She raised her head as shawm and singer joined in the greeting song and saw Louis-Philippe, resplendent in polished chain mail and the de Reuilles colors of indigo and white. Geneviéve was at his side, but moved away when several of his knights approached. She motioned for Maríana to come forward.
THE NIGHT of the feast passed in a blur. Maríana watched as dishes of tasty delicacies were presented for Louis-Philippe's approval by his head squire, and then, after approval, were served, first to their table, and then to the other tables. Servants ran from table to table replenishing the wine as both high and lowborn men and women flirted outrageously over the single goblet they shared between them.
"It is customary for each pair of man and woman to share a goblet," Geneviéve whispered, "and few of these pairs are married." She grinned at Maríana's frown. "You know the trouvérè song -- married couples cannot truly love? Well it is true, you know." Then she pointed with her chin at a portly knight dressed in burgundy robes. "Béarn is here at our table. Bernart de Bazas you already know." Bernart was leaning over and nuzzling the ear of Lady Béarn. Geneviéve licked her fingers and peered at the head of the table where Louis-Philippe and Johanna sat. "Ah, he came!" She dimpled at Maríana's start of surprise. "Thibaut is here."
The King of Navarre! Maríana tried not to stare at him. Instead, she glanced at the basket sitting on their table. From time to time her father and the other lords and ladies present tossed bits of bread and meat inside it. "What are they doing?" she whispered in her aunt's ear.
"They take those over to the poor in Reuilles-la-ville after the feast." Geneviéve pointed to baskets set on every table. "See, all of us have one."
Louis-Philippe stood and raised his hands; minstrels lifted pipes and krumhorns in a rousing chorus while drummers pounded out a frantic beat. All eyes shifted to Louis-Philippe, who took his mother's hand and pulled her up beside him. Johanna spoke, but Maríana's eyes were on her father and she missed her grandmother's opening words.
"By the grace of God and all His saints, Ysabel of Gréves in La Touraine will marry my son Louis-Philippe," Johanna said. Applause greeted her words.
Maríana swallowed. Ysabel?
"You are hereby all invited to the wedding, next year on August eve, here at Reuilles-le-château." Johanna raised her hand, then sat.
"What?" Maríana's dinner rumbled in her belly. Her throat felt tight. "Geneviéve?"
"Curious," Geneviéve said. "Why now?" She leaned toward Maríana and whispered, "Do not feel badly, my dear."
Then she settled back in her chair. "I knew nothing of this." Her eyes grew opaque. "It is news to me, too."
There was no time to hear anything more. Maríana's father motioned for her to rise and come to stand beside him. Her mouth suddenly went dry as she moved to his side and she started coughing again. She had hoped to be equal to the occasion and not dishonor the de Reuilles name, but she quailed before all those flat, curious eyes. She looked up and saw her father's face crease into a smile. He took her hand. His felt cool and dry, but it trembled a little. He glanced down at her and she felt the pressure of his fingers. Then he lifted her arm.
"My daughter Maríana," he said, his voice sailing over the crowd. The minstrels sounded their instruments again, but this time, all eyes went to Thibaut of Navarre.
The King of Navarre rose from his seat and graciously nodded to her. A cheer rippled through the air. Maríana felt the pressure of her father's fingers on her hand again before he released it. She dipped in a curtsey and Thibaut's bearded mouth quirked. Louis-Philippe vigorously clapped his hands and the minstrels started a circle dance.
People leaped off the benches and streamed toward the clearing where circles were forming. For a moment, she did not move from where she stood. Ysabel. She searched for Johanna, but her grandmother was already swallowed by the crowd. Who was this Ysabel? Would her father tell her? She spotted the black and silver wave of his hair and pushed through the throng toward him.
He was not joining the dancers. She saw him skirt the edges of the gathering, then duck down, slipping away into the stand of trees surrounding the clearing. She marked where he had entered the forest and stared at the people nearest him when he slipped away. None of them had been watching, their eyes were on the dancers cavorting on the green. She drifted around the boundaries of the crowd and stopped at the edge of the clearing, peering into the lowering gloom of close maple, beech and pine. Bears and wolves lived there. Her hands gathered the silky fall of her skirt, then released it, smoothing the wrinkles she had made.
She looked back at the dancers. Should she join them, whirling under the stars? Her gaze darted back to the forest. Deep black shadows stretched beneath branches that moved. She looked down at the gleam of her emerald gown. This was her first feast, her first dance. She should stay and meet the fine people who had traveled here to enjoy the hospitality of Reuilles-le-château. Yet she could not keep her eyes from the forest shadows, where her father had gone. Her feet kept edging toward the trees. Heart pounding in her ears, she turned and entered the woods.
There was motion among the trees. She waited until her eyes matched the shadow play of starlight through branches. Her father's chain mail was there, glimmering in the distance. The sound of branches snapping and muffled exclamations told her where he was. Drawing her skirt up and holding it close to her body, she trod across deadfall and piles of pine cones. Up ahead, she could see him step out into the open where moonlight gleamed on the metal of his light armor, of his sword. She followed and found a path.
He had not heard her. She could see him toiling up the rock-strewn path that stretched before her, a track that climbed into the lower reaches of the mountain Irati. What would she say when she reached him? Biting her lip, she clambered along the path toward Irati, fighting to control the coughing that seemed to bubble up from the back of her throat. The wind sighed though pine branches. Owl wings beat in whispering thunder. Small creatures scuffled in the brush. Her father had his sword; she had nothing. The climb seemed to go on forever, but finally the path leveled off.
She had never been up there before. The pathway through the back arm of Irati was forbidden to nearly all who lived at the château, this much she knew. The only servants her father allowed to go up there never spoke about what they saw. Her heart pounded from exertion and fear and there was a cold spot in the pit of her belly that would not go away, but she continued following him, taking care not to be seen or heard. She hurried to catch up so she would not lose sight of him as he strode around a bend in the path where oak trees leaned across the track. When she turned the corner behind him, she stopped.
For a moment, she could not move. In the clearing, a palace stood dreaming under moonlight. It was small, no more than three rooms could fit inside, and its white stone walls were smooth and rounded, not rough and square like the walls of the tower. Fronted by a courtyard with a bubbling fountain, its arched doorways and the blue-gold tile patterns visible in the golden torch light from within were unlike anything she had ever seen before. The heavens curved above it, swimming with stars and crowned by a full moon. Her father marched to the door and entered, then Maríana crept closer and knelt beneath one of the windows.
On either side of the door, amber light poured out of two windows whose shutters were thrown open to the warm summer night. There were tapestries on the walls inside; abstract, repeating patterns of red and orange and deep blue. Metal lamps sprouted golden flames and thick rugs covered the floors. Pillows in every hue of the rainbow lay in piles scattered across the room. Her father paced from one side of the chamber to the other, talking to a figure she could not see. She raised her head above the sill and held her hand over her mouth.
A woman dressed in an indigo silken gown lounged upon the pillows. She was garbed in the fashion of the east; a gold belt encircled her waist and bracelets graced her slender arms. Long, thick black hair fell in a wave below her shoulders. Her eyes were also pools of darkness, depth upon de
pth, and she looked at Louis-Philippe with an expression of sad amusement.
"I did what my mother asked," Louis-Philippe was saying. "I presented her to Thibaut. Soon she will be married and away from here."
The woman murmured something that Maríana could not quite hear, but whatever was said affected Louis-Philippe. He groaned and sat upon one of the larger pillows, burying his head in his hands.
"I have no choice," he said through his fingers. "I cannot honor that agreement." He broke off and lowered his hands, looking in the direction of the woman. "You know this, you were there! Thérèse had plans for her, yes, but she thought it best that Maríana never know me." His mouth made a thin line. "My mother forced me to acknowledge her, but at least I can try to follow the spirit of Thérèse's wishes."
The woman must have spoken again. Her father blanched, then his voice lowered to a rumble. She moved closer.
"Once I tried to resolve what divided us and, well, you know better than anyone what came of that." He buried his face in his hands again.
Maríana leaned on the window sill now. She could see her father and also the woman, her face still and remote. Then the woman looked at the window and her eyes widened.
Maríana dropped below the sill and held her breath. Maybe the woman had not really seen her. But a male voice cried out. She heard the scrape of her father's sword as he vaulted over the window sill.
She huddled against the wall, arms across her face. Her father stood in front of her, sword held ready, blade pointing at her. "Who are you? Why have you come up here?" he demanded, then, "Maríana?"
She lowered her arms and looked up into her father's stricken face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. His hand moved toward her and halted above her head. She reached up to touch him, but he snatched his hand away, making a fist. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he stood there before her.
Then he turned and ran.
She stared after him, tears blurring the courtyard, the fountain. A form at the window cast a shadow upon the stones where she crouched. The woman was beckoning her to come inside.
She walked slowly into the palace. Was this real? Would it disappear? The woman pointed to a pillow and motioned for her to sit. Maríana ran her fingers lightly over the smooth texture of the fabric. It was real. She looked into the woman's face and saw that her black hair was threaded with silver. A quiver took her breath. She knew this face. Somewhere, she had seen it. Well, she would not show that she was afraid! She lifted her chin and blinked her tears away.
"Maríana." A deep, resonant voice caressed her name. "Don't worry about your father. He has done this sort of thing before; he will return."
"I am so pleased to finally meet you face to face, although I was there when you were born. You really are so much like your mother." There were unimaginable depths of pain in the voice that spoke those words, in the dark eyes that regarded her.
"I am Ibrahim," he said.
Chapter 5
"HERETICS!" The shattered treble of Geffroy de la Guerche's yell shook the tapestry hanging behind his chair. "All of them. No son of mine will marry a girl from such a family."
"Yet, you sent me there to serve as page." Richard stood before his father, back locked, as he had stood for the entire morning while Baron de la Guerche railed. Thin sunlight glazed the rush-strewn granite floor of the empty hall. Sounds of the morning drifted through wide doors flung open to the day; a mother's sharp reprimand, followed by a child's wailing complaint, the clank and slosh of milk buckets set upon the stones of the inner bailey, laughter that swelled, then dwindled. All the servants had slipped out of the hall when his father started the tirade. He was glad his mother and sister were still in the ladies bower. "You let me stay to squire for Baron de Reuilles."
Richard had no illusions about the position of his family. La Guerche was small, perilously close to Anjou. So far, its modest size and the King had kept it safe from the Angevins. His father had married well; Richard's mother had brought a handsome dowry to swell the coffers of la Guerche. But, they needed more than a dowry now. They needed an alliance with an old family, a marriage that brought lands.
He stifled the words he longed to say. De Reuilles was an ancient family, with ample lands bestowed by Charlemagne. Yet it was not what Maríana would bring to la Guerche that had compelled him to finally approach his father with his request for Geffroy's paternal blessing and approval.
"Have you been listening? When I sent you there I did not know of the girl's mother Thérèse," Geffroy repeated the words he had stated all morning. "Jean-Pierre Rhomboid brought this tale to his father, and then to me. You are my only son. When you returned the year before last..." Geffroy's voice splintered into a long, racking cough.
Richard poured watered ale into a silver cup, his eyes downcast, while his father wheezed. Geffroy did not like anyone to notice. "The de Reuilles are as Christian as any of the barons." This, at least, was true. As far as he knew. "I have not heard this story Jean-Pierre told you." He handed the vessel to his father and sent a silent prayer for God to forgive the way he had just bent the truth. "Baron de Reuilles and his family are as Christian as you or me." He had not heard the exact story Jean-Pierre told his father, but he could guess what Jean-Pierre had said. The four years he spent at Reuilles-le-château, he had heard whispers about the de Reuilles and Maríana's mother. They said that the dead Baroness de Reuilles lived at the bottom of the pool in her garden, that she arose from its depths when the moon swelled full. That she dressed in a turban and ate the eyes of babies. Geffroy bent over the cup, shoulders jerking with each cough. Richard had not repeated the tales of Baroness de Reuilles. He knew the truth in his heart. The de Reuilles were fine and noble. What others said did not concern him.
Geffroy straightened and glared at Richard over the rim of his cup. "You have never defied me before, boy." He gulped the ale and shuddered. "The girl must have witched you."
"Maríana."
"Eh?" Geffroy wiped his mouth. His breath squeezed out in a tortured rattle.
"Her name, father." Richard lifted the pitcher of ale again. "She is Maríana de Reuilles." Ale streamed in a golden splash. Silence pressed into the hall. He looked up at his father's gaunt face.
Three years ago, an alliance with the de Reuilles would have been welcomed. Three years ago, his father had been a strong and vigorous man. But a fever had stolen Geffroy's prowess, blighting his once-proud bearing. Now Baron de la Guerche huddled inside layers of wool and struggled with every breath. Still, his father found enough air to rant when it pleased him. Not that much pleased Geffroy anymore.
When Richard returned to la Guerche, he had feared to find his mother and sister crying over his father's grave. Instead, he found them standing behind a withered stranger who spoke to him in his father's voice. Geffroy had greeted him with gladness and a spark of the love and proud regard that Richard remembered had washed across his face, although it quickly extinguished. Surely pain had transformed his father into a suspicious and querulous old man who spent endless hours on his knees in the family chapel. Richard had been certain that his father would once again become the patient and virile man he had been, yet the weeks passed and there was no change.
When his father had become ill, the business of running the château had fallen to his mother. Marguerite de la Guerche saw to the dispensing of justice and oversaw the collection of tenant's payments. She even rode out with Geffroy's vassals in their search for bandits who had been attacking friars crossing de la Guerche lands.
Baroness de la Guerche had proved an able châteleine; Geffroy could not fault her management of la Guerche. No one could. But Geffroy had drawn away from his wife. He ordered Richard to work closely with the seneschal to prepare him to command la Guerche and refused to allow Richard to complete his knight's training at Reuilles-le-château. Instead, he sent Richard to nearby Anjou for three months to complete the final tests of combat that earned Richard his sword. When he knelt
before the Count of Anjou, Richard was content. As a knight, he could offer his sword to his liege. He had heard there was fighting in Toulouse and throughout the south. Near Navarre.
But his father had called him back to la Guerche. Since then, it had been Richard who saw to the routing of bandits that plagued the borders of la Guerche, Richard who managed the day to day tasks of running the barony. Every week he sat in the great hall listening to tales of discontent and grief; a miller complaining about the pricing of grain, a merchant disputing the dispensation of his new bride's dowry. He had given judgment, solved these troubles. There had been no new attacks on the people of de la Guerche for the past year, but when he approached his father with his desire to return to Reuilles-le-château, Geffroy mumbled an incoherent rant about witches and glowered.
Priests had convinced Geffroy that sorcery caused the illness that seized his breath and roughened his voice. Richard gritted his teeth as his father bent and spat a stream of thick mucous into a brass bowl at his side. His desire to return to Reuilles-le-château was a battle that must be fought with careful words. He loved his father, but he would have Maríana as his wife. His father must be made to see... .
"Richard." The voice behind him was hushed and gentle, yet it stilled the words he wanted to fling at his father. He turned and waited in silence while his mother drifted across the floor. Marguerite de la Guerche, who knew the secrets of the long barrows that dotted the fields, who had traveled among the shining ones in the invisible world and told the tales of these travels to her only son. She reached Geffroy's side, ran her hands over his chest and across his forehead. His father shrugged off her touch, but she captured his hand and held it, then faced Richard.
"You were only a boy when you knew Maríana." He bit his tongue and remained silent as his mother stared into him. Her eyes were perpetually shadowed now. "The years have changed you. She must have changed, too." A deep furrow marked the space between his mother's brows. When had she grown so weary? Upon his return to la Guerche, he had only noticed the dusting of white over her midnight hair. He had been so glad that his father lived, then after he came back from Anjou, so busy with running la Guerche that he had failed to note his mother's despair.
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