Henri's arms shook. He stared at Jean, at the dismembered body on the ground. Then he lifted his head and his gaze settled upon Maríana. He stumbled toward her, went down on his knees.
Her foot was gone. Splintered bone and pulped flesh. Nothing could save it, but he could save her life. He must take her away, soon. The foot should be cleaned and bound. Maríana would know how to treat it. He would have his men do her bidding. She might not walk again, but what did that matter? He could make a special chamber for her in his château, in Bauçais. She would sit there all day, watch the sea from her window, listen to their children at play outside. He touched her face. "Maríana," he breathed. "Maríana."
"Henri." She took the sleeve of her gown, dabbed at the cut on his palm. "We thank you for our lives." Her hand dropped. "I thank you."
He took her right hand, held it between his. "We will bind your foot," he said. "And use a wagon."
"A wagon?"
"To Bauçais. You will not have to ride." He glanced up at the stairs. His men and the young knights of Reuilles-le-château were to follow him after they had taken the rest of Jean's soldiers. They would be here soon. "I have six men, and Robert, of course." He lifted her hand to his lips. "We will protect you." He looked into her face.
Her eyes held his, would not let his break away. "No, Henri." Was this his Maríana? The iron in her voice filled the dungeon. Her foot was nothing more than a piece of meat with bones poking through. Yet she sat with back straight, eyes level. "I will not go with you," she said.
Chapter 45
RICHARD'S right arm ached, from the pit of his shoulder all the way to his fingers. As for his leg, well, it was becoming more difficult to ignore the grinding spasm that flared in a splintered burst whenever he forgot and leaned on it. But Maríana and Marc's makeshift splint held his leg straight and took most of his weight. He was almost there.
Fingers of pearl and rose streaked the sky, chased away the night. Birds were starting their dawn chatter; finches and sparrows darted in the treetops around him. He could see the iron gray walls of Reuilles-le-château below.
Richard leaned against the trunk of a beech. He had made Marc wait at the winter hut, and hobbled alone through the dark down the track that led to Reuilles-le-château. Most of the way, he sat, grasping the splints that kept his leg straight, and slid down the path, inching along on his behind. If he struck a rock or large branch with his broken leg, he would not be able to continue. But he had made it; he was here. Richard glanced back at the mountain, at the slope he had come down. How he would get back up there was a puzzle that would have to wait.
Maríana was alive. He could feel her. Pulling his staff under his armpit, he limped away from the tree and toward the château.
The gate stood open and the inner bailey teemed with people. It looked like all of Reuilles-le-château: servants, knights, squires, pages; all of them stood or sat in front of the palais. Richard hobbled across the stones, looking from the stables to the garden, from the palais to the donjon. He froze at the sight of bodies upon the ground, counted four dressed in the livery of de Reuilles. The rest wore the red silk and white crosses of the church.
Where was she? He moved forward, oak staff tapping, right leg dragging against the stones, then stopped, drew in his breath. Bauçais stood there in front of the donjon. Men also dressed in the red silk and white crosses of the church huddled around him. Henri's right hand was bound in a bloody cloth. He was listening to one of the men.
Richard limped toward Henri. He did not notice the people in his way, did not hear their words of complaint as he shoved past them. He stopped in front of Henri. "Where is she?"
HENRI LOOKED up into brown-black eyes. Eyes that bored into him, that demanded. He was young, this man. A long face, good bones, a strong chin. The eyes were tilted, set in an almond slant above high cheekbones. There was the blood of a Saracen there, somewhere. The brows tipped as well, but were now drawn in a black line to the furrow between. Henri settled back on his heels. He knew this man. But how? "Whom do you seek?" Was he looking for his mother, or his sweetheart?
"Maríana."
Henri's heart stilled. Yes. He knew this man. His hands reached by themselves, made for the man's throat. Yet the man did not flinch, did not fall back.
Hands grabbed him and held him fast. Henri made a single sound of protest, then fell silent. Marcel and Georges held him. Marcel had thrown his right arm across Henri's chest. "Bauçais," Marcel said. "Who is this?"
Henri stared into the eyes. "Richard de la Guerche," he said.
"NIECE," GENEVIÉVE whispered to Maríana. "Where is it?" She nervously surveyed the crowd of people, the men who were removing the bodies of Utarilla and Ysabel for burial. "Where is the cup?"
"I have hidden it," Maríana said. She sat on the blanket Alys had placed in the sunlight and looked at her foot. They would never be able to get all of the dirt off it. It had dragged in the filth of the dungeon. "Boiling water," she whispered.
Geneviéve regarded her for a moment, her eyes wide, then laughed. "Why do you want boiling water?"
Maríana swallowed and hoped she could stand the pain. "It is the only thing we can do. The heat of the water will kill any of the evil left in my wound."
Geneviéve took her hands. "There is no need to do this," she said. "My husband was a Cathar..."
They heard angry voices. Henri's men were holding him. Geneviéve said, "Why, is that young de la Guerche?"
Richard heard Geneviéve call his name. He turned away from Henri and looked for Geneviéve. Beside her, seated on a blanket, was Maríana. He stumbled away from the knot of men, limped and hobbled in a lopsided run. A wordless shout behind him did not slow his pace. The oak staff fell from his hands, crashed down upon the stones. He hopped the final steps, sank to the ground and buried his head in Maríana's lap. He felt her fingers in his hair, her lips against the back of his neck.
HENRI LOOKED at Marcel, at Georges. "You can release me."
"He is unarmed." Marcel was uncertain. "And injured."
Henri let his arms fall. "I know." The two men freed him stepped back.
He watched as Maríana bent toward de la Guerche, laughing and crying at the same time, holding the young man's face between her hands. Then de la Guerche was looking at her foot, his face pale, his lips set in a furious line. Henri closed his eyes.
When he opened them, Richard sat behind her, holding her shoulders as her aunt probed the wound. Geneviéve was speaking intently to Maríana; her eyes darted to Henri. Geneviéve crossed the stones to where he stood in front of the donjon.
"Baron de Bauçais," she said. "My niece needs your help."
"I have already helped her, yes?" He wanted to look away, but could not. His gut twisted when Richard wound his arms around her, put his lips to her neck. Geneviéve snapped her fingers in front of his eyes.
"You are a knight, as well as a baron?" She waited.
He sighed. "What does Maríana want?"
A CUP. HENRI rested on his knees before the grave marker of the Moor. Maríana wanted a cup. He plunged his hands into the soil, let the dirt trickle through his fingers. She had buried the cup here, in the grave of her friend.
When Geneviéve made her request, Henri had turned to his men, to ask one of them to fetch this cup. They were no longer around him and could not be found. It was curious. He had given Geneviéve his best courtly bow, then strode to the garden. Here he was. Digging for a cup.
He had lost his love, his Maríana, to a Breton knight with a broken leg. The church would hunt him to the ends of the earth. Durand's men were no doubt on their way to Reuilles-le-château. Yet, here he was, rooting around in the soil for a cup.
He took a stick he had twisted off a bush nearby and dragged it through the earth. It snagged on something. Settling back on his heels, he stared at the lump he had uncovered. How far down had they buried Ibrahim? He did not want to disturb the man's final rest. He reached forward and grabbed the lump, wresting it f
rom the ground.
It was a cup. He brushed the dirt away. A stone cup. But it could not be used for drinking. A rock was wedged inside. Now this was too much. Geneviéve had told him to put water from the pond in it and bring it to Maríana. He pulled at the rock, felt it give. Turning the cup upside down, he gave it three powerful shakes. The rock fell out onto the dirt. Where it disappeared.
"What?" Had he really seen the rock make a wiggling descent into the earth? His fingers had locked around the cup. He tried to pry them free as he rose to his feet and lifted his eyes. He saw the rearing mountain, the jagged walls of Montsegur, saw the cage of smoking embers at its base. Saw the blue-robed old man walking toward him.
HENRI KNELT before Maríana, looking as he had in the old days, before she had fled. His russet mantle and red silk tunic were the same, his beautiful, stern face was the same, but his words were different. He was uncertain.
"You could still come with me," he said, "I am the lord of Bauçais. I am a soldier of the king. I could make a petition to Louis for your safety." He held the cup in his hand. Water filled it to the top.
Richard stood several paces away; she felt his eyes on her. When she told Richard of Henri's rescue, of how he had fought the Inquisitor, something had flared deep in Richard's eyes: regret, envy, jealousy, shame. He had limped over to Geneviéve when Henri came out of the garden.
Now she sat back, looked up at Henri's face. "How long would it take, Henri? What would happen if a dear friend of yours fell ill, or a cousin, or even one of our children? Would you have me stand by and watch while someone died? Someone that I could have saved? Would you have me turn away? No, Henri. The Inquisition is right about me. It is me: I am the threat, and everything I represent." He held up his hands to stop her words, but she continued, "There is no place in your world for someone like me."
Henri took her hands in his. "You probably would not be safe there, anyway," he finally said. "Another baron or even a duke I could fight and vanquish, but, the church?" He shook his head.
"What will you do?"
"I am not sure," he replied. "Would you have me go with you to your valley?" He regarded her warily.
Maríana shook her head. "They may accept you there, but you must understand that I am with Richard. I..."
He placed his fingers upon her lips, stopping her words. "Please don't say anymore," he said, his face drawn. "I don't want to know." He looked away, trying to compose himself. "My life used to be simple. I had no ties to anything. I could serve whomever I chose. I had everything I thought I wanted, but I was dead inside."
He gave her his rare smile. "What can I tell you, Maríana? You brought me back to life. I will never go back to what I was." He studied his bandaged hand. "I don't believe in your powers, Maríana, I never did. You are an adept healer, I will grant you that, but magic? I cannot accept that, but I will always love you."
She stroked the palm of his injured hand. "You could go back to Bauçais, as you said."
"No." A shadowy grin. "I went against the direct orders of the bishop. I waylaid and trussed a Soldier of Christ. I killed an Inquisitor." His grin grew even wider. "I do not think that I will be going back there."
"You have not asked about our..." she stopped.
"About the baby?" He looked down. "Jean's men found her up on the mountain, by the oak tree at the top of the rise before the slope steepens." His cheek rippled as he clenched his teeth.
Her breath caught. "Henri, I am sorry!"
"So am I." He looked to where Richard stood. "I buried her next to Ibrahim."
"Henri." Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand.
Geneviéve approached them. "Ah, very good Baron de Bauçais," she said. "You found it."
He looked down at the cup. "This is a strange piece. For a moment there, in the garden..." His eyes misted. "I think it set me dreaming."
Geneviéve took it and held it above her head. The disc of the sun rimmed the sides of the cup. "What are you doing?" Henri demanded.
"Only what needs to be done." Geneviéve flipped back the cloth that covered Maríana's foot and held the cup over it.
"Geneviéve!" Maríana snatched for the cup. She was not ready for the pain, the shock of cold water against her foot. She needed boiling water to cleanse her wound. She could not go through this twice.
Henri shouted, leaped to his feet, trying to grab the cup. "No!" he said. "You will hurt her."
Richard hobbled to her side and reached for Geneviéve's hand.
Too late. The water streamed down over Maríana's foot, covering it. Her head went back; her eyes squeezed shut. Breath whistled in through her teeth. But after the first shock, she felt no more pain. She opened her eyes and saw Henri glaring at Geneviéve.
"Why?" he asked. Geneviéve pointed at Maríana's foot.
Henri looked down, shouted, "My God!"
Richard dropped beside her, grabbing her arms as if he could draw her away from the writhing ferment that coiled from her ankle to her toes. She had toes again. She could see them, tiny bones dancing into place, knitting together, muscles around them weaving, growing, taking shape. Blue and red vessels whipped among the bone and muscle. Then a translucent pink veil, moist and soft, covered the muscle and bone. Now pale skin grew over the veil, clean and firm, until there was only a gaping wound the length of the foot. And it stopped.
Someone was choking. Maríana looked up to see Henri, arms jammed under his ribs, his eyes wild, mouth working. She feared he would fall, that some fit had taken him, but he looked into her eyes, reached forward and grabbed her hands.
"What? What?" His eyes were blank with shock.
"My husband was a Cathar." Geneviéve answered him. Henri flinched, then stared at the cup. "This is the sacred chalice that his people had at Montsegur." She wrapped her hands around it and smiled. "My husband told me it would heal all wounds and sickness," she said. "Sickness of the body -- and sickness of the soul."
It was painful to watch, this struggle. Henri was badly shaken, his face blanched, lips nearly white. Maríana wanted to help him, yet how could she? He had never accepted her magic, had never believed in anything beyond what his own senses told him. Now he was unraveling before her eyes.
Richard leaned to her ear. "Give him the cup," he whispered.
No. It could not be. She had planned to give the cup to her father. Louis-Philippe had no powers, yet he had respected Ibrahim's learning, her magic. Henri believed in nothing at all.
Except honor. She watched the color return to his face. Honor had led him to kick over the traces, to put his own life in danger.
"Take it, Henri." Maríana beckoned and her aunt placed the cup into her hands. Maríana offered it to Henri.
"Why am I afraid? It is only an old cup." He tried to reach for it, but his hands fell back. "I am not worthy." His voice was low and distraught. "My ignorance and the words I wrote sent more than two hundred people to the flames."
He backed away from Maríana. "I am afraid. If what I saw is real, then my whole life has been in error. Everything I believe, every battle I have fought. How can I start from the beginning?" He stared at the ground. "How can I remake my whole world?"
Richard took the cup from her and struggled to his feet. "You are a knight," he said. "This is your quest." He held the cup out to Henri.
Henri backed away. "Quest?"
"To remake your world." Richard remained where he stood, leaning on his oak staff, the cup proffered. "To take this back to where it belongs."
Maríana gasped. She had not told Richard that the cup must go back to its source. How had he known?
Henri was inching toward Richard. "How will I know where it belongs?"
"You must listen."
Henri received the cup in his hands. He stood in the shadow of the palais, yet light covered him, bathed him.
Maríana looked around the bailey. Everyone was still. Many were kneeling. Then Henri spoke. "I will take it."
"WELL, BAUÇAIS. Are you back among the living?" Louis-Philippe's voice jarred him.
Henri looked up. Louis-Philippe stood in front of him. Maríana was finishing a loose sling, winding it around her father's left arm. Over by the tower, Henri's men were wrapping shrouds around the bodies of the pope's soldiers they had killed. People gathered in small groups, talking and watching Henri's men. Henri had told them he had been acting under his own orders. They were free to return to Carcasonne. He had given the fake orders to Marcel. But none of them wanted to return to the bishop. They would all go back to their homes. Marcel agreed to free Pierre, but only after Henri had left the château.
Henri watched Louis-Philippe gather Maríana into his arms. "I am not going with you, petite," he whispered to her.
Maríana was startled. "But why? Iranzu has said you are welcome." Her lips made a stubborn line. "If you stay here, they will torture you again."
Louis-Philippe nodded. "I know and I am not staying here." He smoothed her hair away from her brow. "But I cannot go to your valley with you. You see, I cannot face Adelie yet. She knows that I was responsible for her sister's death. Perhaps later, when all this," he gestured around the courtyard at the bodies, "has passed, I will have the courage to face her." He hugged Maríana. "I plan to come back, in time. So I shall see you again."
"I had hoped to show you Ibrahim's book."
He shrugged. "Later for that, too." He grinned. "For now, it is enough to know of his feelings for me."
Henri stood rubbing his side. Their words confused him. Who was Adelie? The prickling in his ribs grew. He had tucked the cup into his belt so that it rested against his waist. Now he shifted it. Perhaps he should wrap something around it, more layers of cloth might mute its force.
"Henri." Maríana had come over to stand at his left side. He turned to her. "You must leave soon." She hesitated. "They want my father, of course, but they will really want to find you. You were one of them -- they cannot forgive that."
Door in the Sky Page 51
