"You have been talking to Alys. The priests make her put garlic on me to stop the nightmares." Her voice was steady now, as they walked past the hawthorn trees.
"Well, this is where I must leave you," Richard gestured toward the stables, where Guillaume, her father's seneschal, was struggling to open the enormous wooden doors. Arnaut and Jean-Pierre were leaning out of the upper window, the squire's quarters, and waving at Richard. But Richard turned his back to them, facing her. "I may have something that will help stop your nightmares." He fumbled with the pouch attached to his belt. "Ah! Here it is."
A small stone lay in the center of his palm. He took her hand and closed her fingers around it.
"It is a bloodstone. My mother found it for me years ago when I had nightmares."
She glanced up at him. "You?"
His cheeks turned pink. "It was years ago. I was just a baby. Here, I will show you what to do with it." He took the stone from her and grasped it tightly in his left hand. "You hold it like this when you go to sleep." He returned the stone to her and she held it up to her face. It had bands of red against a dark green and was warm from his touch.
"I will use this," she said. "How can I thank you?"
For a moment, he did not speak. The honking of hungry geese and the grunting of pigs from the pens around the corner tickled her ears. Alys would be waking; she must get back. But she waited, watching his face.
"Do you still have lessons?" Richard asked.
"What?" Looking at the curve of his cheekbones had set her dreaming. "Lessons?"
"Lessons. With your grandmother." He stared down at his feet.
"Oh. Well, yes, we still read together. She will not allow me to be dependent on priests to keep château records. But how did you know about my lessons?"
He smiled. "I saw you with her on the steps of the donjon. You were reading something. She was listening."
His brown eyes tilted above high cheekbones. The intent regard made her face warm. "Yes. Songs of Raimbaut d'Orange. A gift from minstrels who passed through here." She looked up. "But why do you ask?"
"I do not know how to read, and, well..." his voice trailed off and he looked over his shoulder to where Guillaume spoke to the squires, who now formed a line between the stables and the livestock pens.
"You would like to learn," she finished for him.
He turned to her, but backed away, toward the squires.
"You could come to the donjon later -- Grandmother comes to my chamber every morning." She raised her voice to reach his ears as he backed away. "I could ask her."
He lifted his hand and was gone, joining the jostling crowd.
GUILLAUME marched up and down, scowling at his charges. She watched the good-natured shoving and teasing among the squires until a piercing horn sounded from the crown of the donjon. Allowing herself one final glance across the yard to where Richard now huddled with the other squires, she skipped across the cobbled surface of the inner bailey all the way to the donjon. She stopped at its base and stared upward.
The donjon soared into the leaden sky. It was the tallest building of the château. The mountain Irati loomed behind it. Slopes covered by dense woods of pine and beech marched down to the back walls of the château.
Since the time of Charlemagne, the donjon had stood guard over the fortunes of the de Reuilles, an unrelenting reminder of the danger that marches with power. The donjon used to house the entire de Reuilles family, their servants, guards, knights and squires. Now only the lesser servants and tower guard slept on moldy straw and rag mattresses in the five chambers that opened onto the winding central staircase.
She put her back toward the donjon and faced the graceful palais her grandfather had constructed to house the de Reuilles family and visiting knights. Where the donjon brooded, its thick walls jutting into the sky, the palais danced. The elegant lines of its arched doors and windows proclaimed that a fine and ancient family resided inside. The de Reuilles lived in perfect comfort there. Mattresses were stuffed with crushed rosemary and meadow rushes. Floors were smooth river stone in the great hall and polished wood in the upper chambers. Windows were covered with rich tapestries that servants could push aside so that the soft air of summer would fill the hall. Johanna, Maríana's grandmother, Geneviéve, her aunt, and Louis-Philippe, her father, all lived in the palais. Every de Reuilles except Maríana.
She turned back toward the donjon and the work she knew waited: the half-finished tapestry of the de Reuilles crest, the tangled threads of her attempts at embroidery, the slim volume of troubadour songs. She felt the weight of the bloodstone and ran her fingers along its smooth surface. Would Richard truly share her lessons? May the blessed Virgin grant her this wish, at least. She bowed her head to the watchtower guard, who stood scratching his head while he examined the doors and muttered, "Unlocked." She fought to keep her face solemn while she mounted the stairs, but before she could push past him, another voice outside called her name.
"MARÍANA!" Johanna de Reuilles was slowly crossing the inner bailey.
"Grandmother!" Maríana flew down the steps and ran to Johanna's side, taking her arm.
"Did I see you with that young page from la Guerche this morning?"
Nobody could keep anything from Johanna. "I was just talking to him, grandmother. And he is a squire, now." How could she convince Johanna to allow Richard to share her lessons? "He gave me this stone to chase away my nightmares." She opened her hand and Johanna peered at the bloodstone.
"What sorcery is this?" Johanna grumbled, touching the stone. Maríana waited while Johanna pursed her lips and her forehead creased.
"Well," Johanna finally said. "I suppose if it helps..." Her words stopped when an angry voice echoed across the bailey.
"Wait for me, you bastard!"
A knight was running across the courtyard. Ducks and geese scattered as he plowed through them. Maríana froze. The knight chased her father. She stood, transfixed, hands clutching the folds of her gown as her father moved toward her in an easy loping stride. No matter how many times she saw him, she could do little more than stare.
Louis-Philippe de Reuilles stood at least a full head taller than most men, his body powerful, yet slender with height. Thick chestnut hair swept his shoulders and his skin was flawless. His eyes were a startling blue-green, deeply set beneath straight black brows and fringed by a velvet brush of lashes as dark as pitch. He was dressed for riding, his right hand impatiently tapping his left with the gloves he used. Indigo breeches clung to his legs and his long shirt was covered with light chain mail that glowed softly in the gray light.
He glared at the knight, who had reached him and had taken his arm.
She felt a hand tugging her and glanced away from her father to see Johanna motioning for her to follow.
"But he may come this way..." A lump formed in the back of Maríana's throat. She rubbed at her eyes. No crying! Her father, above everyone else, would not see her tears.
"Now is not the time, my dear." Johanna's mouth looked pinched and sour. "He is in a mood this morning." She turned toward the donjon, but Maríana stood watching her father, her teeth set and hands clenched. Ducks and geese that the knight had set in motion now brushed past her, their wing-tips grazing her legs in delicate strokes.
Her father bent toward the knight and scowled, then shook off the knight's hand and turned, walking purposefully away, his stride taking him directly toward her. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Guillaume standing by the main gate, gesturing to Arnaut as the young squire secured a heavy saddle to a fine Arabian gray stallion. Her father was going to the main gate where his horse was waiting. She was in his way.
She shifted her weight, standing firmly in the path her father was taking. He continued toward her, his eyes upon the ground, hand absently tapping his gloves against his thigh as he walked. Closer now. His expression was blank, eyes shuttered, turned upon some inner landscape. He had nearly reached her. Curling her hands even tighter, she felt the ras
p of her nails against her flesh. She drew a breath. "Father?" Her voice was harsh.
Two paces from her, he halted, raising his head. A line formed between his brows and his mouth twitched. But his eyes looked directly into hers.
She could not speak now; her tongue felt thick and clumsy. But she held her body still and met his stare.
He looked down first. He pulled his gloves on, deliberately working the fingers over his knuckles. "Move aside," he said, his voice commanding, but a low murmur. He finished drawing on his gloves, staring at his right hand as he flexed it. Then his gaze raised and bored into her. "Girl."
She straightened her back and stared into his face, but his eyes were shuttered once more, no longer seeing her.
"I have no wish to humiliate you," his voice was still hushed, "but if you do not move aside..."
"Yes. Father." She dropped her arms to her side and drew her skirt out, dipping halfway to the ground and backing toward the donjon in a graceful curtsey that took her out of her father's path. Then she stood there, head bowed, hands clasped demurely below her waist, her spine rigid and her knuckles white. She would give him no reason to humiliate her. But she had made him speak to her. It was several heartbeats before her father moved on his way. Her head still bowed, she watched his progress across the inner bailey, through the arch and the outer bailey to the main gate. A small triumph, but she treasured it, counting the words he had spoken to her. Seventeen. In her thirteen years, he had spoken but forty words to her.
He mounted his dancing Arabian gray, swinging his long leg easily over the horse's back and pulling himself into the saddle in one fluid motion. Arnaut held the bridle and gave her father the reins. Richard handed her father his sword and stepped back while Louis-Philippe slid it into the sheath fastened to his saddle. The yawning gate arched over them and beyond, the fields of Reuilles-le-château formed a golden ripple down to the lake that separated château from town.
The knight who had chased her father was already mounted on his destrier, a glossy red-brown war horse with thick muscles and broad chest. He had turned his horse to the open doors and was riding through. Louis-Philippe drew his reins up, fighting the tossing head of the gray, and glanced back toward the donjon, where she stood. One glance only, but he found her. Then he was through the gate in a brisk gallop.
She stood there looking out through the gate at the fields until she could no longer see the riders. He had looked back. His eyes had sought her. She lifted her face to the donjon and smiled.
Chapter 2
THREE MONTHS had passed since Richard gave Maríana his charm against nightmares. The bloodstone was tucked away under her pillow, now, but she held it clutched in her left hand every night. And every night passed quietly, even when she woke in the morning to find the stone on the floor or hidden deep within the covers.
The same three months had brought Richard to their chamber every day with scraps of cloth, pots of blackberry ink, and tail feathers of geese. Johanna made him copy all the letters of the alphabet four times before she allowed him to see the fragile volume of troubadour songs. When she had first put it into his hands he simply sat on the edge of his stool and stared at it. Maríana had said, "Why don't you open it?"
His teeth had flashed in a quick smile, but he did not speak or move until Johanna reached over and turned the first page. Then he gave a long sigh.
From that moment, whenever Richard came to the chamber, he went directly to the "Songs of Raimbaut d'Orange." He always bowed to Maríana and Johanna when he had to leave, but the entire time he was in the chamber with them, his nose was buried in the book of songs. The only words he spoke were to Johanna and then only to ask her about a word he could not read.
MARÍANA bent over the tapestry, struggling with the precious needle that defied her efforts to draw it through fine woolen fabric. It was early summer and her hands were sweating, even though it was cooler in the donjon than outside the walls. She caught the thread in her teeth and gnawed on it, jumping when she heard footsteps on the tower stairs. Their door stood open. Anyone could enter without warning. A fluttering started in her belly. Spitting the thread stuck between her teeth into her hand, she raised her head to the door.
Her aunt Geneviéve's ample frame filled the doorway. Geneviéve stepped heavily into the chamber. Her plump face smiled. Her weight obscured the de Reuilles features, but she carried her body proudly and her eyes were the same thickly fringed blue-green as Louis-Philippe's. She hugged a large pitcher against her chest and three cups hung from her fingers.
"Maríana, Mama," she said. "I am joining you today." She set the cups on the table, pushing Johanna's lace frame aside and pouring a thick liquid from the pitcher into the cups.
"You are always welcome, daughter." Johanna rescued her lace and placed it upon the bed behind her. "Since you visit us so seldom... .
Geneviéve waved her hand. "But look what I have brought you! Gifts from my bees." She held a cup she had filled underneath Johanna's nose.
"Zythus! I thought it was too early." Johanna raised the cup to her mouth and tipped her head back.
"It is too early for this year. This is the remainder of my last harvest." Geneviéve motioned to Maríana. "Come, girl. You can share with Alys." She poured another cup and placed it between Alys and Maríana.
"What is it?" Maríana peered into the cup and sniffed at it. "It smells of spice!" She moved the cup around in a circle. "And it is heavy."
"It is spiced honey." Geneviéve settled her behind on a stool and held her own cup under her nose, breathing deeply. "Fermented for months in a closed vessel with the blossoms of dandelions, lavender, and Mary's gold." She sipped at it and smacked her lips. "The thin liquid on the top we drain off every month for bochet. Surely you have let her have bochet, Mama?"
Johanna nodded, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "Everyone has bochet."
"It is not as strong as zythus," Geneviéve agreed. "But the bottom where it is richest is what I bring you today."
Maríana tasted the syrupy drink, dipping her tongue into the cup. She looked up to see Geneviéve filling Johanna's cup again.
"Zythus. Well," Johanna's eyes narrowed as she held her cup in her lap and leaned back against the bed. "What do you want, Geneviéve?"
Geneviéve shrugged, then turned to Maríana. "They tell me that your nightmares have stopped."
Maríana handed her cup to Alys. She had only taken a mouthful, but her head already felt lighter and the chamber had taken on a dreamy clarity. "Squire de la Guerche gave me a charm."
Geneviéve leaned forward. "Did you really go into the garden at night?"
"That was months ago." Maríana gave a wary glance at Johanna, but her grandmother had not seemed to notice what she said. Johanna's eyes were closed, her head bowed.
"All the way to the pool?"
Maríana started. "Who told you?"
Geneviéve waved her hand, a smile making deep creases in her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak but Johanna abruptly straightened her back and glared at Maríana.
"You did not go into the water, did you?" Johanna asked.
Maríana shook her head, but Geneviéve spoke.
"Oh, mother. You don't believe those tales, do you?" She placed her cup on the table and rubbed her reddened nose. "The water is cold, of course, but the pool is quite safe for people who can swim. After all, Thérèse swam in it every night."
"What?" Maríana's hands knitted together in her lap.
"Well, she couldn't just doff her gown and swim in the lake, could she? After all, they fish at night in Reuilles-la-ville. The whole town would have been looking on her."
Maríana forced her hands to relax. "Maybe that is why Arnaut said I was like my mother." Her words were soft, but Johanna answered.
"You have her eyes. Dark green. I had never seen such color in eyes until I met her." Johanna raised the cup and drained it. An ember fell to the base of the hearth and the fire flared. Johanna's eyes were distant, the edges crin
kled with age. She ran her forefinger across the rim of her cup.
"I first saw her when he returned. He had just come back from Damascus, my Louis-Philippe. I never knew why he had gone in the first place. He was not part of the crusade that year." Johanna leaned her head back against the bed. "It was his twentieth summer. He was bored and looking for trouble. I was not paying attention. I suppose his friend Bernart had something to do with it. Bernart was always going somewhere." The bones showed under her skin, sharp edges pushing against soft wrinkled flesh. "Louis-Philippe did not return to us until three years later."
Geneviéve took her cup and raised the pitcher, but Johanna shook her head.
"When he came back he was surrounded by Moors in turbans and flowing robes. All he said to me was `God's greetings' and then he swept his Moors up the mountain Irati to build that monstrous structure... and some other things here in the château."
"But his mountain palace is beautiful!" Geneviéve cried.
"It should never have been built. He didn't even bring his wife to me! Thérèse came to me herself, to the great hall in the palais. I knew she was from the mountains, the daughter of a Vascone, a Basque." Johanna's eyes gleamed. "They work the land, but call themselves nobles. Nobles by birth," she huffed. "She was not afraid, though. She looked directly into my eyes and told me I would have to find a place for her in the château. Or she would take my grandchild to her valley in the mountains."
"That was I?" Maríana breathed. She did not want her grandmother to stop.
Johanna stared at her. "I knew she was expecting, of course. I could smell her. Pregnant women always smell a bit like babies, a little sour. I asked her how I could be certain that it was my grandchild she carried."
Maríana flinched away from her grandmother's slate stare. "What did she say?"
Johanna did not speak for several moments. Then she closed her eyes. "Nothing. She said nothing." A long sigh shuddered through her body. "But I put her in the tower and gave her Alys."
Door in the Sky Page 2