GRUISSAN—DECEMBER 1208
Lucas held Paloma by the chin. She set her jaw and twisted away, but he dug his fingers into her skin and pulled her head back. Two priests in plain cassocks stood on either side of the door, watching with teeth bared in hideous grins.
Still holding her in his grip, Lucas groped for the chair behind him. Grabbing the wooden back, he yanked it around and sat before her, clenching her legs between his. Paloma defied her desire to shrink away and forced her spine to straighten.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” he said, his voice low and tired. Paloma tried not to listen. She trained her ears to the room beyond, where Bertran and Aicelina lay sleeping. “It’s d’Aran I’m after, not you or your children. But by abandoning you here, he’s left me no choice, has he?”
The sénéchal released her face and ran his knuckles across her jaw, where she imagined the imprints of his fingers flushed an angry red. To her horror, he laid a hand against the mound of her belly. He raised his eyes to meet hers, and Paloma saw a glimmer of light in their depths, a ripple of profound sadness. But the light extinguished, and she despaired. She swallowed with effort.
“Was I so different as a boy?” Lucas asked.
“You—” She faltered but tried again, this time speaking in a clear, unwavering voice. “You were such a lonely child.” Even as she sought to appease him, a thread of empathy wove through the fear in her heart. She prayed the children wouldn’t wake. “None of us felt our fathers’ fists as you did. But you must know how much my father loved you. How much he still loves you. Please, let us go.”
“I let you go once, never dreaming you’d betray me.” He was all the more menacing for the softness in his voice. “I waited for you, Paloma. You know how long I waited.”
Paloma recalled a young man’s obsession, those eyes that followed her across the village square, a presence that always seemed to find her alone, in her garden, in her father’s stables, or collecting apples in the orchards in early morning. Gracious child that she was, she’d treated Lucas Moisset with kindness. And with caution. She recalled too a young man falling at her feet and swearing his love. Before he left for Agen as a page, he’d pleaded for her secret betrothal, promising they would be wed when he returned to Languedoc a knight and a hero.
“I was a child,” she replied, appealing to his remaining compassion. “I didn’t understand what your love meant. But we were friends once. Dear friends.”
He shook his head, exhaling a shallow breath, and Paloma despaired. Her words had bounced off his heart like stones thrown at a frozen pond.
“I know the promises we made. I remember as if it were yesterday. I returned to marry you.” He stood and turned his back on her.
Paloma heard shouts in the streets beyond the house; she caught the odor of smoke.
Without warning, the sénéchal whipped out a long, booted leg, lifting the chair in front of her and sending it crashing into the cold hearth. One of the priests yelped as he dodged splinters of wood. Paloma reared back in her chair, and as she struggled to keep her balance, she heard Bertran call out. The children were awake. She froze before the man they called Sénéchal Lucas Mauléon—the boy she had known as Lucas Moisset—and willed her child to fall silent.
“It’s too late for all of this,” he said, ignoring Bertran’s cries. “Our story has been written. Now yours is coming to an end. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“Sénéchal—Lucas—you can’t mean this. Let us go, I beg you. We’ll leave Languedoc. We’ll vanish. We won’t betray you.”
Even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were the wrong ones. In one stride, he was in front of her. He pulled her up hard against him, forcing her to stand on her toes. She gasped but didn’t struggle. To her horror, she began to cry.
“You won’t betray me? You fool. Your betrayal began when your family adopted the heretic faith. I wouldn’t have you now if you begged for me. I returned from fighting the infidels, risking my life for the Holy Church, only to learn I was betrothed to a Cathar whore.” He bent his face to hers, pressing his rough cheek against her wet skin. His lips ran along her jaw, wiping away the drops of her fear. “It’s too late,” he whispered. “I can’t save you.”
“Maman?” At the sound of her son’s voice, Paloma ripped away from the sénéchal with such force he stumbled back. She moved with the speed of a doe to Bertran’s side and scooped him into her arms. Aicelina’s little form appeared, and Paloma pulled her close as well. Squatting on her toes, she turned her torso to face Lucas Mauléon, her arms wrapped around her toddlers. Aicelina whimpered, and Paloma shushed her into silence.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Lucas turned without a word and walked into the corridor beyond. In her head, Paloma screamed for Raoul; in her heart, she begged God for mercy. She heard men’s voices, low and hushed.
The sénéchal reentered with two cloaked and hooded soldiers. One carried a torch, the other a dagger. Lucas stepped aside and motioned to the woman and children. “Take them to the church with the others.” Paloma rose unsteadily, a trembling child in each arm. The men hesitated. “I gave you an order! Take them away!”
His bellow blasted the soldiers into action. A sentry reached for Bertran, but the boy screamed and buried his face in his mother’s neck. Aicelina wailed.
“Please, let me hold them.” Paloma pleaded. One of the sentries laughed, malice ripe in the cruel twist of his mouth, and stepped aside with a mocking bow. The other pointed his dagger to the door and moved in behind her. She forced her legs into motion, feeling nothing, not the weight of her children, not the chill in the corridor, not even the fear that had gripped her bowels moments before. Every fiber of her body sang for Raoul, willing him to hear her heart’s cries.