THE BARONESS de Reuilles was singing again, her voice pure and clear, the voice of a child. It was an abomination, that such a creature should have the angelic tones of a beardless boy. But women were the source of all evil. God had given this truth to him, hadn't He? Daughters of Eve... .
Jean cocked his head and listened. What language did she use? He could almost make out the tune. It was something from the south, Castile, maybe. There was a rhythm to it. But the words ran together in a liquid stream, glided past his ears, rang against the stone and iron that formed the cells of the dungeon. It was not Latin.
He clasped his hands and descended the steps, stopping in front of her cell. Whenever he tried to question her, Ysabel just stared at him. Or grunted and howled. It set his teeth grinding. When she was first taken to the dungeon, he had placed a hot iron against the tender skin on the inside of her elbow. She had screamed in fury. Then, she had laughed. When his men heard her unholy laugh, they had backed away. After that, they all refused to touch her.
His teeth slid back and forth, clicking and gnashing. He did not like waiting. But he must wait until his men would hold her or tie her down so he could use what he had at hand to wrest answers from her. He could not touch her, not with his hands. A shudder moved through his arms. He never touched women.
Ysabel had fallen silent, rocking back and forth on her heels. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many mysteries here. Why had she written to Durand? Ibrahim the Moor was dead. No one could wring the truth out of him. Maríana de Reuilles had disappeared. As for Louis-Philippe, well, Durand had ordered Jean to wait. He could not take the baron. Not yet.
But Jean had sent some of his own men out to retrace the steps of de Reuilles and Bauçais, up to that mountain where they had stopped. Canigou. Ghastly name. Their pitiful search was a ruse, he was sure. Well, perhaps Henri had tried to find her, this Maríana. But Louis-Philippe? Why would he bring his daughter back to face the Inquisition? De Reuilles probably helped her escape. Ah, this did not matter now. His men would find Maríana de Reuilles.
Jean moved toward Ysabel, stopping before his robe touched the rust-covered bars. What was that sound she was making now? Was she whispering? A constant hissing sibilance was flowing out of her. There did not seem to be words.
Did this creature really think that her accusations against the Moor and her stepdaughter would mislead Jean Becier? That it would blind him to her own vile sorcery? He pulled his lower lip between his teeth. Well, it may have. For a time. He had not suspected Ysabel. It was only the vigilance of Henri that had uncovered the heresy of the Baroness de Reuilles.
Utarilla lay huddled upon a moldy blanket in her cell. Stupid old woman. Every day she begged for a priest to hear her confession so that she could receive her penances and be set free. A laugh sputtered through his lips.
He must be careful. Henri had heard him promise to free Utarilla, once she had made confession and recanted. Jean could not torture her. Not yet.
Ysabel. This demented creature had even made a love charm, a spell to entangle Henri de Bauçais. Jean had read the name she had painted upon red silk. He knew of these things, had seen the workings of such sorcery. He would tell his Henri of this love charm. When the time was right, he would tell.
His Henri. A shiver started somewhere near Jean's navel and traveled lower. When Baron de Bauçais had first sent his middle son to Fornault Abbey, Jean demanded a portion of the income from his fief to pay for the boy's upkeep. Jean did not like taking the spoiled sons of minor barons into his abbey. More to his liking were orphans, sweet young boys who had no mother, no father. He took them in and made them his own. His family.
But when the young Henri arrived with his mother, Jean's heart had leaped into his throat. He had been blinded by the boy's splendor. Henri's own mother had approved the use of the belt to quell her son's evil desires, and Jean happily complied. He had tried to turn the young Henri from the wicked snares of the daughters of Eve, tried to bring Henri into the one, true fellowship of men. Jean had treasured every cry of pain, every whimper that found its way past the boy's glorious lips.
Henri the man was even more beautiful, glowing with a cold and merciless radiance. Henri de Bauçais, brilliant, shining angel of God. Henri the beloved.
Henri the betrayer.
Oh, he had long ago forgiven Henri for his betrayal. It could have happened at any time. Anyone could have discovered Jean's secret indulgence.
But it was Henri who had broken him. The temptation was too great. Henri's eyes had drawn him, the fierce glare, the quick shielding of pain. Such pain lay behind Henri's frosty stare. Jean could see this pain Henri tried so hard to hide. It had finally drawn him into Henri's bed, led him to break his first rule. Jean had never before approached any of the children of knights or barons who had come to Fornault Abbey. It was too dangerous. Yet he had approached Henri. He had grown careless. This would never happen again. No.
Ysabel's hair hung in clumps around her face. She smelled like the slops pit. Henri could not have bedded such a creature. Not his Henri. Even when Henri had staggered into the great hall, blood staining his shirt and pattering on the floor, the glory of his beauty dazzled and burned. Henri's dangerous eyes, his magnificent stance commanded, compelled. Henri could barely stand, yet he had marched over to where Jean sat, had delivered his message, jaw set against the pain of his wound, against death itself.
Jean's teeth ground again, sent splintered shocks into his skull. Durand had censured him, had ordered him, Jean Becier, to feed these wicked creatures. Yet Jean did not blame Henri. No, it was not Henri's fault. Jean's own soldiers had caused this with their flagrant display of the food he had allowed them to confiscate. They should have hidden the food and shown respect to Henri. They should not have fought him.
It had been two weeks since Henri was wounded. Bauçais had not come down into the great hall since that time. The old hag Johanna said Henri had not yet recovered from his wound. Jean grasped the cold metal of the cross that rested next to his heart. He missed seeing Henri's face. But God was merciful. Bauçais would heal.
He caught a glint from under the mat of hair that surrounded Ysabel's face. She was staring at him, now. Would she speak? He leaned closer. Her lips parted.
"Bismillahi'r-Rahmani'r-Rahim." Her voice was quiet, with barely enough breath to move a feather.
Air puffed out between his lips. Gibberish again. More nonsense. Well, perhaps tomorrow. Jean turned and climbed up out of the dungeon.
HENRI STOOD before Johanna, scanning the document she had just given him. "You are only showing this to me now?" He impaled her with his stare. She returned it in full measure.
"I had to be sure where your sympathies lay," she said. "After you fought Becier's soldiers to ensure adequate food for the prisoners," her face softened, "I felt that we may trust you."
"Indeed." Three weeks had passed since he fought with Jean's soldiers. He traced the raw scar that ran the length of his arm. Johanna had given him wine and yarrow to build up his strength and to promote healing. Still, it had been an entire week before he could stand. Now he could walk, but it would be a while before he could fight again.
He looked at the parchment in his hands. It was a document des Arcis had sent Ysabel. As he read through it, a cold lump settled in his belly. This was not the method used in these cases. Charges of sorcery were referred to the local priest first, then to the seigneur. They always restricted their inquiries to the names that were given. Other names might arise during questioning, but not before. The names of Ibrahim and Maríana had come from Ysabel, he knew this now. But Louis-Philippe?
"Could Ysabel have sent them Louis-Philippe's name?"
Johanna silently handed him another page of parchment. It was Ysabel's letter to Durand. "How did you get this?" It must have cost a fortune. Durand guarded his correspondence closely.
She did not answer. He returned to Ysabel's letter and skimmed the contents. Maríana's name. Ibrahim, t
oo. No other. He lifted the message from des Arcis, held it beside Ysabel's letter.
No, this was not the method used in cases of sorcery. But it was familiar. It was the procedure Henri had used when he first came to des Arcis.
It was the way they found Cathars.
Three names-he remembered this. They liked to start with three names. And they always went after the rest of the family. Des Arcis liked to proclaim that heresy infected the entire family. The real reason they questioned whole families was to use each family member as a lever, to branch out from those who were first named, to capture as many as they could. By pursuing family members from the beginning, they were often able to obtain the names of other heretics outside the family. A man may resist the questioning himself, but if you took his mother, his wife or child? He would break sooner.
Henri stared at Johanna. "We are all of us in danger," he said.
A knock sounded upon the door, three soft raps. Johanna took the documents from Henri's hands, tucked them underneath her and said, "Enter."
One of Jean's men sidled into the room, hands twisting the fine red silk tunic he wore. "M-My lord, lady, the midwife has disappeared."
Johanna frowned. "So?" She leaned back. "Is the baby coming, then?"
"Can't tell." The man was a wreck. Henri knew that this one had recently been given guard duty in the dungeon. Robert had told him that no one lasted long there anymore, even though the tenants of the dungeon were still only Utarilla and Ysabel. "She screams all the time now, but today her screams are more drawn out and more like an animal," the man whispered the last part.
"Have you looked elsewhere for a midwife?" Henri stared at the man. Sweat was pouring down this one's face.
"I went to the town," the man said, then swallowed. "No one would speak to me."
"And this surprised you?" Henri's eyes traveled over the pope's livery hanging from the man's body.
"What?"
He was oblivious, this man. Henri turned to Johanna. "Aunt," he said. "I will go over to the tower and see what I can do."
Johanna's eyes were hooded, but Henri detected a gleam as they darted from the man to him. "Ysabel is not due until the end of March."
Henri placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. He was too weak to wield it, but Jean's men would not know this. "Who can say? Babes come early sometimes. I will see Ysabel and go over to Reuilles-la-ville for a midwife myself, if she needs one."
LIGHT FROM a single torch threw its glow across the floor between the cells. A wailing howl shivered along the walls, drove into his head, reached his teeth. Henri fought the urge to cover his ears, to step back. No wonder Jean rotated the soldiers here. How did the old woman bear it? Ysabel and Utarilla had been kept together in the dungeon for over a month. He turned to the soldier.
"When were the cells last cleaned?" The stench of unwashed bodies and human waste reached him, along with the rasping grunts issuing from Ysabel's cell.
"We tried yesterday." Hands shaking, the man poked his key at the lock.
Johanna had insisted that the cells be scrubbed. Utarilla's cell was clean, that much Henri could see from the feeble glow of the torch. But no matter how much soap and water were applied to the walls and floors, the place still smelled of old blood. He suspected that no one would go near Ysabel's cell to clean it, just as no one would go close enough to gag her. Ah, well. He could not blame them. It was better for the de Reuilles family if the pope's men were afraid of her.
Utarilla huddled in her cell. Henri knew Becier had so far refused her requests for a priest to hear her confession, so she could recant and receive penance. It was an old trick. Jean must hope for more names.
Henri took the cell key from the man's trembling hands. Ysabel's howls were growing deeper. "How long has she been like this?" He unlocked the door and pushed it open, dropping to his knees next to where Ysabel crouched.
"For the past week. When she is not sleeping, she screams and wails." The man's voice came from behind him. Jean's brave soldier had retreated to the stairs. Henri leaned toward Ysabel. Matted hair hung around her crimson face. She did not seem to know he was there, yet her screams now dropped into a gurgling pant.
"Babe is almost here." A gruff voice floated out from the other cell. "Best get the midwife now."
"No one will come." Jean's man was at the top step now, his hands reaching for the door.
"Thought so." Utarilla nodded, then struggled to rise. "Very well. You must do as I say then, and we will bring the babe in."
Henri's stomach contracted. "What?" Had he heard right? "I will go over to Reuilles-la-ville."
Her eyes glinted at him. "No time." She leveled a fierce glare at Jean's man. "Go to the palais," she told him. "Find Jeanne and send her here." The man stared at Ysabel, then lumbered back up the stairs and out the door.
Henri stepped out of Ysabel's cell and unlocked Utarilla's door. "Well?"
She raised her arms. "Bring me to her."
He took her feather-light angular body in his arms, placed her directly opposite Ysabel. The old woman lifted Ysabel's skirt all the way up. "Too late for Jeanne," she murmured. "See?" Her gnarled finger pointed. "Babe's head is already there."
Henri forced his eyes to follow the old woman's finger, saw a dark lump emerge from between Ysabel's legs, then recede as Ysabel drew in another long breath. "Shouldn't we lay her down?"
"It is good that she squats. Have you a knife?"
He pulled out his carving knife. The familiar blade had a black sheen in the torch light.
Utarilla nodded. "Take it over to the torch and run it through the fire three times." Her hands traveled over Ysabel's belly, pushed at the laboring woman's legs.
"Why?" He stared at the knife. Anything to avoid the sight of the dark mass protruding from between Ysabel's legs.
Utarilla looked up at him, her eyes were crinkling with something that looked like amusement. "The Lady Thérèse taught me this." She waved at his knife. "We need to cut the cord when the babe comes out. Running your knife through the flames kills any evil that may be on the blade." When he stood glancing from his knife to the torch, she raised her voice. "Just do it, man." Amusement still curled around her words. "It will not harm your knife and it may be safer for her." She turned back to Ysabel, who was now straining. "Hurry."
Henri plunged his knife into the torch flames three times, placed it blade up in his belt and returned to Utarilla, who gestured for him to take her place in front of Ysabel. "When the shoulders come out, you must grab the baby and pull." She crawled over to the side.
"Why?" He focused on the top of Ysabel's head. Her hair seemed to quiver. Lice. "You have brought babes in before." He looked at the old woman. "I have not."
"I am too weak to do this, so you must pull." Ysabel was panting in heavy grunts. "Not hard, mind you, but steady." Utarilla's eyes glinted at him again. "Like pulling a sword out of a body."
"What!"
But Ysabel rocked back on her bottom, drew her thighs up. Even he could see the pale bump of a tiny shoulder squeeze out of her, the fragile curve of a tender ear. He hesitated, hand wavering between Ysabel's legs, then he reached for the little body and tugged. Now a rubbery arm came free; the warm and slippery body squirmed. Ysabel's head lolled back, then bent forward, chin pressing into her neck. Her face grew red, then purple as she strained. Henri still held the wiggling arm, one hand supported the damp head. He looked up to see a wave start at the top of Ysabel's belly and travel down to her navel. At the same time, the baby shot out toward him. He barely stopped it from hitting the floor.
Silence pressed in. Ysabel had either fainted or had fallen asleep; she lay flat on her back now. The birth cord was a pale snake from her to the baby Henri held in his arms. "A boy child." Utarilla's voice had grown hoarse. "Give him to me." She reached out.
He found himself reluctant to release the boy. The baby was not crying, just making mewling grunts. The boy's eyes opened, looked straight into Henri's. Deep blue, solemn e
yes. A tiny hand took hold of his left thumb, gripped it hard. He wondered what his own child would be. When was Maríana due? He thought it was April or May. The baby he held shifted in his hands, the face crumpled. Still, he did not want to let the boy out of his grasp.
He looked down at Ysabel where she lay on the dirt of her cell. It hurt, having a baby. He knew this, yet he had not thought of the pain Maríana would suffer. Sometimes, women died giving birth. He pulled the baby in against his chest and the crumpling face relaxed. Louis-Philippe had told him he thought that wherever Maríana had gone, she was well. But how could her father know this? How could anyone know? Henri tried not to think about her. Even thinking of Maríana would fill his senses, dull his judgment. He could not let this happen, not now. The boy had latched on to his tunic, was grunting and seeking its silken fabric with his mouth.
"Give him to me," Utarilla said. "I will not harm him, and you must sever the cord." Her voice cut across his musing. He pulled the baby boy away from his tunic, offered him to Utarilla. It was odd. His hands felt so cold and empty now.
"First tear some of your shirt to tie off the cord." Utarilla was staring at the baby, then her eyes lifted to him, searched his face. What was she seeing? "Well," she said. "He looks like you."
Did he? "All babes look alike to me." Perhaps the boy was his, perhaps not. He could not claim him, could he? De Reuilles must raise him. He ripped the bottom of his shirt, sawing a narrow strip, then tied the pulsing cord.
Utarilla leaned forward. Her eyes traveled from the baby to Henri's face, lingered on his forehead, his nose. "I have helped many babes into the world. They are all different." She ran gentle fingers over the baby's jaw, along his brow. "See, his chin and the set of his eyes are like your face."
"Where do I cut?" He held his knife ready. The edge flashed as he turned it. Maríana would have his baby. When all this was over, he would find her, find the baby, take them both far away.
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