Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) Page 8

  “Go away, Will,” I whispered, looking back out to the valley.

  “You look like a princess upon the walls.”

  I dared to look at him then. “I said, go away. We’ve said far too much this day, have we not?”

  He stared at me for several breaths, clearly debating. “Indeed.” He turned to bend down and lean against the wall with his elbows to undergird him.

  I waited for him to say more—to confess there was more—until I realized I was holding my breath and at last inhaled. It was silly. And futile. Even if he did admit to having feelings for me.

  Will and I were doomed from the start. Wallace Kensington would never allow it. He’d see it as an insult—the bear’s apprentice chasing after his daughter. Even if we waited until the tour was over to openly court, Wallace Kensington would sniff out the truth. He wouldn’t like how it appeared. How it might look to others that the guide was fraternizing with his long-lost daughter. I knew it as well as Will—Wallace Kensington had the power to end Will’s career, his future. The bear’s business. And if he caught wind of it now, our tour would be most assuredly done.

  But I couldn’t help it. More than ever, I wanted to know. To know if Will felt the same for me as I did for him. I turned toward him, lifting my eyes in a studied, slow way that I hoped would be dramatic. And affecting.

  “Cora,” he growled in a whisper, taking a deep breath, his nostrils flared, as if he was trying to compose himself. Could he not give in? Admit it? At least, to me? In secret?

  I waited for a long moment.

  It appeared not. And I’d once again exposed myself in a way that burned.

  “Good night, William.” With that, I abruptly turned and left him, tossing the remains of my champagne over the edge of the wall.

  He was right.

  I’d had more than enough.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cora

  The next morning, we were up with the sun and into riding clothes, the bear intent on taking us on some mysterious “adventure of the soul.” None of us knew of what he spoke, of course, in that we considered the soul best represented in the grand cathedrals and basilicas we’d toured in the last weeks. Riding clothes were hardly proper attire for such a place.

  When we’d all gathered by the touring cars, Felix asked again where we were going.

  The old bear grinned like a secretive Santa with his bag stashed in some remote location. “Trust me, young ladies and gents. Trust me. Into the motor carriages with you. William shall see you through while I rest my old knees here at the chateau. I shall look forward to hearing all about your adventure when you return.”

  So we did as he bid, accompanied by Will, Antonio, and the two detectives. And after an hour’s drive on dry, dusty, terribly rutted roads—repairing two flat tires along the way—we pulled over beside what looked like five cowhands and twelve mules.

  “Oh, they don’t intend for us to ride those, do they?” Vivian sniffed, looking to Andrew as if he might rescue her.

  “I’d wager they do,” Felix said, giving her a small grin.

  I looked up, above us, to the craggy peaks of the scrub-covered limestone mountains, and gasped. Just barely in sight was one edge of what had to be the crumbling remains of a castle.

  Will caught my eye and smiled. He nodded once. “Cora has seen it,” he called, as we all clambered out of the vehicles and drew together. “Have any of the rest of you?”

  “A castle!” Lil cried, bouncing on her tiptoes and pointing. “Up there!”

  “Indeed,” Will said. “Two thousand feet above us are the remains of the ancient Chateau de Peyrepertuse, once called one of the ‘five sons of Carcassonne,’ assisting Aragon in protecting the frontier. Now, if you’ll kindly line up here, from biggest to smallest, these men shall assist you in finding the proper mount.”

  I was the tallest woman in the group, behind Felix and with Vivian right behind me. “Fancy a race on these?” I asked my sister with a smile over my shoulder.

  “I think not,” she said, rolling her eyes. We’d come a long way since our ride through the English wood and our fateful end in the mud.

  A young man led me to a small black mule and gave me a leg up. Then he helped me settle into her saddle. “I feel like a clown at the circus, riding a tiny trike!” I said to Felix, directly ahead of me.

  “And you look about as ridiculous,” he allowed.

  I grinned at him. “As do you.”

  “Thank you for that, sweet sister.”

  I turned away so he wouldn’t see how his idle comment set a blush climbing my neck and cheeks. He’d never referred to me as such before. Had Vivian and Lil heard? And if so, what was their reaction? I didn’t dare look.

  I could hear Vivian behind me, chastising Arthur for taking pictures of us, even on mules. I smiled. They might be my very favorite pictures of all he took.

  We set off along a small dirt path that zigzagged up the mountain. There was no need to steer the reins of the mules; they simply followed the one in front, as if they did this day in, day out, every day of their lives. Perhaps they did.

  The closer we got, the more excited I became. The air cooled the higher we got. But in peekaboo views, we glimpsed more and more of the castle, tantalizing bits of what we were about to see in full. Vertical walls built atop cliffs, extending their height. Round and square towers.

  Some five hundred feet below, the best view yet, Will pulled his mule to one side and gestured for us to do the same. From here, we could see the full line of the castle, with some walls that had resisted the ravages of time and others that were barely visible.

  “The name, Peyrepertuse, is derived from the French ‘pierre percée,’ or ‘pierced stone,’” Will said, beginning his lecture. “She seems to rise from the cliffs themselves, does she not?”

  I nodded along with the others, but my mind was on the name. Pierre meant “stone.” That made sense, given that Peter was called the rock of the church. But I’d never bothered to think about it when I was with Pierre de Richelieu. The thought of him and his letter to me made me smile. But did I think of him as a rock? As my rock? Not really.

  My eyes flicked to William. He was more of a rock. Stubborn, stuck, stilted. Pierre was…something else entirely. Constant movement, pleasure.

  Might he meet with us here in Carcassonne? Or elsewhere? Our days in Provence were dwindling…and there was a part of me that was eager to see him. To see if what had begun between us was merely a fun, passing fancy or something of consequence. And if Pierre were here, it’d help keep my mind off of Will….

  “On the far end is the keep of St. George, which appears completely separate from the castle, given our viewpoint here, but is not,” Will said. “Directly above us is the main part of the chateau, a two-hundred-foot–long curtain wall. It looks a bit like a ship, does it not? Sailing the ridge’s wave?”

  We nodded and then continued our ascent. At the top, Will dismounted to pay a stoop-shouldered, sun-withered old man with gold coins from his pocket. Some ancestor of those who once ruled these lands, now charging admission? A scrawny, skittish dog growled at us as we moved through the gate and into the castle. Whatever we were paying, it was clearly not enough for the man to feed his dog.

  The cowboys took the reins of our mules and tied them for us while Will led us to the eastern wall. The view across mountain ridges and valleys was breathtaking. “Over there in the distance, you see the remains of the castle, like a finger, pointing to the sky?” Will said, coming close to me, placing a hand at the center of my back. I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun and searched where he pointed, pretending I didn’t notice his touch.

  There. “Yes,” I said.

  “Where, William?” Lil asked, squinting. I frowned, recognizing that I felt both relief and sorrow when he moved to her, pointing over her shoulder so she could follow. What was going on inside me? I had to stop this and stop it immediately.

  “That is the remains of the chateau of Quéribu
s, the last of the Cathar strongholds to fall in 1255. As difficult as Peyrepertuse is to reach, she’s more challenging still.”

  “Was Quéribus one of the sons of Carcassonne, too?” Nell asked, like a student bent on earning a top grade in class.

  “Indeed,” he said, giving her a wink.

  “And the Cathars…” I mused. “Who were they?”

  He studied me. “A thirteenth-century religious sect who grew very critical of the corruption they saw in the church. They flourished here, but their rebellion was soon exploited for political purposes. Peter II of Aragon dearly wished to annex Languedoc, this region in which we currently stand, but Philippe II of France would have none of it, of course. He convinced the pope to declare the Cathars heretics. A crusade was formed, and for a hundred years, the Cathar faith was exploited, her followers routed out, tortured, and killed.”

  An adventure of the soul, the old bear had teased us. Sounded more like tortured souls to me. “What did they believe?” I asked.

  “The Cathars believed there to be a duality between good and evil. They thought that if they renounced the world and lived their lives in nonviolence, eating as vegetarians and abstaining from man’s, uh…baser desires, they would become closer to God.”

  Hugh snorted and barely turned to hide his smile. “How did they intend to further their cause if they did not…procreate? In a generation, they would’ve died out!”

  Will’s lips clamped shut as he studied the man. Then, “They believed that was up to God. They only knew what they were to do.”

  “But obviously, God did not honor them,” Andrew said. “They were all killed?”

  Will kicked at a loose stone before him and then looked to the wall. “Many went into hiding. Thousands were killed. Twenty thousand alone in Béziers in 1209. The pope promised the heretics’ land to the crusaders, as well as granting complete forgiveness, even before they’d murdered their supposed enemies. By 1244, the Cathars were largely dead or in hiding; that year, their last fortress at Montségur was sacked. As you walk about these ruins, consider what you would do if you believed God had directed your steps.…” He faltered, looking my way before regaining his composure. “Consider what it would be to have been in the boots of either Cathar or crusader.”

  He set us loose after that, a somber, contemplative group as we wandered through the dry, dusty remains, ducking under low doorways, walking still-intact walls like knights on duty, considering how it would appear from here, to see thousands of armed men approaching, bent on taking us down…and then how impenetrable the castle would have seemed back in the day. We climbed the sixty-some rock-hewn stairs that led us to the fortress within the fortress, San Giorgi, the keep. Inside, we climbed to the top and peered over the edge. My eyes followed a pair of falcons that hovered fifty feet away, riding the winds. I thought I’d rather be them than either crusader or Cathar. But what did it mean to follow where God led, even at the price of death? Both sides believed God was behind them. How could that be?

  Arthur came up beside me and leaned his forearms on the edge of the wall. “How many men and women found themselves here because it truly was their holy calling, and how many came because everyone around them told them it was their holy calling?”

  It was an impossible question, so I remained silent. But his words rang in my head. How much did we do in life that was the result of what others around us demanded? Rather than what God was calling us to do? What was God calling me to do? Here? Now?

  Lord, show me. I’m Yours. Lead me….

  My eyes moved back to the swooping falcons and, beneath them, the rocky valleys. And then I turned and scanned the ruins of the castle until my eyes found what they sought.

  William.

  When we all gathered again, sitting in a line along the castle wall, we shared a picnic of cold roast chicken, bread, and fruit. The group was uncommonly quiet, all lost in thought.

  “Any questions from you?” Will called, rising. I was both glad and sad that there were four people sitting between us. My mind and heart were whirling as I wondered if what I felt was true, godly. Was He leading me to Will? Telling me that Will was the right man for me, regardless of what others thought? Regardless of our fears?

  “So this was originally built as a Cathar castle?” Felix asked.

  Will ran his hand down the crumbling corner of the wall nearest him. “They took refuge here, but no, it was built long before that. Many of these sites are symbolic outposts of Charlemagne’s ninth-century empire. Sadly, when his feuding sons took over, Languedoc became a scrap fought over by two fierce dogs. France ultimately won, as we’ve seen.”

  “How is it in such good condition?” Andrew asked, tossing a rock from one hand to the other.

  “It fell by negotiation rather than by force,” Will said. “And it was used as a base from which to harass other Cathars in subsequent years.”

  “So none were put to the stake here?” Hugh asked. His intent look, as if he wished he could see it happen, sent a shiver down my spine.

  “No. But over there, in Minerve,” Will said with a nod toward the castle on the far ridge, “a hundred and forty were burned. Simon de Montfort, the leader of the crusaders, a devout man following orders from holy men he trusted, was universally hated. Not only for how he hunted the Cathars, but how he took out the legs from beneath the Languedoc. The entire region celebrated when his head was bashed in by a trebuchet stone. They sang songs of it.” He gave a shrug.

  My eyes widened at that bit of information. Such violence, such hatred, all fueled by faith. This wasn’t an adventure of the soul—it was the means to set a hundred trails of gunpowder afire. The old bear loved such sweet tinder. Anything to get us thinking.

  That afternoon, when we returned to the chateau in Carcassonne, the bear greeted me in the hall. “A telegram for you,” he said gently. The others filtered past, all intent on bathing and resting before changing for our last dinner in this ancient city.

  I entered a library, and he followed, sitting down in a big leather chair while I went to the window to open the telegram. I scanned it. “It’s from my parents,” I said, then fell into reading it in silence. They’d received my own telegram. My father continued to make good strides since his stroke. He still wasn’t able to speak, but he seemed to understand much. And he was walking. Clearly, the hospital in Minneapolis was giving him good care. I reread the words twice, then a third time, hearing my mother’s voice, smiling at the glad tidings they contained. The hope.

  I stared through the chateau window, which boasted a view over the second city wall, out to the verdant green valley below, and thought how far I felt from my parents. Our life together seemed a decade ago, even though we’d parted less than two months ago. So much had changed in that time. I had changed. Was I still the same person, at the core? Or less or more of who I was meant to be?

  “Is his health improving, child?” the bear asked.

  “Much,” I said, folding the thin sheet of paper. “I am very grateful.”

  “And yet hearing from them leaves you homesick,” he said gently.

  “Indeed.” Slowly, I turned to face him, wondering if I was so very transparent.

  “Many start to yearn for home about this time on our journey,” he said, waving his unlit pipe in the air. “It is normal. And, trust me, something you can overcome.”

  “What if…” I began, biting my lip, then walking toward him, perching on the edge of the couch beside him. “What if I did return home now?” As much as I loved the tour, in these last days, things had become almost unbearably complicated.

  “To what gain? You’d have no funds for your schooling. And your father…”

  “Wallace Kensington is not going to force my papa out to the street. Not now. He got what he wanted. Me, on this tour. An opportunity for me and my siblings to come to know one another, find a measure of trust. But…” I looked to the window again.

  “Is it your home that calls you? The familiar? Or the fear
of the unfamiliar ahead? Perhaps it is the idea of Pierre de Richelieu once again crossing paths with us? If it is that, rest assured—”

  “No. No,” I said. “I mean certainly. Pierre complicates things, in good measure.” But not nearly as much as Will.

  “Are you…are you falling in love with him, child?” the bear asked, lowering his gray, bushy brows in consternation.

  I choked and brought a hand to my chest, fearing for a moment that he’d read my thoughts about Will. “What? In love?” I laughed and shook my head. “No. Pierre is beyond charming. I think him attractive, enticing, even,” I said with a shrug. “But he is not the sort…”

  “You imagined as your husband?” he finished for me.

  “Exactly.” I had always pictured myself with someone far more…average—far less encumbered.

  “That is good. Matches made on tours rarely amount to anything good. But what of my nephew?”

  He asked it so steadily, I ran back over the words, certain I had misheard him.

  “W-William? What of him?” I returned, fiddling with my jodhpurs, too cowardly to meet his keen eyes.

  “Is he the sort of man you mean, Miss Kensington?”

  “Mr. McCabe, I don’t know what you are asking.”

  “I think you do.”

  I abruptly stood. What had begun as a pleasant session with a confidant had turned into an interrogation. “I don’t know what you’ve imagined, but—”

  “I hope we’re not interrupting,” Will said, entering the room with three others.

  The bear and I both jumped and glanced back to each other. And in that glance we both knew the same thing—I had feelings for Will. Deep feelings.

  “Look who has just arrived,” Will said, his tone carefully droll. He and Arthur and Felix separated to reveal the other.

  Pierre de Richelieu.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  William

  He couldn’t bear to watch her go to him. He felt as if his heart were literally tearing in two as Richelieu took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. He could hear the Frenchman murmuring, the delight in his tone. Cora’s meager words sounded bright, excited to see him again.