The Wolf and the Snake (English version)

Chapter 32

I have just drunk a third of the poppy vial, and my pain is beginning to subside. Although my injury paralyzes one side of my chest, I feverishly examine the top of the table and a single drawer below. Luckily, I discover a blank scroll with something to write on.

I decided to join Reyn at the communal palace.

And I don't know if I'd make it there safely.

I hope I won't fall from my mount.

But, alas, I'm not sure of anything.

But whatever my fate, Reyn must be informed about the count's past and present actions.

So I grasp the quill, recently sharpened. Sordello offered himself a quality parchment, vellum perhaps, a stillborn calf skin destined to immortalize his prose. I dip the quill in ink and write a few words, supposed to sum up sleepless nights due to lies.

I omit the seriousness of my condition.

There will be time to deal with this when I nestle in the arms of my beloved.

I have barely finished my missive when light knocks resound against the door. Anxious not to make any noise, I stand still, my heart pounding.

Several more knocks, then I hear what sounds like a swear word.

A female voice.

It's probably the prostitute nicknamed the "Panther."

Fortunately, this bitch will leave empty-handed.

With the vial of poppy and the scroll tucked into my belt, I listen for a moment before venturing out of the room. I'm freezing, despite the ermine-lined cloak on my shoulders and the silk scarf around my neck.

Getting on the horse is no easy task. But the brave animal isn't frightened by my clumsiness.

The streets are dark and deserted.

I pray not to run into some watch sergeants.

To my great relief, I soon saw the bell tower of the church of Sainte-Marie des Accoules standing proudly in the distance.

It was about time.

The large windows of the municipal palace are still illuminated, and from outside, I hear laughter and music.

The memory of Sordello lying on the floor of a shabby room, his skull half smashed, gives me a savage joy. It sounds like the troubadour has finished with ritornellos.

I get off my horse with difficulty and make a superhuman effort to stand roughly upright. Two men, posted in front of the palace's entrance, call out to me when I approach.

"Stop there, little one!" one of the two says in a pasty voice.

"A cloak lined with ermine!" the other remarks, much less drunk. "You don't deny yourself anything! But it's not tasteful that a prostitute is dressed like a noble lady."

The first doesn't embarrass himself by uncovering my face hidden under my cloak. And my messy hair since the confrontation with Sordello takes shape in a golden rain under the wide eyes of the two guards. So they mutter, "Damn! She's even more beautiful than the "Panther!"

Then they shrug their shoulders and wave me through. "I bet my arm that this girl is intended for the seneschal, or else for the lord of Baux," the soberest one sights.

I felt a twinge of sadness when these two men casually spoke about Reyn. By admitting I was Ada of Chasseney, I could have received a more pleasant welcome.

But I didn't say anything.

Perhaps doubt has crept into me as profoundly as the blade cutting into my flesh?

Unfortunately, the effect of the poppy is lessening.

I enter the communal palace cautiously. I follow a long dark hallway to end up in the first room, a kind of antechamber, also poorly lit.

Why do I have the feeling I know this place?

I hear grunts and sighs. Horrified, I remember my dream where some soldiers wallowed on the floor with hideous prostitutes. Short of breath, I hurry as much as I can to get through this place quickly.

The next room is much larger and generously illuminated. Troubadours interpret soft music favorable to lascivious dances. Furniture is reduced to some seats, some chests on which one threw shimmering fabrics or fluffy cushions.

Then I finally see Reyn.

As in my dream, he's nonchalantly seated, dressed only in his breeches. I imagine my fingers stretching endlessly and playing on his tanned skin, tenderly following the lines of his powerful shoulders.

Before my husband's eyes, a woman waves half-naked to the sound of musical instruments. Her long black hair caresses a sumptuous body with each movement, like a lover's mouth.

I realize that she's the "Panther."

A soulless whore at Sordello's orders!

Reyn looks at this creature with a slight smile. Does he think of the pleasure this filthy bitch only wants to offer, under the condition of being richly rewarded?

I know that smile.

It's a message of desire as much as of promises.

I haven't forgotten it.

I will never forget it.

Suddenly, two large hands gripped my waist firmly. My heart raced in my chest, so much so that I feared it had met the dagger stuck in my back. I turn around and find myself face to face with this rascal, this lord of Baux whom Reyn called a friend.

"I feel like I've seen your pretty face somewhere," he murmurs, looking at me boldly. "In my bed, perhaps? Though I would remember, my beauty!"

I almost stagger, so much my wound is painful again. "I'm not in the mood for banter, my lord!" I protest.

"Is something wrong? You're so pale! But I'm sure I know you," he insists.

He frowns to concentrate, still looking at me carefully. "Damn it," he roars. "You're the seneschal's wife! Reyn's wife!"

This idiot has finally remembered me, although he barely saw me. I glance sadly at my husband, who is so absorbed in contemplating this horrible "Panther" that he hasn't moved an inch.

My tears will soon drown my dark eyes.

Unfortunately, pain and anger overwhelm me violently.

An inner voice screams at me that I can't.

I can't humiliate myself in front of him and this atrocious whore.

"Good morning, my sweet husband! It's me! You remember that I exist at least!"

"And sorry to bother you!"

I can't.

I slip a trembling hand into my belt and grab the scroll. "Give this to Reyn! At daybreak!"

The lord of Baux smirks, taking the letter. "At daybreak? Is this a lover's game, my lady?" he asks, a little curious, intrigued.

I have already turned my heels without answering him.

In my dream, there was this dangerous cliff.

One would have said that she walked on the sea.

***

Breeches mean short pants covering the hips and thighs and fitting snugly at the lower edges or just below the knee.