The Other Side of Heaven (17 page)

“I must take them from you here, but you will get them back when you leave.”

She handed over her knife.

“On your way, then,” he said. “You’ll have no trouble getting in at the upper gate, now I’ve let you in here.”

Gwen made the sign of the cross over the man and started to leave.

“Thank you, Brother,” he said, his tone quiet, respectful. “Please, say a prayer for me and all who dwell within these walls.” Then he jerked his head toward Stefano. “And for that poor fellow, as well.”

Surprised by his gentle words, Gwen bit her lip to keep from crying, then nodded and turned toward the castle. At the second gate, she went through the same routine, knocking, holding up the rosary, saying nothing.

The watchman opened the smaller door and gave her the once-over before allowing her to enter. “Brother, I must check with the mistress of the keep to make sure you are to be welcomed. Stay here.”

He closed and bolted the door, then walked away. Gwen noticed several guards standing nearby, eyeing her distrustfully.

Pretending to ignore them, Gwen concentrated on her breathing. She was inside Garda Castle – almost. Nervously, she took stock of her surroundings, trying to compose herself. The courtyard was large, containing livestock pens, stables, a smithy, and what looked like a general repair shop. There were still some laborers going about their business; a few even cast glances in her direction. Live-in employees? Slaves?

Berengar would be just the kind of son of a bitch to have slaves.

Suddenly, the watchman was back at her elbow, along with another man he introduced as the steward of Garda Castle. Dressed in an elegant silk tunic, the handsome, gray-haired man had an air of self-importance.

Meeting his eyes, Gwen felt the hairs on her neck rise. She could tell he was a snake, someone to avoid.

“Welcome, Brother. My name is Niccolo. You are to be given a room for the night,” he said with a bow. “There is a banquet this eve, and you are invited to attend. My mistress, Willa, margravine of Ivrea, asks only that you say mass at the outset, for the safe return of her husband.”

Father Warinus was right. Shaking her head, Gwen crouched down and smoothed out a patch of dirt. Writing with her finger, she spelled out
Sileo
in Latin, then pressed her fingers against her lips and shook her head again.

“Vow of silence?” the steward asked.

Gwen nodded and held her breath.

He looked at her for several agonizing seconds, then shrugged and indicated she should come along.

Gwen exhaled with relief.

“It cannot be said my mistress is not a devout woman, and generous. She would never begrudge a man his vow before God. Please, come with me.”

Gwen followed Niccolo, recognizing he’d answered a nagging question. Willa had requested a prayer for Berengar’s safe return. So, he was not at Garda Castle, after all.

As soon as she was inside the main foyer, Gwen noticed a huge, blond braid, held by a large bow and affixed to the pediment over the doorway. People would have to duck to avoid it as they passed.

The steward saw her expression and chuckled. “That is indeed hair, since you’re wondering. Lady Willa thought it a great joke to bring Queen Adelaide, who is residing with us for now, down a peg or two, by having her head shorn in front of her guests. But I can tell you, the queen looked as defiant as ever, even when bald.”

He wagged his thumb toward the entry. “That fellow you saw above the gate was Queen Adelaide’s lover, and Lady Willa had him do the cutting of the hair, before the lover’s head was shorn,” he drew a finger across his neck, “just about here.”

Gwen feigned nonchalance as she looked at the great hall’s ceiling, with its elaborate diamond and floral pattern. She tossed back the rest of her wine, then glanced over her shoulder. How in the world was she going to pull this off?

All evening, Willa sat on the dais, drinking from a large, golden cup. She and most of her guests appeared to be quite drunk. Cutting Adelaide’s hair revealed a malicious streak in Willa, but other than that, Gwen had no real impression of Berengar’s wife. Could she have been complicit in Stefano’s murder? Gwen shuddered at the thought and studied Willa’s face. She was young and pretty, but seemed strangely subdued, even exhausted; there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

Willa called for more wine, her speech noticeably slurred, her blue eyes glazed and unfocused. Gwen decided she’d end up a drunk, too, if that bastard Berengar were her husband.

Turning, she spotted the steward, Niccolo, busily holding sway near the silver saltcellar, giving orders to a few servants.

Okay, Brother Godwyn
, she told her alter ego
, it’s show time
. She bowed her head, crossed herself, and stood. No one seemed to notice. As she walked away from the table, she glanced at Niccolo. He was speaking sternly to someone. She dropped her gaze and kept going.

Gwen reached the doorway, crossed the threshold, and turned into the corridor, out of the steward’s sight. She took a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. Where was Adelaide being held? To her left, the queen’s braid dangled above the door, but Gwen hadn’t seen any staircases in that direction that might lead to a dungeon. Clearly, she had to try going the other way.

Pulling her cowl close about her, she set off down the hall. A few serving men passed her, carrying food and wine. Gwen wanted to find a woman, someone kind enough to answer questions, but hopefully not bright enough to be suspicious of her motives.

Walking on, she was disappointed to see only more men, including several soldiers. Despite her cowl, she could feel their stares on her back until she turned the corner. Right in front of her stood a stone staircase, spiraling upward.

Could Father Warinus have been wrong? Was the queen being held in one of the towers? If so, how could they possibly free her?

To Gwen’s annoyance, storybook prose filled her mind. But Rapunzel’s solution wouldn’t work here. She shook her head at the dark irony, knowing the queen was bald, perhaps tortured, and then realized there might be no fairytale ending for Adelaide, or for any of them.

Like Stefano’s cruel death.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her forehead against the stone wall. It was damp and cold, oddly soothing. After taking a few gulps of air, she found the courage to go on. One foot after the other, she forced herself to climb the stairs, while everything in her being told her to turn and run. Halfway up, she heard footsteps. Gwen shrank against the wall, her heart pounding, her entire body shaking.

“Monk, what brings you here?” The woman’s tone registered surprise, and the tremor of age.

Gwen did not dare look up. “Good lady, I… I am lost,” she replied, hoping her vow of silence wasn’t general knowledge. “I search for Queen Adelaide. I would pray with the prisoner this eve.”

The woman didn’t respond.

Gwen held herself still, fully expecting the old lady to raise the alarm.

“Come then, Brother.” The voice had grown soft, kind, grandmotherly. “I shall show you the stairwell that leads to the lower level.”

*

The spiral staircase to the dungeon was narrow and gloomy, lit by the occasional torch. Gwen’s downward progress was painstakingly slow; one slip and she feared she would break her neck. The air grew stuffy as she continued on and soon she was drenched in sweat. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve, wishing for something to drink, when she felt a cool breeze. She took several more steps and came upon a slit window. Leaning into the opening, she breathed deeply. Stars twinkled near the horizon, and she raised her eyes to focus on the faint glow of the Milky Way. The beauty of the sky stood in stark contrast to this horrible castle.

Gwen studied the darkened landscape and the lake’s shimmering water, then the blackness of the woods stretching away in the distance. The view looked familiar, similar to what she’d seen from their perch on La Rocca. Father Warinus’s instincts had been right. This had to be the window over their tunnel.

Excited by her discovery, she took another long look outside, and then forced herself on. Down, down she went, until she reached a stout door. There was no knob or latch. Hesitantly, she knocked. The door immediately opened, and a man stood before her, gripping a club. It was obvious he’d been listening to her slow approach.

Gwen fought the urge to turn and bolt back up the stairs. “I am bidden to see Queen Adelaide for prayer.”

Scowling, the jailer lowered his weapon. “I was not told anyone would visit her this night.”

Gwen looked him straight in the eye. “I will
pray with the queen,” she said in her most commanding tone. “The Lord’s Holy Work does not proceed by the whim of man, or a timetable.”

He glowered at her and then crooked his finger. She followed him down the hallway, past a series of bolted doors. Gwen silently counted them—one, two, three—until they stood before the fourth. She glanced back to gauge the distance. Adelaide’s door was about thirty feet from the stairs, but where was the latrine?

Suddenly, Gwen had an inspired thought. “I must relieve myself before I go inside,” she told the jailer.

He pointed to a door without locks, just beyond the fourth cell. “There.”

Gwen fought to hide her smile as she walked to the latrine and went inside. It was not much bigger than a broom closet and stunk to high heaven. She closed the door and grinned. She now knew which way to tunnel. Whistling, she made herself stand there until enough time had passed, then went outside.

The jailer was already at the cell door, working the bolt. The hinges squeaked as it opened.

Gwen stared into the darkness, seeing nothing. “Get me a light… my son.”

He shuffled away, and then returned with an oil lamp.

With the lamp before her, Gwen entered the cell. The wavering light illuminated someone curled up on a cot. “Queen Adelaide?” She wasn’t moving. Gwen’s heart fell. Could she be sick?

Gwen almost jumped out of her skin when the door slammed shut behind her.

Adelaide shifted slightly. “Lord, no, Willa, leave me alone, please.” Slowly, the queen turned her head toward Gwen, using a hand to shade her eyes.

Adelaide looked small and frail. She clutched at a ragged kerchief covering her head, as if she would rather die than reveal herself.

“Queen Adelaide?” Gwen repeated. “Forgive me. I realize the light bothers your eyes, so I’ll place it by the door, as far away as––”

“Brother Godwyn?” Adelaide sat up and stared. “How can this be? Please, tell me this is no dream. I could not bear to awaken and find you were never here!”

Gwen placed the lamp on the floor and hurried to Adelaide’s side. “I am as real as you.” She pointed to the cot. “May I sit with you?”

Nodding, Adelaide shifted on the cot, taking hold of Gwen’s hands. She glanced at the wall, and then whispered, “Keep your voice low, Brother. They are listening.” When Gwen nodded, she added, “Where is my daughter?”

“Safe. Berta has her.”

With a sigh, the queen closed her eyes. “When did you last see Emma?”

“Several weeks ago.”

Her eyes flew open. “Then you do not know how she now fares?”

“Don’t worry – she’s safe! I arrived at Garda Castle this evening, and I heard Willa grumbling that the princess continues to evade capture.” Gwen noted the relief in Adelaide’s eyes. “You should also know that Lord Alberto has gathered his forces. Help is coming. Are you well?”

Despite the feeble light, Gwen could see tears glistening in the queen’s eyes.

“Yes, now I am very well. At last, some good news.” Then Adelaide’s voice trembled, “I… I have suffered, but it is nothing compared to my friend. Oh, Brother Godwyn, the things I heard… but I’ve heard nothing recently, and I fear he was taken away, or killed.”

Gwen swallowed. “Stefano was beheaded several days ago.”

Adelaide groaned and then murmured a prayer. “My poor friend, my poor, dear friend. He was so kind, so caring, and selflessly brave.”

“Yes, he was a good man.”

“Did you know him?” the queen asked.

“I met him once. He was a wonderful man. He didn’t deserve to die.”

“I feared Willa would do something like this, and I prayed God to save him, but, but,” Adelaide wept bitterly, “now I find myself questioning the Lord’s existence. How could God allow such things to happen? How?”

Gwen sat there, tears running down her cheeks, listening to Adelaide’s sobs. What could she say to her? How could she comfort her? She didn’t dare pretend to have those sorts of answers.

Gwen touched Adelaide’s forehead, making the sign of the cross, just as Father Warinus had done for her. It had been comforting then; perhaps it would work now. “My daughter, I don’t know why he had to suffer. I must admit, I don’t have the answers.”

“The Church teaches us to accept God’s will.” Adelaide leaned against Gwen, allowing herself to be hugged. “The priests tell us it is sinful to doubt.”

“Yes,” Gwen said softly, “but we are only human.”

Adelaide sighed, and Gwen rocked her long into the night.

*

To the dismay of the guard, Gwen insisted on taking the oil lamp as she exited the dungeon. It had to be very late. The castle was quiet, seemingly empty, but for a few night watchmen. She made her way through the public spaces, past poor Adelaide’s braid, then outside to the hostelry and her bedchamber.

A serving man had shown Gwen to her private quarters before the banquet, and made sure to point out her good fortune; most visitors stayed in the castle’s large, noisy dormitories.

Gwen opened the door to her small room, yawned, and looked longingly at the pallet-bed. Earlier, she’d arranged the pillow and her sack under the covers, in case anyone checked on Brother Godwyn in the middle of the night.

After placing the oil lamp on the table, she pulled aside the covers and retrieved her sack, shaking out the contents on her bed. She suddenly wondered what time it was, deciding it had to very late, well past midnight. She’d recently fiddled with her watch, trying to set the time to jive with the June sun. Rummaging, she got sidetracked by gifts Father Warinus had given her just before they’d set out from Pavia.

Besides the rosary, she now had a much larger wine skein, some hardtack for emergencies, new undertunics, a tiny ivory pick for cleaning her teeth, and two gross reminders of where she really was: a wooden lice comb and a small, shovel-like implement for scooping earwax. He’d also provided a sewing kit, complete with delicate ivory needles, scissors, and an assortment of colored thread, all kept in a beautifully tooled leather case.

Funny how little she actually needed. She had been so spoiled in the modern world. Gwen touched the pretty case and for a moment the recent horrors faded. She was struck by the sheer wonder of being here, smack-dab in the Middle Ages, meeting the people, listening to them speak, touching things like this collection of whatnots. How often had she wished for the ability to travel in time? She knew her professors and fellow grad students would give their right arms for a chance like this.

But without a return ticket, actually experiencing it was…

Gwen sighed as she rifled through the undertunics and found her watch with its black and white image of the world’s most famous mouse, standing at the helm of a steamboat. The watch was a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday, and she recalled the twinkle in his eyes as he said,
You’re officially an adult now, Gwennie, but don’t let that ever get in the way of having fun. We can always go back to the park any time you want.

“Daddy, you old Disney-loving boomer,” she whispered to the air. “I wish more than anything… I wish I could see you again, tell you I’m alive.”

Her voice failed, the attempt to recapture her fond memories backfiring. An angry tear rolled down her cheek, and she fiercely brushed it away, then picked up the skein and took a swig of wine. She held the wristwatch up to the light and read: 3:50.

Painfully late. She yawned again and drank some more wine. The need for sleep suddenly overwhelmed and she fought the urge to curl up on her pillow. She couldn’t risk going to bed. She was so tired, she knew she’d oversleep. Once she got back to Father Warinus, she’d take a long nap.

Gwen sat on the bed, removed her sandals, and began to massage her feet. They were a mess, her heels calloused and cracked, but when she focused on her fingers and ragged nails she grimaced. They’d probably only get worse in the coming days, from all the digging they still had to do.

She looked over at the washstand in the corner. At its feet stood a bucket of water, a stool, a few rough, linen cloths that passed for towels, and a small bottle. The bottle intrigued Gwen and she wondered what it held. Some kind of medieval version of lotion or bath oil? She could only hope. Feeling grimy, she decided to scrub up; the opportunity to wash didn’t happen very often.