Richard stretched his arms and then hugged his body, trying to warm himself. They would not survive this journey. The Inquisition would kill them both; he was sure of this. He wanted to tell Maríana how much he loved her. But each time he resolved to tell her, an image of Henri de Bauçais appeared in his troubled mind.
Richard had seen Henri with Maríana in the great hall, before Maríana fled to his chamber in the tower that night, so many months ago.
The invitation to her wedding had caught him in Bourdeilles. He remembered this clearly. Beatrice had given it to him. She had said, "Oh, a wedding invitation from Reuilles-le-château! Maríana de Reuilles. Didn't you squire for her father?"
The next thing he knew, he was on his horse, his pack thrown across the saddle, harp bouncing against the horse's flanks. Beatrice and her family were there, he was sure. He seemed to remember her eyes were swollen and her father had shouted at him. But he had not stopped.
He had ridden day and night, until he reached Reuilles-le-château. If this was a match Johanna had made, perhaps he could convince her to break it. He wanted to see for himself. But he did not want Maríana to see him. If she really loved this Bauçais, then Richard would leave before she knew he was there.
So he had stood at the back of the great hall while Henri helped Maríana down the stairs. Bauçais had stayed at her side as they made their way along the family table, her hand tucked in his elbow. Protective and possessive, this man. Henri had murmured something, his voice a distant rumble. Richard had drawn in his breath. Henri's eyes rested upon Maríana, hot and filled with longing. A love match for Bauçais, then. But was it a love match for Maríana? Richard had not given up hope, not then.
Two things had finally driven Richard from the hall that night. He remembered Jean-Pierre speaking of Maríana. Something about Maríana carrying a burden, something about Bauçais not wanting to wait. Richard had turned to his friend, ready to hush him, when he had seen Maríana lift her face to Henri. A tender smile played over her lips. Henri bent toward her. Then the meaning of Jean-Pierre's words had broken through the shell that had encased Richard since he received the invitation.
Richard remembered Jean-Pierre turning to him, asking him if he was drunk, saying he was so pale that someone might come and sew him up in a shroud. Richard had not answered his friend. He had pushed past the crowd of guests, through the door and into the frigid night. He could never remember how he had gotten back to the room in the donjon. Maríana's old chamber. He had sat there unmoving on the bed until Jean-Pierre came in and told him he was going to visit one of the kitchen maids. By that time a numbness had seized Richard. He had undressed and slipped into the bed. Maríana was to have the child of Henri de Bauçais.
Too late.
But she had come to him, hadn't she? That night. She had told him she was leaving the château. But she had not known that Richard was there in the donjon. She was not coming to him at all; she had only come for the warm clothes that Alys had stored. Maríana had fled from the Inquisition.
Why was she going back there now? To return the chalice? No one would risk his life for a cup. The thoughts that had been torturing him all night whirled around and around in his head. All he could see was Maríana running into Henri's arms.
Marc shook Richard's shoulder. "We will eat now, then we must go on," he said.
LOUIS-PHILIPPE looked up from the papers he was studying. The soldier who stood before him was sweating profusely, the red silk of his tunic sticking to his chest. "B-Baron," the soldier stammered. "Brother Becier is asking that you come and witness the questioning of the baroness." He licked his lips and his eyes darted around the great hall.
Louis-Philippe frowned. "He has not asked for this before." What had happened?
The man cleared his throat, lowered his voice. "He has her on the rack."
Louis-Philippe watched his fingers grow white as he clutched a quill in his grasp. He jumped when the quill snapped. What game did Becier play now? He rose to his feet. Guillaume strode over to where he stood.
"Baron?" Guillaume said. "What has happened?"
"I want you to remain here," Louis-Philippe told Guillaume. "I will handle this." It might be nothing at all. Hadn't des Arcis told Jean he could not burn the two women? Jean was a worm, nothing more. He would not go against the orders of his superior.
Louis-Philippe motioned for Jean's soldier to precede him and followed them to the door. This would be the first time he had been inside the donjon since Jean had taken it. He glanced up at the ramparts, saw two of Jean's men peering down at him. His feet slowed. A stake and kindling stood just outside on the stones of the inner bailey next to the donjon. When had this happened? It had not been there this morning. Perhaps he should tell Guillaume where he was going first.
"We must hurry," the man grabbed his arm as the massive door opened, and pulled him inside.
The donjon's door shut behind Louis-Philippe. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light within. Jean Becier was there, flanked by four of the Inquisition's soldiers.
"Take him," Jean said, and two more of Jean's men came at Louis-Philippe from behind, grabbing his arms as the soldiers surrounding Jean moved forward with ropes, swiftly wound them around him.
"Jean!" Louis-Philippe shouted. "What are you doing? My men will flatten you!"
"I think not, Baron," Becier purred. "Remember I own the donjon. Soon I will own all of Reuilles-le-château." His eyes assessed Louis-Philippe's form, lingering upon his groin. "I sent a man to Durand with a request to take you."
"You do not wait for his reply?" Louis-Philippe relaxed his arms. How many steps to the door? Could he make it before one of them took him down?
"I need not wait." Jean moved closer. "You see, Ysabel told me," his voice dropped to a whisper, "about you and Ibrahim the sodomite."
Louis-Philippe bared his teeth and lunged; Jean jumped back before the baron could bite off his ear. "Now, now, Baron." Jean's eyes sparkled.
"Take the baron to the torture chamber." Jean waved his hand at his men. "When you have him secured to the rack," he turned to his first-in-command, "send the others out for Geneviéve, and take the two women in the dungeon to the pyre."
"No!" Louis-Philippe cried out as the men dragged him toward the dungeon.
"No?" Jean smiled and hugged his body. "Tie the women to the stake and burn them," he commanded his men.
JOHANNA looked up from her needlework. Two of the Inquisition's soldiers stood before her daughter. "I will take care of this, daughter," she said.
The two men shook their heads. "We are only here for Geneviéve," one said.
Johanna's heart skipped. They were far from Louis-Philippe and their own soldiers in the great hall. "But I am her mother," she argued. "At least let me go with her."
The soldiers looked at each other for a moment. Then one shoved Johanna down onto the floor, while the other clamped his hand over Geneviéve's mouth and pulled her to the door.
"Through the back halls," the first soldier whispered to the one who held Geneviéve. "Jean has had our men clear the back way, but we must hurry." He looked down to where Johanna lay crumpled on the floor. She could feel his eyes upon her, hear his words clearly. In fact, everything was very clear. The light seemed to be deepening, turning golden.
"Is she dead?" the man who held Geneviéve asked, then yelped. Johanna fought to stifle her giggle. Her daughter had bitten him! Johanna had never taught Geneviéve to do such things, but bravo, Geneviéve! Johanna could not seem to move, but saw the first soldier take a sash and pull the other's hand away from Geneviéve's mouth. Then he wound the sash tightly around her daughter's head, stifling her screams and gagging her.
"Who can say?" the first spoke again, prodding Johanna's still form with his foot. She could not even feel it, but she could see everything. It was most extraordinary. The man shrugged and motioned for the other to precede him out the door.
Light surrounded her. She seemed to lift up into it, bathe in i
ts splendor. The two soldiers dragged Geneviéve down the halls, through the empty kitchens and out the back door. They encountered some château servants on their way to the donjon, but beyond a few gasps and puzzled exclamations, no one accosted them. Johanna paused in surprise. Where was Louis-Philippe? And how could she see these things? The answer seemed to elude her; she followed them to the donjon.
Jean had been busy. The old woman Utarilla was tied to a stake, body limp, head hanging down on her chest. Soldiers were tying Ysabel beside her. Johanna moved closer. Ysabel was gagged and her terrified eyes bulged. A bloody rag covered her right hand. Johanna tried to speak, to give her some comfort, but no sound would come out of her mouth. People streamed out of the stables and the palais, watching.
The two men dragged Geneviéve over the donjon's threshold. Shouts sounded from the palais. Good! Louis-Philippe would come. But one man yelled "Now!" and the men who had tied Ysabel and Utarilla to the stake dropped their torches into the kindling. They all retreated inside the donjon and pulled the door shut. Johanna heard the hollow thump of arrows hitting the outside of the door.
She should help, shouldn't she? It was her daughter in there. She looked around her at the men and women pouring out of the palais. But no one could see her. A flood of white gold burned, had she gotten too close to the pyre? But the space between the donjon and the palais fled by her in a dizzying rush. When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor in Geneviéve's chamber, looking at the pool of blood widen around her face, feeling her limbs slowly freeze.
"FASTEN IT!" Jean screamed. "Archers! To your posts. Let no one through!" The men clattered up the stairs, their bows tucked under their arms.
Jean climbed the stairs to the ramparts, rubbing his hands together. He could see his men at the edges, raining arrows down on Louis-Philippe's men below. "Have they been able to put out the fires?" he asked Pierre.
"Not that I can see," Pierre replied. "And if they do, it is already too late." He aimed and fired again.
Jean shivered. "Excellent," he said. He had been denied witnessing the burnings, but he had Baron Louis-Philippe de Reuilles in his torture chamber. The baron's own torture chamber. "De Reuilles, the sodomite," he breathed.
Pierre had everything else well in hand. Barrels of oil simmered over roaring fires, pitch for burning arrows smoked on the ramparts. Pierre was a soldier. He knew his job, if not his place.
Jean climbed back down the stairs and continued on to the dungeon. He glanced to the right. Geneviéve was there, already secure in her cell. The cell on the left was empty now. No more Ysabel. He lifted the door into the torture chamber.
"Oh, Louis-Philippe," Jean whispered. "We will have such fun!"
Chapter 40
IT SHOULD have been an easy climb. The sun had only peeked over the horizon when Maríana came to the cliff just above what Marc called the "winter house," where people from his valley would break their journey. Marc had fixed a rope to a sturdy tree, had Maríana and Richard tie themselves to each other so they could safely make their way down.
Richard was below her, almost to the bottom of the cliff. He had a distance of nearly the height of the donjon of Reuilles-le-château left to go. It was a sheer drop. She saw him look down, then he pulled his body out from the cliff and put his full weight on the rope.
One moment Richard was hanging onto the rope with his feet planted firmly against the side of the cliff. The next, he was plummeting down. She saw him drop, hit the ground and roll. His right leg snapped and whipped out at an angle just below his knee.
Maríana was already sliding recklessly down when Richard's scream reached her ears. He rolled over and grabbed his knee. She reached the place where his rope had broken, shouted to Marc, "Let out more rope," and waited while the boy gave her enough to climb down.
She hit the ground and raced to where Richard lay, still holding his knee, his knuckles white and his breath whistling through his teeth. Marc went to Richard's head and held his shoulders while Maríana slid her mantle under his injured leg. Richard's face was so pale that Maríana was sure he would faint any moment.
He looked at Marc and said, "I was not careful." He stopped, caught a breath. "It was not your fault."
"Keep him still," Maríana said, one hand underneath Richard's thigh just above the knee, the other poised to catch his broken calf.
Marc told Richard, "You will need to let go of your knee. We must have your leg flat, so that we can set it."
Richard gave a quick nod. Filling his lungs, he released his knee all at once, hissed through clenched teeth when Maríana took his injured calf and settled it on top of her mantle.
"It has not broken the skin," Maríana said, holding her hands inches above the break. At least she thought it had not. Her healing sense seemed to have left her, also. But there was no blood that she could see. "If we can set it, we should be able to move him to the winter house."
"Set it, then," Richard said through his teeth, eyes focused on the morning sky.
Marc scoured the brush for branches they could use as splints. "Richard, I am not strong enough to set your leg by myself and Marc does not know how to do it well enough to ensure that your leg will grow back together straight," Maríana said. "To do this right, we will need someone to hold you still while we set your leg."
"I can hold still while you do it," he said, his body rigid, his lips pale. "What do you think I am, anyway? I am a knight." He shuddered. "I have broken bones before."
Maríana studied her hands in her lap. "Yes, you have." But they did not have Ibrahim to set it this time. "And you know that no one could hold completely still."
"But, what else can we do?" he whispered.
"There is another way," she said. "One of us could go into your mind to make you sleep..."
"No! You stay out of my mind!" His eyes met hers in a searing flash.
Maríana crumpled, bent around the hot flare in her belly. Then she drew herself up. He was hurt. Her feelings did not matter. If she did not survive her journey to the château, at least she would leave him with a straight limb. "I cannot go into your mind," she whispered.
"What?"
"I have lost the gift."
Puzzlement fought with pain, then his eyes widened. "You mean you are going back there with nothing to protect you?" His voice caught. "Nothing at all?"
She turned away, ran to Marc. "Marc," she said, looking back at Richard. He was struggling to sit, "can you force yourself into his mind?" Richard fell to the ground again, a low groan slid past his teeth.
"We are not supposed to..." he started, but after a glance at Richard, he strode over to where Richard struggled, hands held out before him.
Richard stopped moving, but his eyes were still open. Maríana watched Marc move around to Richard's head, then she rose slowly and picked up the branches Marc had gathered, using her knife to slice off the twigs and peel the bark. While she worked she stole glances at Marc as he smoothed the hair back from Richard's forehead. Richard's hands unclenched, then fell to his side. His lids closed over his eyes and his mouth fell open.
Maríana brought the splints she had carved over to where Marc sat with Richard. Marc's hair was damp and his hands were shaking. "Our knight has much pain held deep inside him," Marc said, getting up off his knees and stumbling over to where Maríana was measuring rope for the splints. "This pain is hurting him far more than his leg. It makes him say and do crazy things. I sent him into a dream for a long time." He touched Maríana's arm. "He should not wake until it is quite dark."
"As long as it keeps him still. We will only need a moment to set his leg." Maríana had finished measuring, and was now carefully arranging her mantle beneath his injured leg. His leg had swollen, pressed out against his breeches. Glancing up at Richard's face, she took her knife and split his breeches all the way to his groin. Beyond a short grunt, Richard did not react.
"We will need some time to get him settled in the winter house, but we must have even longer than that.
" Marc was looking at her. It was difficult to meet his eyes.
"Are you angry at me, too?" She peeled the cloth away from Richard's leg. The break was clean; it had not come through the skin.
"No. I will need time to convince him that it would be folly for him to try to crawl after you." Marc raised his eyes to her face. "You must have enough of a lead."
Maríana took Marc's hands in hers, raised them to her lips. "How can I thank you?" she whispered.
A ghost of his usual broad smile flitted across Marc's face. "Just come back, Maríana. He will be impossible if you do not."
"I will do my best, Marc," she said.
After they had set Richard's leg, Maríana wrapped it in her mantle to cushion it. Marc helped her tie the splints firmly to the leg, from the knee to the ankle. When they set his leg, Richard's arms had twitched, but he had remained unconscious. Marc had fashioned a travois out of larger branches he tied together, and the two dragged Richard to the winter house. They settled him in the one bed that was there and covered him with blankets.
"It is warm today, but the pain has drained his energy." Maríana tucked the blankets around Richard, kissed his forehead. "You will need to keep him warm and feed him only if he is hungry -- do not make him eat."
Marc snorted. "As if I could make him do anything. It will be all I can do to keep him from following you." He drew his own mantle out of his pack. "You will need this."
Maríana sat gazing at Richard, holding the cauldron between her hands. She took the mantle from Marc and looked up at him. "Thank you, cousin," she said. "Keep him quiet." Tears stood out in her eyes. She dashed them away. Maríana de Reuilles does not cry. "Marc..."
"Yes, Maríana."
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