's far corner. There the drop was at least the height of a hundred men, but Antoine saw dark shapes descending from the fortress walls. It looked like they were carrying something.

  "They seem to know what they are doing," Antoine remarked, watching the climbers. He could barely see the rope they were using. But it seemed sturdy.

  "Do we notice them this time?" Pierre's voice brought Antoine's attention back to the sputtering fire.

  Antoine tossed more sticks on the embers and spread his hands above the growing flames. "No." His voice was quiet, but hard. "The pope's men lied to us. Why should we do any more than we must to help them?" The knights had promised more gold when the ledge was secured, but when Antoine had gone to the paymaster, the man had refused him.

  "No one leaves until the fortress falls," the paymaster had told him.

  Now Antoine glanced back over his shoulder. Good. The climbers were half way down.

  "We should work on our stories, my friend." Pierre said, looking toward the command tent. "If they are caught down below, Bauçais will want to know how they got past us."

  "Lucky for us Bauçais sleeps heavily. He is a decent man. We could tell him we fell asleep. He would believe us," Antoine replied.

  The descending men disappeared. Antoine sat with toes reaching toward their tiny fire. Christmas eve. The forest smelled of snow on pine branches. Twigs in the fire popped and moisture underneath the flames hissed. The Christ child was born on a night like this. Now His followers pounded each other with stone and iron, with wood and flames. The Guardian would never ask Her people to kill each other, would She? Antoine had no answer for this; he stretched his stiff body and threw his head back in a jaw-breaking yawn.