"I know it hurts, Mother." The boy was speaking again. Why did he call her mother? "But you must go back. Your father needs you and Richard needs you." There was a short pause, then the voice continued, "I need you."
"Who are you?" Maríana asked. She did not want to go back. All she needed to do was open her eyes to the light and step into its welcoming beacon.
"I am to be your son. My name is Daniel," the boy whispered, then faded and disappeared.
Maríana opened her eyes briefly to see Jean's men around her. She closed her eyes again and shook when strong hands removed the vise from her foot. Someone lifted her. She held her sleeve against her mouth when someone grasped her foot. The pressure on it, the searing agony went on and on. Just when she had bitten all the way through the fabric of her sleeve, the pain stopped, slipped into a throbbing fire. But this, she could bear.
"Did you get what you were after from her?" The voice sounded northern. She opened her eyes again. It was the man who had taken the length of silk from her when she first entered the donjon. He was speaking to Jean, but his voice was nearly a sneer.
Maríana kept her eyes half-closed, glancing at the other men in the room. Something dangerous flared from their eyes. They were not looking at her. They were glaring at Jean. He was sweating. His robe was plastered to his skin. How long had she been in the torture chamber? Had she told him where the cup was?
"Never mind. This does not concern you." Jean waved his hands. "Just take her away." His shoulders were bent. Had she told him anything? He seemed to want to know about Henri. She remembered his questions, remembered telling him of her time with Henri, the feel of Henri's skin, the pressure of his thighs on her when he took her. When she told Jean that, a strangled growl had sounded in his throat. He had turned the screw three cruel twists. Blood had pumped in a scarlet river out of the vise, she remembered this. Mercifully, she had fainted.
The man who carried her held her gently. He climbed the stairs slowly, took her weight with his whole body, jostled her very little. Someone had carefully wrapped her foot; she could see the white cloth.
THE CELL DOOR creaked open. Louis-Philippe tried to crawl to where Jean's man was gently placing Maríana. Geneviéve held his arm, whispered, "Patience."
"Savages!" Louis-Philippe spit through his teeth when the man put her foot on the floor. Maríana knotted her fists and held them against her mouth. The man put a blanket over her. He had the length of silk that had covered the chalice tied around his arm.
When the men left, Louis-Philippe came to her and gripped her hands. "The iron boot," he said, tears filling in his eyes. "Ibrahim," he cried. "My daughter needs you now."
"Shhh." Geneviéve stilled his cries with her hand. "Let her remain unconscious."
"I am awake." Maríana looked up into her father's anguished face.
"Maríana," said Geneviéve, her voice steady, "we have nothing for you, no plants to take away your pain. Is there anything that we can do?"
"Talk to me." She could bear the pain. But she knew the foot was gone. It was crushed beyond all repair and would probably summon the green fever that would kill her. "Talk to me."
Louis-Philippe moved closer, settled her head in his lap. "I will stay with you. But you are an idiot, you know." His hand moved in her hair as he looked down at her. How many years had she wanted this, just to have her father know she was alive? "You should have stayed in your mother's valley." He stroked her forehead. "Now you will die."
"My mother survived worse than this. She only died when..."
"I know how she died," he said, his face smoothed of all expression. "Ibrahim told me he killed her before they could burn her." Maríana saw his chin, the way his throat was working. Yet all he said was, "Did you tell them where the cup is?"
"I don't know, I think not." I am sorry, Father. I cannot save us. It was foolish to think that I could." The fire in her foot pulsed. "Talk to me, please."
"What can I say?"
"Tell me about Ibrahim." Her teeth started to chatter. How much blood had she lost? "How long were you together?"
He seemed startled; she saw his eyes dart to the door of their cell. "We were not really together until years after your mother died." His voice was low; she had to strain to hear him.
"What?" Now it was her turn to be startled.
He shifted position, looked down at her. "Maríana, I left the château after you were born. Ibrahim and I did not join." He stopped, then continued, "It was four years after your mother died when we, when we..." His hand lifted, sketched an arc.
"But I thought..."
He shook his head. "You knew Ibrahim. Thérèse was his greatest love." Light from the single torch threw the planes of her father's face into a dance of shadows. "Thérèse wanted me to go away when you were born. I was happy to oblige. I was jealous, you see." He smoothed her hair. "I could not stand to see them together."
"See who together?" She pulled the blanket to her chin. Blood seeped from the bandage they had made. She could feel it pooling around her foot.
He was silent for a long moment. The rhythm of his breath shifted, grew shallow, then deepened again. "I would have thought he would tell you. Ibrahim and your mother were lovers. He often said he thought you could be his." His eyes closed. "I went away to Marseilles and stayed there for two years, but I was so lonely." The last was whispered. He would not look at her. "Many times I went out and tried to buy love from the young men who sold their bodies so that they could eat, so that they could live." His hand stilled. "It was not the same. Most of the time I just paid them to hold me so I could sleep." He opened his eyes now, looked down at her foot. "I wish Ibrahim was here now so that he could make your pain disappear!"
"Not even Ibrahim could do that," she said. "Father, you are telling me such things..." She reached up, touched his face.
"We are going to die, petite." He allowed her touch. "Ibrahim will be so angry with me. I have not kept you safe." His breath caught.
"Tell me more. Please."
At first, she thought he would not speak. But he continued, "I returned to the château after the two years had passed and asked Ibrahim to choose between us, between your mother and me. I wanted him to choose me, but he would not have me even then." He stroked her hair again. "I was mad with jealousy. Everywhere I turned I saw them together! Oh, they no longer shared the same bed as they had when I was gone, but they were always together in the gardens."
"What happened?"
"You mean, he did not tell you?" His hands froze, fingers tangled in her hair.
"Tell me what?"
He was silent for so long she thought he had decided to stop speaking altogether. Then his body shook with another long sigh, and he said, "I called the priests to come to the château. Called them to come for Thérèse."
"What?" She could hardly draw a breath, and shrank away from him. He lifted his hands, yet he did not let her slide off his lap.
"Maríana." Just her name, but spoken with such raw grief. She lifted her eyes to his face. He had not retreated. His face was naked, sorrowing.
"Tell me," she whispered.
"If I could not have what I wanted, then he would not, either." He leaned his head back again; she could not see his eyes. His voice was hard, bitter. "I did not name your mother as a witch, but that did not matter. The priests came and they told me they had heard of Ibrahim. He was a Saracen, yes? Well, at that time, they were looking for Saracens."
Now Geneviéve reached forward, grasped his shirt. "Brother," she said. "You do not have to do this."
Her father glanced at his sister. "I thought Ibrahim had told her."
"Ibrahim would not do such a thing." Geneviéve said.
Louis-Philippe closed his eyes. "No," he said. "I suppose not. He always pestered me to tell her. Ah, what does it matter?" He wiped at the wet tracks on Maríana's face. When had she started to cry?
"This will be my confession," he said. "I will not die unshriven."
"Father..."<
br />
He grabbed the fingers she held up, placed them against his lips.
"I had not expected them to want Ibrahim. And I thought Thérèse would leave, that she would run away when they came. But she stayed. She stayed." His voice grew faint; Maríana strained to listen. "I would not let them have my Ibrahim! Guillaume bound him and hid him in the tunnel. The priests were still there. They would have taken the château apart, stone by stone, to find him." He stopped speaking, but continued to stroke her hair. "Johanna had sent a message to the King, to ask for his help. But that would take time; I knew this." Maríana's father looked down at her. "So I gave them your mother."
She could not speak.
"I watched as they took Thérèse away. She was always stubborn!" Now the hint of a smile. "You are like her, I think. I begged her to recant her heresy and accept the cross, but she would not do this." His voice was growing ragged. He coughed. "Even Johanna could not convince her. They dragged your mother from the donjon in the middle of the night so that the town would not rise up against them."
His breath was catching in his throat now. "Oh, there were those who were afraid and those who sought to gain from the presence of the priests, but when it became known that they were really going to take her, that they would burn her, the people who had spoken against her changed their statements. She healed people in Reuilles-la-ville, you see." He looked down. "Much like you."
"And then?" She was surprised that her voice was so steady.
"My mother had Guillaume set Ibrahim free after Thérèse had been taken away." His lips twisted. "I started drinking after they took Thérèse and did not stop until I was nearly dead from it. My mother removed the wine from my room and cleaned me up. Then she told me what she had done, that Ibrahim had been set free. It was as much for our safety as it was for his. When the priests were through with your mother, they came back, looking for him."
Maríana could see his throat working, the steady clenching wave as he swallowed. "Ibrahim left without even saying good-bye. It was a year before he came back. He stood before me and told me that he wanted to kill me. I told him to go ahead, I would not stop him. But he had taken an oath, had promised your mother he would not harm me. I told him he already had hurt me more than anyone ever could. Since he could not have the satisfaction of killing me, I told him I would give him anything he wanted."
"Anything." She looked up at him. New lines marked his face, and the hair at his temples had turned white. "What did he want?"
"He wanted to study healing at Montpelier." Louis-Philippe's grimace was a shadow of the wide grin she remembered whenever he spoke of Ibrahim. "So I sent him there." He shook his head. "And he came back to me! Well, he came back as Jacques. A new name for a new person. A physician. I could not believe my eyes when I saw him. He could have gone anywhere, but he chose to come back here!" His eyes misted. "Well, you were here. He always loved you."
"Yes." Even death had not stopped him. Ibrahim had helped her escape. Now laughter trembled her throat. Here she was again. In the donjon.
"Is the pain worse?" His voice was sharp with alarm.
She looked up, saw her father's eyes search her face. "No. I was just remembering Ibrahim."
"I never stop remembering."
"What happened?"
"I sent him away to the palace I had built. I thought he would get lonely and come to me."
"Did he?"
"That very night." He stroked her forehead, smoothing the wrinkle pain had placed there. "He came to me and said that we were both to blame for what had happened, if he had not come to the château after I married Thérèse she might still be alive. So, he forgave me. He was lonely, too."
Silence now. And peace. The torch sputtered. Somewhere above angry voices warred. But the door to the dungeon remained shut. It would not always be so. They would return to inflict more pain. But the peace spread, settled over her.
Such a gift her father had given her, this gift of truth. They were to die, yes, but he had not needed to tell her this. Louis-Philippe de Reuilles did not fear death. Everyone knew that. She had known this all her life. Her father had gone to mass, but she did not believe he feared to die unshriven. Maríana looked up at his face, the proud, high brow, the shadow of whiskers along his cheeks. She had her own gift to give. "He loved you, Father."
Louis-Philippe jumped. "What?" He swallowed.
"It is true. I have his red book."
"Oh, that! I have seen that. Why do you say this about him? There is nothing in there that says anything like that." His voice cracked.
"It is in the back." She took his hand. "I am having Iranzu translate it. If we get out of here you must come to our valley." Now there were tears in her father's whiskers. "He did not stay at the château just for me, just for his promise to my mother."
Louis-Philippe took her hand and held it against his mouth. "Ibrahim," he whispered.
The door to the dungeon opened. Jean marched over to the bars of their cell. His robe no longer clung to his skin.
Louis-Philippe's hands tightened. "If he comes in here," he whispered, "I will try to take him."
Jean stood for a moment, watching them. His whole body trembled; Maríana could see his robe quivering.
"I have been speaking with my soldiers." His voice shook, too. "One of them was at Montsegur." He pointed at Maríana. "I know what it is you have, now. And you will give it to me!"
Chapter 44
THE SKY WAS still dark when he approached the gate. Henri held out his arm to stop his men. No guards here, at this hour? The gate was fully open. He hardly breathed as his men drew up behind him, their horses' hooves clattering upon the stone pavement under the arch. He held his arm up to signal for silence, and they all sat there on their steaming horses. No sounds, not even the scrabbling of fowl in their pens. He exhaled slowly, then turned back to his men.
"I will ride in," he whispered. "There may be an explanation for this, but I think it is best that we proceed with caution." He removed his mantle, his white silk cross glimmered in the starlight. If Jean's men had taken the château, this tunic might save his skin. He only hoped that Louis-Philippe's men would recognize him. An arrow in the chest, from either side, was not part of his plan. He urged his horse forward into the bailey.
The cloying, sticky scent of charred flesh assaulted him as he rode in. He knew the smell, but he could not believe this, that Jean would disobey des Arcis. His horse clattered to a stop in front of the donjon. He stared at two blackened forms hanging from a stake placed at the base of the steps.
"Who are you?" An angry exclamation sounded from above. Glancing up at the ramparts, Henri saw the red and white banner of the Inquisition and three of Jean's soldiers, their arrows aimed directly at his heart.
"I am the Baron of Bauçais," he answered, putting stern authority into his voice. "I have just come from Bishop Durand with orders to replace Jean Becier."
"Liar!" Henri heard the outraged retort and saw the arrow fly at the same time. He dropped to the far side of his mount when he saw the man's fingers release it, but the arrow caught his right arm below the shoulder as he slipped behind his horse. Hanging over the side, he urged his mount to a gallop. Two more arrows narrowly missed him as he sped toward the safety of the palais.
His men followed, galloping after him across the area of the bailey that was within shooting distance of the donjon. He held his breath again. Three arrows pierced two of the horses, one went down screaming, but the man on it rolled away, leaped to his feet and sprinted to the shelter of the palais. The other horse staggered, reared. "Give me cover!" Henri shouted, running toward the horse. It was Robert. The boy had done well, slipping over the far side of his steed. But the horse was in pain, Robert could not control it. Henri sped toward him, heard the whisper of his own men's arrows fly past him as he grabbed the bridle of Robert's horse, dragged the boy from the saddle. Tucking Robert under his arm, he dashed toward the palais. Another arrow struck his foot, glanced off the leathe
r. He reached the wall that hid them from the tower, dropped Robert to the ground. "Are you all right, boy?" He saw Robert's shaky nod.
Henri turned, counted the men standing in front of the palais. All six of them made it. Cradling his arm, he nodded toward the door to the great hall. "I want three of you to stand close to the wall on the right side, and three on the left. Draw your swords." As the ring of metal against leather echoed in the bailey, Henri mounted the steps and raised his hand. "If I give this signal," he flexed his fingers, "go in swinging." He lifted his hand and knocked.
"Who is there?" It sounded like Arnaut.
"Henri de Bauçais," he answered. The door swung open at once, golden light from the hearth spilling out of the door and into the night.
"Baron de Bauçais! Thank God!" Then Arnaut fell silent when he saw the arrow in Henri's arm.
Henri set his teeth. "I could have been anyone claiming to be the Baron of Bauçais! You should have asked for proof before opening the door!"
Arnaut blanched. "Pardon!"
Henri waved at him. "Never mind." He moved through the door and into the palais, his men following behind. "Where is de Reuilles?"
His first-in-command, Marcel, pushed Henri into a chair, placed a cloth in his mouth. "Bite on this," Marcel said.
Henri nodded. He had felt the swift slicing of the arrow when it hit, then had nearly forgotten it was there. Now the pain radiated to his chest. Marcel was probing the flesh around it. Henri's teeth ground into the cloth. "What are you doing? Pushing it farther in?" His words were ignored, swallowed by the cloth in his mouth. Marcel took his chin, turned his head back, waved the bloody arrow in his hand. Robert was winding an ale-soaked bandage around his arm.
"Didn't hit the bone," Marcel said.
Henri spit the cloth out. "Where is Louis-Philippe?" he asked again.
"They took him." Arnaut gulped. "He is in the donjon with Geneviéve and Maríana."
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