LOGIS DU MARTINET, LAGRASSE—WEDNESDAY
A trail twists through the stone cliffs toward Arques. At its end lies a broken man, his soul lifting away from his body, fluttering on a butterfly’s wing, as fragile as a dream. An eagle, golden and sleek, more rare and precious than a happy ending, swoops down. His massive wings shelter the whispering soul. The eagle and the soul touch, share a breath, part. One into eternity, one reborn into the present.
• • •
The whimpering and scratching woke her. Lia lay motionless, curled on the floor, her knees drawn tightly into her chest and her cheek pressed against the cold stone. Her head pounded, and her body was cramped with cold. She opened her eyes in a squint and saw faint amber light seeping in from a gap at the bottom of the door. She raised her head. Deep shelves lined with wooden wine crates were mounted on three walls from knee height to just below the low ceiling. There was no opening to a stairwell.
The stream of air that flowed from underneath the door was cool but ripe with musty, fermented aromas. A pair of paws with clipped black nails scrabbled underneath the door, followed by a long red snout tipped with a damp black nose. Isis whined.
“Hello, sweet girl.” The dog licked her fingers, sniffing rapidly as if trying to drag Lia’s body out through the cool black of her nose. Her body collided with the door as she leaped up, her claws scratching at the wood. Then Isis was gone, but her frantic barking echoed through the chambers of the winery.
Lia pushed up on one arm, fighting a wave of nausea. She inhaled with difficulty and sat upright, resting her back against the door. The side of her face was stiff, and pain radiated from high on her forehead. She touched her hair, probing delicately until she found the thick lump at her hairline. She winced at the pain and pulled her hand away. The tips glistened with blood.
“Shit,” she groaned. The blood had dried to a crust on the side of her face, but the wound still wept at its source. She wiped her soiled fingers on her jeans and pulled her knees to her chest. As she lifted her legs, Lia uncovered a sheet of paper that had been pressed underneath her body. She dragged it toward her with a heel until she could grasp it between her thumb and forefinger.
Staring at the script, she willed her woozy brain to make sense of the ancient letters. Two short paragraphs, one written in Latin, the other in langue d’oc—the old Occitan—both signed by Sénéchal Lucas Mauléon. The names of Paloma Gervais and Bertran and Aicelina d’Aran were legible to her unsteady eyes, but she lost the rest as tears welled. Isis’s barking grew close again. Lia followed the letter’s creases, the parchment still supple despite its age, and slipped it into a crack between the stone floor and the closet wall.
“Lia?” Raoul’s voice rang through the old stone structure.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Raoul. I’m here.” She rose with stiff limbs from the cold floor and began to pound on the door. Her head throbbed with each blow.
“I’m getting you out, Lia. Just hang on.” She heard the scraping of iron against wood, followed by a rush of air and an embrace of warm skin and silken coat as Raoul pulled her into his arms and Isis pushed her smooth body into Lia’s hip. The greyhound whined and disappeared into the closet.
“Your car was parked out front when I pulled in. I’ve been in the winery twice, three times, shouting your name. What happened? How long have you been in there?” Raoul held her at arm’s length. “Jesus, Lia, your head. You’re bleeding. Sweetheart, what happened?”
“Raoul, I don’t…I…” Shining fluorescent bulbs burned into her skull. The steel bottling racks, the polished concrete floors, and the glass bottles glinted and threw beams of light into her eyes. All traces of grime and ruin had vanished. Lia looked up at the round window high above. Sunlight and shadow danced past its clean panes as the wind pushed the clouds along.
Lia looked at Raoul again and saw Paloma reflected in his eyes. She pictured Raoul gathering his children in his arms, their tiny bodies caught up in his embrace. Sorrow and joy suffused her.
“I came to find you,” she said at last. “Raoul, it’s Lucas. He didn’t kill Paloma or your children. I don’t know what he wants from us, but you have to let this go until we find out the whole truth. Please.”
Raoul pressed a finger against her lips to silence her. “Shhh…Lia. Never mind that for now.” He pushed the hair away from her face and winced at the blood. “Let’s get this cleaned up. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I don’t think so. I remember opening this door, but everything was different,” she said helplessly, gesturing around the bottling space. She pointed to the closet. “The door locked behind me, but I knew I had to go down.” Lia grasped Raoul’s arm. “I thought the stairs would lead me to you.”
Lia didn’t tell him that her heart had cracked the moment she saw Paloma. It had splintered when she saw the mother with her children. She knew it would break when she told Raoul of his wife—that in telling him, she would lose him forever.
“Hey, just stop. You’re safe now.” He held her upper arms firmly, stooping to examine her eyes and her head. “That’s more than a bump; it’s a blow. We need to get you to the hospital.”
“No, please. I’ll be fine. I just need some ice and ibuprofen.” She shook her head, the motion causing her skull to spin and throb. “There was no one around, Raoul. I searched for you. I thought you’d gone after Lucas. I was so afraid I was too late.”
“I drove for hours but finally cooled off and returned to the cottage.” Raoul draped his jacket over her shoulders. “You and Jordí had left, and I couldn’t get through to your phone. I called Dom and Rose, and they said they hadn’t heard from you. But something told me you were here. I arrived maybe twenty minutes ago, and I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Isis found you finally.” At the sound of her name, the greyhound was again at their side, nuzzling their hands with her wet nose. Then she loped off through the winery.
Lia closed her eyes against the needle-sharp brightness of the lights, and Raoul put an arm around her waist as he steered her through the room. “It’s ridiculous to stand here. Let’s get you cleaned up. I want a doctor to see that head.”
They walked through the winery, now restored to its pristine state, its modern equipment clean and shining within the ancient bones of the vaulted building, and emerged into the sunlight. The sky had been scrubbed blue. Although the wind still gusted and cold air from the mountains plunged into the valley, warmth radiated from the earth. It was the first of April, and spring was in full bloom. Raoul led Lia inside the shelter of his longère.
• • •
He sat in front of her, their knees touching. He gently wiped a damp cloth around her wound and down the side of her cheek, lifting away the blood. While they waited for the doctor to arrive, Lia told Raoul of her strange journey from Minerve. “It was as though I’d gone back in time. No lights on the side of the highway, no autoroute in the distance, the villages were completely dark. My phone was dead.”
Raoul smoothed her hair behind her ears. She sucked air as he daubed a cotton ball moistened with disinfectant over the cut on her temple. “I’m sorry. I know this hurts.” He dropped the cotton in the wastebasket and dampened another. She braced herself for the sting.
“And the winery, Raoul,” she continued, trying to ignore the pain. “It was a mess. It looked as if no one had been inside in ages. It was filthy, full of old, broken vats. The floor was packed dirt and broken cobblestones.”
“Your hands are so cold.” He gave her a warm mug of tea and held his hand over hers to make certain her grip would hold. He’d already exchanged her damp sweater for a wool plaid work shirt. “You’re in shock, Lia. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Dr. Vanel will be here at any moment.”
Sunlight cascaded through the windows over the sink and the panes set into the door, sending waves of heat into the kitchen. Lia swallowed the chamomile tea. The warmth seeped into her, and she began to feel drowsy. But she couldn’t stop the questions from scraping at her. Or the guilt.
Two quick beeps of a car horn roused her. From the kitchen windows, she saw a white 1960s-model Peugeot convertible entering the drive. Dr. Vanel emerged from the car and stretched her long torso over the backseat to grab a large black satchel and white lab coat. With her Jackie O sunglasses, kitten heels, and pink sleeveless chemise tucked into white linen slacks, the doctor who made house calls throughout the Corbières Valley looked ready to do battle in a Parisian advertising agency. But Lia had heard tales of Marie Vanel delivering breeched lambs as well as human babies in the remote villages of the Pyrénées foothills. She was a daughter of Languedoc.
• • •
“It’s quite a blow, but you’re not concussed.” The doctor placed a Steri-Strip bandage over the lump on Lia’s temple and touched each end with her tapered fingers. “The stitches will dissolve, but avoid getting the wound wet for the next forty-eight hours. If you experience any dizziness or persistent headaches, call me immediately.” She washed her hands in the kitchen sink. “And you keep an eye on her. Any muddled speech, any wobbly movements, I want to know.” She wagged a finger at Raoul.
“Of course. Lia’s staying put right here.”
The doctor placed two small vials of pills on the counter. “Pain relievers straight up.” She pointed to one with a yellow label. “This one has a mild narcotic to help you sleep.” She pointed to the other with a pink label. “I suggest you take two of the regular now and again in four hours. Wait until an hour before bedtime and take the sleep aid. A warm bath in Epsom salts will help with the aches. And stay out of closets.”
Raoul accompanied Dr. Vanel to her Peugeot. From her perch at the kitchen table, Lia could see them talking. They glanced at the house once or twice, and Raoul pointed to the winery as if explaining her escapade. He opened the car door and kissed the doctor on each cheek, and she settled inside. After maneuvering a tight three-point turn, Marie Vanel gunned the engine and sped through the gate, scattering stones and leaves in her wake. The gate swung shut behind the dust.
Raoul stood with his back to the house, his hands in his pockets, head lifted to the sky, and Lia wondered how she would ever let him go. Love and dread, sorrow and hope surged through her. She longed for his touch, his reassurance that he would keep her safe and not leave her. But she’d already begun to say good-bye. His family was waiting for him.
She slipped out of her chair and made her way wearily to the bedroom. Perhaps it was just a few minutes later, but she was only vaguely aware as her jeans were pulled from her hips and a soft duvet was tucked around her shoulders. She fell away into dreamless sleep.
• • •
Lia woke hours later and managed to eat some puréed carrot and fennel soup and tender, sweet apricots. She sat with Raoul on the terrace, its stone and brick surfaces radiating the warmth of the setting sun, until fatigue plowed her down. Raoul led her through the house, drew a bath, and left her while he cleaned up from their simple supper.
She sank back in the bathtub, recalling her first night in Languedoc, remembering how lost in her own grief she’d been, how closed and distant she’d felt. Yet it all seemed simple. She’d known who she was—a woman alone, a widow determined to persevere through her grief but escaping a world that held such impossible expectations. In other words, she’d been running away.
Lia never expected—never even thought to want—to fall in love again. Her heart, her soul, her head all seemed to be charging in different directions. She’d experienced a maelstrom of passion, guilt, and bewilderment in the months since she’d arrived. Then love and desire. And now, full circle, back to grief and resolution.
The bathroom door opened wider, and Raoul backed in holding a tumbler of Cognac and a mug of tea. Lia sat up, and the water rolled in gentle waves, releasing jasmine-scented steam. He handed her the tea, and she heard a faint clink as he set his glass on the tile floor. He picked up a bottle of shampoo from the edge of the tub and pulled up a chair.
His hand, slick with shampoo, ran up the base of her skull, tugging her hair slightly to pull his fingers through the wet strands. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch as he kneaded her scalp and worked the lather through her hair. The painkillers had dulled the throbbing pain to a flickering ache.
“Rinse,” he whispered into her ear as he took the mug from her hands. She tilted her head back, and Raoul swirled warm water through her hair, careful of her bandaged temple.
When she sat up, he’d taken off his shirt. He pulled his belt tighter to release the catch, then unbuttoned and pushed his jeans off his hips. Grasping both sides of the tub, he climbed in gingerly behind her, sliding his legs on either side of hers. A cool breeze whispered through the open window and brushed their damp skin.
Later in bed, she stretched to face his sleeping form. “What will become of us?” she murmured to the dark. “Where do you want to be? In the past with Paloma, or here with me in the present?”
In his sleep, Raoul pulled Lia in, wrapping the length of his body around her. She curled into his chest. For the moment, it was the reassurance she needed. She slept.
LANGUEDOC WILDERNESS—DECEMBER 1208
Paloma was in agony. The baby pressed hard against her spine, and the wagon boards became crueler with every bump in the road. The roads were too dangerous to travel by night—bands of robbers would as soon use the sénéchal’s letter of safe passage to wipe their backsides as obey it. All that day, the cart lumbered on, away from Gruissan, through the mud and unrelenting rain, its living cargo hidden under the tanned leather hides.
At dusk, they found shelter in a clutch of houses braced against a tower built of limestone bricks. The skies remained gray, the air cast in pearly light. Although the terrain was as familiar as her shadow, Paloma had no idea where they were. The light told her their direction was northwest, but when she asked the priest their destination, he would say only that they were leaving the coast long enough to skirt the marshes before rejoining the road to Spain.
Spain. Paloma despaired. Away from Raoul. Away from her father. Perhaps Raoul knew already of the burning of Saint-Maurice. His friend’s home raided, a village church burned to the ground—this wouldn’t remain secret for long. Someone must know their fate by now. She must find a way to get to Minerve, to the cave near the river where she and Raoul long ago determined they would meet should she need to flee Gruissan.
The priest provided them with bread and pungent cheese mottled with blue and green mold. They dipped their bread in cool beer that tasted of summer’s wildflowers. Later, they were left alone inside the tiny shack of an old woman with weather-beaten skin and tired eyes; the priest assured them they’d continue the journey at dawn. Paloma bedded down alongside the crone and tucked Bertran and Aicelina against her. She pulled up her knees and rubbed her heavy belly, praying the fire that pulsated from her lower back into her legs would cool so she could sleep.
The old woman extended her twig-thin arms under the blankets and placed a hand on Paloma’s hip. She ground into Paloma’s skin with the iron rods of her fingers, massaging the muscles of her back, hips, and buttocks until Paloma began to weep with relief. She wept with the pain of being touched with such care and understanding by a stranger. She wept with loneliness and fear. Wait, Raoul. We are still alive. We’ll find you. Just wait, my love.
She felt for the cross around her neck. It was gone, torn from her in those moments of panic inside Saint-Maurice. Paloma pretended to take it up in her palm, to kiss its cool silver as she mouthed a prayer for her husband, for her children curled beside her, for herself. And for those souls who had perished inside that tomb of a church. Then she turned to the old woman, drew her into her arms, and whispered at length into the crone’s ear.
When the priest returned to the hovel at dawn to collect Paloma, Bertran, and Aicelina, they were hours into their flight to Minerve, hidden once again in a cart that was driven by a stranger to whom Paloma had entrusted their lives. Tucked inside her cloak was a letter of safe passage, plucked from the sleeping priest’s satchel. Paloma could entertain no thought of anger nor gratitude for Lucas Mauléon until she knew her husband’s fate. Nor could she worry about what would happen to the priest who’d been charged to see them safely to Spain. His fate was beyond her reach.