Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  "We think he has been dead since moonrise." The woman stared at the man on the floor, but Richard could not read her expression. He moved to Maríana's side, saw the black and silver hair that flowed away from the face of the man laying in front of her.

  "That is Jacques!" Who killed him? Was the Inquisition already there? His eyes darted around the room, came to rest upon the dark-haired woman.

  "Is he always this slow?" The words were hostile, but the woman's voice sounded mild. Who was she? Her raven hair hung free, streaming down her back. Her skin was fine, golden, browned by the sun even though it was winter. She had returned to her search of the chamber, now pulling cushions and mats aside, peering underneath them.

  "You knew him as Jacques. But his name is Ibrahim." Maríana closed Ibrahim's eyes, pulled the lids down over his fixed stare. Then she raised her head and pinned the woman with her stare. "Leila." Maríana's voice sliced the air. The woman's eyes flashed hot, yet she halted. "What you seek is in the chest near the kitchen."

  Leila dropped the blanket she held and strode to the back of the chamber. "You will need his key," Maríana said. She fumbled with a chain around the dead Ibrahim's neck, her hands shaking and catching in Ibrahim's hair.

  Richard leaned across her. "I will get it." This he could do for her. The old man nodded at him, then gripped Maríana's arms and lifted her away. Richard raised Ibrahim's head, worked the chain up over his face and off. The woman Leila grabbed the chain from his grasp. "You are welcome," he said as she marched away with the chain and key. She snorted but did not halt, bending to the chest and opening it.

  "Got it." Richard saw her lift a book up out of the chest. Then she dropped to her knees and sputtered, "Blessed Mother!" She pulled lengths of emerald green silk, golden sashes, and purple robes out of its depths, then held up golden earrings, bracelets.

  Maríana gave a small cry and moved to Leila's side. "Ibrahim's secret woman disguise," she said. "He never burned it."

  Secret woman? What was this? Richard looked at Ibrahim's face again. He had heard many strange things about this man, that he was from Egypt, that he dabbled in sorcery. Yet he liked him, this Jacques, or Ibrahim, rather. Ibrahim had treated his wounds when he was learning to fight, had set his arm when he broke it.

  And Ibrahim had seemed to care for Maríana. Several times Richard had seen Ibrahim gazing at her when she was still a girl, his dark eyes following her while she walked through the garden. Warmth had lived in those eyes, a father's proud regard. Richard had thought it odd at the time, but his heart had been glad. Maríana's father had not spoken to her when she was little, but this man had loved her.

  "We should burn these now." Leila dropped the fabric and pushed the book she had taken into a loose woven bag, then hefted it to her shoulder and strode to the door.

  "No," Maríana said. "We will take all of it with us." She beckoned to Richard. Ah, finally something she wanted him to do. He grabbed the bag he had carried for her and held it open as she stuffed the gowns and jewelry inside. Three more books lay at the bottom of the chest. "Ibrahim's medical texts," Maríana said, pushing these into the bag on top of the gowns, "and my mother's herbal."

  "What!" Leila stalked across the chamber and peered down at the book in Maríana's hands.

  "Why don't you carry it?" Maríana offered it to Leila, who stood staring at her.

  Leila reached for it, then her hand fell to her side. "No," she said. "You keep it." Her voice was the same hollow rasp as before, but her eyes had softened.

  "Why are we taking these things?" Richard whispered to Maríana as he placed the last book inside and drew the bag closed. She turned to him. It was difficult to look at her. The ball of grief she held tightly inside radiated from her eyes.

  "There are things in these books that would endanger the people we leave behind." She turned to her grandfather. "Especially my father." The last words were nearly inaudible. Richard looked at the bag he held. What was so dangerous about these books? But a shudder rippled through Maríana; she shut her eyes and curled forward. Her hair fell over her shoulders, surrounded her face.

  "Are you ill?" Richard bent toward her. Lines of pain stretched across her forehead, around her mouth. She waved him away, drew her body straight and shook her hair back.

  "Grandfather Iranzu." She took Richard's hand. Her fingers twined around his. "This is Richard de la Guerche. He comes with us."

  Iranzu nodded and said softly, "Lady's greetings, Richard de la Guerche."

  "You know my family?" Richard still held Maríana's hand. Her fingers felt like ice, but her grip was firm.

  Iranzu shook his head. "I know of your mother, Marguerite, but we have not met." He turned to where Ibrahim lay upon the floor.

  "We must bury him," Maríana said.

  "No time." Iranzu said. When Maríana cried out in protest, he added, "Louis-Philippe will see that he is properly buried."

  Maríana dropped Richard's hand and walked over to Ibrahim. "I could not even say good-bye." Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

  Richard sighed. He wished he could help her, but her grandfather was right. The ground outside was solid ice. In order to bury the man, someone must light bonfires to thaw the earth. This they could not do, for fire they lit would be seen.

  "No time for good-byes, either, sister." Leila placed her arm around Maríana's shoulders and pulled her toward the door. Richard remained frozen where he stood. This woman was Maríana's sister? He felt a touch on his arm and looked up to see Iranzu beckoning. Richard still clutched the bag. He threw it across his shoulder and followed Iranzu out, dragging the door shut behind him.

  "Are we ready?" Iranzu asked. Leila nodded and lifted two stout packs that sat by the fountain. Iranzu lifted another and strapped it to his back. Richard slung the bag he had carried from the donjon over his right shoulder and extended his hand to Maríana.

  "I can carry something." Her voice was faint, her face still and ashen. But her eyes glittered.

  Leila glared at her. "No you won't," she said, her voice firm. "You have a baby inside you and you are carrying that baby too low already." She tossed her hair back and said to the three of them, "Come on!"

  It was snowing again, little flurries of perfect crystals settling into the footprints they left in the courtyard. Iranzu and Leila led, followed by Maríana and then Richard in the rear. Thick stands of trees hugged the edges of the path. Anyone could be hiding there. Richard continually watched the bushes and trees that crowded both sides of the trail and stopped every few steps to look behind him. His hand remained on the hilt of his sword. He felt naked, exposed. Iranzu carried a thick staff, but only Richard was armed. It was he who would protect Maríana.

  He wished he had his mail shirt. The links would not stop a sword, but might protect his back from an arrow. Skin at the nape of his neck tingled. But he heard nothing over the crunch of their own steps.

  One hundred paces down the path, Iranzu and Leila entered the forest. Richard, following Maríana, backed off the path into the trees, his eyes searching for movement. The air was still-no scuffling rodents, no beating of wings. Snow fell in a soft white blanket. Their steps would be covered. His breath puffed out in relief, made filmy clouds on the air in front of him.

  Turning, he saw the others up above him. They were climbing now, feet sinking into thick drifts of pine needles, feathery snow. They followed no path, just the precipitous slope of Irati.

  Swiveling back toward the path, he scanned the open space that led back to Reuilles-le-château, to his life before this flight. He stared at the path, yet did not see it. He saw his sister crying, his mother white with grief, his father burning with anger. Soon they would hear the news from Bourdeilles, that he had broken his betrothal. After that, the news of his disappearance.

  He knew he could never return. They would all know he was with Maríana. He had only bought her a small amount of time by not taking his harp and his chain mail. Richard hoped Baron de Reuilles would have his things
sent to la Guerche. His sister would like his harp. Not that she could play it. He had tried to teach her, but she could not seem to get the fingering right.

  He rubbed away the moisture seeping down his cheeks. What had gotten into his eyes? No matter. He pulled his sleeve across his eyelids and blinked. Then he turned and trudged into the blue stillness of deep forest.

  Chapter 25

  LOUIS-PHILIPPE answered Henri's knock and bid him enter. Henri moved into the chamber. Several lamps burned. The walls were overlaid with tapestries and a long oak table covered with rolled parchment stretched the length of one wall. Louis-Philippe sat upon the bed, pulling on his boots. Maríana was not in the room.

  "My mother came to get me after you spoke with her," Louis-Philippe said, retrieving his mantle from where it lay upon his bed. "Have you found Maríana yet?"

  "No." Henri waited until Louis-Philippe looked up at him. "We have searched every building in the château."

  "The donjon?"

  "Every building, and the inner and outer bailey, the garden, the watchtowers." Henri took his carving knife from his belt, ran his fingers over the hilt, the blade. "We are still questioning servants and guests."

  He had been sure they would find her, so sure that he avoided picturing what might have happened to her. But images now filled his head; of Maríana at the base of a cliff, of blood on the snow.

  "Is anyone else missing?"

  "Do you think someone..." Henri broke off when Louis-Philippe shook his head. "One of the guests is away from his chamber. We are still trying to find him." He slid the knife back into his belt.

  "Who is that?" Louis-Philippe strode to the table, riffled through the parchment rolls.

  "The Breton."

  "What?" Louis-Philippe raised his head, his blue-green eyes alert and sharp. "De la Guerche's son?"

  "The same." Henri watched as Louis-Philippe's eyes widened and he leaned against the table. "Do you think he has taken her?" Young de la Guerche. Henri could not remember his face, although he had met all the knights who had come for the wedding.

  "Taken her?" Louis-Philippe's forehead creased. "No. He was my squire. But they were childhood friends."

  "Childhood friends." Why did the image of Ysabel leap into his thoughts? Henri shook himself and added, "We have covered all of the places inside the château." If this Breton was with Maríana, he would take him apart. Slowly. Then he would kill him.

  "There is another place she could be. Nearby, but beyond the château grounds." Louis-Philippe moved toward the door. "You will need your mantle and boots."

  Henri followed him out the door. "Where do you think she might have gone?"

  "I have a house outside the walls, on the lower slopes of Irati."

  Henri retrieved his mantle, pulled heavy boots over his shoes. A house outside the château walls? Why would Louis-Philippe have built a house that was outside his defenses? De Reuilles was an odd one. But if Maríana were in this house, Henri would thank him.

  Louis-Philippe waited until Henri finished, then wheeled about and marched toward the great hall.

  "Why do you think she might be there?" Henri asked, lengthening his stride to keep pace with Louis-Philippe. Really, the man's legs were uncommonly long.

  "Jacques the gardener is there."

  Oh, well. That explained everything! The gardener, indeed. Henri shook his head as he descended the staircase into the bustling space below. All were awake now and pages darted from table to table carrying bread and ale. A smothered hum of voices rose and fell in uneven cadence. "How could she have gone there in the snow without her mantle?"

  "There is a way, but why she would take it is more important than how." Louis-Philippe covered the distance between the base of the stairs and the door of the great hall in a lope, then threw open the door.

  FRIGID AIR pinched Henri's face, laid icy fingers across his neck. Maríana had left the warmth and safety of the palais to travel in this? He followed Louis-Philippe out, watched as a page pulled the door inward, sealing in the radiance of golden hearth flame, the fellowship of murmuring voices. No, she could not have gone willingly. Someone must have taken her. She would never have put her life or the life of their baby in jeopardy.

  Henri sprinted after Louis-Philippe, sliding in the snow and then catching his balance. "Where are you going?"

  "The east gate," Louis-Philippe plunged ahead.

  Henri increased his pace. He had no breath left to talk. He followed de Reuilles out into the falling snow, along the frozen ground. Women had strange fancies when they were expecting. Could Maríana have gotten an urge to see this house outside the walls? But that was not like her.

  As he hastened to keep up with de Reuilles, his thoughts whirled in his head. And kept returning to the notion he had avoided until now. His years as a soldier told him that people do not leave the safety of home unless they are abducted. Or fleeing.

  The path they followed climbed in a rising slope up the side of the mountain. Fallen branches made the going treacherous. Henri stumbled several times, but Louis-Philippe seemed to avoid all the pits and buried sticks that caught Henri. One would think de Reuilles could see underneath the snow. Or that he had traveled this path so often that even his feet knew the way. But now Louis-Philippe halted, his hand lifted to stop Henri.

  THE SKY WAS brightening, yet clouds still made a thick blanket across the heavens. Henri halted and stared. White walls, tile, arches. A Moorish palace? Someone had told him that de Reuilles had been to Jerusalem. But why build this here?

  Louis-Philippe pulled a key out of his shirt and forced it into the door. After a sharp push, it swung inward and he preceded Henri through the arch calling, "Jacques!" Henri followed him into the main chamber, looking intently from side to side. Rich fabrics, golden lamps, silk-covered cushions surrounded him. Lamps were burning, but two sputtered. Henri placed his hand against the side of one. It was merely warm, when it should be hot. Had they burned all night?

  A ragged inhalation alerted him. Louis-Philippe stood in rigid silence near the door. A body lay at his feet.

  "What!" Henri strode over to the olive-skinned moor who lay upon the floor. This the same man he had seen coming out of Maríana's room back when the midwife had confined her to her bed. Dropping to his knees, he felt underneath the nose for breath, then touched the back of his hand against the smooth cheek. "Dead." Standing, he rubbed his hands together. "For some time, I think." He looked back at Louis-Philippe, who still stood there frozen, eyes unfocused. What was this? "De Reuilles?"

  Louis-Philippe seemed to collect himself. He turned his face to Henri. "What?" His voice was faint, almost a whisper.

  "This man has been dead for several hours, I think." Henri found it hard to meet Louis-Philippe's eyes. They were fixed and staring, but Henri did not think Louis-Philippe was seeing anything.

  "I will search the house," he added when Louis-Philippe did not answer. The main chamber where the body lay was filled with cushions and tables, a low chest at the back. Henri strode to the back. Only a kitchen which held a simple hearth, bowls and knives. No one was there and there was no place anyone could hide. The only other chamber held one straw pallet. Henri stalked through all the rooms one more time. Empty. Maríana was not there. Why had de Reuilles been so sure she would be there? Is that why he had stood like a statue? Because she was still missing? Henri returned to the main chamber, chafing his hands again. It was colder in the palace than it was outside. He stopped when he saw de Reuilles.

  Louis-Philippe stood by a chest, its open lid in his hands.

  "Is anything missing?" Henri asked. Was de Reuilles ill? His face was bleached of all color.

  Louis-Philippe dropped the lid. "I do not believe so." His movements were stiff and awkward. "Maríana is not here." He turned to the man who lay on the floor. "And Jacques is gone." His last words rang with sorrow.

  Henri sighed. He knew what it was like to lose a cherished family servant. His falcon master had died when he was
a boy and he had grieved for weeks. The gardener had been with the de Reuilles for some time. But they must continue the search for Maríana. "I am sorry," he said.

  Louis-Philippe raised his head. Henri spread his hands. "Will it be hard to replace this fellow?"

  Louis-Philippe turned his head away. "There are no marks on him that I can see, and there are two cups on the table there."

  "Someone was here with him." Henri picked up one of the two goblets standing on the table. "Curious. One is full and..." He held the goblet away from his face and turned it over. Nothing fell out, not a drop. "Wiped clean," he said.

  He went to the body and touched the mouth, raised the hands and examined the nails. Finally, he sat back on his heels. "I do not know what killed him. Perhaps some kind of poison? You may want to get your physician in to confirm."

  Louis-Philippe had gone even paler. "He was my physician," he said softly and continued to stare at the man on the floor.

  "We will need to get back to continue the search for Maríana." Henri strode to the door. "You can send someone up here to remove the body."

  "No!"

  Henri stopped at the door. Louis-Philippe had dropped to his knees by the body, was gathering it into his arms.

  "He is not heavy," he said, standing. "I will carry him."

  "As you wish."

  THERE WAS something strange here, but it would have to wait. Henri held the door open and followed in Louis-Philippe's steps. They returned to the château on a different path, circling the Moorish palace to the back.

  Henri let his hand trail along the side. He must ask de Reuilles how he had built this. The work was quite fine. He would ask, after they found Maríana.

  Something in his gut twisted. She had been gone for several hours now. He looked up to the sky, where clouds held the promise of more snow. Was she out in this?

  Louis-Philippe waited for him, holding the gardener. Henri walked forward, then stopped dead. He stood on the edge of a cliff that fell into a ravine. "How?" He looked across the ravine to another arm of the mountain that reared into the clouds.