Beloved (51 page)

Christina moved over to the chair that faced the dwindling fire and slowly sat down. What could she do? Maybe she could steal a horse, early in the morning while the monks were at Matins. But where could she go? She had very little money and she knew any attempt to draw on her husband’s accounts would be sure to attract his attention and lead him to her. She couldn’t go back to the house, Agnes would stop her. She’d stopped her before. What about Maryse? But she knew that was dangerous. If Guy found out, there was no way of knowing what he might do to Maryse. She couldn’t risk it. There was no place to go. Any attempt to escape would endanger someone she cared about.
Oh, Richard, my dearest love, we were so close, so very close…

She sat there for nearly an hour, a thousand plans considered and discarded. By the time the fire had gone out, she had the solution. There was only one place she could go where neither Guy nor Stefano could follow.

The letter slipped to the floor unnoticed as she started for the door.

Christina didn’t come to Vespers. Richard noticed and mentioned it in passing to Robert, who in turn agreed to send Denis to check on her. But when Denis returned from delivering her firewood, he could only report that the room was empty and the fire had gone out.

With little time before Compline, Richard went to check the cloister. It had started to rain and there was no sign of anyone in the area. He went back into the church and checked the little chapel of the Virgin, but that alcove, too, was empty.

After Compline, he delivered her supper as usual, but she wasn’t there and probably hadn’t been—the fire which Denis had rekindled had burned down again. Richard tried to imagine where she might be. His gaze fell on the table with the scattered papers. He pushed aside the dress designs and saw Guy’s letter. He hesitated a moment before picking it up. Whatever Guy had written to her was certainly none of his business, unless Christina chose to share it with him. But his concern overcame his sense of propriety.

Odd. It didn’t seem Guy had written anything that would upset her. He knew that any communication at all from her husband might be an unpleasant reminder of the past, but surely nothing that would cause her to disappear.

There was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder rolled across the valley, booming away toward Les Baux. It was raining harder. She couldn’t have gone far in that weather. He put more wood on the fire, and as he did his sandaled foot brushed another letter on the stone floor. He stooped to pick it up.

He read it, and reread it. The return address was Marseilles. It had to be the same man. Had Christina lied to him or simply avoided telling him the truth? This Stefano was obviously much more than just Guy’s business associate.

Returning quickly to the church, he checked the chapel again. The room was dark and empty except for the soft glow of the candles at the feet of the Virgin. As he hurried back toward the cloister, he heard the door to the sacristy close behind him.

“Dom Genelli?”

Thank God it’s Robert, Richard thought as he turned to face his brother.

“Haven’t you forgotten something, my son?” Robert asked as he quickly closed the gap between them. The church was silent but for the slap of his sandals on the stone floor.

Richard looked at him quizzically, then dropped to one knee, bowed his head and crossed himself.

“You really must be more careful,” Robert whispered. “You never know who might see you.” Robert put one hand on Richard’s shoulder and he stood up. “Isn’t it time you were in bed?” he asked in a normal voice for the benefit of any unseen listeners.

Richard handed Robert Stefano’s letter, which he quickly read.

“I see. So Madame Jonvaux is not in her room?”

Richard shook his head. Robert correctly interpreted his concern.

“Well, we’d best find her. Why don’t you check the refectory and I’ll check the chapterhouse. Please let me know if you locate her.”

Richard nodded and left the church. Robert knelt before the altar, bowed his head and crossed himself. He had a feeling he was being watched. As he rose, he heard footsteps coming up from the crypt. Someone had obviously been on the stairs and could easily have overheard his conversation with his brother. He turned toward the stairway with a benign expression on his face.

“Ah, Dom Louis. Is it not also past time for you to retire?”

The monk crossed himself quickly and came up the aisle toward Robert. “Just making my final check for the night, My Lord.”

“Of course. You haven’t seen Madame Jonvaux by chance?”

“No. Is there a problem?”

“She wasn’t in her room to receive her supper this evening. We’re a bit concerned, but I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“Of course. Good night, My Lord.”

Robert stayed in the church until Dom Louis was gone, then casually began to make the rounds of the chapterhouse in hopes of locating Christina.

There was no sign of Christina in the refectory and as Richard went back out into the cloister he thought of the little chapel of Ste. Croix at the bottom of the hill—it would be a long walk in the rain but it was worth checking. He had been there with her several times in the afternoons and he knew how she loved the place. He pulled up his hood and started out through the gate behind the tower and down the path, silently cursing both the lack of a cape and the smell of the wet wool as the rain began to penetrate the fabric of his robe.

When Richard entered the chapel he shook himself off and started down the aisle, stopping briefly to genuflect. Robert was right. He had been careless in the church and one never knew who might be watching. But the chapel was deserted, lit only by the soft glow of the Presence above the altar. Richard sat down on the first bench, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

Stefano’s letter had come as quite a shock. Somehow, it had never occurred to him that there could have been another man in Christina’s life. There was Guy, of course. But someone else, someone who looked enough like him to be his twin? Perhaps that explained it. Christina had obviously loved the man, loved him enough to want to bear him a child. But she had lost the baby and apparently Stefano knew nothing about it. And, when she’d first seen him, she thought he was Stefano and she’d been more than surprised—she was frightened.

If Christina had taken Stefano as a lover, it might explain the bruises. It might even explain the miscarriage. Had Guy found out and beaten her for making a cuckold of him? But Guy’s letter made him sound like a loving husband missing his wife. The whole thing just didn’t make sense.
Why hasn’t Christina been able to confide in me?

His poor Christina! After all her suffering at someone else’s hands, had he misguidedly forced his love on her, assuming he was the one she wanted in her life? Had he been a fool to imagine he was the only man she’d ever loved? And why should he be? Was she the only woman he had ever loved? The answer to that question was yes…and then again, no.

Arabella. Have I left her only to try to recover a dream of a past impossible to recapture? And above all, have I ended up hurting both Arabella and Christina in the process?

That thought brought Richard back to the present. Where was Christina?

Christina had lost track of time, of place, of the reality of her surroundings. She didn’t feel the bone-numbing chill of the pouring rain that had soaked her to the skin. Her teeth were chattering, but she didn’t know it. She sat alone in the rain, trying unsuccessfully to imagine a future for herself, but there was none, alone or with Richard. Any future was bound to include Guy and Stefano pursuing her to the ends of the earth. Surely Hell could be no worse? Surely she would be safe there?

She knew it was a sin to take her own life, but the idea of eternal torment, which had so frightened her as a child, now seemed no different from the life she’d been living for the last seven years. What difference would it make?

Thoughts of her love for Richard rooted her to the spot where she sat. She loved him. She thought she’d distanced herself from those feelings, but she was wrong. She loved him every bit as much as she ever had. He was her life, her soul. And now, as she contemplated the necessity of ending that life, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him. She longed for him in that moment, longed to feel his arms around her. She closed her eyes and imagined she heard his voice—soft, whispering how much he loved her.

Her eyes snapped open. It was pointless. Richard couldn’t help her now, and worse, if he found out the truth he wouldn’t love her anymore. He couldn’t. And that thought got her to her feet and forced her to climb the last few stairs.

As Richard walked back up the path, it was raining even harder. He cursed the slippery sandals, wishing he were wearing a decent pair of boots—the religious life certainly left something to be desired. He hoped Robert had found Christina. Then he could get into some dry clothes and talk to her. She had to explain things to him. He had to tell her that if what she really wanted was to be with Stefano, that he, Richard, would help her. Above all else, he wanted her to be happy.

The clouds were dark and low, blotting out the stars and the full moon that had shown so brightly the night before. Richard could barely make out the path before him as he hurried toward the back gate to the abbey grounds. Suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning drew his gaze to the top of the tower. For an instant he thought he saw a figure standing there, almost floating above the dark silhouette of the imposing structure. A moment later he wasn’t sure. But his gut told him it was possible and he began to run.

As he entered the tower he kicked off his muddy sandals and took the one hundred and twenty-four cold stone steps two at a time, hoping the ghostly apparition was a figment of his imagination, and at the same time somehow knowing it wasn’t. He cursed his lack of breath as he rushed up the spiraling staircase. Sitting around the scriptorium copying manuscripts for the last six weeks had not done him any good.

“Chrissa!” He stumbled through the doorway at the top, looking across the roof, seeing nothing. Relieved, he collapsed onto the stone ledge to catch his breath. Then the lightning flashed again, striking close with a deafening crack and he saw her, standing just a few feet away on the roof of the portal.

“Chrissa!” he cried. She was at the very edge of the stonework. When he lunged at the narrow steps she turned.

“No!” She had to shout to make herself heard above the storm.

Her voice stopped him. She was so close to the edge he didn’t dare frighten her. He was panicked.
This is impossible! It can’t end. Not like this.

“Chrissa, please, let me help.”

It was nice that she could see him one last time, Christina thought, but she really had to go. It was the only thing left to do and she really must do it. Still, a part of her longed to fall into his arms, to beg him one last time to forgive her. But she knew it was hopeless. Richard would never understand. It was over. Finally. She knew she didn’t really have to jump, just to let herself fall.
It’s so simple, really.

“I’m sorry, Richard. I love you.” And then she let herself relax.
So easy
.

He would never know how he managed to catch her. He did know that they had both very nearly fallen to their death. But somehow, as she turned away from him, he had lunged for her and caught hold of her arm and her skirt. As she collapsed he pulled, and they both fell back across the roof of the portal.

He held her for a moment, trying to will his heart to stop pounding. Then he realized she was unconscious. He put his fingers to her cheek. Her skin was like ice. His hand slid to her throat, but her pulse was very faint.

He carried her carefully down the winding stairs until he reached the upper floor of the tower, which served as Robert’s bedroom. He fumbled with the handle and kicked open the door.

“Robert!” he called, but there was no reply. There was a fire in the fireplace, but the room was empty. He kicked the door shut behind them and carried Christina to the massive bed that had already been turned down. As he laid her across it, he was alarmed by the blue cast of her skin. He rubbed her hand.

“Chrissa?” There was no response. Again, he felt the barely discernible pulse in her throat. He had to get her warm. He began to unhook the bodice of her dress, his own cold fingers clumsy, ripping some of the tiny hooks in the process.

He managed to get the dress off without too much damage, but he lost patience with her petticoats and chemise and the thin cotton gave way to his strong hands. He cast aside the soaked fabric, rolling her over onto her stomach and began to rub her body vigorously. She didn’t move. Her skin was so cold!

Pulling the bedcovers over her, he went to the hearth and picked up four of the bricks stacked there. They were hot, but comfortable to the touch. He rolled her onto her back again and placed them along one side of her body under the covers and then did the same with four more and tucked the bedcovers close around her, pulling them up to her chin.

He began to pull the pins out of her hair and then took Robert’s nightshirt from the foot of the bed and dried her hair as best he could, finally wrapping the fabric around her head.

The door opened then and Richard turned to face his astonished brother. Robert quickly closed the door.

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. She’s awfully cold. I don’t know how long she was out in the rain.”

Robert stepped over the remains of Christina’s clothing, giving his brother a quizzical look.

“This is hardly the time to worry about propriety. We have to get her warm,” Richard said as he moved out of Robert’s way.

Robert pulled back the covers and saw the bricks, then took Christina’s hand and tucked the covers around her again. He sat down on the bed and felt for her pulse. It was weak, but he could see the signs of some color returning to her cheeks. He began to massage her arm.

“What happened?”

“I found her at the top of the tower,” Richard answered as he bent to collect her clothes. He took her dress closer to the fire and spread it between two chairs to dry. He doubted it was salvageable, but it hardly mattered.