Paradise Red

by K. M. Grant

  After Aimery has gone, Raimon returns to the brazier and sits for a long time. The dogboys settle beside him, and the huntsman does not shoo them away.

  At dinner that night, the hall rings with discussion about the journey. Metta is sitting by her father and looks up immediately when Raimon eventually enters. She has been waiting. “Oh! You’re white as a sheet. Come near to the fire!”

  Laila is perched on a stool. “Yes, nearer the fire, Raimon.” She smirks, saccharine sweet. “Your poor little self might catch cold, and that would never do.” She scowls at Metta, who blinks and smiles back without any rancor, which makes Laila hate her even more.

  Raimon approaches, but only for a moment. He does not even hear Laila. As soon as Aimery is surrounded by others, he leaves again, because if Aimery has sent Yolanda a note, he must send another. He fingers his ring as he hurries to the loft.

  It takes him some time to capture a bird, for he is entirely unpracticed, and then spends more time trying to discover some distinguishing mark to indicate where the bird is from. There is none so he must take his chance. He has already written his note. It is very short. “Whatever you hear, I’m keeping faith.” He does not sign it. There is no need. He binds on the capsule and pushes the bird out.

  A quarter of a mile downriver, Aimery, warned by Alain that Raimon had gone to the loft, is standing in the lee of a coppice, a hooded falcon on one arm and a small lantern in the other. It’s still just light enough to see, although when the gray bird comes, its camouflage almost fools him. Only her speed gives her away. He grins broadly as he removes the falcon’s hood and casts her off. She circles, apparently blind to the pigeon. “Come on, you dimwitted fool,” Aimery mutters as the pigeon speeds on, and the falcon disappears into the clouds. Then, from the clouds, she reappears, only this time homed and plummeting. The pigeon stands no chance against a long hind killing toe fully extended. The falcon and her prey land with a small thump in a heap of dead leaves and by the time Aimery gets there, the pigeon is a mass of bloody plumage. Aimery rummages in the feathers, finds the leather capsule, and reads the contents before tossing both away. “ ‘Keeping faith,’ indeed.” He wants to laugh, but the laugh won’t come, so he grinds his heel so hard into the blood and bones at his feet that the startled falcon rises into a tree. When she will not come down, Aimery picks up a stone and shouts. Frightened, the falcon takes off, and Aimery, after following her fruitlessly for fully a quarter of an hour, is left to stalk back to Castelneuf quite alone.

  7

  The Ring

  The following evening is the last the visitors will spend at Castelneuf. The journey will not be easy, for though winter’s grip has eased, the aftermath is treacherous. Spades must be wielded to make the muddy road leading to the river safe enough for carts.

  The daylight hours have passed in a tumult of packing and repacking, shoeing and reshoeing horses, filling and emptying sacks and barrels. Nobody knows what to expect at Montségur. Should the travelers take more than the food they will consume on the week’s journey, just in case? Or will there be an abundance at the fortress making it a waste of effort to provide more? They scurry around deciding one thing then another.

  An hour after dusk the temperature has dropped again, adding an edge to the travelers’ appetites.

  Raimon has already begun his round of good-byes, and his reception among the household servants has not been good, which is hardly surprising. Like Laila, many think him a faithless turncoat. “At least I’ve deceived them successfully,” he thinks grimly as the laundress refuses to take his hand. He rolls Yolanda’s ring with his thumb. It affords a measure of comfort.

  He goes last to the kennels and finds a dismal scene. Farvel has died, and the huntsman’s usually steady hands tremble as he sews up his faithful servant’s body in a thick pall of straw. The dogboys are weeping. Entering, Raimon sees Farvel’s empty stall at once and drops to his knees. The huntsman watches how he kneels, how he holds his head, how his body leans, reading him as he reads his hounds. He starts sewing again before Raimon rises.

  At last, he finishes with his needle and gestures to the dog-boys to lay Farvel’s body gently on his bed one last time. Their sniffling turns briefly to a howl that fades only when the huntsman reaches for his horn and blows “gone away.” He blows it again and again. In this confined space, the peal is intense enough to wake the dead, which is perhaps his intention, although Farvel never moves.

  Raimon cannot delay. He swallows a huge lump in his throat and tries to be matter-of-fact. “You’ve probably heard that I’m going to Montségur with the visitors.” He dreads disapproval, but the huntsman does not look disapproving. Instead, he does something quite unexpected. He gestures to the dog-boys to leave Farvel and gets them to stand in the most orderly manner of which they are capable, which is about as orderly as a pile of twigs, and only then does he address Raimon in his gruff growl. “I hear what they’re saying about you.” Raimon stiffens. “They say you’ve turned Cathar because of some girl.” Raimon bites his tongue. The huntsman’s contempt will be bitter.

  But the huntsman has something else in mind. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “I only know that a hound on the scent is always to be trusted.” Then he walks with Raimon to the door and throws it open, thrusting his nose in the air as he gauges the tenor of the night with quick short sniffs, just as Farvel would have done. “Are you on the scent, Sir Raimon?”

  For a second, Raimon wonders if the huntsman is scoffing, but only for a second. The huntsman is like Metta. He does not scoff. So he raises his own nose and sniffs, and it is such a relief to answer with absolute truth. “Yes,” he says, “I’m on the scent.”

  The huntsman nods. “Good hunting, then.”

  At supper, the noise is too plentiful for the troubadours to sing, and anyway, the time for entertainment is over. Gui and Guerau hang up their instruments. Aimery sits on the dais surrounded by his household knights, highly voluble and handing out detailed instructions as to what must happen at Castelneuf in his absence. Nobody knows what to make of his conversion or his decision to go to Montségur, but they barely question him. Some will leave, most will stay, for his interests are their interests. Aimery seems unconcerned.

  A quick, fussy Castelneuf knight with a reputation as a panicker is put in charge of the rebuilding and another, slow, methodical, and an enemy of the first, in charge of defense. Their mutual dislike will keep their ambitions at bay. The garrison will be very small, which makes some knights concerned for the chateau’s safety. Aimery reassures them. “There’s nothing here for King Louis now,” he says, “and Sir Hugh des Arcis will not return. He’s my brother-in-law, and besides, the Amouroix is no longer of interest. They’re done with us. And if inquisitors come prying when they hear of my conversion, who cares? There’s precious little left to burn.”

  As a last bit of business he sends Alain to the chapel, where Simon Crampcross has been lurking all this time hoping to be forgotten. The cleric sweats as he is prodded like a fat cow into the hall, and his eyes swivel between Aimery and the game pies.

  Aimery stands. “Ah, priest!” His voice rings out. “Begone! This is a Cathar chateau now, and though you may call me a heretic, I’m proud to say that I’ve seen the true light.” He scours the room in search of skepticism, but everybody is wisely inspecting their boots.

  Simon Crampcross does not argue. With surprising speed for a man of his bulk, he lumbers out, and Raimon is left wondering if this is all part of Aimery’s act or whether Simon Crampcross believes his banishment to be genuine. He does not wonder long, however, because something else is brewing.

  Laila, her box of tricks open beside her and her top lip curled in anticipation, is lounging against the hearthstones, a plump saffron-colored slipper embroidered with fish scales dangling from one toe. Raimon guesses at once that the slippers were a present from Aimery—perhaps in recompense for Ugly—although how Laila could have accepted slippers as an apology for a dog, Raimon do
es not know. She is eating a chicken leg, delicately picking at it with small white teeth. Free from any painted artifice today, she has a kind of shocking nakedness about her. When she sees Raimon looking at her, she closes her box, locks it, and very slowly sticks out her tongue.

  Aimery, aware of Laila’s every breath, coughs and bangs his knife on his platter. “It seems,” he says in a slow drawl, “that for some at least the snow was heaven-sent. My lords, do you lack all powers of observation? Are you blind?” Raimon frowns. “Gentlemen, can’t you sense it?” Aimery can hardly contain his enjoyment. “Love has blossomed in our midst.”

  There is a purr of approval. Everybody loves a lover.

  “Now, Raimon”—Aimery searches him out—“don’t be shy. It doesn’t become you. We’ve all seen how you and Mistress Metta de Salas have grown close, and we all know that tomorrow you will ride together.” He raises his goblet. “I’m sure the whole company wants to wish you well.”

  Raimon sees Metta color. Any reluctance on his part will be a humiliation for her. He must sit beside her. Laila pushes her way in too and sits on the opposite side of the trestle, next to Adela, little quivers of excitement erupting beneath her skin. The awkwardness is palpable, and to soften it, Metta makes a gentle joke about the dogboys. Laila laughs harshly and much too loudly, making Raimon prickle all over, his knuckles white against the dark cloth of his jacket.

  At what afterward Raimon realizes was a prearranged signal, Laila, fingers flashing, pounces on his leather ring. “Isn’t now the time to take that old thing off?” She tugs at it. Speechless, Raimon pulls back, upsetting a flask of wine. Its contents spill everywhere but though her bodice is splashed and ruined, Laila is not deterred. “If you’re going to Montségur with Metta, you should wear only her ring!” She will not let go. “That’s what real lovers do, isn’t it?”

  Metta tries to push the conversation elsewhere. “Do all orphan boys go to the kennels, Raimon? Do you have any dog-girls?”

  Laila bats her aside, then seizes her hand. “Metta! My dear Metta! Don’t you think Raimon should wear your ring? After all”—she stands now, to command everybody’s attention—“it’s not quite right, really, if Raimon loves you, that he wears a ring in honor of another man’s wife.”

  The hall falls silent. Laila lets go of everything and sits, grinning.

  “Really,” Metta says quietly, “it doesn’t matter.”

  But Sir Roger is standing now. “Another man’s wife? What’s this, Raimon?”

  “I thought he would have told you,” Laila spouts piously. “He wears it for Aimery’s sister, Yolanda, only she’s married now to Sir Hugh des Arcis.”

  “I’ve noticed the ring but that can’t be true!” Sir Roger’s fists are like haunches of beef.

  “You tell him,” Laila says to Raimon. “Go on.”

  Raimon swallows. “Lady des Arcis—Yolanda—and I grew up together,” he says, trying to keep his eyes unclouded. “You know that. And I—I—I freely admit that we were very fond of each other.”

  Laila’s voice grows harder and louder. “Oh, a little more than ‘very fond,’ Sir Roger. Unless, of course, Yolanda is a liar. Let’s ask Raimon. Was Yolanda lying when she told me she loved you, and you loved her?”

  “Yolanda doesn’t lie.” He feels as a man feels on the prow of a rocking ship.

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Metta insists. “He can wear her ring. After all, we’re not betrothed or anything.”

  But she is no match for Laila. “Betrothed in all but name,” she flashes. “You’ve been quite the clever miss. He’s turned Cathar and is going with you to Montségur. Don’t pretend you don’t know that he’s bound to you. If not for your sake, don’t you think for Yolanda’s that he should take off her ring? After all, even Frenchmen know you shouldn’t wear rings given to you by one person if you’re in love with another.”

  Raimon rises. “I mean no disrespect to Metta by wearing Yolanda’s ring.”

  But Sir Roger is dismayed. He looks from his daughter to Raimon and back to his daughter. “There’s an easy way to sort this out,” he says. “Just take off the ring.”

  “Father! I really don’t mind,” protests Metta. “Raimon has not said he loves me.”

  Her father turns on her. “But he has behaved as if he does and is that not what you hope and believe?”

  Metta’s lips tremble. “I—we—”

  “I repeat. Has he not led you to believe in his love?”

  “I believe he—I believe—”

  “Enough!” shouts Sir Roger. He will not have his daughter made a spectacle. “Raimon, if you are a man of good faith, before our journey begins, take off that ring. The painted girl is right. You have courted my daughter, so what possible use is another girl’s ring now?”

  Raimon knows, without even looking, that Aimery has his legs outstretched, his arms folded, and is crowing silently.

  Cador, standing behind Raimon, refuses to be silent. Though he longs for Raimon to throw Metta over, he leaps to his knight’s defense as a good squire should. “He can just wear two rings,” he calls out. “He’s got two hands, after all.”

  Everybody laughs except Sir Roger, whose broad face has taken on a determined set. “My daughter is no man’s second choice. It may be true that there’s been no formal betrothal but I insist that you remove that ring. In fact, you should take it off and”—he tugs at a jeweled ring on his own hand—“wear this instead.” His huge frame towers over Raimon, holding out his offering. “I repeat. Take that one off and take this as a sign of good faith.”

  Raimon is motionless.

  “Perhaps the leather one’s too tight to remove,” Metta says, still trying to help.

  This makes Raimon twist Yolanda’s ring quickly for he senses Laila gathering herself up to grab him again. The ring shifts as the leather slides. He never knows quite how Laila’s fingers dart, but in a second he is empty-handed. “I’ll have it now,” she crows, stashing the leather ring down the front of her dress. “And I shan’t betray it.” Her eyes flash victory.

  Raimon’s torture is not yet over. With Metta still watching, what can he do but take Sir Roger’s ring? The jeweled band, flat and shining, covers the precious stain Yolanda’s ring has left. Only when he sees it is firmly on does Sir Roger sit down amid some cheering, though nobody is quite sure what they are cheering about.

  Raimon also sits, and the dinner continues around him. But he now notices nobody except for Laila. Though her voice is no louder than anybody else’s, his ear picks it up all the time. Metta speaks to him. He answers mechanically. Her father’s ring sits as heavily on his finger as Sir Hugh’s sat on Yolanda’s before she tossed it away. The worst thing is that he can see the slight bulge in Laila’s bodice where the ring is lodged. It is so near. Occasionally, Laila’s hand brushes against it. Raimon knows she is aware that he is following her every blink, and knows, too, that she is enjoying it. Yet he can do nothing until, finally, the food is cleared and she vanishes. Without a word to Metta, he at once grabs a flare and goes after her. She cannot hide from him. He will have the leather ring back if he has to wring her neck to get it.

  He does not have to go far. She is waiting. “Looking for me?” His flare gutters as he manhandles her up the chipped stones of the spiral staircase and into a tiny archer’s alcove that bulges into the wall. “Give me back my ring,” he commands.

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to beg. Just give it to me.”

  “You? Beg? It never crossed my mind.”

  “For God’s sake, Laila, just hand it over.”

  “Why should I? You don’t want it anymore. You’ve a much grander ring now.”

  The dark in this alcove has a peculiarly rank quality about it, partly because the arrow slit lets in only a sliver of half-light and partly because generations of archers, unwilling to abandon their watch, have used it to relieve themselves. Laila feels the stickiness through her slippers and scrunches up her toes. Raimon makes a
move and her hand flies to her breast. Less than two feet separate Raimon from his treasure.

  “Give it to me.” He is begging, and he knows it.

  “You don’t deserve it. You’ve betrayed Yolanda.”

  “I’ll not take any lessons in betrayal from you,” he sparks back. “Your dog’s eyes were barely shut before you were accepting presents from her murderer.”

  There is a tiny silence. Then, “If you want it, come and get it,” Laila hisses, and though he can see so little, Raimon knows she is showing those white teeth again. His blood flows thick and dark as Laila curls away from him, her breathing short and sharp like a vixen in a trap. He could so easily smash her ribs. That is what he wants to do. But she is a girl. He half steps back, reining himself in, then hears a faint, contemptuous purr. It is too much. He leaps and the air parts and closes as they claw at each other, Laila’s nails raking Raimon’s face, Raimon’s fingers ripping Laila’s shift. Neither makes any noise, not when Laila draws blood, not when Raimon cracks and bruises her shoulders. There is so little room in the alcove that they find themselves thrust together, rocking and shoving in their shared boiling fury, Raimon’s superior height and weight equally matched by Laila’s wild abandon.

  I do not know what would have happened had Aimery not come past. Perhaps Raimon would have killed Laila. Certainly, he feels for her neck, wanting to snap it as you might snap the stem of a poisonous weed. Or perhaps Laila, with the knife she has concealed at her belt, would have killed Raimon. But Aimery does come past and sends a soldier to drag them out. Hauled into the light, Raimon at once feels ashamed, although Laila, her clothes in tatters, feels no such thing.

  “Well, well.” Aimery leers, his face creasing with amusement. “A cat fight, if ever there was one.” He chucks Laila under the chin. Raimon is surprised that Laila doesn’t kick him. Instead, through her panting, she purrs again, this time the purr of a coquette. It is too much. Raimon breaks away and disappears down the stairs. Behind him he hears Aimery laughing.