"If you feel anything from me that frightens you, anything at all, you must send out the call for your people to come and get you. Do not wait for me. Send out the call right away." She held his gaze with hers until she saw his reluctant agreement. Then she wound the mantle around her and opened her pack. "I will leave my pack here with you. There is willow bark and betony. Also the leaves of the purple flowers that Leila put in there. She said they are very strong, so be careful." She indicated the dose with her fingers, shaking a few of the leaves out into her palm. "This will keep him quiet and will send his pain away."
Marc's eyebrows raised. "Leila gave you some of those? She must have known." He bit his lips and looked at Richard, then at the leaves in her palm. "These will also cut him off from you. He will not be able to feel if anything happens to you..." His voice broke when he met her eyes.
"He has already cut himself off from me. I do not think Leila meant these for him. I knew this was a journey I was expected to make myself." Her voice trembled. "What has happened to him is my fault." She stood and went to the door.
Marc walked over to her and took her in his arms, holding her close. "You could not have kept him from coming with us," he said. "We will be here when you come back."
Could he feel the quiver that would not seem to stop? "Thank you, cousin," was all she said. Then she slipped out the door, started her final march to Reuilles-le-château.
Chapter 41
HENRI DREW back on the reins and shaded his eyes against the spear of sunlight that stabbed through oak and maple. They had made good time. He hoped to be back at the château by tomorrow morning at the latest. His horse fretted, then Henri heard pounding hooves sounded from around the bend, coming down the road.
One of Jean's soldiers rode toward him. He quickly urged his mount across the path to block the man's way, opening his mantle so the red silk and white cross would show.
The ploy worked. Jean's man pulled his horse to a stop. The horse was not even sweating. How long ago had the soldier left Reuilles-le-château?
"Are you on your way to the bishop?" Henri asked. "Where is Durand's livery?" The saddle was plain.
"I travel to Carcasonne." Jean's man lifted the reins. His horse pulled against the bit. "My first mount lamed. I got this one only this morning." He gestured toward the road. "I must be going."
So this man was late. Henri looked behind him where the road curved and disappeared into the forest. He had ridden ahead, leaving his men back at least half an hour's ride. Hiding his action with his mantle, he slipped his sword out of the scabbard and held it ready, shielding it with his body. He drew his horse back and smiled at the man, gestured for him to pass. Jean's man saluted Henri and urged his horse alongside him on the path.
Henri brought his sword around broadside, catching the man across the side of his head. The soldier plummeted to the ground beside his rearing horse.
"Sorry, soldier of Christ," Henri murmured as he bound and gagged the man. "I already did this to one of your compatriots, didn't I?" He touched the swelling lump on the man's head. The soldier had not come around yet, but would be furious when he did. "Someone should find you within a few days, eh? This road is well-traveled. You may be hungry by then, but otherwise unharmed." He stripped the saddle of the man's horse, sent it into the woods with a snap from his rope.
Henri slid his hand into the man's pouch for the message he was sure Jean had sent. His breath stilled when his fingers closed on it.
HENRI NODDED and smiled at his men when they rode past. He'd shredded the message written in Jean's tiny scribbling, which promised proof that Louis-Philippe was a sodomite.
No one at the château was safe anymore. Least of all Henri de Bauçais. Henri whistled through his teeth. He had burned all his bridges, would be a hunted man from now on; but he was finding this curiously enjoyable. The last of his men had ridden past and looked back at him in puzzlement.
"To Reuilles-le-château," Henri shouted, urging his horse to a gallop.
MARÍANA had to stop every few paces. She was shaking so hard that she could not stay on her feet. She kept stumbling, falling to the ground. She could hear shouts in the distance, and agonized screams. She knew Ibrahim's palace was near and that she would be at the château soon, if she could just keep walking. The shouting had ceased. Silence covered the mountain in a tattered shroud. She pushed off the ground again.
The palace was closed up, door bolted, windows shuttered. Maríana splashed her face at the fountain, then held her arms out in front of her, trying to will her hands to stop their endless shiver. Something was burning. The acrid odor floated on the wind. Using her teeth, she ripped off the left sleeve of her gown, dipped it in the water and tied it across her nose and mouth. There. Just a little farther.
The odor had weight. Its rancid breath wrung moisture from her skin. The walls of Reuilles-le-château finally reared in front of her. But no one paced the watchtower, no indigo and white standard crested the top. Where was the watch? Where were the guards? Maríana stumbled again, her feet caught on every stone that paved the open gate. This would not do. She needed a plan, needed to think, to do more than just trip and quiver. And she must find a place to hide the chalice. She slipped into the gardens and crept toward the pond. Silence commanded the château. Where there should be voices chattering, hooves stamping, there was nothing but a hungry void. Every sound she made was noted, swallowed, hoarded in some yawning chasm.
But the garden lay untouched. Flower beds drank in the sunlight. The manzanilla was ready for harvest. She touched the yellow-white blooms and her fingers came away bright with pollen. There was a new marker next to the rosemary. Maríana knelt before the tall stone. It was simple, just a square slab, crowned by a turban. A turban. She reached out, touched the elegant script that flowed across the surface. Arabic. Ibrahim. Had her father carved this?
She did not know how long she sat staring at the marker before a warmth against her left side bent her forward. The chalice. She took it out of the pouch on her belt. It would be safe here. She did not know who was to take it. Until she did, she must ensure its safety. Few would think to disturb a grave. She dug into the moist earth around the marker and buried the chalice. She bent her head. "Farewell, Ibrahim."
Then she wet the sash around her nose and mouth with water from the pond and made her way through the back of the gardens, using any cover she could find. As she came out by the stables, she saw the whole of the inner bailey. A smoldering pyre stood just outside the doors of the donjon; bodies were scattered all over the stones of the bailey. On the top of the donjon, the de Reuilles banner had been replaced with a red flag slashed by a white cross.
Who was strapped to the stake? She could not go closer to see. Two men with bows stood atop the ramparts of the donjon, looking down on the bailey. She crept down the side of the palais that faced away from the donjon. When she reached the door leading to the great hall, she stopped. She could not quit shivering. But this was what she must do; she could not stop now. She grasped the door to open it. Why was it bolted? She raised her hand and knocked.
"Who is there!" an angry voice inside challenged.
She took the sash off her face and pitched her voice so that she could be heard. "It is Maríana de Reuilles."
The door swung open and Arnaut stared blankly at her. She pushed him inside and scanned the interior, looking for her father and Johanna. "Where is my father?" she turned on Arnaut, her eyes impaling him.
"L-Lady Maríana," he stammered, then looked at her helplessly.
Alys came running toward her, face twisted in grief. "Ahhh, Maríana," she sobbed. "You should not have returned."
"Alys! Quickly, tell me what has happened." Now that she was actually there in the palais and the task she had been sent to complete had been set in motion, she found that her hands were steady and her mind clear.
"The Inquisitor and his soldiers have taken your father. They burned Ysabel and Utarilla and they took Geneviéve, too!" A
lys wrung her hands. "Your grandmother is dead. They killed her when they came to take Geneviéve. And they killed my Jean-Claude!" She started to wail, shaking with the force of her tears. "He lies dead on the stones outside."
Bastards! They would not even hold their arrows so the de Reuilles could claim the bodies of their dead? Maríana sat holding Alys. She was dazed, yet a part of her was bathed in clarity. "What happened to the baby?" she asked.
"Baby?" Alys' face crumpled. "Oh, you mean Ysabel's baby? Your brother?"
"Brother..." Maríana sighed. "Where is he?"
"Jeanne has him." Alys' face twisted in anger. "Your father made sure he was safe from that devil over in the donjon. But now that the baron has been taken, what will become of us?"
"Enough!" Maríana shook Alys gently. "I want to see my grandmother's body, Alys. Then there is something I must do."
Alys nodded. "We have her in her room."
Maríana climbed the stairs, watching upon the people huddled within the great hall. The younger knights argued about how they were going to free the baron. The rest of the people looked blank, as if the sun had suddenly refused to rise.
MARÍANA sat by Johanna in her grandmother's room. She did not know why, but she felt Johanna had answers for her, as if her grandmother was merely sleeping. "I have to try to help him," she whispered. "He is my father, and in some ways this is my fault."
She leaned over to kiss her grandmother's cheek, then stroked her hair. "I lost the baby, Grandmother." Her voice quavered, slipped into a sob. "I carry another now, but I do not believe we shall survive."
She was only here by the grace of God, or the Being who had let her return. He had promised her nothing. But she was a de Reuilles. Maybe the last de Reuilles. She would try to complete her task.
"I can use the cauldron to bargain for Father's life. Who can say who will be the one to take it from me? I was only told that I must return it here, give it to someone." If she must die, at least she might save her father... well, there was a small chance. She had no illusions about this. But whatever had sent her here would surely keep her alive long enough to complete her task. Johanna's body had already shrunk, her withered face appeared sunken and ancient. Maríana looked up as Jeanne entered the chamber holding a small bundle in her arms.
"Alys said you asked about Philippe," Jeanne said, placing the bundle in Maríana's arms.
Maríana bent toward the tiny sleeping face. "Philippe?" she asked.
"After his grandfather," Jeanne replied.
"Indeed." Maríana put her finger in the tiny hand, saw the features of Henri in the set of the chin and the shape of the eyebrows. She bent forward, nuzzled the soft skin of his cheek. Small fingers grasped her, milk bubbles blew out of the little mouth. Would the child she carried now ever be born? She handed the baby back to Jeanne.
"Jeanne, are my clothes still here?" she asked, rising.
"Of course! Everything in your room is as it was before you left! Henri would have it so."
"Indeed," Maríana said again. "I will need my very best gown, Jeanne."
IT WAS EARLY evening. The cool blue shadows had grown long, but golden sunlight still played over the stones of the bailey. Maríana walked toward the donjon, dressed in her dark gray gown of sendal silk. Across her arm, she carried the silk wrapping that had covered the cauldron. She paused over each still form she encountered on the ground before her, saying her farewells to the men who had given their lives in the attempt save her father. The archers above her held their bows ready, but did not loose their arrows.
As she came closer to the door, she forced herself to look upon the charred, twisted remains of the old woman from the village, and, finally, her enemy Ysabel. Ysabel's body was contorted, her hands curled into black claws, jaw hanging open. She had not died from the smoke.
Maríana raised her eyes to the thick oak door of the donjon, built and crafted hundreds of years before to withstand any force that may try to batter it down. She could see the scoring from the knights' attempt to gain entry by using the battering ram. Arnaut told her their rescue had failed when Jean ordered his soldiers to pour boiling oil onto the men below. Her father's seneschal, Guillaume, had died in this attempt. His burned body stretched just outside the door. She put her hand on his shoulder and said her farewell, then straightened her back and knocked on the door.
A low voice inside challenged her. For the second time that day she called out.
"It is Maríana de Reuilles."
Chapter 42
Kill them all; kill them all.
God will look after His Own.
Arnald-Amalric, Archbishop of Narbonne at the sacking of Béziers, 1209
JEAN DOWNED the ale. He wiped traces of foam from his lips and contemplated the glorious body stretched out on the rack. Though he had donned the thinnest robe he had, fingers of sweat trickled down from his temple. But the ale cooled the fire in his belly, and it satisfied.
Louis-Philippe had fainted again. It had taken a long time to get even a grunt out of the man, and Jean had gotten no information, but this body... Jean reached out and traced the smooth bulge of muscles that formed Louis-Philippe's arms, the swell of his chest. His breeches and his shirt were crumpled on the floor. Jean had wanted to see all of his glorious body.
The man would not bend or plea. When Jean had first moved the lever that pulled the leather straps attached to Louis-Philippe's wrists and ankles, the baron had laughed. "You cannot be serious!" he had scoffed. "You want to make me even taller?"
Well, Louis-Philippe was not laughing now. But he had only screamed once, when his left shoulder popped out of its socket. In a pique, Jean had yanked the lever to full force, giving de Reuilles a taste of the pain that was waiting for him. But since then, Louis-Philippe had stubbornly refused to make any sound at all. His eyes had quivered for a moment when Jean told him that his wife had accused him of sodomy with the "gardener," but his face became distant after that and he had kept his expression under rigid control.
Jean caressed the taut skin covering Louis-Philippe's ribs and shivered when he felt the puckered remains of a massive wound. Louis-Philippe had many such scars.
Jean wanted to break this man. But how? Louis-Philippe had given him nothing. Ysabel was dead; there was no one to make the accusations of sodomy. Jean should have gotten a written confession from her. Why hadn't he?
Because he had been certain Louis-Philippe would admit to it himself. Jean glanced again at the long legs, the splendid arms. He had not expected the baron's strength and determination. Most men would have given him anything he wanted by now, would have kissed his feet to stop the pain. But not this man. What would break him?
Jean stroked the juncture of Louis-Philippe's thighs, his groin, shivering when he touched the place where Louis-Philippe's manhood nestled. Glancing up at Louis-Philippe's face, he reached forward and gave a sharp squeeze. Air rushed into the Baron's lungs and his eyes flew open. Good. It was about time to get on with this. There was one more thing Jean wanted to try.
He climbed the steps and pounded on the trap door. When his man opened it, he said, "There is a leather bag on the table in my chamber." He turned to see Louis-Philippe, eyes open, body rigid. Good. He was listening. "Bring it to me" Jean added, "and send someone down to turn the baron on his stomach." Louis-Philippe's lips twitched, then stilled. Even better.
Jean held the leather bag in his hand, leaned over Louis-Philippe. "There is a way, Baron," he murmured, "to determine if a man is a sodomite." He unfolded the leather package and stroked the spikes inside the casing. "I have used this myself on boys in my abbey, to teach them to control their passions. I put it on Henri de Bauçais." Louis-Philippe's back jerked. Good. Let him think Henri was a sodomite, too. "Now, you shall have it."
Jean knelt and went underneath the rack. Reaching up, he fixed the restraint on Louis-Philippe and tied the belt to the slats of the rack. This would hold until he could get out and secure it around the baron's waist.
When Jean climbed out from under the rack, he looked at Louis-Philippe's face, then jumped away, his heart speeding. Hatred poured out of Louis-Philippe's eyes in a raw surge. Jean shivered, gave a shaky laugh. Louis-Philippe could do nothing to him. He moved to the rack to secure the belt. But he avoided Louis-Philippe's eyes.
"Now, Baron, we are ready." Jean removed his robe and mounted Louis-Philippe, caressing every part of the baron's helpless body. He could hear Louis-Philippe's teeth grinding. And the stifled catch in his breathing when Jean jostled his torn shoulder. Jean felt a brief stirring himself, yet he was not ready. This would not do.
Climbing down, he moved over to the table that held the thumb screw and the iron boot. There should be a rod here somewhere. The mere thought of impaling Louis-Philippe with the device sent a flash of heat through his loins.
He looked down. No, he would not need a rod. He had the implement between his legs.
The door. Someone was knocking on the door. Cursing, he left Louis-Philippe's body, jumping off the rack, grabbing his robe and throwing it around his shoulders. "What?" he shouted.
"We have someone from the château," he heard his guard say through the door. "I think you should see her."
Jean clenched his teeth and settled his robe about his body. "Very well," he said, then turned back. "I will not be long, my love."
He climbed the stairs, lifted the trap and saw a slight young woman with long auburn hair. Two of his men held her, but they seemed uncomfortable. Pierre stood behind them, holding a piece of silk in his hand. "Well?" Jean snapped, climbing the rest of the way to stand beside the woman.
"I am Maríana de Reuilles," the woman said. "I have come to bargain for my father."
"Are you?" His heart seemed to swell in his chest. "Are you truly?" No one else had been able to find Maríana, not even Henri. Now she was here and Jean would be the one to place her into Durand's hands. He breathed deeply, became aware his men watched him. "Put her in with her aunt," he said.
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