Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  This would do it. He could become bishop some day. But he must be careful. Rome wanted this woman. He would let no harm come to her. Nothing that left too many marks, anyway. Durand would expect him to question her, wouldn't he? "Do not disturb me again," he ordered. He climbed back down into the torture chamber. The door shut behind him.

  Ah, Louis-Philippe. The baron lay as he had left him, legs pried open. Well, Jean now had even more to break the man. "I told you I would not be long, Baron," he purred as he mounted Louis-Philippe. He felt Louis-Philippe's muscles stiffening, denying him entry. Try to block him, would he? Jean forced the length of himself into Louis-Philippe. His groin grew hotter at the baron's bitten off shout that rang along the walls.

  "Oh, yes!" Jean cried. "Yes!" he hissed through his teeth, moving in and out freely.

  Louis-Philippe was silent, but Jean could feel him tremble. If the baron was aroused, he would feel the bite of the spikes that encased him. As Henri had. Henri. It could be Henri here, underneath him. The ache in his loins grew; he could not stop the panting grunts that seemed to come from the root of his spine. What did it matter? He would burn this man, no one would ever know.

  "And next," Jean whispered in Louis-Philippe's ear, then convulsed as his hot and aching loins exploded.

  "Next, next." He pulled away from Louis-Philippe, slid over the edge of the rack, fell into a puddle on the floor. What was he about to tell the Baron? Ah, yes. Maríana. "Next, I will bring your daughter down here."

  TWO MEN struggled to carry her father up the stairs from the torture chamber. One unlocked the door where Maríana and Geneviéve were held; then both men awkwardly shoved Louis-Philippe's unmoving form into the cell. Geneviéve crawled forward and took her brother's shoulders while Maríana grabbed his feet. They pulled him back to the pile of straw they had made.

  Louis-Philippe started muttering. "Ibrahim, why don't we go to Roncesvalles. I hear they have a statue of the Black Madonna there." His eyes jerked behind his closed eyelids.

  Maríana felt his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. The skin was clammy. "Draw my mantle over him."

  They folded the mantle Marc had given her around Louis-Philippe's tall body as closely as they could. He had his shirt on, but no breeches.

  Geneviéve's hands stilled. "What is this?" She moved the folds of Louis-Philippe's shirt to show a leather casing around his man's parts.

  Maríana could barely see though the red haze that fogged her vision. Henri had told her of this, this device. No, he had not told her. She had taken the image from his mind. These animals. Worse than animals, much worse. They would seek to strangle the life force itself. She started when something wet dripped from her palms. Blood. She must have dug her nails in.

  "See if you can get it off," she said. The God of Jesus and Mary would not condone this. Not the God that she had known. Ibrahim had said that there were many paths and all of them led to the same place. She watched while her aunt tugged at the straps. Then what was this? What place would this have in the church she had known? Had she really known anything? She remembered saying her prayers, making her confession. But nothing had prepared her for this.

  Geneviéve dropped her hands from the belt that attached it. "There is no fastener. It is tied in knots," she said, then tugged at the casing.

  Louis-Philippe's eyes flew open. He caught both of Geneviéve's hands with his right hand. His left lay unmoving next by his side. "No, sister," a faint trace of amusement colored his voice, "there are spikes inside. Please do not disturb it."

  Maríana reached for his left hand, stopped when he shook his head.

  "The shoulder came apart."

  Crimson spread before her eyes again. But she could not act on her rage. She could not draw a spiral that would send the donjon tumbling around their ears. "Barbarians!" Hot, salt tears flooded her eyes.

  "Ah, girl," her father breathed. "So Jean did not lie to me. You really are here. When I heard you talking to Geneviéve, and when I saw you, I thought I was dreaming."

  Maríana took his hand. "Yes -- I mean, no. You are not dreaming." She blinked, felt the moist stream sliding down her cheeks. He must be in agony. But he just lay there looking at her. "Geneviéve and I can reset your shoulder."

  He closed his eyes briefly. "So they can tear it out again?"

  "It would ease you now, while you are here with us." She uncovered his shoulder. "I do not think it is torn, just removed from its socket."

  His right hand caught her arm. "You were safely away," he said. "Why did you return?"

  "I did not want to, believe me." She stroked the hair from his forehead. "But I had to come. I really had no choice." She had died. They had let her come back, asked her to come here. Her father would not understand this, no more than Richard had. "There is something I must do."

  "There is always a choice," he replied. "Ibrahim told me that."

  "Even Ibrahim could be mistaken."

  "What is happening out there? How long has it been since I was taken?" He turned to Geneviéve.

  "They came for me right after you went over to the donjon yesterday," she said, placing her plump hand on his chest. "Mother tried to stop them, but she could not."

  "What about my men?" His eyes gleamed in the dark. "What about Guillaume?" His voice dipped to a murmur. "He knows the other way into the donjon."

  Geneviéve patted his arm. "I do not know."

  "Maríana." His voice was barely a whisper. "Did you see Guillaume?"

  She wanted to give him hope. How could she tell him what she had seen? But his eyes were a steady, blue green flame. If he could bear the pain of a shoulder torn from his body, he could bear this. "I saw Guillaume's body outside the door. They could not retrieve it -- they told me they would bring the others in after night falls." She would not mention the red and black corpses still tied to the stake outside the door. She would not mention Johanna.

  "What happened?" His eyes were blank.

  "I am sorry, Father. Four men were killed trying to storm the donjon. Jean-Claude, Yves and Jean-Pierre, as well as Guillaume." She twisted the mantle in her fingers. "I came directly here after I spoke with Alys and Jeanne. I did not think to tell them of the other door." She had told no one what she planned to do. They would have stopped her.

  Louis-Philippe let out a long sigh. "All those men gone." His eyes grew dark. "Except for you and I, Guillaume was the only one there who knew of the other door."

  "There was no time for Mother to rouse your men when I was taken," Geneviéve said, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of her gown. Her lips stretched into a thin line. "Jean must have planned this carefully. Now, how badly are you hurt, beyond your shoulder?"

  "I'll survive," a grim smile twisted his face. "He stretched me on the rack a bit and... did some other things." His gaze caught Maríana's, slid away. "But I am otherwise intact."

  "Be still," Maríana motioned to her aunt and they turned him to his right side. "Hold his neck and chest with this hand, pin his hips with your leg." She positioned Geneviéve so Louis-Philippe was held still, immobilized. This should work. Geneviéve was heavy.

  Maríana shut her eyes. Her mere touch could not heal now. But if there were enough strength in her arms, she could ease her father's pain. With her hands, she probed the joint that bulged out in an unnatural lump at the juncture of Louis-Philippe's shoulder. Ibrahim had taught her battlefield healing. Though he had never fought in any battle, he had taught her this.

  Grasping Louis-Philippe's arm at the elbow, she felt for the proper balance, the correct angle. Shed pulled sharply, heard the swift intake of her father's breath, the hollow pop when the shoulder resettled, the long release of air from Louis-Philippe's throat. "You will not be able to use that arm for a while, but your strength will return. After a time." She smoothed the hair from his brow.

  He lay looking up at her. His words surprised her. "What did you hope to achieve, coming here?"

  "I came to barter for your lives."

  "Wh
atever do you have to barter?" The gentle amusement was back. Ibrahim would have said something like this. Tears formed in her eyes again.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "You sound like Ibrahim."

  "Do I?" he asked. "I miss him, too. But you have not answered me."

  She took his hands. "I have knowledge of something they want. I know where it is. I will not tell them how to find it until they have let you go."

  "And what is this thing they want?" He did not believe her, she could see that. She was looking upon the same shuttered mask that used to cloak his face when she was little.

  "It came down from the fortress of Montsegur during the siege," she said. He would not understand the other pieces to this puzzle. Her mother's family had never seemed to interest him.

  Geneviéve gasped. "Do you have it?" She grabbed Maríana's hands. "Is it safe?"

  How did Geneviéve know of this thing? "What I have is a cup," she said, noting the spark that flared in her aunt's eyes. "I have been told it is the cauldron of life."

  Her father's eyes widened. Her aunt's mouth dropped open. "I thought to trade it for you," Maríana said.

  HENRI HALTED his men when the sun went down. He did not like to make them travel through the night in rough terrain, but he was restless and anxious when they stopped to camp.

  Jean had moved so quickly. Henri paced before the fire, aware his men watched him uneasily. He needed to get back to see what was happening. His stomach roiled.

  He reached inside his pouch and felt around for his wooden blocks. No more wood. He pulled out his carving knife and gripped it in his hand. "Maybe I should just discard you, or give you away," he said to the knife.

  His men were watching him with alarm. "Henri is talking to that knife!" He heard their whispers, but could not summon the words to calm them.

  THE SHAVEN priest snapped his fingers and two of his soldiers removed Maríana from the cell she shared with her father and aunt. She looked into her captors' faces. They would not meet her eyes.

  Her father struggled to sit up. "Jean!" he shouted. "Take me!" Maríana scrutinized the thin bald-headed priest before her. So this was Jean. She recognized the glittering eyes, the full lips. This was Henri's Jean.

  Jean drew his lips back. "Ah, so soon? Later, perhaps." He made a gesture and his men pulled her into the torture chamber.

  "Tie her to the chair." Jean stood back while the men wound ropes around her arms, her waist. They moved slowly. The chamber was not large, yet she heard the echo of their motion, the scrape of rope against flesh. The dungeon was damp; the walls were sweating. Despair lay in a thick coat across the floor.

  She tried not to look at the table that stood against the far wall. Pieces of metal coated with blood were strewn across its surface.

  Hands grabbed her hair, pulled her head around. She looked into the eyes of the bald priest, this Jean. "Maríana de Reuilles," he said. "Why did you flee?"

  His men had already left. She was alone with him. Alone in this room that reeked of fear. "Why did you come back?" he was asking her.

  There was something in his eyes. He wanted to hurt her, wanted it badly, but something was stopping him. "The bishop wants me unharmed," she said. She did not know this for sure; it might be a mistake to say it. The pits of his eyes darkened. He drew back.

  "What is it, what is it?" He was muttering. "What are they after?"

  She straightened in the chair. They had not told him what they sought? "You could have it for yourself," she said.

  He moved in, the rank puff of his breath fouled her nostrils. "What is it?"

  "First, you must let my father and aunt leave here," she said, when she saw the spark flare behind his eyes, adding, "alive and whole."

  "You think I must do something?" He looked down his nose at her, then leaned in again. "No, you will tell me everything you know." He touched the ropes, but did not touch her skin.

  He moved over to the table. "Tell me, Maríana de Reuilles," he approached her, carrying an iron box, a vise of some sort, "what was it like, having Henri de Bauçais between your thighs?"

  She jumped. He placed the vise on the floor next to her left foot. He twisted the screw to open the vise, then wound a cloth around his hand before he touched her foot. "I want to know everything."

  "You won't get anything from me this way." Was he afraid to touch her? No, that was not it. She saw the way his lip curled when he looked at her. She disgusted him.

  Could she use this? Probably not. Jean knelt before her, his hands on the vise. Sweat spread in broad patches across the bodice of her gown, slipped down her thighs. "The Bishop will not like it if you hurt me."

  "You think so?" His lips stretched in the parody of a smile. "You do not know Durand. But you will know me." He fit the vise over her foot and turned the screw. Once. Then another turn.

  Two of her toes snapped. She heard the sound before the fire ran up her leg and made her gag. He was watching her face. She was sure she must have screamed, too. The sound still rang in her ears. He did not move now. One of his hands hovered over the screw. The other was pressed against his loins.

  "You will tell me everything," he said.

  HIS SQUIRE stood before him. "Baron de Bauçais," the boy said. "We know you want to get back to the château."

  Henri nodded, his fingers playing over the hilt of his knife.

  "We do not want to wait." The boy was watching his eyes. Did they all think he was mad? "So we were wondering if we could continue, go on to the château tonight." Here the boy made a gesture. It was a gesture Henri himself often made, a half shrug accompanied by a lifting of the left brow.

  Henri leaned back. Robert had been his page first, then his squire, had been with him for years. Was this what would it be like to have a son? To have your own gestures cast back at you? "We must eat first, of course," the boy continued.

  "Of course." Henri dampened his smile. Robert was so earnest, Henri did not want to show his amusement. It might belittle the boy. He tucked his knife into his belt, nestled it in the small pouch that rested there. "Very well," he said, rising and dusting off his breeches. "We shall ride out within the hour."

  A COLD LIGHT shone on his face. Richard blinked, then turned his head. A boy sat next to a rough window, the shutters thrown wide open to the night. An owl hooted and the dark moistness of deep forest sent fetid and rank fragrance toward him. His mouth was filled with a bitter paste. When he moved his head, the room spun. He tried to sit up, grunted in surprise as his hands pulled against ropes that bound him to the bed he lay upon. "What?" His right leg throbbed, but his left foot was on fire. He looked over to the window again. It was Marc who sat there, looking out into the darkness.

  "Where is Maríana!" Richard struggled against his bonds again, stopped when the fire in his left foot crawled up his leg. "Why am I bound?" He strained, loosened the rope that held his left hand. "Marc!"

  Marc turned toward him. The boy's face floated in the shadows, a pale skull with hollow eyes. "It is too late," he said. He turned back to the window.

  "Marc! What is wrong?" He had broken his leg, hadn't he? They must have set it. It was splinted, and it looked straight. He remembered this pain, the deep fire-laced ache of a broken bone. It seemed duller than it should be, the paste in his mouth must be some plant Maríana had given him. But where was she?

  His left foot went rigid. Something was crushing it. "Damn!" he cried, breath puffing through his teeth. "It was my right leg that broke, yes?" Marc turned to him, his large green eyes haunted.

  "Yes, your right leg."

  "Then why does my left foot hurt so much?"

  Marc rose and came over to him. "You stubborn fool! You should have made your peace with her while you could," he said through his teeth. "You cut yourself off from her, but she is in your blood. You cannot shut out her pain." He held his hands over his ears. "Can't you hear her?"

  Marc shivered, moved over to the window. "Maríana," he cried. "Leave your body, go aw
ay for a while! I cannot stand any more of this!" He slumped forward.

  "Marc, what are you saying? Where is Maríana?" Richard worked stealthily at the knots.

  "She was taken." Marc's voice was barely a whisper. "It started around sunset. They are torturing her." He turned around, stared in dismay at Richard standing before him. Richard swayed; the young man caught him and pushed back onto the bed. "I promised her I would see you safely back to the valley," he growled. "And that is what I will do. If I have to hit you over the head, I will."

  Richard looked into the boy's eyes. Marc could not do this. The boy's face quivered. "I am going after her," Richard said. Using his arms, he heaved himself up off the bed, balanced on one leg. "Good splint." He turned to see the anguish in the boy's eyes. "I will need a staff." Marc lowered his head. "I could go get one myself," Richard patted the boy's shoulder, "but it would be faster if you got one for me." He looked away, gave Marc time to compose himself.

  "I will cut one for you," Marc said.

  Richard stood at the door of the wooden hut and watched Marc's gangling figure disappear into the forest. Maríana was not dead. She was not dead. The owl sent its call out across the treetops again, powerful wings beat in measured cadence. Not dead.

  Chapter 43

  MARÍANA was floating in darkness. A voice kept whispering, asking her questions. It grew louder, cracked and shattered. Somewhere someone screamed, then was silent. The silence pressed against her. Then, light -- light that was all colors, and no color-drifted across her lids. She blinked. It was the singing light of the Door.

  "Close your eyes, Mother," she heard a boy's voice say.

  Maríana put her hands over her eyes, forced the lids down. "How can I see with no eyes, hear with no ears?" she sighed. "I have done as you asked. What eyes I have are closed now. I can no longer see the light."

  "It will not be long," the boy's voice spoke again.

  Shredded muscle and crushed bone sent their promise of agony to her now. No. She did not want this. But there was something she must do. Some task she must complete. The pain grew, cramped her belly. She fought against the bile that flooded her mouth.