Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  The old hag had been right. There were still some herbs and plants in the garden, though not many, and this belargusia was poison, all right. Yves had asked her some very pointed questions when she inquired where it grew, only falling silent when she threatened to have him thrown in the dungeon for his impertinence. Then he showed her where to find the tall plants only under continued threat. The dolt actually had the nerve to smile and bow to her after he had shown her to the belargusia!

  Ysabel huffed as she dug three plants out by their roots. She had already obtained the bones of a baby that had died at birth. Dug it up herself, as the old woman had commanded. Really, it was just a bag of bones, anyhow, and a small, fragile skull. She ignored the single tear that slipped down her cheek and her mouth twisted in scorn as she stuffed the long, spindly plants into a bag she had sewn together for this purpose.

  A slithering wet sigh came from the direction of the pond. Ysabel held her breath and listened. Snakes. It must be snakes. She shuddered, scanning the ground where she huddled. There was nothing near. No black forms crawled toward her. But she could still hear something moving. It sounded like it was in the pond. She kept hearing water dripping. Could Henri be swimming in the pond? Ysabel caught her breath and peered into the silver and gray shadows.

  No, this was not Henri. Someone was singing a lullaby. Ysabel listened to the hollow voice and her blood chilled. She did not want to meet the singer of that song. The melody rose and fell. Some words were whispered, others crooned. Whatever it was, it was in the pond. She could see a dark form move across the waters.

  Putting her hands out to steady her ungainly body, she heaved herself up off the ground and then scurried out of the garden, her heart beating like a bird imprisoned within her chest. Her baby squirmed and kicked. "Stop that!" she scolded it, tapping her belly. She breathed deeply in relief when she reached the palais and closed the door on the night. Clutching the bag, she made her way to her room to dry the plants for her potion.

  IBRAHIM SAT wrapped in his white robes, his head nodding now and then as he went in and out of a light sleep. The black sickness that had started in his bowels months before had spread throughout his body now and he knew that the end would come soon. The illness had spread quickly after he helped heal Maríana. But he had to give of himself to help her, to try to save her baby.

  He might have had a month or two more if he had not used his energy in that healing, but what was a month or two? He had seen people taken by this before. It was his own body eating itself. He gave a short laugh without mirth, but also without bitterness. Eating itself like the serpent devouring its tail. He thought of the story Thérèse had told him about the three serpents. "Only one will be left, my love," he whispered into the air.

  Ibrahim felt that Thérèse was close these days, and wanted to join her, but he hoped to be able to stay alive long enough to see Maríana's baby. Yet he was not certain that they had been able to save it. Even Iranzu and Leila were not sure. The passage of time would reveal their success or failure. His eyes closed and he drifted for a while in a reverie, then raised his head when he heard feet crunching across the new snow that carpeted his courtyard and clogged his fountain.

  He pulled his robe tighter and waited. Perhaps it was Geneviéve. She had been visiting him every day since he found he could no longer walk without difficulty. He became weaker by the hour, it seemed. He liked her visits. She did not mind the fact that he was dying, and only sought to either bring him cheer, or bring him the herbs and plants that would take the edge off the crushing pain he experienced all the time now. If only she would stop asking him to tell Louis-Philippe about his illness.

  Louis-Philippe would give himself away if he knew. Ibrahim was sure that the baron would not stay away. No, it was better that he not know. Louis-Philippe was married now, with a child on the way, finally safe from whispers and speculation. He no longer had to worry. They would not burn him. But if he saw Ibrahim dying, he might forget why they had sent for Ysabel. He might come to the palace, stay with Ibrahim while he died. The whispers would start again and he would be in danger. And for what?

  Ibrahim was going to die anyway. Nothing Louis-Philippe could do would stop that.

  Ibrahim knew that he could trust Geneviéve to keep the news of his decline from Maríana. He himself had placed barriers to prevent Maríana from sensing the seriousness of his illness. There would be no purpose in her suffering along with him. She could not help him and it would only grieve her to watch him die. He shivered. The dead were already stroking his skin with their cold fingers. He looked up as his door opened. But it was not Geneviéve.

  Ysabel entered the room, carrying a large goblet. What did she want? "Baroness." He gestured for her to sit down.

  Ysabel placed the goblet on the low table in front of Ibrahim and maneuvered her body into the chair he had indicated.

  "What is this?" Ibrahim pointed to the goblet.

  "Methegelin." Ysabel smiled. "Geneviéve said you were unwell, so I thought a little of the baron's favorite drink might help you."

  Ibrahim brought the goblet to his lips. Taking a mouthful, he swallowed. Ysabel was leaning forward, delight now spreading across her face. Why was she suddenly so happy?

  "Well, I will not keep you from your rest," she said with a brittle smile, her eyes glittering. She spent a few moments struggling to get out of the chair as Ibrahim looked on in amusement.

  "God be with you," he said to her as she was on her way out, and was startled to see her flinch.

  IBRAHIM EXHALED, then brought the goblet to his nose again. What was in this? Did she really think to heal him with it? It was not like anything he knew, except the faintest odor of gentian. Was she giving him a fever-reducing herb? He frowned. If she only knew. There was nothing she could do to help him. He considered various reasons for her visit, then drew his breath in a labored groan as pain broke through the barrier he had drawn with his own herbal mixture.

  He lurched unsteadily to his feet to go to the kitchen where the mixture waited, promising blessed relief. On his way there, next to the windows, a curtain of black dropped down over his eyes and he dimly felt his body hit the ground. When he opened his eyes again he found that he could not move, but the pain was also gone. He was not sure how long he had lain there when a shadow fell across his body and he saw Ysabel bending over him, her face twisted in hatred.

  "Still awake, eh? Don't worry, it won't be for long."

  Curious. His eyes were open and he could still see and hear, but he could neither move nor speak, except to blink his eyes. He could hear her rummaging in his kitchen, finally returning to the larger chamber carrying a jug of the sweet white wine he loved. What did she want with it? Why had she come back?

  He heard her sniff, then snort. "That old hag!" she exploded. "She told me no one would be able to smell it, but I certainly can!" Now footsteps padded to the door and he heard the sound of liquid hitting the snow-covered stones. More furtive sounds followed. Was she wiping something? Then the clank of an empty cup being set down. Next, the pop of the stone covering his jug of wine and a silvery cascade of liquid filling a cup.

  "I don't have time to do more," she said, her face swimming into view as she leaned over him. "But no one will know what I have done. No one saw me come up here. When they see the two cups they will know you have been murdered, but no one will suspect me."

  Ibrahim stared into her eyes. How could she think her gentian had killed him? She had not killed him. He still breathed, but he knew the end was near. It was the blackness eating inside of him that was his killer. He closed his eyes. Fatigue was wrapping its noxious cloud around him. Why would she want to kill him?

  "You were taking too long to die," Ysabel stated, as if she could hear his thoughts. He opened his eyes. She was watching his face. "I had the mannikin baptized with your name. Then I stuck it with needles. When you became ill I thought that would be all I would have to do. But that didn't work, did it? I did not keep it next to me f
or long enough."

  Suddenly she started to cry. Her tears pattered down on his face in a warm, salt rain. "I just received this." She held a scrap of parchment in front of his eyes. He saw a flowing signature, but the words did not make any sense. It looked like a list of names. "It says that the Inquisitor will be here soon. I cannot let you drag my Louis-Philippe down with you.

  "You twisted my beautiful Louis-Philippe. You ruined him so that he could never want me as a man should want a woman. Once you are gone maybe he will love me." She paused, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Then her voice and face hardened. "Even if he never wants me again I will have more children." She laughed bitterly. "They will all look like Henri, but who cares?"

  Ibrahim's eyes widened, and he started to choke. What was she saying?

  "Oh, that got a reaction, did it?" Ysabel sneered. "Well, your precious Maríana won't have my Henri. I have enough evidence to burn her. I will have Jean-Pierre accuse her of trying to kill you! All I have to do is have others discover the evidence so that Henri does not know that I am the one who will destroy that puny brat!"

  Maríana! Ibrahim struggled to send out his thoughts, his feelings to her. She was deeply asleep, that much he could sense. But he could not reach her. He had never been good at the Jakintza mind-talk. Why hadn't he practiced it more, as Thérèse had wanted? Ysabel kept talking to him, but he could not understand her words. His eyes fixed upon the piece of parchment she held. Could he take it with him, take it to Maríana? He knew his end was upon him and he had seen a dervish who could transport objects by leaving his body. But could he do this? Sweat beaded on his forehead as he focused. Something like an arm lifted from his body, sprouted fingers, closed upon the parchment that Ysabel held. There! He had it. But the chamber flooded with a light that was all colors and no color, a light that lived and breathed and sang. Ibrahim drew together all the energy he had left and leaped out into the living light he saw shining all around him.

  YSABEL WATCHED him die. A quiver started in her belly as she watched his breathing fail, heard the rattle deep within his throat and chest, saw his eyes glaze. She drew back. It was not unlike what she felt when she held a man inside her, this quiver. Tiens! Ibrahim had stopped shaking and all animation left his body. But his eyes were still open. Well she would not close them for him! She pulled her bulk up off the floor where she squatted. She looked across the chamber, at the pillows, the rich tapestries, the wooden chests. Maybe she would turn this into her home. Maybe when Louis-Philippe saw her there he would make love to her, once she had regained her shape and could play at being a man again.

  Where was the message from the bishop? Surely she had just held it in her hand. She paced the floor of the palace, skirting around Ibrahim's body. Perhaps it had fallen beneath him? She approached his inert form and stopped several paces away.

  His sightless eyes seemed to glare at her. No, she could not move him to see if it was there. If someone found the message under his body, she could say she had sent it up to him. After all, it had his name on it. Yes, she would say just that. They could think what they liked. She was Baroness de Reuilles.

  Louis-Philippe was safe, now that Ibrahim was dead. That was why she had done this. She glanced around the chamber again. It was time to get back before she was missed. She had told the guard she was going to the lake to pray for the health of her baby -- many of the people in this region shared this superstition. The guard had accepted this, but if she was out for too long, he might suspect she was doing something else.

  She exited the chamber, leaving the door slightly ajar, and lifted her face. Snow was falling again. Her tracks would be hidden. Raising her head, she marched back down the path to Reuilles-le-château.

  Chapter 22

  IBRAHIM WAS in her chamber. Maríana blinked and sat up in her bed. Glow from the banked hearth fire gave a muted illumination to Alys asleep on her pallet, the dark mounds that formed the divan and her tapestry frame. But no Ibrahim.

  She leaned back against her pillow. Why did her stomach tremble? The nausea that had plagued her for the past two months had fled. The midwife had even allowed her to go down to the great hall that evening. Henri's eyes had shone when he saw her descend the staircase. He had kept her at his side as he went around the family table, greeting guests who had come to Reuilles-le-château for the wedding. Their wedding.

  She lifted her arms up over her head and stretched. Baroness Maríana de Bauçais. Henri had told her that Bauçais was north of Paris. His fief bordered the sea that separated the Kingdom of France from Britain. But he owed fealty to Louis of France. Would he take her to Paris to see the king? She would like that.

  And the sea. Henri had told her that in Bauçais he awoke every morning to the sound of gulls, the salt and sea weed fragrance of the ocean. He would take her there after the wedding, as soon as she was well enough to travel. Perhaps after the baby was born. The midwife had not let her stay for the feast. Johanna had ordered her to return to her chamber before the first course was served. Still, she was growing stronger each day. It would not be long until she would be able to join her Henri. To wed him.

  She looked at the far corner of her chamber where her wedding gown hung. She knew every stitch, had tried it on every morning since it had been made. Jeanne had done well with this gown. Pale embroidered violets trimmed the ivory silk. After she tried it on, Maríana had made Alys cover it with a blanket. She did not want Henri to see it until she stood before Father Gregory with him.

  Henri came to her each day with tales of his fief, of Bauçais. Of green fields and thick forest that stretched from Gréves to the sea. His fief supported three large towns! Her father's fief only supported Reuilles-la-ville. Henri said that his château was smaller than Reuilles-le-château. As if this mattered! His eyes had warmed while he told her of Bauçais, of his brother Guy. But when she asked about his father, his eyes had dimmed, and when she mentioned his mother, a flash of something like rage had shone from his face. A puzzle. His mother still lived, she knew that.

  Ah, well. She need not worry. His mother had retired to Fontevrault Abbey. And Henri assured her that his brother Guy would adore his bride, his Maríana. Still, she would be far from everything she had ever known. Far from Johanna, from Geneviéve. Far from Ibrahim.

  She wriggled deeper into the bed. A whispering rustle drew her attention. Her hand rested on something slick and dry. Something that crinkled when she moved her fingers.

  She picked it up. A note? Could Henri have left a message? Warmth spread through her and she absently patted the slight bulge that curved outward from her loins to her navel. "Your father left me a message," she whispered. Since the midwife told her the danger was past -- she had stopped bleeding -- Maríana found herself talking to the baby.

  She swung her feet off the bed and groped for her slippers and robe. It had snowed earlier and her toes curled against the chill as she stumbled to the hearth and used an ember to light her night candle. Alys muttered. The blankets covering her heaved, then settled, as she turned toward the wall. Maríana held her breath. She wanted to read Henri's note by herself, not with Alys leaning over her shoulder, asking what he said.

  How had Henri entered her chamber and left this note without waking Alys? He was not clumsy, but there were many objects in her chamber that would trip a fellow; pots of seedlings filled one corner of the room and Maríana had strewn the loose woven sacks she used to dry her medicinal plants across the floor. She shrugged. Henri would have to tell her later how he had gotten the note on her bed.

  She scanned the message, dropping first to the bold signature and seal at the bottom. A finger of ice traced her spine. This was not Henri's writing. The signature curved in on itself, difficult to decipher. She looked at the top and read, By the order of His Eminence Bishop Durand, the Inquisitor Jean Becier will be sent to Reuilles-le-château to look into the matter you presented to us. Following this was a list of names.

  The paper slipped from her nerveless
fingers. Three names. Her name was at the top of the list. She shook her head and retrieved the paper from where it had fallen. This must a jest. The signature looked like H, then Arcis. No, it was des Arcis. Didn't Henri say that he served under des Arcis? She stared at the list of names and her throat closed. The second name was Ibrahim Al'Khaldun. No one but her family and Bernart knew him as Ibrahim.

  She turned the paper over. Who had received this? She touched the name on the outer surface. Baroness Ysabel de Reuilles. Ysabel? But that could not be. Maríana turned it back to the list of names. The third name was Louis-Philippe. Ysabel was expecting Louis-Philippe's child. She would not bring the Inquisition to Reuilles-le-château! Maríana stood holding the parchment, staring at the message. It fluttered as her hand shook.

  What should she do? Take it to Johanna? But that would alarm her grandmother. If it was just a joke, there was no need to frighten Johanna. Should she go to Ysabel? She had heard that her stepmother often wandered the corridors late at night. Just a few weeks ago, Maríana had been wakened by her stepmother's voice outside her door. And Ysabel seldom appeared in the great hall until the sun was well into the sky. Johanna often complained about this. What was the hour now? Maríana had not heard the watch since she awakened.

  She creased the note. Ysabel. She must see her now. This would not wait until morning. She would go to Ysabel, ask her stepmother what this meant.

  THERE WERE still people in the corridors; perhaps it was not that late. As Maríana left her chamber, she heard the watch proclaim the hour. Midnight. Well, if need be, she would awaken her stepmother. She passed Lady Béarn, inclining her head and dropping into a brief curtsey when the older woman smiled. At the end of the corridor, three knights huddled around a young girl from the palais kitchen. One knight raised his head as Maríana passed, but he did not speak. The corridor beyond was empty. To the left was the long knights' room, to the right and around a corner lay her stepmother's chamber. One more turn now.