Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  Who could have placed the message on her bed? Perhaps Jeanne? Jeanne cleaned Ysabel's room; she could have seen the message and taken it to Maríana. But no. Jeanne could not read. Ysabel herself must have left it. It was an odd sort of jest, but Ysabel could be strange. Several times, Maríana had heard Ysabel conversing with someone, only there was no one near her stepmother.

  Maríana did not hear Ysabel's door open until she was almost upon it. The door swung out and she backed away, retreating around the corner that led to Ysabel's corridor. She did not want to speak of this matter in front of someone else; she would wait until Ysabel was alone. But a man's voice, raised in anger, stopped her feet.

  "I told you it is over. I will not visit you again." The last words dipped. Maríana peeked around the corner. The door hid his body but there was no mistaking the voice.

  The door swung wider. Maríana's hands curled into fists until her nails bit into her palms. Henri stood there, arms folded and face stern. He glared at her stepmother. Ysabel did not flinch. She laughed and moved forward, then spoke to him, her voice low and breathy. A lover's voice. She reached toward Henri, brushed her fingers against his waist, then moved her hand slowly across his loins.

  Maríana swallowed the sour acid that spilled into her mouth, that burned her tongue. Henri did not withdraw from Ysabel's caress. As she watched, Ysabel moved closer to Henri, wound her arms around his neck, pulled his mouth down to hers. Henri's back stiffened and he pulled away, but Ysabel grabbed his hand and shoved it into her gown, plastered his fingers against her breast. He threw his head back, then groaned as he bent toward Ysabel and folded into her embrace. Ysabel pulled him with her as she backed into her room. Neither glanced over to where Maríana stood, rooted to the floor.

  Maríana forced herself to move. She reached the door as it shut. She lifted her hand to rap its surface, then stopped. Think. She must think.

  But no thoughts would form. Only the image of Ysabel in Henri's arms, his lips upon her stepmother's mouth. Her betrothed. How long had they been meeting, Ysabel and Henri? Why had he asked Maríana to be his wife? The air was so thick, she could not seem to fill her lungs, and her hands wrung themselves together so her fingernails pulled at her flesh.

  This could not be! Henri had said he was taking her to Bauçais. Ysabel would be here in Reuilles-le-château. But Ysabel was from Gréves, wasn't she? Gréves was next to Bauçais. Maríana looked down. There. Her hands were still now, rolled into fists again. She could think.

  Would Henri harm her? Would he have her burned so he could be with Ysabel? No, impossible! He could not be a part of the message that now crinkled in her leather pouch as her fists pressed against her belt. But he had served under Hughes des Arcis. So. The message.

  Pieces that did not fit before now flew into place in front of her. Perhaps Henri was not part of the message, perhaps he was. This did not matter now. If Maríana and Louis-Philippe were burned, Ysabel would have Reuilles-le-château. And she would have Henri. He was Baron de Bauçais, a Soldier of Christ. When the Inquisitor came, would Henri turn away from his betrothed? Must Maríana watch his eyes turn to ice when he discovered that his bride-to-be worked magic with Ibrahim Al'Khaldun?

  Ibrahim! He was in danger, too.

  She could not stay; she must consider her own safety, and Ibrahim's. He must leave with her. They could not be there when the Inquisitor arrived. Red spots floated past her eyes. How long had she been standing there staring? She blinked the spots away, then a low ache spread around the base of her spine, gripped her womb in a vise. Sinking to the floor, she wrapped her arms around her middle as undulating agony flowed from her back through her belly, then settled in her spine again. Someone was whimpering. Was it she?

  The pain faded. She drew in her breath and leaned her head against the door, felt the cool wood against her sweat-dampened face.

  And heard the grunting moans. Heard Ysabel's wordless shout of triumph. Heard Henri's panting cry of need.

  Enough! Gritting her teeth and ignoring the pain that lanced her again, she leaped away from Ysabel's door and flew down the corridor to her chamber. Her night candle still burned. Alys had not moved.

  Sliding to the floor, Maríana rested her cheek against the inner surface of her door, waited for the pain to dwindle. She must leave Reuilles-le-château. Even if she trusted Henri, could he save her? Henri and Ysabel were not even careful. Anyone could have come along in the corridor and seen them together, as she did. Who else knew that Henri and Ysabel were lovers? Did her father know? He was on the list, too.

  No, she must leave. She could not stay to help her father. Could she at least warn him? Did she have time? The message. She would slip it under Johanna's door. Louis-Philippe had not saved Thérèse, but he could save himself. Johanna could call upon the King of France to save her son's life, couldn't she?

  Still clutching her belly, Maríana stood and moved in silence to the shelf where her night candle burned. She found the pot of blackberry ink and her sharpened quill, and scrawled Johanna's name across the outer surface of the paper.

  Thérèse had not been of their kind; she had been easy prey. Maríana was her daughter. The quill slipped from her hand as she bent around the receding pain and caressed her belly. No time for grief. No time to feel the empty hollow ache left by Henri's betrayal. She must save herself.

  Maríana would not stay to stand beside her father, would not risk the life of her child. She pressed her fingers gently into the curve of her belly. The pain had gone away. Now she must see what damage had been wrought. She leaned against the table, then sucked in her breath and raised her gown. After she counted to three, she lowered her head and looked between her legs, sighing in relief when she saw no red stain, no black clots.

  Where could she go? She would not draw Alys into danger. If she opened her chest to retrieve her mantle, Alys would waken. Ibrahim. She must go to Ibrahim. He would know what to do. Her mother had made him promise to take Maríana to Iranzu. But Iranzu and Leila were still in Reuilles-la-ville. She must contact them, let them know of the danger she faced. And slip the message under Johanna's door. It was the best she could do.

  Alys was still asleep. Maríana tiptoed across the floor, eased the door open and slipped out before Alys could see her. At best, she would have until dawn, when Alys would awake and see that she was not in the room. Food. She would need food. And warm clothing. But where? She could not get her gown or mantle from her room without waking Alys.

  Maríana leaned against the wall and glanced up and down the empty corridor. The donjon. Alys had left her old gowns in their chamber in the donjon. It was now used for storage. If she were lucky, the chest with Alys's old gowns would still be there. Maríana moved down the corridor toward Johanna's chamber. First the note, then food.

  And then, the donjon.

  LIONEL WAS kneading dough for the morning bread when young Maríana entered the kitchen. "Ah," he said, beaming at her, "wandering again?"

  He pulled her to the fire in the hearth, sitting her down on a stool and fetching a small loaf of freshly-baked bread for her. Her face was drawn. Poor thing. Her life had not been easy, they all knew that. Too bad about young de la Guerche, of course. But the Baron of Bauçais seemed a good match for her. She smiled and accepted the bread with thanks. A delight she was, always polite, unlike her stepmother.

  He sighed. That was the way of things. Maríana would go away to Bauçais and Ysabel would remain at Reuilles-le-château to make his life a misery. He went back to his kneading.

  "Lionel?" she asked.

  "Yes, little one?"

  "I really am so very hungry. I could not keep my dinner down, and now..." She broke off.

  "I will fix up something nice, eh?" Lionel set about gathering the tastier remains of the evening's dinner, pushing chunks of roast meat, bread, and a skin of wine into an empty grain sack. He flung it over his shoulder and started toward the stairs.

  "No!" she cried, going pale. He stopped and looked a
t her, puzzled. "That is," she continued, "I thought to take it to Grandmama's room, and..."

  He nodded. Johanna and he had never gotten along, that was well known. "But can you carry it?" he asked. She looked so frail.

  "Of course I can, see?" Maríana hefted the bag over her shoulder easily and blew a kiss to Lionel. "Thank you, dear friend! Farewell." She walked purposefully toward the stairs that led to the upper corridors.

  Lionel watched her ascend the stairs. Then he shook himself and went back to his baking. Something was not quite right there, but he just couldn't place it. Why did she say "farewell?" He would be seeing her in the morning. Ah, well. The dough was ready now. He reached for his special knife to cut it into pieces for baking. But the knife was not there. Now that was strange. It was there just a moment ago. He searched the tables for it, then asked the boy who was working the bellows, "Have you seen my knife?" The boy shook his head.

  Lionel stood with his hands on the table, fingers splayed out. Well, he must get another knife, then. He trotted to the end of the kitchen where all the pots, kettles and cutlery were stored. Who would want his knife? His shoulders lifted in a shrug as he selected another. It would show up later. He returned to the bread dough and began dividing it into loaves.

  AT THE TOP of the stairs, Maríana turned and made her way to the back door leading to the pit where slops were thrown. The staircase that descended to the slops pit was deserted, as she had hoped it would be. The smell kept people from lingering nearby. Now she must go outside, walk to the donjon. Would it be locked? When there were many guests, it was often unlocked until quite late. She grasped the thin cloth of her gown and robe and looked at her flimsy slippers in dismay. It had snowed earlier and might still be snowing. If anyone saw her, she would surely be stopped. If she tried to retrieve her mantle, Alys would awaken. Alys could not lie. Her face would betray her. They would catch Maríana. She would burn and Alys would burn, too, for trying to help her. That left Maríana with no choice.

  Her breath puffed out in white clouds and her feet grew numb as she walked through drifting snow to the tower. She could not run. She would trip on the cobbles. No one challenged her. The watch must have gone inside to keep warm. She caught glimpses of people in the distance, but their heads were lowered, watching their feet. It still snowed. Her footprints would soon be completely covered in a layer of feather-soft white snow.

  Maríana crept up the stairs in the donjon, shivering. Her toes were frozen; she kept hitting them against the stairs. But she blessed these stairs -- the door had been open. No one had stopped her. She pushed on the door to her old chamber and slipped inside, then stopped in surprise. It was warm. A hearth fire sent out a gentle glow. Why did they have a hearth fire burning in a storage room?

  She felt her way down the three stairs and over to the chest where Alys had kept her clothing and candles. She must have more light. She found the candles and took one to the hearth, lighting it from a smoldering ember. The chamber's windows were so narrow and high up in the walls that no one would see it. She could sit now for a moment, allow her hands to warm.

  Maríana wrapped her arms around her ribs and closed her eyes. No more pain in her belly now. Oh, a twinge or two, but still no blood. The baby was not moving, but it was often still for long periods of time. The midwife had told her just yesterday that this was normal, not to worry. She would be with Ibrahim soon. He would know what herbs to take with them to save her baby. But now she must try to reach Iranzu.

  She had used the mind-touch Leila had taught her, but never over so great a distance, and never over water. Iranzu and Leila were in Gilbert's home in Reuilles-la-ville. She could not go there, but she must try to contact them. They might be in danger, too. Warmth now spread across her body; she felt the tug of something that she could not name capture her spine, wind around her.

  Then she saw a room with two, no, four people laying on straw mattresses upon the floor. Another two huddled together upon a real bed. All sleeping.

  Chapter 23

  MARÍANA slumped forward. Had she reached them? She flexed her hands and trembled, felt a quiver run up her arms. Usually when she used the mind-touch, she felt colder and her arms tingled. If they had received her message, they would know to flee, to join her at Ibrahim's palace. If she had reached them. The candle she lit had barely burned down. Clothing. She must have warm clothing.

  She pried open the latch that fastened her old chest and lifted the lid. The smell of damp and musty wool, of garlic and sprigs of lavender rose from its depths. She pulled out a large woolen gown and tugged it over her nightdress and robe. It flowed out in a loose bulge around her waist, but her belt would cinch it in. She removed the belt and refastened it over the woolen gown, slipping Lionel's kitchen knife in between, so its hilt rested against her side.

  A thick mantle lay at the bottom of the chest. Maríana wrapped it around her and fastened it at the neck, hiding her face in the shadow cast by the hood. If anyone saw her now they would not recognize her. The chest closed with a thump. Now shoes. She kicked off her slippers, then put them in the bag Lionel had given her. There must be no sign that she had been in this room. She crossed the floor to where Alys kept her shoes. Stale rushes and dust puffed into the air as her feet shuffled over the stones. She sneezed. Her hand covered her mouth, but the sound rang in her ears. She pinched at her nose to stop another sneeze, then dropped to her knees to retrieve the shoes.

  A sharp rustling came from the direction of the bed. Rats?

  That side of the chamber was in shadow. She could barely make out the sagging form of her old bed, but something moved there. Her hand slipped into her belt and she stood, fingers playing over the hilt of Lionel's knife.

  "Jean-Pierre?" A man's voice, thick and hoarse with sleep, sounded from the bed. "Back already? She must have been disappointing!" The voice broke off as he raised himself on one arm. He saw her. She pulled the knife out of her belt and held it ready. The man grabbed a sword Maríana could now see standing against the wall next to the bed. What was a knight doing here? She raised the knife to throw it, to put it in his throat before he could reach her with his sword. But something stayed her hand.

  The man took up his sword and leaped to his feet, advancing on Maríana. "Who are you?" His angry voice rang off the stone walls. He was tall, this man. Tall and well made. And completely naked.

  He was closer now. The light of her candle fell upon him, illuminating the black hair framing his face, the tilted, deep brown eyes that widened in recognition.

  "Maríana!" he exclaimed, his sword clattering to the floor as he retreated to the far side of the bed. He grabbed a shirt and breeches that lay there, speedily pulling them on. "What are you doing here? You live in the palais now! What are you doing in those clothes?"

  Her fingers closed convulsively and she felt the warm flow of blood from where the knife sliced her hand. Raising her hand to her face, she dropped the knife to the floor. She would have buried it in his throat.

  He moved forward and took her hand, wrapped his sleeve around the cut. "I don't think it is serious," he said, wiping away the blood that now seeped from the shallow cut on her palm. "There, see? It stops."

  She could feel the warmth of his breath upon her hand, see the dark lashes hiding his eyes as he examined her wound. "Richard." How could she sound so calm? "What are you doing here?"

  He dropped her hand and backed away, then shifted from foot to foot. "The floor is cold," he said, and moved back over to the bed, dragging heavy boots from beneath it. As he sat on the bed and pulled them on, he explained, "Johanna put Jean-Pierre and me here until they can find more suitable accommodations. The palais is so full with the other guests that there was no room for us there. It wouldn't do to put us in with the squires, now would it?"

  "No. It would not." Of course. People who had come for her father's wedding had been put in the donjon, too. She had forgotten. "I did not see you at the feast." No one had told her Richard would be at her weddin
g, but Johanna knew how she felt about him. How could her grandmother have said nothing about his presence?

  "I was at the back of the hall." He looked down at his feet, then shook himself and lifted his eyes to her face. "I saw you." There was a bright challenge in his eyes. Yet he fell silent, now.

  The knife still lay upon the floor. She bent down and retrieved it, wiped dust and blood off the blade. They would question Richard, she was sure. Even torture him if he refused to speak. "Richard." Her feet moved by themselves, carried her to where Alys' old shoes rested on the floor. "I am leaving the château."

  "Leaving?" A spark flared in his eyes, but was quickly doused. "Oh, you mean you and the Baron of Bauçais are leaving." His hands gripped the side of the bed.

  "No." Maríana pushed her feet into the shoes. These were too large, also. She searched the chamber for rags she could stuff in the toes. "I am leaving. Just me."

  He frowned. "But you were to marry the Baron of Bauçais." So the gauntlet was thrown. His words rang in her ears.

  "And you were to marry Beatrice." There! It was his betrothal to Beatrice that had ended her hopes. When Henri had asked her to marry him, she had been free to say yes. Henri... . She knelt and shoved pieces of an old gown into the shoes, blinking away the moisture that fogged her eyes. She looked at Richard.

  "I know." His mouth twitched. "She would not have me." Was that a shadowy grin she saw?

  "What?" Maríana flexed her feet, returned to the chest and straightened the clothing left there, smoothing over the signs that she had removed things from it. She turned back to look at him. What had he said? She could not have heard right. Why did he smile?

  Richard lifted his mantle from a metal hook on the wall. "She would not have me," he repeated. "And I will not have her." He was no longer smiling.

  She froze. "Did she have two heads, this Beatrice?" Richard was free? A trembling seized her limbs, then drained away, leaving her limp. She could not be with Richard. Not now. The Inquisition was seeking her. He would be in danger.