Beatrice made to get up but Styliane stopped her with a gesture.
‘Remember my warning, Lady Beatrice. It was not a joke. This sky, these deaths, are nothing to do with me. I only foresaw calamity. Your father’s court must have had fortune tellers and seers visit for your amusement. Think of me, then, as like them. I saw this fellow who comes to you before he arrived. I had him captured and interrogated and I visited him. I tried a rite of divination but I could not go through with it. I saw only death around him and, like you, I was terrified.’
‘So why did you not kill him?’
‘Because he has the protection of a mighty god, or a demon. He cannot be trifled with without extreme peril to those who move against him. It was not clear, the vision was not clear. I put him into a dungeon so I could have time to think. Your husband released him. This only confirms what I thought. Something is protecting him.’
‘What?’
‘We could find out. Or endeavour to.’
‘How?’
‘Let me perform the rite with you. Let us both explore your dreams. I will go with you there. I will see what you see.’
‘That is sorcery.’
‘Think of it as prayer. I will not ask you to pray to any devil or goddess. Pray to Christ. Ask him for his guidance. Do so with me, tonight, when the hidden moon is full and the labyrinth that leads us to truth is bathed in a light no cloud can obscure. There are paths we can walk that may lead to an understanding of this man of dread. We can go together to the gardens of heaven where Christ walks in his many forms.’
‘It will imperil my soul.’
‘No. Could you go there unless Christ wished it? Could you stand before the face of the creator if he didn’t wish you to? Come, my dear, have more faith in God.’
Beatrice thought of the man in her chambers. Her husband had called him friend, but she remembered the carnivorous smile that lay upon his face as he slept, the horrific dreams that had consumed her in her fever, that strange shape that seemed to writhe and slink and howl in her heart.
‘I will go with you,’ she said.
‘Then follow.’
The lady extended her hand to help Beatrice to her feet and led her out of the little chapel, down a corridor. They turned left past another guard and walked through more corridors decorated with forest scenes. They were empty of people. Everywhere else in the palace eyes followed you. Here, in Styliane’s quarters, they did not.
Eventually they came to a plainer corridor and then to a door where a guard stood. Styliane simply lifted her finger and pointed to the door. He went through it and closed it behind him. The draught of cold air told Beatrice it led outside. On pegs on the wall hung three dark cloaks. Styliane passed Beatrice one and put another on herself, pulling up the hood.
‘We wait for a while,’ said Styliane.
‘Gladly.’ Beatrice leaned against the wall, trying to get her breath. ‘What are we waiting for?’ she said.
‘Transport,’ said Styliane.
‘I cannot ride a horse.’
‘A boat, not a horse.’
The women stood silently in the corridor. Shortly, the door opened again and the guard came back through, saying nothing, just resuming his post. Styliane stepped through the door followed by Beatrice.
A long damp jetty ran down to a gate. The night was dark and they had only the light of a small lamp to guide them. Beatrice’s ears and her nose, though, told her where she was — by the sea. They went down through the cold air to the gate. The bolt was stiff and Styliane struggled to pull it back. Beatrice could not think what secret would make a great lady of the court struggle at a gate like a common guard.
When the gate was open, Styliane pointed away from the palace. Beatrice peered into the night. Two lights hung in space. The smaller light moved. It took a while for her eyes to work out what she was seeing, but then Beatrice realised it belonged to the promised boat. They went down to a small beach, Styliane bowing three times as she passed through the gate.
Beatrice found the gesture very disquieting, with its pagan overtones, but she had made up her mind — she would not turn back. If Styliane wished her harm or wanted her dead then she had no need to go to such elaborate lengths. She felt the baby inside her, kicking. She put her hand to her belly.
‘Not yet, child. You must wait until we’ve done what we need to do.’
The boat was small — no more than a fishing vessel, though well built and sturdy. A middle-aged man and a youth, slaves by their dress, waited beside it.
‘We can cross?’ Styliane spoke to the older man.
‘The lighthouse is visible from here and the palace has enough lights to guide us on the return. We can cross.’
The boy helped both women in, the man climbing in to sit at the oars.
‘Strange times, lady,’ said the oarsman.
‘Indeed,’ said Styliane.
‘Should she be here in that condition?’
‘It’s a needful time.’
Beatrice was struck by the familiarity with which Styliane treated these people, allowing their questions without reminding them of their place. There was no distance between them; she adopted no superior air. Beatrice’s father would have warned her such an attitude would lead to trouble with the servants. Her father, Rouen and the court. That life seemed so far behind her.
They went on through the water, the lights of the palace fading behind them, their own lamp and the bigger light in front of them the only breaks in the darkness.
‘I’m like Charon,’ said the oarsman. ‘Do I get a coin?’
‘What?’ said Beatrice.
‘The boatman on the river of the dead,’ said Styliane. ‘The old Greeks said that we cross from this life to the next across a river and Charon rows.’
Beatrice could not appreciate the humour and kept her eyes on the growing light in front of her.
‘What is that?’
‘Leander’s Tower,’ said Styliane. ‘A lighthouse.’
‘Why are we going there?’
‘For light,’ said Styliane.
Beatrice was cold and huddled into her cloak. Soon a large tower with a burning beacon loomed from the fog. The tower was a straightforward round structure in stone with an open roof for the fire platform. A large sheet of polished metal had been positioned behind it to improve its effectiveness as a beacon.
The boat bumped against a rough quay. Two men from the shore helped moor the boat but then disappeared back inside the building.
The youth helped Styliane and Beatrice ashore and then passed Styliane the lamp. She took it and went inside the tower, Beatrice close behind.
A crude ladder led up to an internal platform. Again, Styliane led the way. Beatrice was convinced she couldn’t climb the ladder but found a way, turned half sideways. Desperation overcame her exhaustion and caution. From the platform another ladder went up onto the roof. Could she make it? She had to. She climbed.
She reached the top and looked out over the sea. Even with the light of the brazier she could see hardly anything beyond the roof itself. The fog was thick. Beatrice glanced behind her and gasped. An old slave woman, dressed all in black, turned around and it was as if she was appearing from nothing, her dark features shining in the light of the beacon.
‘This is Arrudiya,’ said Styliane. ‘She raised me.’
The woman cast down her eyes but not with deference, Beatrice thought. There was defiance or truculence in her expression.
The brazier was very hot and Beatrice moved away from it.
‘Now?’ said Styliane.
‘When the fire has died a little,’ said Arrudiya. ‘The moon is still climbing.’
