"Her father cannot protect her." Johanna's eyes blazed now. "Nor can you."
"What!" This was really too much. "State your meaning."
She did not flinch. "It seems that her stepmother," Johanna began, pausing when he drew back from her, "has made some accusations."
Ysabel. What accusations could she have made? She was jealous of Maríana, this he knew. He had thought her jealousy silly. Ysabel was Baroness, after all. If her child was a boy, she was carrying the future heir of Reuilles-le-château.
Henri planned to take Maríana to Bauçais after the wedding. Women were strange. The last time he had seen her, Ysabel had clung to him, had said that she would never let him go. Surely she would not have told Maríana of her assignations with him! Maríana would have told her father and De Reuilles would have put Ysabel aside, if he knew.
No. Henri was sure that Louis-Philippe did not know. De Reuilles had not called him out, had he? Ysabel had said nothing, of this he was sure. Yet if she wanted to rid herself of Maríana, what would she do? He focused upon Johanna's face. She had remained silent. Light from the blazing fire painted crimson patterns across her features.
Light. Patterns. Wind... .
"Damn!" He pounded his knee. "Ysabel has called in Durand!" Jean-Pierre had handed him the answer with his story of eerie lights and great storms. Childhood fancies, of course. No one could command the elements. But he had seen less evidence result in a protracted interrogation up north in Gréves. A shudder gripped his bowels. He bit down, tried to stifle it before it could shake his limbs. Torture had sealed the fate of the woman in Gréves. There were few who could withstand crushed limbs and hot iron.
He turned away from Johanna, fought to suppress the shaking that moved through his arms. Fire. The blast of heat from Johanna's fire conjured an image, of tiny fingers grasping iron bars, the acrid breath of burning straw, of cloth. It always came back to Montsegur, didn't it? Burning Cathars. Burning witches. No wonder Maríana fled. He would have run, too.
"His minion will be here soon." Johanna was watching him closely. How much did she know? "So you see..."
"What do you know about this light she made with her hands?" He cut into her speech, saw her eyes fade into puzzlement. "I am told there was a great wind, a storm that blew apart the fowl pen."
She was hesitant. "I remember the wind, but I know of no light." She took his hand. Her fingers were strong. "Jeanne told me of a woman in Reuilles-la-ville, a woman who may be helpful in sorting this out. I was going to see her myself, but it would be better if you went." Johanna's eyes darted to the white cross on his tunic, now pressed wetly against his skin.
"Jeanne?" He was with the church, after all. And he was Maríana's betrothed. Who better to see how far this foolishness had gone?
"Jeanne is a servant. But she has kin in Reuilles-la-ville and she can take you to this woman, this Utarilla." The pressure of her fingers increased. "Will you go?"
He stood, towered over her frail body. Yes, he would start the investigation before Durand's lackey arrived. That would be his best hope of controlling it. Who would Durand send? Hughes des Arcis would be a good choice. He was reasonable. This nonsense about magic would not impress him. Des Arcis followed the rules. Heresy interested him, not spells and potions.
He nodded. Johanna shifted in her chair, hands tightly clasped, her face still, waiting. "Where is this Jeanne?" he asked.
MARÍANA followed a narrow path that wound down the slope to the valley's floor, where it widened to allow the passage of carts. On either side, cozy granite and slate houses sat surrounded by huge bushes and trees. Each chimney sent a fragrant plume of white smoke into the cold winter air. Candlelight twinkled through the slats on the wood-shuttered windows. Occasionally, shutters opened and people peered out at her. At the path's end, a larger stone house with a steeply sloping roof rested below the rearing slope of the mountain. A tall woman dressed in a russet gown waited in the doorway. Her two thick raven braids shot with silver that hung below her waist. She was wiping her hands on a midnight blue cloth hanging from her belt and her warm hazel eyes beamed. "Lady's greetings, Father!" she called out.
Leila ran on ahead and Iranzu slowly approached the house, but Maríana stopped, felt the blood drain from her face. "Mama?" she whispered.
"What is it?" Richard tried to turn her toward him, but she would not take her eyes off the woman in the doorway.
Maríana shook herself. "It is nothing," she reassured him. Not her mother. Just her mother as she would have looked had she lived. Richard still held her arm, looking uncertain. "Let us join them," she said.
Arm-in-arm with Richard, she walked the final steps of her journey to the house of the Jakintzas.
"I am Adelie," the woman said. Warmth and the smell of bread and meat wafted toward Maríana. "Lady's greetings, child of my sister" Adelie spread her arms wide.
Maríana walked to Adelie, fell into her arms. "You must tell me everything," Adelie whispered. "But now," she raised her voice to the rest, switched to the langue d'oc, "hot food for all of you! Bucket is over there for washing-water is warm." Still holding Maríana, she nodded toward the right side of the large room. "And make sure you use it! We wash before meals, here."
Maríana looked around the room in amazement. The stone house consisted of one large room. A small hut, outside in the back, was visible through the slats covering a window. Along the far wall three curtained box beds stood. The rich burgundy curtains and coverlets were embroidered and appliquéd with symbols in bright colors: circles with triangles inside, Arabic letters, the four-petaled flower of her mother's necklace, and others that she could not decipher. The woolen rug was made in the style of the East, with patterns of curling designs in reds and golds.
The oak table stretched nearly the width of the room, facing a deep, wide hearth where a fire roared and crackled. The table was set for eight, with red-brown crockery dishes, thick goblets, wooden spoons and metal knives. A large pot, filled with something rich and savory, emitted wisps of steam.
Richard vigorously bathed his hands and face. A youth with a triangular fine-boned face and deep-set green eyes stood beside Richard, waiting his turn. Behind the young man were two small boys, their bright eyes regarding Maríana.
"That is my Marc," Adelie said, "and Tomás and Paxti."
"WE HAVE ample livestock, so each winter we must slay at least a dozen cattle to keep the balance." Leila helped herself to great slices of bread on which she slathered fresh butter and then dipped the buttered slices into the steaming pot. "This is good oxtail stew, Aunt Adelie." Her mouth was full and the words blurred.
"What is in this?" Richard lifted his spoon, sniffed at the top of his dish.
"Carrots and leeks and onions, all from our gardens. The herbs are thyme and rosemary. Fennel and rosemary are also in the bread," Adelie said.
The stew was rich and delicious. Nearly three days on low provisions had made Maríana ravenous, but unable to eat much at one sitting. She soon pushed back from the table and watched, as Marc and Leila dished up the remainder of the stew and wrapped the bread for storage in the cold house outside.
Leila opened the door, carried the remains of their meal to the cold house. The light was fading now and a gray-blue mist settling on the land. Sounds were muted. Leila's steps crunching over the snow were nearly inaudible, even though she was barely ten paces away.
"We have made a place for Maríana in Leila's bed over there." Adelie pointed to the box bed in the back corner of the room.
She turned to Richard and smiled. "This young knight," she said in langue d'oc, "he shall have his own house." She motioned for Marc. "My son will show you the way."
Dismay spread across Richard's face. Marc was already at the door, gesturing for Richard to precede him. Richard looked at Maríana. "If you need anything..." he said, but he did not look at her.
"She will be well," Adelie answered. "You must not worry." Some silent message passed between them. Adelie nodded
. Richard straightened and then bowed gracefully before he followed Marc out into the night.
"Richard does not speak Basque," Maríana said. He had stayed at her side throughout the meal, had listened to their rapid speech, to her replies. A shiver worked its way out from her heart. With Richard gone, the house chilled. Adelie bustled around the chamber, but Maríana did not know this woman who was her aunt.
Adelie stopped, looked into Maríana's eyes, and smiled. "Your young knight will manage, I am sure. Now," she motioned for Maríana to come with her, "into bed with you." Adelie helped Maríana into the box bed, pulled the covers up around her. "Leila told me some of your story," she whispered, "that you lost your baby."
A tiny blue body cupped in Leila's hand... "We had to flee." Maríana choked.
Adelie placed her fingers against Maríana's lips. "You need not speak now. There will be time for speaking, and healing, too."
Kind words. Caring eyes. But a jumble of images danced before Maríana's eyes. Henri in the corridor with Ysabel. The parchment with the list of names. Ibrahim lying still upon the floor. The tiny form of her baby entering the frozen ground. She rolled up into a ball and shook, but no tears would come.
Warm arms enveloped her. "The world has come down upon you, as we say here," Adelie murmured. "You must wash it away with your tears."
"I do not cry." Maríana could not stop shaking. She curled her hands into fists, but her arms would not be still. "But I did cry! I did. When the baby died." She could not remember ever crying before, yet she must have. Children cried, didn't they? "I did not cry when Ibrahim..." She could not force her words past the lump that continued to grow, reaching from the middle of her chest into her throat.
Adelie rocked Maríana and stroked her hair. "I remember Ibrahim. Thérèse brought him here after you were born."
"He is dead." Maríana's words were strangled, but the clot that blocked her throat was easing.
"Ahhhh," Adelie sighed. "I see." She stroked Maríana's hair in silence for a moment. "He was a great one, your Ibrahim. We will mourn his passing. But he was just one of your guides. There will be others. And you will see him again."
She stated all this as a matter of fact, as if Ibrahim had just stepped out the door and would be returning soon.
The knot in Maríana's chest loosened, but now there was a noise, a gasping, wrenching howl, a desolate, furious sobbing. Who could be making such a sound? Maríana buried her face into Adelie's shoulder. The sound was smothered now, yet it would not stop. She tried to speak, tried to tell Adelie to make it stop. But she could not find her voice.
"That is better." Adelie pulled her even closer. "It is good to cry."
Maríana de Reuilles does not cry. She struggled to draw in her breath, to tell Adelie that this ravaged weeping could not be from her. Yet no words would come, only the dreadful wailing that flowed out of her, that poured in a flood past her lips. Adelie's shoulder was wet. Maríana really should stop this. Her tears were making a sodden mess of Adelie's gown. What would Adelie think of her?
But the arms circling her did not leave. Finally, the tears slowed. Soft blankets were wrapped around her and a pillow fragrant with pine needles and lavender cushioned her head. The room faded, echoes of her weeping dwindled until there was no more sound.
Chapter 30
THERE WERE few about in the inner bailey and the area beyond the gates when the pope's representative arrived. Twelve soldiers dressed in the papal livery surrounded him, their dazzling white crosses shining. He kicked his horse's ribs and rode slightly ahead, assessing the fortification, the thickness of the walls. Frowning at the open gate. Was de Reuilles so arrogant that he left his gate open for anyone to ride in? Blood of Jesus! He could see that conditions here were lax. Three pages were just standing in the entry to the stables. They should be out in the bailey, helping his men to dismount.
Now he let crisp air flood his lungs, chill his throat. He stared at the graceful arches of the palais. Reuilles-le-château was quiet. The pale winter sunlight provided light, but no real warmth. Well, it was nearing Christmas, time for preparing home and livestock for the shortest day and for the winter storms still to come. He had seen this himself on the ride from Carcasonne. For the past few days the sun had warmed, loosening some of the icy grip of winter. But today the air had suddenly become heavy, promising another hard frost. Delicate crystal webs were already forming across standing water that had thawed. Perhaps the servants of Reuilles-le-château were busy in preparation for winter.
Or they were preparing for the Inquisition. He felt a fluttering in his belly. There were three names on the list des Arcis had given him. He was sure to find more.
Now he urged his horse in front of the palais and frowned. "Do they not challenge armed men here?" he asked a boy who had finally hurried forward to help him dismount.
The boy looked startled. "Why should we?" he asked simply, then offered his hands to help the man down. "Our watchers on the tower have already seen you coming across the lake. They saw your livery."
He smiled at the boy and allowed his fingers to caress the silky hair on the boy's head. "I see that I have been among the heretics of the south for too long," he sighed. "Such trust, such piety!" He glanced around the inner bailey. Not a large holding, certainly. His gaze took in the grounds surrounding the palais, the tower, the outbuildings. No, not large. He had seen much larger, and grander, too. But Reuilles-le-château was solid, comfortable. He dismounted, still caressing the boy's head. Then, gesturing for the twelve men to follow him, he marched up to the door and entered.
Pulling his gloves off, he turned to the servant who approached him. "Tell the Baroness Ysabel de Reuilles that Jean Becier is here."
HENRI SET Mother Utarilla on a chair inside the entry of the tower. He would ask Johanna to find the old woman a bed. When he and Jeanne had arrived at Mother Utarilla's stone house, the old woman had shouted out a greeting. She had cackled like a hen. Her ancient eyes peered out from folds of papery skin at Henri, raking his form, rudely assessing his height, his face. He had nearly blushed, but Utarilla turned to Jeanne, babbled at her in that gibberish the town people spoke. Jeanne had answered her in the same tongue, then Utarilla said, "What can I do for you, young knight?" in perfect French.
Henri had pushed his mantle aside. He could question her himself without a translator. But when Utarilla saw the white cross stretched over his chest, her mouth had trembled. She fell silent.
She had not spoken since.
Henri decided to bring her back to Reuilles-le-château when he saw her hands tighten on her bony knees at the mention of sorcery. He felt sure that she had information, but it would take time to convince her to speak. He needed to befriend her first, gain her confidence. Whatever little potions or drinks she brewed to heal would not place her in jeopardy, not with him. He could tell her this in all honesty.
There was no such thing as magic. Oh, he had never said anything to des Arcis or anyone else in the Pope's army about his own belief. Or rather, lack of belief. But he knew that if there was no God, there was also no Devil. Once Utarilla realized that he did not seek to bring her before Durand or the Inquisitor for dabbling with herbal remedies, she would open up, tell him what she knew of Maríana's disappearance. He was sure of this. Wasn't Maríana a healing woman? These women all knew each other.
Now he patted the old woman's hand and told Jeanne to stay with her while he went to Johanna. Not that he needed anyone to guard her. Utarilla could not walk. Her withered legs would not hold her. Henri had carried her all the way from Reuilles-la-ville. She was not going anywhere.
When he left the tower, he had to push his way through a herd of horses, milling on the stones of the inner bailey just outside the palais. Where were the squires? He pushed two of the horses out of his way and barked out an order to three pages who stood in open-mouthed astonishment at the fine stallions stamping and huffing on the stones. While the pages each led a horse into the stables, Henri fingered
the red silken blankets that lay under the saddle of the horse standing near him. Livery of the pope. Well. Des Arcis must have arrived. These horses must be seen to immediately.
He roused four squires to help with stabling the thirteen horses. Really! What was wrong with de Reuilles? After they buried the dead gardener, Louis-Philippe had closeted himself in his chamber with jugs of wine, not even emerging for meals. Ysabel had kept to her room, also. And Guillaume was still on the mountain, trying to find a way up Canigou. Everything had been left to Johanna and to Henri. Indeed. He waited until the last of the horses was in the stables and the squires he had collared were unsaddling and brushing them down before he made his way to the great hall.
HE SPOTTED Father Gregory first. Of course, the château priest should be there to greet the representatives of the pope. De Reuilles should be there too. But it was Ysabel who stood beside the priest. Henri's eyes caught the bulge of her belly before he saw her face. She seemed to be pleading with someone who stood behind Father Gregory. All three of them were at the end of the hall by the roaring fire in the hearth.
Henri stopped in surprise. White robes. A Dominican? This was not des Arcis. Henri caught a glimpse of ivory skin stretched over the man's skull. Had he shaved his head completely? How strange. They usually left a ring of hair. Of course, he could be very old, but this man did not hold himself as an old man would. Yet Henri felt that he was not young, either.
Now the bald man turned to face Ysabel, moved out from behind Father Gregory. His profile stood out against the red of the fire. Lush, scarlet lips curved as he smiled indulgently at something Ysabel was saying. Dieu!
Henri backed into the shadows by the outer door, heart thundering in his chest. He could never forget that face, the pale skull, the swollen lips, the hooded, glittering eyes. A taut constriction seized his loins. He fought to still the fury that threatened to overwhelm him. Jean Becier. He had never thought to see that hated face again.
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