CHAPTER 78
Los Seres
MARÇ 1244
Despite Sajhë’s injuries, they made good time, following the line of the river south from Montségur. They travelled light and rode hard, stopping only to rest and water the horses, using their swords to break the ice. Guilhem saw immediately that Sajhë’s skills exceeded his own.
He knew a little of Sajhë’s past, how he had carried messages from the parfaits to the isolated and far-flung villages of the Pyrenees and delivered intelligence to the rebel fighters. It was clear the younger man knew every passable valley and ridge, and every concealed track in the woods, gorges and the plains.
At the same time, Guilhem was aware of Sajhë’s fierce dislike, although he said nothing. It was like the burning sun beating down on the back of his neck. Guilhem knew Sajhë’s reputation as a loyal, brave and honourable man, ready to die fighting for what he believed in. Despite his animosity, Guilhem could see why Alaïs would love this man and have a child with him, even though the thought was like a knife through his heart.
Luck was with them. There was no new snowfall during the night. The following day, the nineteenth of March, was bright and clear, with few clouds and little wind.
Sajhë and Guilhem arrived in Los Seres at dusk. The village was nestled in a small, secluded valley and, despite the cold, there was the soft smell of spring in the air. The trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight green and white. The earliest spring flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks as they rode up the track that led to the small cluster of houses. The village seemed deserted, abandoned.
The two men dismounted and led their horses the final distance into the centre of the village. The sound of their iron shoes striking against the flint and stone of the hard earth echoed loudly in the silence. A few wisps of smoke floated carefully from one or two of the houses. Eyes peered suspiciously out through the slits and cracks of the shutters, then darted quickly away. French deserters were uncommon this high in the mountains, but not unheard of. Usually, they brought trouble.
Sajhë tethered his horse beside the well. Guilhem did likewise, then followed him as he walked through the centre of the village to a small dwelling. There were tiles missing from the roof and the shutters were in need of repair, but the walls were strong. Guilhem thought it wouldn’t take much to bring the house back to life.
Guilhem waited while Sajhë pushed the door. The wood, swollen by the damp and stiff from disuse, juddered on its hinges, then creaked open enough for Sajhë to get in.
Guilhem followed, feeling the damp, tomb-like air on his face, numbing his fingers. A mound of leaves and mulch was piled up against the wall opposite the door, clearly blown in by the winter winds. There were fingers of ice on the inside of the shutters and, like a ragged fringe, at the bottom of the sill.
The remains of a meal sat on the table. An old jug, plates, cups and a knife. There was a film of mould on the surface of the wine, like green weed on the surface of a pond. The benches were neatly tucked against the wall.
‘This is your home?’ Guilhem asked softly.
Sajhë nodded.
‘When did you leave?’
‘A year ago.’
In the centre of the room, a rusted cooking pot hung suspended over a pile of ash and charred wood that had long since burned itself out. Guilhem watched with pity as Sajhë leaned over and straightened the lid.
At the back of the house, there was a tattered curtain. He lifted it to reveal another table with two chairs set on either side. The wall was covered with rows of narrow, almost empty shelves. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars, covered in dust, were all that had been left behind. Above the shelf small hooks had been set into the low ceiling from which a few dusty bunches of herbs still hung. A petrified sprig of fleabane and another of blackberry leaves.
‘For her medicines,’ he said, taking Guilhem by surprise. He stood still, his hands folded in front of him, not wanting to interrupt Sajhë’s recollections.
‘Everybody came to her, men as well as women. When they were sick or their spirits were troubled, to keep their children healthy through the winter. Bertrande . . . Alaïs let her help with the preparations and deliver packages to the houses.’
Sajhë faltered, then fell silent. Guilhem was aware of the lump in his own throat. He too remembered the bottles and jars with which Alaïs had filled their chamber in the Château Comtal, the silent concentration with which she had worked.
Sajhë let the curtain drop from his hand. He tested the rungs of the ladder, then cautiously climbed to the upper platform. Here, rotten with mildew and soiled by animals, was a pile of old blankets and rotten straw, all that remained of where the family had slept. A single candlestick, with the remains of wax, stood beside the bedding, the tell-tale smoke marks spread like a stain up the wall behind it.
Guilhem couldn’t bear to witness Sajhë’s grief any longer and went outside to wait. He had no right to intrude.
Some time later, Sajhë reappeared. His eyes were red, but his hands were steady and he walked purposefully towards Guilhem, who was standing at the highest point of the village, looking to the west.
‘When does it grow light in the morning?’ he said as Sajhë drew level.
The two men were a similar height, although the lines on Guilhem’s face and the flecks of grey in his hair betrayed he was fifteen years closer to the grave.
‘The sun rises late in the mountains at this time of year.
Guilhem was silent for a moment. What do you want to do?’ he said, respecting Sajhë’s right to dictate things from here.
We must stable the horses, then find somewhere for ourselves to sleep. I doubt they will be here before morning.’
‘You don’t want . . .’ Guilhem started, looking towards the house.
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Not there. There’s a woman who will give us food and shelter for the night. Tomorrow, we should move further up the mountain and set up camp somewhere near the cave itself to wait for them.’
‘You think Oriane will bypass the village?’
‘She will guess where Alaïs has concealed the Book of Words. She’s had time enough to study the other two Books over these past thirty years.’
Guilhem glanced sideways at him. ‘Is she right? Is it still there in the cave?’
Sajhë ignored him. ‘I don’t understand how Oriane persuaded Bertrande to go with her,’ he said. ‘I told her not to leave without me. To wait until I came.’
Guilhem said nothing. There was nothing he could say to allay Sajhë’s fears. The younger man’s anger quickly burned itself out.
‘Do you think Oriane has brought the other two Books with her?’ he said suddenly.
Guilhem shook his head. ‘I imagine the Books are safe in her vaults somewhere in Evreux or Chartres. Why would she risk bringing them here?’
‘Did you love her?’
The question took Guilhem by surprise. ‘I desired her,’ he said slowly. ‘I was bewitched, flushed with my own importance, I . . .’
‘Not Oriane,’ Sajhë said abruptly, ‘Alaïs.’
Guilhem felt as if an iron band had fixed itself round his throat.
‘Alaïs,’ he whispered. For a moment, he stood locked in his memories, until the force of Sajhë’s intense gaze brought him back to the cold present.
‘After . . .’ he faltered. ‘After Carcassona fell, I saw her only once. For three months, she stayed with me. She had been taken by the Inquisitors, and — ’
‘I know,’ Sajhë shouted, then his voice seemed to collapse. ‘I know of it.’
Mystified by Sajhë’s reaction, Guilhem kept his eyes straight ahead. To his own surprise, he realised he was smiling.
‘Yes.’ The word slipped from between his lips. ‘I loved her more than the world. I just did not understand how precious a thing love is, how fragile until I had crushed it in my hands.’
‘It’s why you let her be. After Tolosa, and she returned here?’
Guilhem nodded. ‘After those weeks together, God knows it was hard to stay away. To see her, just once more . . . I had hoped, when this was all over, we might be . . . But, obviously, she found you. And now today . . .’
Guilhem’s voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes, making them smart in the cold. Beside him, he felt Sajhë shift. For a moment, there was a different quality to the atmosphere between them.
‘Forgive me. That I should break down before you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The bounty Oriane put on Alaïs’ head was substantial, tempting even for those who had no reason to wish her harm. I paid Oriane’s spies to pass false information. For nigh on thirty years it helped keep her safe.’
Guilhem stopped again, the image of the burning Book against the blackened red cloak slipping, like an unwelcome guest, into his mind.
‘I did not know her faith was so strong,’ he said. ‘Or that her desire to keep the Book of Words from Oriane would drive her to such steps.’
He looked at Sajhë, trying to read the truth written in his eyes.
‘I would that she had not chosen to die,’ he said simply. ‘For you, as the man she chose, and me, as the fool who had her love and lost it.’ He stumbled. ‘But most for the sake of your daughter. To know Alaïs — ’
‘Why are you helping us?’ Sajhë interrupted. Why did you come?’
‘To Montségur?’
Sajhë shook his head, impatient. ‘Not Montségur. Here. Now.’
‘Revenge,’ he said.