He could not have heard right. "What did you say?" Then, "Blast! Robert." He turned to the boy. "Not so tight." He swung back to Arnaut.
"The baron and his sister and daughter are all in the donjon."
Sounds around Henri faded. All he could hear was a pounding. "Maríana came back. She came back." It was his heart he heard.
He looked up. Alys crouched in a corner, her nose and eyes red. Several squires and pages huddled by the hearth. A few of the younger knights stood over the long table. None of the older knights were in the hall.
"Maríana arrived just this afternoon," Arnaut said. "Alys told me that she changed into one of her gowns and went over to the donjon. We could not stop her. No one knew what she planned to do."
"Who are the two he burned?" Maríana! It could not be Maríana.
"Ysabel and the old woman."
Henri released his breath. "Where is Guillaume?" He scanned the hall, saw what was left of Louis-Philippe's men. All of them were very young, with pale faces and wide eyes. "Where is Bernart?"
"Bernart is in Bazas. He was not here," Arnaut said. "Guillaume is dead."
Henri rubbed the hand of his injured arm. "How many died?"
"Four, counting Guillaume. Jean's archers killed three out in the bailey when we tried to re-take the donjon."
"Didn't you use shields?" Henri rotated his arm. How could he storm the donjon with six men and these... children?
"Not at first." Arnaut's gaze dropped. "Guillaume had us approach the door covering our bodies with shields when we took a log across the bailey to ram the door, but Jean's men poured boiling oil on us. I don't know what he used, but it set the shields on fire. We had to retreat." He paused. "Guillaume was killed there."
"Probably shot burning arrows after the oil was poured," Henri murmured. "It's a trick I've used myself."
His nightmare was realized. Jean had Maríana. But he could not dwell on this, not now. They must get her out. He turned to Arnaut. "How long has he had her?"
Arnaut's face fell. "All night."
Henri seized Arnaut's arm, shook him. "I need you with me." He waited till Arnaut raised his head and set his jaw. Good. There might be some iron in this one. "What else have you tried?"
"That is all. We used shields and got most of the bodies out of the bailey after nightfall." His throat convulsed. "Not Guillaume. We could not risk having burning oil poured on us again."
Henri stood and motioned for all the knights to gather around him. Moving over to the long table, he swept everything on it off onto the floor. The clatter brought all eyes to him. "We will make an attempt on the donjon tonight." His voice rang out in the hall. He took a charred piece of wood out of the fire and drew a crude map on the surface of the table. The knights bent forward and watched.
"There is another way into the donjon," Henri said, watching their faces transform to show something that looked like hope. "There is a back door."
JEAN SAT OUTSIDE the bars of the cell. He had been there for some time. First he had only stared. Then he had eaten, an entire meal. The scent of beef and bread had started a rumbling in her belly. She had almost laughed then. Her left foot was gone, pulped by this man. She would probably not last through the next day. There were other implements in the torture chamber that would inflict even more pain than the iron boot and she had no doubt Jean would gleefully use them. She would not be able to withstand what he would do to her, was sure she would tell him where the cup lay buried. And yet her stomach was beseeching her, telling her to feed it.
Her father had felt the quiver in her arms. "What?" he whispered.
She had shaken her head. "Nothing."
When Jean stopped eating, he spoke. At first, she covered her ears. He spoke of things that her father had done, terrible things, painful things. He said Louis-Philippe had placed hot iron in the bottoms of small boys, had burned their testicles, had... cut them. She gave one, quick glance up at her father's face. He was looking down at her. Puzzlement and shock in equal measure shone from his eyes. He shook his head. She lowered her hands from her ears and listened.
It was the loving detail that brought tears. Every last act Jean described, he painted with sound and color and texture. The gulping sigh of one boy, the silken feel of another's buttocks, the bluish red of an anus stretched to its limit. She did not reach up to wipe her tears. They were all she had to give, to witness the pain and despair of these poor boys. How long did Henri say Fornault Abbey had suffered under the rule of this man? A sob escaped her. Jean noted it. She could almost feel his gloating. Yet he did not stop his tales.
Henri had been there, too, as a boy. Later, he had brought this man down. How could the church have let Jean continue to be a priest? She looked up at her father's face again. There were tears on his cheeks, too. She touched his chin. "I know he does not speak of you," she whispered, "this is his story."
"But I am a..." He could not say the word. "I loved Ibrahim."
"You are not like this man." She took his hand. "Neither you, nor Ibrahim."
Something clattered against the cell door. Jean stood there, shaking. The metal tray that had held his dinner canted to the side of the cell. One of his men stood by the upper door, watching him. It was the man who had greeted her when she first came to the tower yesterday. He still wore the silk tied to his arm.
"No talking!" Jean screamed. "Unless you want to talk to me!"
"Why doesn't he take me into the torture chamber again?" Maríana whispered.
"I am not sure," Louis-Philippe answered. "But I think it has something to do with that soldier over there, his first-in-command." He inclined his head toward the man who was leaning against the wall and watching Jean. "I do not know his name, but I believe he must answer directly to the pope, not just to Jean. I think he refuses to allow the other soldiers of the Inquisition to take you down there and Jean will not carry you there himself. Something has happened here, but I cannot tell what it is."
"He has the silk that wrapped the cup tied to his arm," she murmured. "He took it from me when I arrived."
"What did I tell you! No talking!" Spittle flew from Jean's mouth. He glared at the man up above, dropped his voice. "I could take Geneviéve," he purred. "Put her on the rack and make you watch." His eyes now fixed on Maríana.
Geneviéve paled, but her voice was steady. "Don't listen to him, Maríana. He has gone against what the bishop has ordered him to do and he is trying to find a way to save himself."
Jean bared his teeth and lunged at the cell, grabbing the bars. "Shut up!"
Now the upper door opened, then closed again. Two soldiers stood at the top, hesitating. "We heard shouting," one said.
Maríana whispered, "How many soldiers did Jean have?" Where were the others?
"He had twelve soldiers when he came here," Louis-Philippe murmured. "But Henri wounded one and Guillaume told me yesterday morning that another rode out the day before. That leaves ten."
"Where is Henri?"
"You be quiet! Unless you want to talk to me." Jean's voice was cracking.
Louis-Philippe straightened. His face went blank, stunned. But then a broad grin spread his lips. "Bauçais!" he said. "Of course! He..."
The crash of the cell door hitting the wall stopped Louis-Philippe. Jean marched into the cell and grabbed Maríana, tore her away from her father. Louis-Philippe grabbed for her, caught the edge of her gown, but the fabric ripped, and he was left with only a piece of silk clutched in his hand.
Her shattered foot hit the floor; the dungeon dipped and whirled as burning bile shot into her center. Jean was dragging her with one arm, fending off Geneviéve's blows with his other. He pushed Geneviéve; she fell back against the wall. Louis-Philippe was on his knees now. His left arm hung limp at his side. He launched himself up with his right hand, but Jean had already pulled Maríana out the cell door and slammed it shut. "Lock it!" Jean shouted.
He dropped Maríana on the floor just outside the cell. "Where is it?" he screamed. "
What have you done with it?"
She was in the dark again, floating. Blackness spun around her. She focused on the sound she could hear in the distance. Someone was screaming.
Maríana raised her arms, opened her eyes. Jean's face hung inches from her own. "Tell me where it is!" he screamed.
"No!" she shouted. "It is not for you!" Her nails traced a crimson path up the side of his cheek and reached his eye. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it back, twisting it.
Jean's eyes bulged. He touched his cheek, came away with scarlet drops. He stared at his hand; shock momentarily freezing his face. But, with his other hand, he still held her in a punishing grip. He snarled at her. "You will pay."
He made a fist, swung his arm back. She watched the arc of his arm through the air and closed her eyes, waiting for the blow.
"What?" she heard Jean sputter. She opened her eyes and saw the soldier grab Jean's hand, pull him away from her. She dropped to the floor; her stomach heaved when her foot moved against the dirt.
"That is enough," the soldier said.
"Are you mad?" Jean breathed. "I could have you excommunicated! I could have you burned!" Jean yanked his hand away from the man's grasp and spit at him. "I don't care if you are Fouret's man!" He bared his teeth. "You! I will make you the first-in-command!" he shouted to another soldier, one who, with a comrade, stood back against the wall. "Put this man in the empty cell!"
The soldier obeyed Jean's order, taking his first-in-command's sword and pushing him into the other cell.
"Jean is the one who is mad," Louis-Philippe was shouting. The two soldiers wavered.
"You would listen to a sodomite?" Jean's voice roughened. "Help me take her down to the torture chamber."
The soldier moved forward to take Maríana's arms, but before he reached her, the door to the dungeon crashed open and banged into the wall. Louis-Philippe gave a loud whoop. "Bauçais!"
Henri stood at the top of the stairs. He met the blow Jean's soldier aimed at him, fell back against the door. But when Jean's man swung his arm back to strike again, Henri lunged forward and buried his sword in the man's stomach. The man fell, dropping his sword. Henri left his own sword in the man's gut and grabbed the unclaimed sword before the second man reached him. Their blades rang in a clashing burst of hot metal. The man's sword flew from his grasp. Henri swung the sword he held upward, opening the man's throat, and kicked the man down the stairs. Blood spurted in a fountain from the man's neck. Henri looked up.
Jean clutched Maríana's arm, his fingers digging so tightly that the blood had fled her fingers. Jean scrambled forward for the unattached sword, dragging Maríana with him.
Every time her foot touched the floor, a scarlet wave of agony climbed her leg, but she made her body go limp, made Jean work to drag her. Jean snatched at the sword, lifted it, held the blade against her throat.
Cold metal on her skin. Could she work her hands free, grab it? How strong was he?
"Bauçais!" Jean shouted. "Come any closer, and I take her head." He pressed the sword into her flesh. She felt a line of blood trickle down her neck.
Henri stood above the men he had killed. His eyes were stunned. "Jean," he said. "Jean, you don't have to do this." Henri stepped toward him.
"No farther!" Jean screamed. He grasped Maríana by the hair and drew her up to his chest.
Henri stopped, holding both his hands up, his sword dripping blood upon the stones.
"Throw down your sword!" Jean said. "Now!"
"No!" Maríana shouted. "Henri, don't!" Jean turned the blade so its flat side squeezed against her throat, cutting off her voice.
His gaze fixed on Jean, Henri lowered his sword and dropped it to the floor.
"Kick it away from you," Jean ordered. "Over here to me."
Henri pushed his sword along the floor toward Jean, then shoved it the rest of the way with his foot. The sword shot across the floor, clanked against the far wall.
"All right, Jean," Henri said, still holding his hands up. "I have done what you asked. Now let her go."
"You think I am stupid?" Jean laughed, his voice echoing. "No, I am not letting her go. You will let me go out of here with her. If anyone interferes with me, she will die!" He held the cutting edge of the sword close to her neck again.
The sword wobbled as he strove to keep it in position. Jean must be tiring. Maríana tried to shift her weight to the side and throw him off balance, but her foot dragged against the ground.
"Unnnhhh!" She could not halt the groan, but Jean glanced down briefly. If she made more sounds of pain, could she distract him? She looked down, then shuddered. The cloth they had wound around her foot was coming undone. Jean continued to drag her toward the door, his eyes on Henri again. "Back away!" Jean ordered as they got closer to Henri.
Maríana tried to shift her body again. No good. The cloth had unraveled; the raw flesh of her mangled foot touched the ground now. The walls spun. She would faint and his blade would open her throat for sure, then. Would her faint drag this creature to the ground?
She pulled air into her lungs; the walls steadied again.
Henri still held up his hands, but his gaze flickered to Maríana, passed over her, then dropped to the floor. She watched his face, understood he was assessing their situation, seeing how Jean had damaged her, searching for an opening, a way to save her. When he looked down at the ground, she saw his nostrils flare, his eyes widen. He raised his head.
The sword was drooping, the weight of it drawing Jean's arm down. He yanked at Maríana's hair, trying get past Henri and out of the dungeon.
HER FOOT, what had Jean done to Maríana's foot? A rough bandage had covered it once, Henri could see the remnants. Now mangled flesh and the crushed bones that showed a sickly white against the red of torn muscle, dragged against the dirt of the floor.
A mighty inhalation that seemed to go on forever drew his head up.
Jean saw Henri raise his head, look directly into his face, saw the deadly eyes, the flared nostrils. He tried to press the sword he held into Maríana's throat, but she was gone, had somehow slipped down beyond his grasp. When had this happened? He must get her back. She was crawling, he could feel the brush of her passage against his legs. He reached down to grab her, but could not tear his eyes away from Henri. He watched as Henri's shoulders lifted and Henri's hands reached toward him. He felt the steel of those fingers on his neck.
"I'll kill you!" Henri choked. Flecks of scarlet swam before his eyes, an ocean roared in his ears while he grabbed Jean's throat. Jean thrust the blade toward him. He released Jean's neck, and his fingers closed on the sword. With one hand, he grasped the hilt, with the other. He pushed, forcing Jean back against the bars of the cell behind him.
Jean struggled, breath puffing out in wheezing bursts as he turned the blade of the sword against Henri's hand. The edge sliced into Henri's skin. Blood spurted out of the wound and the sword slipped from his grasp. He fumbled to recapture his hold, but it was too late. Jean now held the sword by the hilt, his lips pulled in a snarl over his teeth, the point of the sword aimed at Henri's groin.
Jean's mouth spread in a sneering grin as Henri fell back, keeping his bloody arm between them.
"So you have finally come," Jean did not drop his grin as the sword plucked at Henri's breeches. "Too bad you chose the wrong side. Say good-bye, Henri," Jean whispered, then lunged forward.
Henri waited until the last possible moment. He feinted to the right. When Jean changed course to match Henri's movement, Henri snatched his carving knife from his belt. He thrust forward, catching Jean as the man moved toward him, and buried the blade to its hilt in Jean's belly.
At first, Jean did not react. The grin still spread his lips, he still held the blade ready. He tried to raise the sword, bring it around to slash Henri, but the muscles would not obey him. The sword clattered out of his hand. He stared down at the knife protruding from his abdomen and tried to pull it out.
"No, you don't," Henri said. "This," h
e drove the knife upward as a frantic gurgling emitted from Jean's throat, "is for my Maríana." He grabbed Jean's robe, kept him on his feet. "And this," he drove the knife further upward, "is for all the boys you raped, boys who had no one to speak for them." Jean was convulsing now, his body twitching as Henri fought to hold him steady. "But this," Henri breathed, bringing his face right next to Jean's eyes, "is for me!"
He drew the blade up, slicing through skin and muscle, through the sour reek of stomach and gut, all the way to Jean's breastbone. The stench and strands of gray intestine cascaded over his arms; both his hands were slippery with blood.
Henri released Jean, watched him hit the floor. Jean's arms jerked. He grabbed desperately at his belly, his breath now a keening whine. Henri reached down, picked up the sword Jean had held, then he paced to the far wall of the dungeon to retrieve the other he had relinquished. With both swords in his hands, crossed over his chest, he looked down at Jean.
Jean was still choking. His hands strove to push the snaking coils of his intestines back inside his abdomen. "For God's mercy, Bauçais," he gasped. "Finish it!"
Henri stared at Jean, at the glittering eyes, at the shaven head. Even beaten, Jean would try to wrest the power from Henri, to order him, tell him what he must do.
"Do it, Bauçais." Louis-Philippe stood, holding onto the bars of his cell. Geneviéve was next to him, his left arm angled over her shoulder. "You are not like this dog, eh?"
Henri drew in his breath.
In the other cell, Pierre stood, watching Henri in silence.
Maríana sat at the base of the dungeon steps. She was pale, but her eyes were steady. Those eyes... .
Henri turned to Jean. "I would not leave a dog to suffer this way."
Jean closed his eyes. Breath bubbled through his clenched teeth. "Be done with it, then."
Henri dropped one sword.
Jean cringed as the clang echoed from the stones.
Henri lifted the remaining sword, caressed the blade, and raised it high above his head. The sword whistled down across Jean¹s neck, sliced across and through, severing the head from his body.
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