"If you are well enough to join us for dinner, young woman, you can ask all the questions you want then," he said.
Madelon allowed him to lead her along the corridor and up another flight of stairs which brought them onto the battlements. Not until they came to the edge of the wall, did he release her arm and point down into the valley.
"There's the village. Can you see it on the edge of the trees?"
Madelon peered down. She could just make out the river and a few white blotches amid the dark green foliage of the forest. Her eyes swept over the gorge on the far side of them and she felt everything begin to reel around her. Heights had never appealed to her and the sight of the terrifying drop was making her feel faint.
"Don't look down," Valentin said sharply. When she swayed back from the edge he slid an arm around her waist and drew her against him. "Look beyond the mountains and tell me what you see."
"The - the sun's shining on something near that other range of mountains. It must be many miles away."
"Those are the towers of the minarets of Toledo. The town is built on a rocky bluff almost as high as these mountains. To the right of it is Telhan, but that's on much lower ground. What did Teresa say to upset you?"
His question was so unexpected Madelon could only stare at him in silence.
"There was envy on your face," Valentin said. "Why? What could you with your great beauty begrudge poor little Teresa? Certainly not her looks - or her clothes - or her surroundings even. At times this place is a mausoleum for a young, high-spirited girl. What put that look of desperate longing into your eyes, Madelon?"
She hardly realized he had used her first name so intimately. Her whole being cried out against confiding her thoughts, her longings to this man who was her brother's enemy. With deliberate slowness Valentin turned her to face him and before the searching gaze of his green eyes, she faltered.
"You ask what I begrudge her, Don Valentin, then I shall tell you, not that you will understand. Her family - a mother and a father who loved her." Ashen-faced, she broke free of him, hating herself for giving away to the weakness of a moment. "I am very tired, will you please show me to my room now?"
Valentin's face darkened at the hostility which had returned to her voice. For a moment he thought he had penetrated her defences.
"Very well, Dona Madelon. As you wish."
CHAPTER SIX
Madelon awoke from a deep sleep towards the late afternoon. After she had been shown to her room and left alone, she had thrown herself across the bed and fallen asleep immediately. Sleepily sitting up she looked around her. Apart from the large wooden bed where she lay, two brass-bound coffers and a carved window seat were the only other pieces of furniture, but it was nevertheless a comfortable room. Sheepskin rugs covered the floor and fresh rushes perfumed the air and everywhere there was an abundance of brightly coloured cushions - as in the Great Hall.
From outside came a hubbub of voices and she remembered preparations were going on for the feast that evening. As she supped off the bed and went to look out of the window curiously, Diya, who had been dozing by one of the coffers, sprang to her feet.
"Did you sleep well, my lady?"
"Very well. Who is making all that noise below?"
"Everyone is watching the acrobats practising," Diya replied. "A band of them staying in the village heard of the feast and offered to perform for lord Valentin. They are very good, I was watching them earlier."
Madelon returned to the bed and sat down with a sigh.
"I wish I didn't have to be there tonight, I don't feel in a feasting mood." She saw the Persian girl look at her quickly and wondered if she had guessed Valentin Maratin was the reason for her reluctance. Diya's alert brown eyes gave Madelon the impression they missed nothing, however trivial.
"Are you worried about the lord Paco? He was sleeping soundly when I left him. El Hakim said I was to tell you he would soon be able to travel."
How soon was soon, Madelon wondered? A few days - a week? How much longer of being under the inscrutable gaze of a man she had come to fear? Madelon shuddered. Why she feared him was a complete mystery to her, he meant her no harm, after all and yet, whenever she was near him he made her feel unsure of herself Either she was shy and lost for words or the exact opposite, when she found it difficult to control her temper. When he looks at me, Madelon thought, it's as if he sees something I do not.
"Which gown will you wear tonight?" the maid asked with a saucy smile.
"You little minx, I should box your ears," Madelon cried. "Are you planning to make me look beautiful for the Lord of the Eagles too?"
"If you wish it."
"Well, I don't. Come and brush my hair, it feels a mess. I will decide what to wear later."
Diya had just begun to brush the tangles from her mistress's hair when the door opened and Francesca Maratin came in. With her was a maid whose arms were full of clothes which she laid down on the bed and then went away again.
"I thought you might be in need of a few things, my dear. Valentin told me almost all of your own luggage has been lost."
"Yes, I'm afraid it was. A few of my court gowns were saved, but they are hardly suitable for everyday wear. All I really have is this." Madelon touched the blue travelling gown she wore, badly creased where she had slept in it.
"You and I are nearly the same build. The dresses may be a little long, but your maid will be able to do something about that," Dona Francesca said with a smile. "If you need anything else, please send your girl to tell me. I want your stay here to be a pleasant one."
"Thank you. Dona Francesca, you are very kind." Made-Ion's heart warmed towards the older woman. She had none of Valentin's curtness about her and it was apparent she did not regard her guest with the same suspicions as her son.
"You have met my daughter, Teresa, I believe. She is to be married soon to Cristobal de Altamiras, one of Valentin's cavalry captains. The sooner the better, my son often says. She's driving us quite mad with the wedding plans. No doubt you will hear all about them tonight. We don't have many visitors here and Teresa will make the most of having someone to talk to, especially someone as young and lovely as you. Please try to be patient with her."
"I am accustomed to being patient," Madelon said quietly. "Don Valentin obviously has not told you I have lived most of my life in a convent. Until only a few weeks ago, in feet. I shall have as many questions for Teresa as she has to ask me."
Francesca Maratin did not comment on Madelon's surprising statement, but her expression betrayed the astonishment she felt It was usual for girls of Madelon's age to have been married several years. Her looks and the name of Montevides were more than sufficient to have suitors clamouring for her hand. The traditional dowry would count very little compared to the prestige of being related through marriage to the royal houses of Leon and Castile.
Valentin's mother wondered, but she contained her curiosity. If her son did not know the answers, there would be time enough to prise them in a gentle fashion from Madelon herself during her stay. She had liked this blonde-haired girl from the first moment they met. Her frankness about her relationship with Alfonso and Urraca had been impressing. Francesca Maratin was a woman who respected honesty and demanded it from those about her. She had raised two stalwart sons secure in the knowledge they would never break their given word or lie. She had lost a husband and one of those sons through treachery and had watched Valentin grow more embittered as the years passed, because of treacherous acts by friends and enemies alike and wondered if she had not demanded too much of him. He had become a man alone - a man of strange, unpredictable moods. It was not unusual for him to spend days hunting with only his squire Stephen for company, or to disappear inside the walled city of Telhan on a visit to his childhood friend Yusuf. He would come back loaded down with presents for his mother and sister, but after only a few days, Francesca would see the old restlessness returning to his eyes -the impatient gestures which always preceded a sudden departure
. She had tactfully suggested he found himself a wife, but he had only smiled and replied he had the company of his horse whenever he was lonely and then seeing the angry look on her face, he had laughed and added, he also had the services of a very captivating mistress. Francesca never discovered who v she was or if she was the only woman in his life, but the subject was never mentioned again. It had not even entered her head until she saw Madelon.
After she had gone, Madelon inspected her new clothes. There was a warm woollen dress in a beautiful shade of green, a yellow one in heavy damask, the skirt embroidered with silver thread and one in black velvet. There were silk nightgowns too, delicately embroidered, stockings and delightful little velvet shoes with silver buckles. Madelon had been grateful to her cousin Urraca for the new gowns she had provided, knowing the material had come from her own wardrobe, but towards Valentin's mother who had parted so willingly with such lovely things to a perfect stranger, she felt a different kind of gratitude. No matter what she felt for Valentin Maratin, she would go out of her way to be pleasant to his mother and try to find some way to repay her kindness.
Madelon eventually decided to wear the yellow damask that evening. It was a trifle too long, but she found if she took extra care when walking, it would not be necessary to make any alterations. Otherwise it fitted perfectly and was cut in such a way as to make her waist appear even smaller and her breasts fuller. Inspecting herself in a mirror Diya had managed to borrow, Madelon had to admit not even Urraca's marvellous clothes had made her look this attractive.
Diya brushed her mistress's hair until it shone and left it loose about her shoulders. The simplicity of styling, coupled with the lack of jewellery and the close-fitting gown, produced a stunning effect.
Stephen, the young squire, came to conduct Madelon downstairs. The look of admiration on his face gave her the courage she needed to enter the Great Hall without showing a trace of the nervousness she felt.
"Why, the dress is a perfect fit," Francesca Maratin exclaimed as Madelon mounted the dais. "You were right, Valentin, yellow is her colour."
Madelon's eyes met those of Valentin, who sat on the left of his mother and her cheeks flamed at the realization that he had chosen the selection of dresses. Stephen pulled out a carved chair for her beside his master and she sat down without a word. Her father had always dictated what her mother should wear. She remembered the dresses had always been demure in style, in grey or black or some other dark colour. Never anything bright which would have exploited the beauty his wife possessed.
The Great Hall blazed with lights from hundreds of torches and wax tapers suspended from the walls. In the fireplace, cooks and kitchen maids were busy basting the enormous ox slowly roasting on the spit over the flames. The smell wafting from it was delicious. At a smaller table sat the more important villagers, stewards of the castle and some ladies-in-waiting. Teresa sat beside Madelon and Rodrigo Diaz, who had greeted Madelon with great enthusiasm when she entered, was seated beside Dona Francesca.
Disturbingly handsome in dark green velvet, the golden eagle of his family woven into his doublet, Valentin lounged in the chair beside Madelon. Despite the fact that she was carrying on a conversation with his sister, she was acutely conscious of his presence, but as the evening wore on, she discovered she was enjoying herself so much, it did not matter.
Teresa's excited chatter was endless. Madelon learned the man she was to marry, Cristobal de Altamiras, was of a Castilian father and a French mother, both of whom were now dead.
She described him as being exceedingly handsome and the kindest, gentlest man in the whole world. Were there men who could be kind and gentle and loving? Madelon wondered. Her only knowledge of men was what her father had given her - cruelty - hatred - and lust, in place of love. Valentin Maratin was like her father, arrogant and proud, giving orders and expecting immediate obedience without question. Perhaps that was why he had taken a Moorish mistress. And then she remembered Paco had told her he was to be married to his rich ward, Raquel Vargas. She scanned the sea of faces around her, but none of the women at the lower table looked elegant enough, besides she would have been sitting on the dais, beside her betrothed.
"If you are looking for the doctor, he is with your brother," Teresa murmured. "Isn't he a marvellous old man? Valentin says he's the wisest man I'm ever likely to meet in the whole of my lifetime."
"He may be right," Madelon answered, recalling to mind her conversation with Abraham ben Canaan. It would be nice to talk to him again, he was the only man she did not look down on and when with him, she was herself. It was likely Rebecca had told not only Valentin but her father and possibly Rodrigo Diaz of her convent background.
She stole a sidelong glance at her companions along the table. Valentin was intent on watching the wonderful tricks of the jugglers. Madelon studied his profile for a moment, realizing for the first time how handsome he was. Handsome and dangerous, she decided. She had noticed when he smiled, which was very rarely, his eyes remained cold, as if completely detached from the rest of him and the lean, firm mouth, had a hint of cruelly about it.
Beyond him, Rodrigo Diaz was also watching the jugglers, at intermittent intervals applauding loudly and flinging coins into the midst of the delighted performers. With a start Madelon realized Francesca Maratin was watching her. Their eyes met and then Madelon quickly looked away.
Francesa sat back in her chair with a slow smile. Her fingers toyed with the necklace of lapis lazuli around her slender throat.
"What do you think of Dona Madelon, Rodrigo ?" she asked softly.
The man beside her looked surprised at the sudden question. "You know me, gracious lady, I appreciate beauty and the lady in question is very beautiful."
"Yes, she is, isn't she. Her frankness is quite refreshing too. Tell me truthfully, what is your opinion of her?"
Rodrigo looked at the woman quizzingly. She had successfully arranged a match for her daughter, was she once more attempting to arrange one for her son?
"I find her utterly charming," he replied honestly, "despite the fact she tried to kill me once."
Francesca laughed amusedly.
"Yes, I heard about that. A spirited girl by all accounts." Francesca noticed Valentin was listening intently to the conversation, although he appeared to be concentrating on the jugglers. Unconcerned, she asked Rodrigo, "Do you think Paco Montevides took his sister into Yusuf's territory deliberately ? Is she as innocent as she appears, or, as my son thinks, a clever seductress like her cousin Urraca?"
"Dona Francesca, just because she's beautiful, that doesn't make her like her cousin," Rodrigo said fiercely. "Valentin is wrong and I've told him so. If he wasn't such a pig-headed fool he'd admit it."
Valentin turned and fixed him with a piercing gaze. His voice, too low to carry to Madelon's ears, was heavy with sarcasm.
"If she wasn't such an exquisite little creature, would you still trust her so implicitly, my gallant red-beard?"
"Yes. She is a fine young woman, despite her relationship to the King of Leon."
"Well said, Rodrigo," Francesca laughed, "but you are wrong about one thing. Madelon is not yet a woman. She is a girl, unaware of her loveliness, unaware too, of what lies ahead of her. In a way Valentin is nearer the truth than he realizes.
She is not yet a pawn, but she could be and I think that is why she is being taken to court. Maybe her brother knows the truth, but I doubt it, he loves Urraca too deeply to believe she would use his own sister, but I know better. I would not like to see such a lovely young girl turned into something ugly - as ugly as Urraca."
"In heaven's name, why should you care?" Valentin demanded in a fierce whisper.
Francesa ignored the anger burning in his eyes.
"I had a long talk with the doctor this afternoon. The girl has talents you know nothing of." Valentin's mouth curved into a mocking smile, but he said nothing. "Did you know she can speak and write not only Latin, but Arabic and French and has been well schooled in
the Arts? Abraham was most impressed with her. He feels, as I do, that she will be wasted at court. She has an active mind and a will of her own."
"Not if Urraca has her way," Rodrigo muttered. "Believe me, Dona Francesca, that witch can captivate any man merely by looking at him. If what you suspect is true and this girl is as innocent as you hope, she will stand no chance against her cousin. Their kinship is a close tie to begin with and court life to a girl fresh from a convent will be most appealing."
"You are taking it for granted, Madelon will be satisfied with that kind of life, I am not," Francesa declared. "When the tournaments at Golpejerra are over, I intend asking her to return here and stay a while."
So the old lady was playing matchmaker after all, Rodrigo thought with a silent chuckle. Valentin looked furious. He knew it too, but there was nothing he could do about it. His mother was twice as stubborn as he was.
It was well into the early hours of the morning before the feasting began to die down and Madelon said good night to her hosts and was escorted back to her room by Stephen. Diya was curled up at the foot of the bed, fast asleep, her black hair spread out around her dusky face like a black cloud. With a smile Madelon stepped over her and began to undress, but scarcely had she started, than her attention was drawn to the lightening sky outside. She had often watched the dawn before from her tiny room at the convent, for the days were long there and sleep did not come easily. As soon as the sky began to grow light she would awaken and lie in her bed until it was time to get up and make herself ready for mass.
With a smile she refastened her dress, opened the door of her room and slipped out into the corridor. Silently she stole up the staircase at the far end and out on to the battlements, shivering at the keenness of the early morning air. Below her the courtyard was silent. Several fires still burned and she could just make out the shapes of the sleeping villagers and soldiers. They too had been celebrating with equal enthusiasm and the sound of their revelry had often drifted into the Great Hall.
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