THE NIGHTMARE woke her, jolted her into awareness. Maríana de Reuilles sat up in her bed and pulled the blankets to her chin, clenching the heavy woolen fabric so tightly her hands tingled. When her heart slowed and she could breathe without wheezing, she listened for Alys, her nursemaid. All she could hear was a gentle snoring.

Good. This time, she had not screamed. Usually when she had the nightmare, she cried out in her sleep and Alys awakened. The priests had told Alys to plaster Maríana's chest with garlic paste when she had the dream. The smelly paste sat ready in a pot on the shelf. It did not matter to Alys that the garlic had grown mold; the priests told her to plaster her lady's chest and so she would.

Maríana put on her shoes and drew a woolen mantle over her gown. She could not risk slipping back to sleep, to the nightmare. There was one place where she could prove to herself that she was not afraid, that it had only been a dream. Meadow rushes were strewn across their chamber's worn stone floor, but she still felt the chill of granite through the shoes' thin leather soles.

She listened at the entrance to their chamber. No sound came from above where her father's guards patrolled the tower ramparts. She crept down the curving staircase, her hand trailing along coarse and jagged stones. Torches set along the staircase wall were guttering. Someone would be along soon to replenish them. No time to waste.

At the bottom of the stairs, she pushed aside the bolt that sealed the massive door, cringing at the creaking howl of iron against wood. She waited a moment longer, listened again, and heard only the rustling whisper of torch flames. Slipping through the doorway, she emerged into the moon-washed shadows of the inner bailey.

The night was old. Perhaps only a short while till dawn. She noted the position of the moon and morning star, then looked back at the brooding hulk of the tower behind her. It was the donjon, the oldest structure of the château fortress. It should be locked until sunrise, but she couldn't lock it from out here. She could only pray she got back before anyone noticed.

It was a small thing, surely, leaving the door unlocked so close to dawn. In her thirteen years, she had never witnessed a real battle, though her father and his vassals fought for the King of Navarre and the squires continually practiced their battle skills. She stopped on the top step, her foot tracing the smooth, worn surface at the center of the next step. Rumors from Toulouse spoke of siege and death.

There was always a war somewhere. Anyway, Reuilles-le-château had stood for five hundred years and she heard that even the priests were blessing the war in Toulouse. She drew her mantle more tightly against the early morning chill and raced across the uneven stone surface of the inner bailey, past the stables, around the corner of the wooden pens that housed cows and pigs, and finally to the low stone wall that enclosed the château garden. Her mother's garden.

She squared her shoulders and walked past the row of hawthorn trees that stood in solemn and holy guardianship of the entrance. She could see no more than their shapes now, but she knew these trees, knew the shade of their trunks was the gray of cold hearth ashes, knew that the early spring flowers just starting to appear among their leaves were the pink of a baby's ear.

This was her mother's garden, after all. What could harm her? She came there often enough in daylight. She followed a twisting path toward the garden's center. Along the way, she greeted every plant she could name, squinting at their silhouettes in the dim moonlight. She curtseyed to the spike-leafed henbane; waved at the feathery meadowsweet, nearly as high as her shoulder; smiled at the barberry, flowering now, the scarlet berries would come later. Dropping to her knees, she ran her fingers along the soft leaves of eyebright, while she breathed in the carrot fragrance of caraway, newly budding, and the earth spice tang of mugwort, now blooming.

Alys had told Maríana that her mother knew all the names, all the uses of the plants that grew there. But Maríana could barely remember her mother, Thérèse, Baroness de Reuilles, daughter of Iranzu Jakintza. Thérèse from Canigou, mountain that could not be climbed. Thérèse, who had paced the worn stone floor of their bedchamber, thick braids of her ebony hair hanging down below her waist, swinging in time to her restless motion. Thérèse, who had disappeared when Maríana was hardly more than a baby.

Maríana shuddered. She was only delaying, avoiding what she knew she must do. She had been kneeling too long in front of the eyebright. Her legs and feet were prickling and the damp ground made a wet blotch across the middle of her skirt. It was time to face her fears. She stood and brushed bits of earth and moss off her gown, then continued down the path to the center of the garden.

To the pool that had no bottom.

As she moved past flowering bushes and silvery birch that arched in a graceful curve over beds of prepared earth, she clutched her mantle to still the shaking of her arms. The pond was not large -- in daylight it was easy to see the opposite bank and would take little time for a strong swimmer to cross it. Yet no one would go into it. They would draw water from it for the garden, yes; they would dip a bucket into it and use the water to rinse off the sweat of work during the hottest part of summer. But swim in it? They would not even drink from it.

Last year a young boy, just barely old enough to leave his mother's breast, had wandered into its icy embrace. Her father's men had used their tall oak staffs and long branches to sweep into the waters, leaning as far over the edge of their sturdy wood and bark boat as they dared. She had watched from the shore, had seen the grief and resignation upon the mother's face. The boy's body was never found.

Such water must have power, great power. Her steps slowed. She smelled it now, the chill, green fragrance of floating weeds, and could see the scaly burdock bushes that hugged its banks. It was darker here -- a mourning blackness swallowing all hope. The flowering brush and birches formed a thick stand around the edge of the pool. Clouds had danced across the moon and were lingering there. Her eyes strained to catch a glimpse of the surface. Until the moon emerged, the pool was hidden. If she was not careful, her feet would take her straight into the water.

She dropped to the ground and reached out to feel through the thicket of burdock for the pool's edge, thrusting her hands into the tangled mass to find the earth. The wind was rising and leaves shivered above her head. If she could find the surface of the water, she could dip her fingers in and anoint her brow, her shoulders, her chest with it. The château priest had told her to do this, to make the sign of the cross upon her body with water from the bottomless pool. Only last week she had crept out to the garden before the donjon door was locked. It had been daylight then. She had knelt at the edge of the pool, quivering when the frigid water trickled down her forehead, between her breasts. Blessed Mary, mother of God, deliver me. But the nightmare still came.

Well, she was here again and she had better find the water. Then she could leave the murky shadows, leave the rustling and grieving sighs of voices with nothing human in them. She could go back to her chamber and draw the blankets up around her face and pray for the nightmares to cease. Maybe this time it would work. She dug her hands deeper into the brush and leaned forward.

Her fingers touched something smooth and warm, something that trembled. She snatched her hand away and bit back a yelp as the brush before her parted. A shape emerged and loomed over her. Strong hands grabbed her arms from behind. She was lifted up off the ground and held there, dangling.

"Not a ghost." A voice spoke close by her left ear. "A girl!" The accent was cultured, but clipped, with a nasal quality that was unlike speech from Navarre. This one was from the north, Paris, maybe. But the voice held a grating whine. She knew this voice, yet when the hands upon her arms pinched, the name fled. She turned toward the speaker and struggled to see his face, her heart tripping and fluttering in her throat.

"How can you tell?" The figure in front pulled free of the burdock, branches snapping and cloth ripping. "I cannot see beyond my nose." His voice was breathless, had he been running?

"My hands can tell," the first speaker said. His fingers caught in her hair and then followed the line of her back, while his other hand still held her arm in a tight grasp. Were they bandits? She had heard of rebel knights who had taken to the road, but how had these men gotten across the lake and over the high walls surrounding the château fortress without the guard spotting them?

"Well, let's move her back onto the path so we can see her better." Another voice spoke from her right side. Three of them, then. No one knew she was here. If she screamed, would anyone come?

The man who held her pulled her away from the pool. When they reached the path, clouds bid the moon farewell and its silver light touched the trees, the bushes, the ground, and her captors. She squinted at their faces, and her body sagged in relief.

"Whoa! Is she fainting?"

She stared at the long nose of Jean-Pierre Rhomboid, the unruly curls of Arnaut Vaillancourt, the straight black hair and thoughtful gaze of Richard de la Guerche. Three of her father's squires -- boys, not men. Not bandits. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, shaking her arm free of Arnaut's grasp.

"What are we doing here?" Arnaut recaptured her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. "I might ask you that! Don't you know that this garden is haunted?" He leaned forward. His breath moved strands of her hair. The honeyed scent of mead tickled her nose.

"This is my mother's garden." Her heart started tripping again.

"So you say." Mocking laughter ran beneath his words. "Will she come out of the bushes to scold me?"

Richard stepped forward and placed a hand on Arnaut's arm. "Enough, Vaillancourt. You were the first to reach the pool -- you have won your dare. Leave the girl alone."

But Arnaut tightened his grip on her. Bile rose in the back of her throat and outrage stiffened her back. She shook her arm again and slammed her heel on Arnaut's foot. He fell back. Richard's hand stopped him from tumbling into the bushes.

"Yes! Leave me alone," she said. "All of you must leave. This is my mother's garden and my father's château."

"Wait!" Arnaut shrugged off Richard's hand. "I know you -- the girl who lives in the donjon!" He leaned toward her. "If Baron Louis-Philippe de Reuilles is your father," he said, "then why don't you live with the rest of the family in the palais instead of in the donjon?"

"That is my father's concern," she countered, meeting his eyes steadily. His words brought hollow anguish into her chest, but she would not show any of them her sorrow. Lifting her chin, she stared back at him.

Arnaut laughed and took her face between his hands. "I think you are lying," he whispered, then, "I think we will throw you in the pool!" His voice rose to a shout as he released her face and grabbed her by the waist, lifting her into the air and starting back toward the bottomless pool.

"No!" She shook so hard her protest was no more than a squeak. Bushes passed in a blur.

Jean-Pierre said, "No, Vaillancourt..." But Arnaut was already ahead of them, nearly to the edge, now.

"Well, what do you think? Will you float? Will you sink?" He held her close and spoke into her ear. "If you float, what does that make you? A demon?" The still surface of the water glimmered through twisted branches.

"My father will have you whipped," she said, twisting her head and grabbing at his tunic with her teeth. "Let me down!"

"Ha!" He lifted her higher and swung her from side to side. "So you say."

She could not seem to catch her breath, and the taste of acid coated her mouth. If he threw her in, she would join the small boy at the bottom. But who would cry for her? She lifted her feet to her chest and threw her weight back. He stumbled and crashed to the ground, pulling her with him.

"Bloody bitch!" he roared.

She rolled away from him and leaped up, sprinting toward the path. The moonlit space beyond the thicket of birch beckoned, but her feet took her directly into one of the other boys who caught and held her fast.

"Enough of this jest, Arnaut." It was Richard. She knew his voice now, remembered its timbre, darkly rich. He held her face crushed against his chest. She could smell the evening meal of roast goose and bread custard on his shirt. "The girl is terrified, and we must get back to our quarters before Guillaume finds that we have gone out."

Arnaut cursed at the mud on his breeches. "Vascone! Just like her mother," he grumbled, then "Jakintza whore." His voice dropped so low that she was not sure of his words. "Why don't you join your mother? We can arrange..." The last words were bitten off.

"Quiet," Jean-Pierre whispered, then, "We will meet you back at the stables."

"We can't leave him here with a Jakintza!" Arnaut said.

"Come on, will you!" Jean-Pierre again.

Her back stiffened again, but she stayed where she was, listening to Arnaut's grumbling complaints and their footsteps fading away.

"They're gone." Richard's voice rumbled in his chest.

She lifted her head.

"Really, you can let go now." There was an undertone of laughter in his voice, but she did not mind. His laughter did not mock. He released her and she backed away.

"He wouldn't have thrown you in, you know."

The sky was pale gray. He was visible now, the faint gleam of his teeth and his brown-black eyes, the smooth line of his black hair as it fell forward over his face and the motion of his head as he shook it back. She knew the exact shade of his hair in the sun, a warm black that shines deep burgundy in the light. His eyes were also warm, the color of dark old wood that had been polished and rubbed to a fine sheen, with an amber glow.

Her fingers twisted in her mantle and she pulled it forward to cover the damp spot on her skirt. "He has pulled my hair often enough. Tripped me, too." And called her Jakintza whore.

Richard shook his head and started down the path toward the entrance. "Well," he looked back, "that is Arnaut. He dared us to come here in the dark." His shoulders lifted. "What were you doing out here, anyway?"

Her throat closed and she fought to make her speech even. "A nightmare."

He stopped, turning to face her. "Indeed! What did you dream?"

Could she tell him? Would he mock her, too? But he had never laughed at her. Richard stood watching her, not speaking, not moving. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she spoke, "I dreamed my mother left her grave and came to my chamber. She was trailing dirt and ooze and mud. I could see the marks from her feet on the floor. Weeds from the pool were hanging everywhere on her body -- from her neck, from her fingers, from her legs." Maríana wrapped her arms around her middle and continued softly, "She reached out for me, to hug me. I left my bed and ran to her, but when I got close all her skin and muscles sagged and peeled away from her face and skull."

"A horrible dream!" His hand rose and nearly touched her. "But why come out here?"

"I am not sure. The same dream has come to me often. Every time I have it I feel drawn to come here. To prove I am not afraid," she mumbled the last words. This was the first time she had ventured to the pond in the dark. But she was not afraid. She had come out here, hadn't she?

"Well, anyone would be frightened by that dream." Richard looked away, toward the edge of the garden where birds in the hawthorn trees were starting to awaken, their trilling making the leaves shudder.

"You don't understand! I would give anything to see my mother again, anything. But in the dream I push her away. I reject her." It was not fear that drove her to the garden. Not fear.

He watched her in silence again. "It was a dream," he finally said. "Father Gregory says we have no control over what we do in dreams."

A strangled laugh broke into a sob. "He also says that God speaks to us in dreams." She rubbed at her eyes and walked away from him toward the entrance. "If that is so, then what is God trying to say to me?"

"Perhaps your dream was the result of the onions at supper last night?" He had reached her side. His eyes glimmered in the growing light and crinkled at the corners.

"You have been talking to Alys. The priests make her put garlic on me to stop the nightmares." Her voice was steady now, as they walked past the hawthorn trees.

"Well, this is where I must leave you," Richard gestured toward the stables, where Guillaume, her father's seneschal, was struggling to open the enormous wooden doors. Arnaut and Jean-Pierre were leaning out of the upper window, the squire's quarters, and waving at Richard. But Richard turned his back to them, facing her. "I may have something that will help stop your nightmares." He fumbled with the pouch attached to his belt. "Ah! Here it is."

A small stone lay in the center of his palm. He took her hand and closed her fingers around it.

"It is a bloodstone. My mother found it for me years ago when I had nightmares."

She glanced up at him. "You?"

His cheeks turned pink. "It was years ago. I was just a baby. Here, I will show you what to do with it." He took the stone from her and grasped it tightly in his left hand. "You hold it like this when you go to sleep." He returned the stone to her and she held it up to her face. It had bands of red against a dark green and was warm from his touch.

"I will use this," she said. "How can I thank you?"

For a moment, he did not speak. The honking of hungry geese and the grunting of pigs from the pens around the corner tickled her ears. Alys would be waking; she must get back. But she waited, watching his face.

"Do you still have lessons?" Richard asked.

"What?" Looking at the curve of his cheekbones had set her dreaming. "Lessons?"

"Lessons. With your grandmother." He stared down at his feet.

"Oh. Well, yes, we still read together. She will not allow me to be dependent on priests to keep château records. But how did you know about my lessons?"

He smiled. "I saw you with her on the steps of the donjon. You were reading something. She was listening."

His brown eyes tilted above high cheekbones. The intent regard made her face warm. "Yes. Songs of Raimbaut d'Orange. A gift from minstrels who passed through here." She looked up. "But why do you ask?"

"I do not know how to read, and, well..." his voice trailed off and he looked over his shoulder to where Guillaume spoke to the squires, who now formed a line between the stables and the livestock pens.

"You would like to learn," she finished for him.

He turned to her, but backed away, toward the squires.

"You could come to the donjon later -- Grandmother comes to my chamber every morning." She raised her voice to reach his ears as he backed away. "I could ask her."

He lifted his hand and was gone, joining the jostling crowd.

The donjon soared into the leaden sky. It was the tallest building of the château. The mountain Irati loomed behind it. Slopes covered by dense woods of pine and beech marched down to the back walls of the château.

Since the time of Charlemagne, the donjon had stood guard over the fortunes of the de Reuilles, an unrelenting reminder of the danger that marches with power. The donjon used to house the entire de Reuilles family, their servants, guards, knights and squires. Now only the lesser servants and tower guard slept on moldy straw and rag mattresses in the five chambers that opened onto the winding central staircase.

She put her back toward the donjon and faced the graceful palais her grandfather had constructed to house the de Reuilles family and visiting knights. Where the donjon brooded, its thick walls jutting into the sky, the palais danced. The elegant lines of its arched doors and windows proclaimed that a fine and ancient family resided inside. The de Reuilles lived in perfect comfort there. Mattresses were stuffed with crushed rosemary and meadow rushes. Floors were smooth river stone in the great hall and polished wood in the upper chambers. Windows were covered with rich tapestries that servants could push aside so that the soft air of summer would fill the hall. Johanna, Maríana's grandmother, Geneviéve, her aunt, and Louis-Philippe, her father, all lived in the palais. Every de Reuilles except Maríana.

She turned back toward the donjon and the work she knew waited: the half-finished tapestry of the de Reuilles crest, the tangled threads of her attempts at embroidery, the slim volume of troubadour songs. She felt the weight of the bloodstone and ran her fingers along its smooth surface. Would Richard truly share her lessons? May the blessed Virgin grant her this wish, at least. She bowed her head to the watchtower guard, who stood scratching his head while he examined the doors and muttered, "Unlocked." She fought to keep her face solemn while she mounted the stairs, but before she could push past him, another voice outside called her name.

"Grandmother!" Maríana flew down the steps and ran to Johanna's side, taking her arm.

"Did I see you with that young page from la Guerche this morning?"

Nobody could keep anything from Johanna. "I was just talking to him, grandmother. And he is a squire, now." How could she convince Johanna to allow Richard to share her lessons? "He gave me this stone to chase away my nightmares." She opened her hand and Johanna peered at the bloodstone.

"What sorcery is this?" Johanna grumbled, touching the stone. Maríana waited while Johanna pursed her lips and her forehead creased.

"Well," Johanna finally said. "I suppose if it helps..." Her words stopped when an angry voice echoed across the bailey.

"Wait for me, you bastard!"

A knight was running across the courtyard. Ducks and geese scattered as he plowed through them. Maríana froze. The knight chased her father. She stood, transfixed, hands clutching the folds of her gown as her father moved toward her in an easy loping stride. No matter how many times she saw him, she could do little more than stare.

Louis-Philippe de Reuilles stood at least a full head taller than most men, his body powerful, yet slender with height. Thick chestnut hair swept his shoulders and his skin was flawless. His eyes were a startling blue-green, deeply set beneath straight black brows and fringed by a velvet brush of lashes as dark as pitch. He was dressed for riding, his right hand impatiently tapping his left with the gloves he used. Indigo breeches clung to his legs and his long shirt was covered with light chain mail that glowed softly in the gray light.

He glared at the knight, who had reached him and had taken his arm.

She felt a hand tugging her and glanced away from her father to see Johanna motioning for her to follow.

"But he may come this way..." A lump formed in the back of Maríana's throat. She rubbed at her eyes. No crying! Her father, above everyone else, would not see her tears.

"Now is not the time, my dear." Johanna's mouth looked pinched and sour. "He is in a mood this morning." She turned toward the donjon, but Maríana stood watching her father, her teeth set and hands clenched. Ducks and geese that the knight had set in motion now brushed past her, their wing-tips grazing her legs in delicate strokes.

Her father bent toward the knight and scowled, then shook off the knight's hand and turned, walking purposefully away, his stride taking him directly toward her. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Guillaume standing by the main gate, gesturing to Arnaut as the young squire secured a heavy saddle to a fine Arabian gray stallion. Her father was going to the main gate where his horse was waiting. She was in his way.

She shifted her weight, standing firmly in the path her father was taking. He continued toward her, his eyes upon the ground, hand absently tapping his gloves against his thigh as he walked. Closer now. His expression was blank, eyes shuttered, turned upon some inner landscape. He had nearly reached her. Curling her hands even tighter, she felt the rasp of her nails against her flesh. She drew a breath. "Father?" Her voice was harsh.

Two paces from her, he halted, raising his head. A line formed between his brows and his mouth twitched. But his eyes looked directly into hers.

She could not speak now; her tongue felt thick and clumsy. But she held her body still and met his stare.

He looked down first. He pulled his gloves on, deliberately working the fingers over his knuckles. "Move aside," he said, his voice commanding, but a low murmur. He finished drawing on his gloves, staring at his right hand as he flexed it. Then his gaze raised and bored into her. "Girl."

She straightened her back and stared into his face, but his eyes were shuttered once more, no longer seeing her.

"I have no wish to humiliate you," his voice was still hushed, "but if you do not move aside..."

"Yes. Father." She dropped her arms to her side and drew her skirt out, dipping halfway to the ground and backing toward the donjon in a graceful curtsey that took her out of her father's path. Then she stood there, head bowed, hands clasped demurely below her waist, her spine rigid and her knuckles white. She would give him no reason to humiliate her. But she had made him speak to her. It was several heartbeats before her father moved on his way. Her head still bowed, she watched his progress across the inner bailey, through the arch and the outer bailey to the main gate. A small triumph, but she treasured it, counting the words he had spoken to her. Seventeen. In her thirteen years, he had spoken but forty words to her.

He mounted his dancing Arabian gray, swinging his long leg easily over the horse's back and pulling himself into the saddle in one fluid motion. Arnaut held the bridle and gave her father the reins. Richard handed her father his sword and stepped back while Louis-Philippe slid it into the sheath fastened to his saddle. The yawning gate arched over them and beyond, the fields of Reuilles-le-château formed a golden ripple down to the lake that separated château from town.

The knight who had chased her father was already mounted on his destrier, a glossy red-brown war horse with thick muscles and broad chest. He had turned his horse to the open doors and was riding through. Louis-Philippe drew his reins up, fighting the tossing head of the gray, and glanced back toward the donjon, where she stood. One glance only, but he found her. Then he was through the gate in a brisk gallop.

She stood there looking out through the gate at the fields until she could no longer see the riders. He had looked back. His eyes had sought her. She lifted her face to the donjon and smiled.

Copyright © 2000 by Carol Lynn Stewart