Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  "Good news, Bauçais," he said in a brusque tone. "Bishop Durand has another mission for you. You remember the two Basques who were on duty when the Cathar had an accident on the mountain?" He saw a brief flicker come and go in Henri's eyes.

  "Well, they have both disappeared," Hughes continued. Really, it was unnerving to see Bauçais sitting there, so inanimate. He remembered Henri's incessant carving. Henri never could be still before. Now he was a statue. "Durand wants you to go to Reuilles-le-château to trace them."

  "Henri," he whispered, then cleared his throat and his voice strengthened. "I had no liking for this campaign. Recapturing the holy land is one thing, but turning our soldiers against our own... well, I did not like it. But I am a soldier of Christ and I will always do as the Church commands." He looked at Henri. No change. "You should do the same. This was your first burning," he said. "There will be others."

  Hughes waited, counting his heartbeats, then stood up to go. He heard a whispering rustle behind him, then Henri grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, and he cried out. The guard rushed in and Hughes motioned for him to return to his post.

  Henri's eyes blazed at him. No more ice in that stare now. Henri released Hughes' wrist and took the paper he held. Hughes watched him as Henri read it though. Then Henri looked up at him, mouth set in a grim line.

  "When do I leave?"

  Chapter 12

  ROSE AND gray colors of the fading night gave way to translucent blue. Everyone around her exclaimed their wonder at the spectacle of the dawn, but Maríana struggled to stifle a yawn as she sat on the back of her stolid, gentle mare in the meadow south of the château. Her eyelids blinked sleepily of their own accord, then flew open when she felt the stab of talons on her arm as her sparrow hawk, Isolde, moved restlessly, her bells jingling with a silvery whisper in the quiet of early morning.

  Hawking was a weekly ritual at the château and Maríana had joined the throng with little Isolde.

  She rubbed her eyes and surveyed the field before them where hounds were beginning to flush out game birds. The company milled around her-young squires, visiting knights, her father, Johanna, and Bernart. It was a small crowd, unlike the hawking parties that would visit the château later in the spring. Now it was the beginning of April, only two weeks into the cycle of the Ram. Though the slopes of Irati retained a thick coverlet of blinding white snow, in the valley below, tender shoots of plants and grasses strained up through the soil. All that was green and growing now had a chance to struggle and breed and die in the space between spring and autumn.

  Up ahead, a cloud of pheasants and quail disturbed by the hounds ascended. In response, the fine falcons of the knights and squires surrounding her were released at once, ominously silent and purposeful, except for the jangle of bells tied to their powerful legs.

  She watched them climb into the sky, Isolde still clinging to her arm, turning hooded head toward the burst of cheers from the crowd when their falcons captured prey. Isolde pinched her arm.

  "How do you think you can compete with these aristocratic falcons? You're only a rather small sparrow hawk, you know! But don't fret. I'll take you where you can hunt safely."

  She reined her mare away from the others, ducking several covetous, sidelong glances from the young, smooth-faced squires, and quite a few direct, appreciative stares from the older knights. Head still lowered, she lifted Isolde to block her view of their faces. Richard would soon marry Beatrice. He had left before her father's wedding and she had heard nothing from him since then. Anyway, her father would be choosing a husband for her, wouldn't he? She prodded her mare into a canter and left the hawking party behind.

  At the forest's edge lay a small cleared area, bordered on two sides by a grove of birch, oak and pine. Sitting still for a moment, Maríana basked in the warm morning sun that sent tendrils of mist floating, streaming and curling around her. It had a fresh, green smell, and she drew in her breath, savoring her solitude. She inhaled again and smelled the tangy, sharp fragrance of fertile earth strong with the birth of growing things.

  She tugged away the hood covering Isolde's alert eyes. "I have no hounds to flush out the game, but I think I can arrange something for you," she told the bird.

  Closing her eyes, she quieted the chattering of her mind and drank in the fluttering movement of tiny lives all around her. She raised her hands, weaving a bright pattern in the air. "Come, now." The pattern bulged and strained, a wiggling dance of light and shadow. "Who will it be?" Ibrahim had taught her how to draw the pattern, but it was Iranzu who had shown her what it could do.

  A small quail trembled in the grasses across the meadow. She felt its heart flutter. It was past breeding age and drawn to the piercing stare of her hawk even though it would mean death. It was the way of things. "So be it," she breathed. "Fly, then!" The quail lifted its wings.

  At the flutter in the grasses, Isolde took flight with the speed and accuracy of an arrow, and pinioned the small quail in her talons. Maríana swung the red lure around her head, then held out her wrist as the bird gracefully floated down, landing with the dead quail still caught in her claws. Slipping the hood back on Isolde, Maríana removed the quail from the hawk's grasp, tying a bit of string around it and hooking the other end of the string to a notch on her saddle. She was so engrossed in her task that when a voice spoke by her ear, she jumped.

  "Maríana. So your little bird caught something." One of the younger knights had come alongside her and was leaning close.

  "Yes." He must have arrived that morning. She did not recall his face among the others last night. But he was familiar. Where she had seen him? Something about the tumble of hair across his forehead made her back stiffen, but perhaps that was because he was leaning too close. She hated that.

  "Your father sent me here to accompany you back to the château. There have been rumors of bandits who have used these dark glades to ambush our kind." He smirked and turned his horse toward the château.

  Ambushed. In an instant, she knew who he was. Arnaut, the same bully who had knocked her down so many years ago, grown up now and still a bully, although of another sort. The beard he had grown had changed his face enough so she did not recognize him at first, and his voice had deepened. Her father and grandmother must have forgiven him, otherwise why would he be here? Well, she did not forgive him. Arnaut reached down, grabbing the reins of her horse to lead her back. But he brought his own mount up short with a surprised exclamation as Maríana's mare tore the reins out of his hands.

  Maríana urged her mare to a full gallop, using special words Ibrahim had taught her to put fire into her mare's pace. When she reached the gate into the château, Arnaut was two hundred paces behind her. She dismounted and flung her reins at the nearest stable boy, who appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh at the expression on Arnaut's face as he came riding up behind her.

  THE HALL was bathed in the gold and red glow from the central hearth, and still fragrant with the early morning meal. Maríana made her way across the floor to the stairway. She must return Isolde to her perch, feed her, and change into a fresh gown to help Ysabel entertain the guests who had slept late. She mounted the first step, then stopped.

  In the dim alcove to the right of the stairs, a man stood staring at the de Reuilles mermaid tapestry that hung there. His inspection of the tapestry was so intent he must not have noticed her entry into the hall. Who had let him in? Had no one greeted him? There were others about in the palais. Arnaut would be blundering through the door at any moment. But for now, there was no one of any rank there to welcome this newly arrived guest to Reuilles-le-château. He must have been expected, for otherwise he would not have been admitted to the hall. It was definitely poor form to have no one of rank there to greet him.

  She was annoyed at her father and at Ysabel for this minor breach of etiquette and at herself for a memory that tugged at her awareness but would not surface. Sighing, she stepped back off the staircase and approached the stranger.

 
Isolde was still perched on her arm, blood on the talons. Her gown was crumpled from her wild ride and her rich auburn hair had escaped from the braids she had plaited that morning, but she contrived to carry herself with as much dignity as she could muster as she said to the stranger, "It is very fine work, is it not?" He half turned toward her. "Actually, it is Flemish." She smiled as he slowly turned.

  "I am sorry that no one was here to greet you properly. We were all out on the hawking fields," she said.

  Maríana lowered her eyes and curtsied as she had been taught, so she did not see his face. All she could see were strong, capable, square hands and travel-stained clothes as she murmured a traditional welcome, inviting him to follow her to where he could bathe, change, and rest. One of the hands suddenly tightened its hold on the sword fastened to his belt.

  Finished with the proper welcoming, she looked up, and all thought and words abruptly ceased.

  Flinty, blue eyes looked directly into hers from a tired and stern face. Heat rose until she was sure her cheeks were flaming, but she held herself straight and stared back at him. He was of medium height, his body powerfully built. Golden brown hair barely brushed his shoulders. His cheekbones were high and broad; he must have ancestors from the cold island in the north. His mouth was both thin and wide, with a slight hint of something that might be cruelty-or pain-at the edges. His nose was firm and straight.

  All taken, a very handsome man, dressed in russet and forest green. But it was the shadowed torment in his blue eyes that caught and pinned her so she could not move.

  She would not look away, even though his stare raked her from head to foot. Her hands curled into fists and Isolde dug talons into her arm in response. Well! The boor did not even speak. He just stood staring at her.

  She sealed her lips and stared back. Let him be the one to break this silence. She could wait. Although her legs trembled from standing so still and her arm threatened to droop and deposit Isolde on the floor, she would wait until he spoke. The man glanced at Isolde. The bird was restless, head bobbing, talons now penetrating the leather sleeve. She gritted her teeth against the slice of Isolde's claws.

  At that moment the door swung open and Arnaut ran in shouting, "Maríana!" He was brought up short when he saw the two of them standing there and his eyes widened.

  "My lord." Arnaut bowed. "Please forgive my interruption." The young knight backed away and walked quickly to the door.

  She still faced the visitor, ignoring the dampness spreading under Isolde's talons.

  "I am forgetting my manners," the man said, his voice a deep growl, but modulated and smooth, the texture of lamp oil. "I am Henri de Bauçais, nephew to your grandmother."

  "Welcome, cousin." She dipped into a perfunctory curtsey. "Please follow me and I will show you where you can take refreshment and rest." Henri? Johanna had never mentioned an Henri.

  He silently followed her up the stairs. She wanted to look back at him, but kept walking, cursing her disheveled gown and hair and the blood seeping under the hawk perched on her arm. Still, she knew her duty and led him to the large room that was reserved for guests of rank at the château. She stepped back and allowed herself a furtive glance at him.

  He was looking at the row of wooden baths that were curtained and supplied with shelves so that guests, if so inclined, could eat while they bathed. "De Reuilles has quite a sense for beauty and comfort."

  "What?"

  He took a knife and carved wooden figure out of loose pockets sewn onto his mantle, placed both on the small table at the side of his bed. He turned to her again. "Your father placed the baths along the south wall opposite the windows, so only soft, even light will fall upon them." Flecks of gold shimmered in his blue eyes. Such eyes should be dancing with life, not shuttered.

  She backed away and motioned to a servant who was cleaning the armor of a visiting knight. "You can stop that for now." She forced a crisp edge to her voice. "Prepare the heated water for my cousin's bath." The servant bowed his head and turned on his heel, running toward the kitchens for heated water.

  Henri dropped his pack on his bed and unfastened his sword. His tunic and breeches would soon follow. She curtsied and nearly ran out the door, not stopping until she reached her own chamber on the other side of the palais.

  ONCE MARÍANA had seen to it that Isolde was secured to her perch and fed, she tore her hair out of the restraining braids and made ready for her own bath, which Alys had just poured. It was still steaming. In the northern baronies the châtelaine often bathed honored guests. Did Henri expect her to bathe him? If her father chose a northern baron for her would she be expected to bathe visiting knights?

  "You'll want to get downstairs soon to help Johanna." Alys stood at the door. "She is in a state this morning. Ysabel has taken to her bed again."

  "Wonderful," Maríana hissed as she lowered her naked body into the hot water filling the carved wooden bath. She opened a linen pouch and sprinkled crumbled mint and lavender into the water. Then she grabbed the soap and lathered her hair and body vigorously.

  What would Henri think of her? Her face burned with shame as she remembered the picture she must have presented to him, her hair all in tangles, her gown soiled, Isolde stupidly perched on her arm. If she were châtelaine she would be bathing Henri now, not herself, her hands would be rubbing his strong arms... .

  Ah, well. He was her cousin, after all. Family. And ill-mannered at that. She took the pitcher and poured water over her head, rinsing the soap out of her hair, her eyes. What was Henri de Bauçais to her, anyway? What could he be to her?

  But she dressed carefully in a dark green gown that gave her skin the hue of pearls, made her eyes take on the color of emeralds, and she brushed her auburn hair so it flowed freely down her back. Johanna entered the chamber while Maríana was still smoothing her hair back over her shoulders.

  "A relation from the north, the Baron of Bauçais, has just arrived. I believe you met him downstairs. The dinner this evening will be in his honor." Johanna lifted a brush and motioned for Maríana to come closer. "Ysabel is ill again and has taken to her bed. I need you to help with the preparations tonight."

  "Are you all right, Grandmother?" Maríana asked, taking Johanna's hands and looking into her face. Johanna was pale and her hands felt clammy. "Don't worry, I can manage the feast. Why don't you go and rest?"

  Johanna smiled and patted Maríana on the cheek. "I believe I will. But I will be at the feast. He is my nephew, after all."

  YSABEL WAS in her chamber stretched out beneath the sheets of her bed, clutching the mannikin. The old woman had been right, the damn thing whispered to her, telling her horrible things -- that she wanted to mate with her brothers, that she would never have the love of Louis-Philippe, that she would be dragged from the palais! She found it so difficult to ignore the insidious whispers that she spent most of her time alone in her chamber so she could argue with it where no one could see or hear.

  Even worse than the whispering and the malaise that had struck her when she created the mannikin was the awful wiggling sensation against her abdomen. The wretched thing actually moved! She often had to take it out and spank it to make it keep still. Once she had hit it a few times it would cease to move, but it would not be silent. She had just slapped it when she heard a tapping at her door. Slipping the mannikin back into its pouch, she let her voice tremble. "Come in." If she sounded ill enough, whoever it was would leave her in peace. It was difficult to speak to anyone with the mannikin cackling in her ear.

  Johanna entered the chamber and frowned. Striding over to the window, she pulled aside the heavy tapestry that covered it, allowing a flood of soft gray light to fill the room. Ysabel covered her eyes and cringed away from the light. Johanna walked over to the bed and felt Ysabel's forehead, her cheeks.

  "Ysabel," she sighed. "I wish you would allow Jacques to come and have a look at you."

  Ysabel nearly jumped as she heard the mannikin laughing. "No Madame," she said. "It is just
my bleeding time. I have always been this way."

  Johanna nodded, then drew her finger across the table next to the bed and frowned again at the dirt on her finger. "Well, I hate to see you miss the feast tonight."

  Ysabel glanced up at her. "A feast? Who is it for?" Someone important?

  Johanna smiled and sat on the bed beside Ysabel. "My nephew Henri de Bauçais has arrived."

  Ysabel leaned forward and choked. Mary and all the saints! Henri!

  Johanna's eyes widened. "My dear, what is wrong?" She reached for Ysabel's hand.

  Ysabel waved her away. "It is nothing, really." She managed a weak smile. "I will be fine." Now she paused, calculating what she needed to do. "I think I can make it down to breakfast tomorrow."

  Johanna patted Ysabel's arm and said, "Yes, do see if you can come down tomorrow. Henri will be here for quite a while."

  AFTER JOHANNA had left and closed the door, Ysabel tore the mannikin out of the pouch and threw it against the wall. "I don't care what the old woman said!" she yelled at it. "I will not have you next to me any longer." Surely seven months was long enough! "I will have you baptized tonight." She got out of her bed and riffled through her gowns for a dark color that would help disguise her during her trip to the priest over in Reuilles-la-ville.

  As she bound her hair into a kerchief, she thought of her first love, Henri de Bauçais. She had been a girl then, barely out of the nursery, and he had been even younger. Her mother and his were good friends, and they often visited each other, bringing their children. Henri was a beautiful, happy, charming boy -- all the girls loved him. He had composed a song for her that she still treasured.

  She stopped binding her hair as she thought of him. His body was glorious, all smooth brown skin and firm muscle. Her first experience of love had been on the ramparts of her father's castle, with Henri. They had been playing a tag-and-chase game, and he had caught her, then kissed her desperately until she had felt as if she were on fire. She had allowed him to push aside her skirts and take her right there on the stairs. Luckily, no one came by.