The passage they had come through yawned behind her in a blackness so deep it swallowed the meager light thrown off by their torch. Maríana let her head fall back, raised her eyes and saw a pitch-black sky filled with tiny stars. Were they out of the mountain now? But these stars were restlessly moving, and a trilling wail pulsed in the air.
"They are just bats. Out there it is daytime, so they come in here to sleep." Leila was watching her, but her face was kind. For now, there was no censure in her sister's eyes. "They piss in a great pool under where they hang -- that is the stink -- but they will not harm us. Ignore them."
The immense cavern echoed with every step. Iranzu led in a circular path around the deep pool of excrement underneath thousands of bats dangling from the ceiling. Maríana kept a wary eye on the waves of movement up above, jumping now and then as one or two of the bats disengaged from one spot and fluttered over to rest on another part of the dome of the cave. Iranzu turned back to her. "It is not far now. This way." His words echoed throughout the cavern. He pointed to his right where a narrow passage branched off from the main cave.
Here rocky walls gave way to smoothly finished blocks of stone, the floor spread out in a level stretch. Maríana knelt and touched the bits of polished stones that made up the floor. Pink granite and smooth gray river stone ran in diamond patterns toward the walls. She looked up and saw Richard standing in the middle of the passage, his eyes wide, entranced.
"There are people in these walls." He pointed down the tunnel to where Iranzu and Leila were walking.
Leila looked back over her shoulder, then shrugged. "They have always been here."
Maríana moved to where Richard stood. The walls were carved into the life-size likenesses of men and women in a continuous row that marched into the depths of the tunnel ahead. She reached out and let her fingers trace the features of a woman molded into the rock of the wall. The eyes of the figure were sloped, tilted upward at the outer corner, like Richard's eyes. The nose was straight and fine, the lips curved in a gentle swell, the cheekbones were high and well-defined. The forehead rose to a patterned head covering that bound the hair. As her hands caressed the figure, the stone grew warm. An image of the woman's face captured the likeness upon the stone, the skin turned golden, the brows black, the eyes trembled and started to open.
Maríana snatched her hand away and fell back against Richard, felt his hands steady her. "What did you see?" His voice was hushed.
"Nothing." She looked up ahead where Leila was beckoning.
"We cannot stop here," Leila said. "Farther down this path is a room where we can rest for a while." She turned and started down the tunnel again.
A room inside the mountain? Maríana looked at the figures on the wall, then up at the ceiling. Lines curled and twisted there in a meandering serpentine coil. As she moved her eyes along it, the coil started to unwind. "What?" But Richard was taking her hand, pulling her down the tunnel.
"Don't look at it," he said.
Maríana sped down the tunnel next to Richard, following the glow of Iranzu's torch ahead. She slowed when the floor warmed underneath her feet. The air was growing moist. Glancing to the side, she saw that the line of carvings had ended, but the walls were sweating. A green-blue mold clung to the sides of the tunnel and the floor became slippery. Yet she felt a radiance emanating from the corridor, pulling her forward. What was this? It captured her heart, flowed out along her limbs in a golden shimmer.
She started to run. Richard cried for her to slow, but she could not. All she saw was the corridor stretching before her, faint light from Iranzu's bobbing torch. Then the walls abruptly angled outward, formed a six-sided room. She could not see the ceiling, but the echoes told her they were still in the mountain. Iranzu was at the center, where a block of stone rose into a central hearth. He was lighting sticks and what looked like bits of dung.
"We can stop here and rest," Iranzu said. "I packed snow into our wineskins. Leila has dried apples and twice-baked bread." As Maríana entered the chamber, she felt the walls embrace her, cradle her. Kindling in the hearth caught and sent its own fiery welcome. Richard stood close by her side again, but his eyes were wary. Didn't he feel the room greeting him?
"The next passage is longer, but it leads straight to our village." Iranzu's lips lifted in a smile. "We will be safe there."
Leila placed her hand on Maríana's arm. "We will soon be home."
Home.
HENRI FOCUSED his most potent glare on the young knight in front of him. Jean-Pierre Rhomboid perched, sweating, on a stool below the raised platform where Henri sat in the great hall. Henri had secured the chair de Reuilles used when he meted out justice. It was a solid, massive black oak edged with gold and cushioned with burgundy silk. The raised platform forced people he questioned to look up at him.
His eyes still fixed upon the quaking knight, Henri moved his shoulders so the white cross that spread over his tunic rippled with the tensing of his chest muscles. It was good to remind people exactly what he represented.
When he looked upon the cross on Henri's tunic, Jean-Pierre distinctly quailed, but his voice was steady. "We all squired for Baron de Reuilles," he said. "De la Guerche and I often spoke with the Lady Maríana." A film of moisture coated his upper lip. "I am not sure where Richard has gone. Perhaps he had to return to la Guerche."
Henri stroked his chin. There was something this one was not saying. Jean-Pierre had changed his story three times. First, he said that Richard had been visiting one of the kitchen maids. No surprise here, this fit the message de la Guerche had left in the chamber. But none of the maids remembered seeing the black-haired knight. They might be lying, of course, but Henri doubted this. Three of the maids admitted to him that they would have welcomed a visit from Richard de la Guerche. When Henri told Jean-Pierre what the maids had said, he changed his story, asserting that de la Guerche had gone to Reuilles-la-ville. Now he was saying that the Breton knight had returned home.
"You say you are such good friends." Henri softened his expression. "Why would he not tell you the truth of where he had gone?"
Jean-Pierre's shoulders twitched up in a rigid shrug. "Richard always kept his own counsel."
Henri nodded. Jean-Pierre visibly deflated in relief, then tensed again as Henri let the silence broaden. He watched Jean-Pierre squirm.
"Perhaps there was some other reason. If Lady Maríana knew that Jacques was dead, maybe she went away on some quest with Richard." Jean-Pierre's voice was pitched low, and fractured on his friend's name.
Henri looked down his nose at the young knight. "Are you saying that Maríana's disappearance was a childish jest with de la Guerche? Some girlish whim?"
Jean-Pierre paled and shook his head. "No! I meant that she would want to find the killer! The Lady Maríana never acted like other girls." His voice rang out into the room.
"Explain."
"She never said anything when we teased her, when we played jokes on her. Always quiet -- you never knew what she was thinking." He was warming to this, his face shining with earnest zeal. "And she never cried. She would never give in, even when all she had to do was say something to get us to stop." His eyes grew opaque. He seemed lost in some memory. "All she had to do was say it."
"Say what?" Henri leaned forward.
But Jean-Pierre continued speaking as if he did not hear. "It was unnatural, her silence. We all talked about it. Arnaut thought he could make her cry. He asked me to come with him. But I did not knock her down, it was Arnaut!" Jean-Pierre's voice was surly with an old grievance. "She made a light with her hands. A light that brought the wind. She was never like other people. There were things that she could do..." Jean-Pierre broke off and looked up at Henri, then drew back, stammering, "That is, she, uh." The color faded from his face. Droplets of sweat made bright beads across his forehead. "I mean, she..."
"What light? What wind?" This was nonsense. But there might be something here that might reveal why she had left. Henri veiled his e
yes, dampened the wrath that gripped him. He had no use for bullies, but this one might have information that would lead him to Maríana. "Did de la Guerche hurt her, too?" He would run him through.
Jean-Pierre moistened his lips. "The light... she conjured a light to punish us for knocking her down." He leaned forward, his words tumbled out. "Everyone remembers the wind from that night. It blew the fowl pen apart. Ask Guillaume! Or anyone else."
"Did de la Guerche knock her down?" Henri repeated. Could the Breton have taken Maríana away as some sort of revenge?
"No. Richard would never hurt her." Jean-Pierre's eyes were distant, abstracted, then the whine returned to his voice. "She made Baron de Reuilles send Arnaut and me away in disgrace."
"You said that de la Guerche would never hurt her."
"No." Jean-Pierre looked directly into his eyes now. There was no deceit in his face. "He loved her," he said. "He always has."
Henri bounded out of his seat, the oak chair toppling with a resounding crash. He struggled to control the tensing of his muscles, the swelling of his throat. He reached for his sword; his fingers closed on the air. Of course. His sword was in the long knights' room with Robert. Counting his breaths until the red haze before his eyes faded, he looked down at the trembling knight. Bullies. But this young idiot would not be worth endangering his fief. Lashing out at Jean-Pierre would bring Louis of France down on Bauçais. No, he would let this one live.
Henri turned toward the stairs, then spoke over his shoulder to Jean-Pierre. "Leave the palais." His voice was pitched low, but it filled the hall. "And stay out of my sight for as long as you remain at the château." He paused. "If you do not, I will call you out." Henri strode to the stairs. He heard scrambling footsteps patter across the floor, heard the door creak open. A puff of frigid air touched Henri's back as it closed.
It was good that he could not picture de la Guerche. If he could, the image of the Breton knight with Maríana would haunt him, interfere with what he must do to find her. There was more to Jean-Pierre's tale. Henri would start with Johanna. She should know of any dalliance between de la Guerche and Maríana. He would have his answers.
Chapter 29
A BREEZE kissed Maríana's face, carrying the tang of amber sap, the clean, unsullied aroma of black pine. The exit from the mountain formed a tall rectangle. Light from outside fell softly through it and spread across the paved floor, caressing her. She stepped from the passage's door into a grove of trees. Oak and ash, hawthorn and beech-not pine-surrounded her. But the gentle slope of the mountain that curved away from the tunnel, all the way down to the silver gleam of a river far below, was carpeted by a sea of dense, glistening pines. She looked up at the gray and violet sky that pressed down on the earth and embraced the valley below. Home.
Richard stood beside her, his face shining, his chest rising in a long inhalation. "It is good to breathe without the stink of bat."
A breeze washed over them again and the air filled with the chime and clang of bells. Wind lifted Maríana's hair, brought the sharp trill of silver, the musical clatter of brass, and underneath, a humming drone of plainchant, of monks singing wordless tones of joy. "What is this?" she stepped forward.
Richard grabbed her arm and shoved her behind him, drawing his sword in the same motion.
Leila gave a shout of laughter. "Put your sword away, Frenchman." She pointed at the trees around them. Countless rows of bells dangled from the tree branches. Wind sent their melody into the air. She pulled Maríana out from behind Richard. "You will not need your sword here."
"I am Breton, not French," Richard whispered as the voices sounded again, then he added, "But who is singing?"
Leila drew Richard and Maríana to where a massive oak stood, its branches strung with gut and woven strands of vine. "This one is dead, so we hollowed out the center. My cousin Marc strung the branches." She released their hands and stood grinning at them.
"It is a harp." Richard reached for the lowest gut string, plucking it gently. "Maríana." He turned to her, his face alight. "See? The air has a voice."
Maríana stood on her toes and peered inside the oak, then leaned back and looked up into the branches. She counted thirty strands fastened to the larger, more stable limbs. Deep tones resonated throughout the empty space within, flowed out toward her, hung in the air. Some strands were barely thicker than the string of an oud. Others were almost as thick as a rope. Richard plucked the strings, his fingers tentative, searching.
Leila drew her away from Richard. "In the winter, after the first snowfall, all of us come up here at sunset to tend to the bells." She tapped three brass bells hanging from the branch of a hawthorn. Pure notes fell into the air, joined the hymn the wind played over gut strings. "Each bell is for one of us who has crossed the river into death. During the year, some fall off or become tangled. Sometimes birds nest in them."
"Why tend them in winter?" Maríana stepped away and scanned the branches. Hundreds of bells.
"The barrier between life and death is thinnest in winter, so that is our time to tie them back onto their branches, to polish those that have tarnished, or to hang a new bell if one of us has gone ahead that year." Leila shook the branch. The bells answered her motion with a frenzied pealing.
"How many are there?" Maríana asked. "How long have you been hanging them?" A continual melody reached out, touched, rejoiced.
"You would have to ask Grandfather." Leila wandered over to where Richard was still plucking the strings, his eyes closed, listening. His fingers were more sure now. Maríana could almost recognize the song he played. But Leila extended her hands and ran them in playful tugs across the other strings. A discordant trickle of notes cut across Richard's melody. His eyes flew open, then he gave Leila a wry smile and joined in her random song, grasping and plucking strings that she could not reach.
Maríana stood back. Leila must have decided that Richard was worthy of her attention now. This was better than her caustic digs at him throughout their flight. Still, her heart ached at the sight of her sister and Richard together. But how could that be? She had been just a child when she loved him. Love did not have the same meaning then.
She had set aside any fantasies when Johanna told her of his betrothal. Oh, she had waited. And, in the night, had nestled next to him in her dreams. Until he sent her away, telling her he could not come back to her. But those were dreams, weren't they? She looked up, saw the curve of his grin, the honeyed lights in his eyes. He had come back for her wedding, hadn't he?
She turned away from Richard and Leila and faced the entrance, where Iranzu stood, then stumbled in surprise. "Blessed Mother!" Two immense statues stood on either side of the tunnel, each reaching the height of ten men. How had she walked right past them, unaware?
"Who are they?" Richard asked. Color flooded his cheeks and he averted his eyes from the statue to the right of the tunnel. It was a figure of a woman, bare-breasted, but clothed in a pleated kirtle that fell from her waist to her ankles. The hands were clutched into fists at the figure's side and one foot stepped forward. Sloped eyes stared sightlessly out onto the valley below, and the same proud forehead and gentle curved mouth as the figures on the walls inside the mountain shaped the face.
"The woman is the Guardian." Leila was watching Richard. Her lips twisted when he looked away from the statue. "And the other is the Beacon."
The statues had the same face, yet there was no mistaking the virile essence that imbued the Beacon with robust power, nor the softer edges and yielding that suffused the figure of the Guardian. "How long have they been here?" Maríana grasped Richard's hand. His fingers felt cold as his hand closed over hers.
Leila shrugged. "Forever, I guess." Then she waved to Iranzu. "Grandfather! I want to get to the house before dark."
"Let us go, then." He gestured toward the slope that descended into the valley below, the pine-covered cliffs on the other side that plunged to its floor. "Welcome to our home," he said and spread his arms.
&nbs
p; IT WAS TOO warm in the chamber. Henri stood before Johanna de Reuilles, watching her eyes and feeling sweat trickle in rivulets from his neck down the middle of his chest before collecting in a damp patch on his belly. She was wily, this old woman. Her hearth was filled with blazing logs. The blast of heat alone would cause most to cut short any visit to Johanna. Her withered body seemed unaffected by the scorching atmosphere. It was often so with the old. Well. He could use this device himself sometime. But for now he could bear the heat in her chamber. Johanna would not be rid of him.
"So de la Guerche and Maríana were childhood friends?" He ran his sleeve across his forehead.
"I taught him to read." Johanna shrugged. "He took his lessons along with Maríana. I suppose you could say they were friends."
Henri pulled a stool from the corner and set it in front of Johanna, noting the twitch of surprise flutter across her face when he sat. "Rhomboid told me that de la Guerche loved Maríana." He leaned toward her. "But he did not ask for her hand?"
"He was betrothed." She was clearly deciding how much to say. "I believe his family chose someone from Bourdeilles."
"Then he did love Maríana? Could he have taken her away to compromise her?" It would not work. No matter what happened, Henri would have her back. But if he had touched her, this Breton knight, Henri would have his head on a pike. He looked at his trembling hands, forced the muscles to relax, then raised his face again to Johanna.
"Who can say if he loved her? He never said anything to me." She was good at masking her feelings, this Johanna. But Henri was skilled at reading faces and could see the struggle she tried to hide. He used his sleeve to wipe the sting of salt from his eyes. When he looked at her again, Johanna had decided something. Her face relaxed. She settled back into her chair.
"If he did go with her," she said, her gaze sharp and direct, "it was to protect her. I am sure of this."
Henri leaned toward her. "Protect her from what? If she were in danger, shouldn't her father protect her? Why didn't she come to him?" His fingers dug into his knees. "Or to me?"
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