"Leila is out by the ice pond," Iranzu said. "It would be too cruel to include her in this discussion."
Why? Richard started to speak, but Adelie was already talking.
"Maríana," she said, "Your grandfather and I need to talk with you about your preparation to serve as Lady of the Cave. We are going..." Adelie stopped in mid-sentence as Richard leaped to his feet and moved toward the door. "You are needed here, too. Please stay." He felt the weight of her eyes upon him as he returned to his seat.
Why did they want him? What was this Lady of the Cave? In Brittany, the rituals were women's concern. His mother told him of her journeys into the long barrows, but she had always chased him from the room whenever she spoke of the charms and spells she created.
Of course, all of these were in supplication to Saint Cecile or to the Magdalen. But they were spells nonetheless. The men had nothing to do with this. Especially his father. Richard looked down at his hands, let Adelie's words wash over him. He had participated in the circle fires of spring. Except for the priest and Baron de la Guerche, all the men in his fief did. He had even gone to the stones of Cairn'hac one year, where bonfires were lit and the young people leaped over the flames. He would never speak of what they did afterward. No one would. But children were always born nine moons later.
And now Adelie was describing a circle fire much like the ritual blaze at Cairn'hac. He felt his skin flush, turned his face away. So Maríana was to be initiated at the circle fire of late spring. Was this initiation the same as what they did at Cairn'hac? Well, that was three moons away. Time enough to win her heart. If he could. He stole a look at Maríana while she sat listening to Adelie and Iranzu, a faint line forming between her brows.
"But I do not feel anywhere near ready," she said after Iranzu fell silent. "Why are we in such a hurry?" She leaned forward. "And why can't Leila do this?"
Iranzu reached over and took her hands. "Leila does not have the ability to do this, even if I taught her. And she did not link with Ibrahim." He touched Maríana's lips, stopping the words that trembled there. "Ibrahim told me of your linking."
His eyes pleaded. "We have need of your skills, Maríana. It has been thirty years since my mother died. The boundary she wove to protect this place is growing thinner and thinner."
His face looked drawn and ashen. How old was this Iranzu? Richard could not remember his own grandparents. Yet Iranzu's mother had died thirty years ago, and he must have already been a man then. Baron de Reuilles had seen at least forty summers and Maríana had seen twenty, so Iranzu was, at the very least, sixty. Yet this old man had guided them up the cliff, through Canigou.
"People are still looking for you, and they may find one of our paths to the valley. I cannot weave the boundary -- the stone will not accept me -- but I can show you how," Iranzu continued.
"What about my mother? Didn't she ascend to the cave?" Maríana's eyes grew darker, deep forest green instead of emerald.
"It was my fault," Iranzu said, releasing her hands and rubbing the side of his neck. "I thought we had so much time, you see. I thought she would have your father help our people down below in the town and the area surrounding the château, that she had time to come back to our valley and ascend to the cave."
His eyes were haunted with grief. "But I was wrong. She came here only once, with Ibrahim. Then she returned to your father and stayed at the château with you, and, well, you know the rest." He looked down at the table.
Adelie took one of Iranzu's rough, grizzled hands in hers. "We cannot always see the purpose behind what happens, Father," she said, softly, then turned to Richard. "Soon it will be the hawthorn moon. I will work with Maríana on the rituals we perform at that time, but she will take part as a participant, not as the Lady." Her fingers kept stroking Iranzu's hand.
"This we will also do for the stirring-time when day and night are equally divided." The dark part of her hazel eyes suddenly grew large, nearly filling her eye sockets. What kind of creature was she? Cold fingers played along Richard's back.
"But, at the circle fire," Adelie continued, "Maríana must serve as the Lady and must ascend to the cave soon after that. Which means bringing the Lady through by coupling within the circle with the representative of the Lord."
Richard looked down again. His face alternately burned and froze. He focused upon Adelie's hands.
"After stirring-time we will start making the guardians for the circle fire," she said, her hands moving expertly over Iranzu's fingers now, soothing, kneading. "All the women in the village help in the making of the maiden, the mother and the grandmother." She blew softly on Iranzu's swollen knuckles. "Maríana will assist in the making of the maiden because she has not yet borne a living child."
Richard jumped, glanced at Maríana.
Adelie seemed to ignore the flash of anguish that came and went in Maríana's eyes. "The men will make the lord." She took Maríana's hands now. "Well, sister-daughter. Will you join us?"
"What does it mean," Richard blurted, placing his hands upon the table next to Adelie's fingers, "going to this cave, communing with this stone?" Adelie flashed her black-hazel eyes at him, but he continued. "What is the cost?" They wanted this too much. There must be something more to it that they were not saying.
Iranzu answered. "It is dangerous," he said. "If she is not well-prepared, she could be lost in the stone."
"And this means?" Richard's voice made a jarring echo in the room. Maríana touched his hand, but he would not be deterred. "What if she gets lost in this stone?"
"She will die," Iranzu said, "as my mother did when she last drew the barrier."
"Then Maríana will not do this..."
Maríana's fingers dug into Richard's hand.
"This is why you brought me here, isn't it?" Her voice was soft, but something hard and knowing sounded behind the words.
"No." Iranzu turned to Adelie, who was sputtering. "Hush." He added, "But, as the daughter of Thérèse, we hoped that you would want to do this." Regret rang from his voice.
Maríana bowed her head. How could she even think to consider this? Well, Richard would not lose her, not after he had gone through so much to save her. He was about to say this when she spoke.
"And if I do not?"
Iranzu drew back and his shoulders sagged. "Then may all the gods help us. The world would be at our doorstep if you do not succeed in doing this."
Richard could not contain the bitter laughter that rushed past his lips. "Whatever for?" he asked. "You have nothing that they would want, no gold, no silver, no jewels." He waved his hand. "I do not believe that they would come all this way for your pigs."
"It is the stone they want," Adelie said. "People have sought this stone for thousands of years. First the desert people, then the Romans, then the northern tribes." Her eyes bored into his. "We use the stone to draw the barrier."
She turned to Maríana. "But there are other uses for it."
"It is merely a legend out there now," Iranzu said. "Yet there are still those who seek it."
Thousands of years? What else could this stone do? But no, this was a ruse, all this gibberish about other people wanting the stone. He would not allow Maríana to do anything that was dangerous. "No," he began, but Maríana turned her green-fire stare upon him. He felt the pressure of her gaze, his tongue grew thick and heavy. Damn! She was stealing his voice.
"You will be prepared," Iranzu was saying. "We will do everything we can to make it safe for you."
"And if I do this thing," Maríana said, "the valley will truly be my home?" She drew in her breath. "I will have a place here?"
This was it, then. There had never been a place for Maríana anywhere. She wanted this desperately, to please them, to ensure her place here. Richard could see it shining from her eyes. Merde! He tried to tear his gaze from hers, but she held him fast.
Adelie and Iranzu were nodding as one. Maríana turned from Richard, released him. Her green eyes were luminous, but filled with somethin
g that looked like sorrow. "I will do this," she said.
Blast it! Richard stood, fists leaning on the table, staring in fury at Maríana. "Do not ever," he said, "use your sorcery on me again." He strode to the door and passed out into the fading day.
Chapter 33
THE WEATHER had plagued him all week. Henri leaned forward into the gale that whipped snow and hail into his eyes, that stung his forehead, that painted ice upon the scarf he had placed across his nose. It was fortunate that the distance between the palais and the tower was short. If it were even a cubit longer, he would have refused to make such a journey. As it was, the door to the tower was a monster. It took all of his weight to pull it open against the wind that battered him. But Johanna had made her request. And he would honor it.
One of Jean's men was on the other side of the door. He was the leader of the soldiers Jean had brought to Reuilles-le-château. What was the man's name? Was it Pierre? Henri could not remember, so he made a noncommittal grunt as he removed his mantle, and shook snow and ice from the wool.
"Has she regained her senses?" he asked. This was Johanna's greatest fear. If Ysabel recovered her wits, Jean would begin his interrogation. Every day, Henri came over to the tower and asked the same question. And hoped that Ysabel still wandered in the dark dream that had claimed her when the mannikin was snatched from her hands. Once the real questioning began, she would break, tell them anything to stop the pain. He was sure of this.
"Not that I can tell." The man's eyes drifted to the white cross covering Henri's chest.
Henri wore it all the time now. Then he could come and go as he pleased, while Louis-Philippe could not. Henri used this freedom to watch Jean's progress, his procedures. Jean had already made mistakes. Henri had used what he knew of the Inquisition's own methods in a letter to Durand, objecting to Jean's seizure of the tower and his near-imprisonment of the de Reuilles family.
Not that it did any good. Oh, Durand supported Henri's objections. But he would not chastise Jean. Henri straightened his belt, nodded to Jean's man and crossed the stone floor to the entrance of the dungeon.
Becier was in the great hall every morning with his pots of ink, his quills, his parchment. Henri had passed him when he left the palais to come over to the tower. For the past two weeks, Henri had watched Becier in the great hall, a line of people snaked across the floor to his seat upon Louis-Philippe's raised platform. Jean spoke with people between morning mass and the afternoon meal, noting their words in minuscule scribbling upon his parchment.
At least Jean's plodding observance of Inquisition procedure had allowed Henri time to advise Louis-Philippe. De Reuilles was carrying out all of his duties as Baron of Reuilles-le-château as if the Inquisition were not there. Louis-Philippe had even recalled Guillaume and his men from the slopes of Canigou. He did not want to leave a trail for Jean, a path that might lead to Maríana. Let Jean think that she could never be found.
Henri descended the steps to the guard's room. When he reached the bottom, he stopped in surprise. Three of Jean's soldiers sat around the long table. A feast was spread in front of them, jugs of wine, chunks of pork, slabs of beef, fine-meal bread. Well. He knew exactly how much Johanna sent over to feed the Pope's men. She was generous, but this went far beyond what she would send. Where had they gotten the rest?
There were the ribs of roasted lamb that Johanna had sent over for Ysabel. And that other basket had a familiar weave. Since Utarilla had been imprisoned, her grandson came each day with a basket of food for her. The soldier nearest Henri reached into the basket, pulled out a crisp meat tart and bit into it. Henri watched as garlic and beef dropped out of the tart, made wet tracks down the man's tunic. This was the grandson's basket, Henri was sure of it. If the soldiers were eating food sent over for the prisoners, what were they feeding Ysabel and Utarilla?
"Did Jean order this?" he asked. "Did he say you could take the food we provided for these women as well as the provisions we have given you?" He fingered his carving knife, traced the length of its handle.
"Well, we were feeding them." One of the men scratched his belly. "But they are witches, yes? Why should they be fed?" He continued slicing roast pork while his companions nodded and kept eating. "We are just going to burn them."
They were starving the women? Obscene! Ysabel had not even been questioned yet and Jean had promised to release Utarilla. If this was true, Jean was killing them both already, and killing the innocent babe within Ysabel's womb. Without thought, Henri drew his sword, swept it across the table, scattering bread, wine and meat into a jumble upon the floor.
The soldiers stared up at him, their mouths open in shock. The harsh rasping of their breath echoed off the walls; the remainder of the meat tart crumbled in the soldier's fingers. Henri stood with his sword held in battle stance and allowed his eyes to sear them. Blast the consequences. He would have this out, now.
"Well?" he barked out his challenge.
The soldiers exchanged glances and slid toward the edges of the chamber. A whispering scrape alerted Henri to the sword being drawn behind him and he whirled around.
"In the back?" he shouted, deftly evading the blade and slamming the flat of his own sword along the side of the man's head. He did not wait to see the man fall, but turned to face the other two soldiers, who rushed him with blades flashing in the air. He retreated, placed the wall at his back, met the blow one man aimed at his side. Pain traveled in a bright flare down the length of his left arm; blood flew against the wall as he swung his blade. The second man had moved in, bringing his sword around for another slice at Henri's arm.
Henri ignored the hot flow of blood coursing over his elbow, kicked out at the man who had injured him, caught the man's groin with his heel. The man fell, bellowing. Henri swept his sword in a crescent strike, sliced through the leather breeches of the other man, opening a wide gash in his leg.
His lips set in a cold line against the throbbing in his arm, Henri spun toward the man who had wounded him. Blood streamed out of his arm as he lifted his sword to strike.
The soldier had already staggered to his feet and met Henri's blade with his own. Henri parried the blows raining upon him, risking a quick glance at the others in the room. One still lay unconscious upon the floor. The other cried out in agony, hands clutching his leg. So far, no one else had come in to join the fight. His limbs were growing cold. He must end this soon.
The soldier he fought was skilled, but the man's blows followed a pattern. Two to the right, one left jab, then a sweep across the middle. When the man shifted his weight to make his left strike, Henri drew in his breath, brought his sword around in a fierce arc that caught the soldier's blade, ripped it out of his hands. As the sword clattered to the floor, Henri drove the man into the wall with his foot, pinning him there and placing the point of his sword against the man's throat. Henri lowered his head, close enough to feel the man's breath stop when he saw the heat of Henri's gaze. "Was this Jean's idea, starving the women?"
The door to the guard's room crashed open. The leader of Jean's men stood there, sword in hand, eyes hostile. His mouth tightened as he took in the scene before him, then his eyes lighted again upon the white cross on Henri's chest. Dismay cut a path across his features.
He snapped out an order to someone on the other side of the door and lowered his sword.
"Bauçais," the leader turned back to Henri. "What happened here?"
"Did you know your soldiers were confiscating food we sent over for the prisoners?"
Jean's man frowned, then looked from Henri to the rubble upon the floor. "No. I did not know."
This man had honest eyes; his gaze did not slide away. So. He was not Jean's lackey. Still, it would not be good to press him too far. An ally might be needed, later on.
Jean's man blanched when he saw the blood steadily coursing from Henri's arm. It had slowed, but continued to stain his tunic and shirt. "I will help you walk back to the palais."
"My thanks," Henri grabbed
the cloth that still covered the table and cleaned blood off his sword, watching the one soldier bind the other's leg wound. It would be a while before that one would walk again. "But I do not need your assistance." Sheathing his blade, he strode out the door. Jean would not get away with this.
He did not notice the wind or hail, only his feet as he placed each upon the uneven stones that paved the bailey. Twenty steps to the palais. He tucked his left arm against his side. Ten steps. His gait faltered. He sucked in his breath, pulled open the door and entered the great hall. The edges of his vision were darkening. He must be swift. Shouldering aside the people in the line that led to the Inquisitor, he came to stand next to Jean, hugging his left arm close to his body.
"Still like little boys, Abbot?" he whispered in Jean's ear. The pulse surged in his arm and there was a roaring in his head, but he held his body erect, stared into Jean's face.
Jean's hand tightened on his quill until his knuckles were white. "What do you want, Bauçais?" he hissed between his teeth, then shivered when his eyes fell upon the blood covering Henri's tunic.
"The prisoners will get decent meals, no more confiscating food, and Jean..." Henri paused as Jean regarded him. Becier's face was still and pale. But there was an avid spark burning in his eyes; his tongue darted out and moistened his lips. Henri leaned in toward him. "Remember I was at Montsegur, and I am a soldier of the King. If you cross me again..." His right shoulder lifted.
The shrug cost him. Black spots floated in front of his eyes. Henri forced himself walk up the stairs, one by one. When he reached his bed in the knights' room, he collapsed, tugged weakly at his shirt. It was stiff with his blood. "Robert..." he whispered, then stopped in surprise at the pale anguish on his squire's face. "Get Johanna," were the last words he could mutter before the roaring tunnel that sought him tugged his eyelids down and he knew no more.
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