CHAPTER 50
Oriane tiptoed along the corridor to her sister’s chamber.
‘Alaïs!’ Guirande was sure her sister was once again with their father, but she was cautious. ‘Sòrre?’
When no one answered, Oriane opened the door and stepped inside. With the skill of a thief, she quickly began to search Alaïs’ possessions. Bottles, jars and bowls, her wardrobe, drawers filled with cloth and perfumes and sweet-smelling herbs. Oriane patted the pillows and found a lavender posy, which didn’t interest her. Then she checked over and beneath the bed. There was nothing but dead insects and cobwebs.
As she turned back to face the room, she noticed a heavy brown hunting cloak lying over the back of Alaïs’ sewing chair. Her threads and needles were spread all around. Oriane felt a spark of excitement. Why a winter cloak at this time of year? Why was Alaïs mending her clothes herself?
She picked it up and immediately felt something was wrong. It was lopsided and hung crookedly. Oriane lifted the corner and saw something had been sewn into the hem.
Quickly, she unpicked the stitching, pushed her fingers inside and pulled out a small, rectangular object, wrapped in a piece of linen.
She was about to investigate, when a noise in the corridor outside drew her attention. Quick as a flash, Oriane concealed the parcel beneath her dress and returned the cloak to the back of the chair.
A hand descended heavily on her shoulder. Oriane jumped.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said.
‘Guilhem,’ she gasped, clasping her hand to her chest. ‘You startled me.’
What are you doing in my wife’s chamber, Oriane?’
Oriane raised her chin. ‘I could ask you the same question.’
In the darkening room, she saw his expression harden and knew the dart had hit home.
‘I have every right to be here, whereas you do not. . .’ He glanced at the cloak, then back to her face.
‘What are you doing?’
She met his gaze. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’
Guilhem kicked the door shut with his heel.
‘You forget yourself, Dame,’ he said, grabbing her wrist.
‘Don’t be a fool, Guilhem,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Open the door. It will go ill for both of us if someone comes and finds us together.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Oriane. I’m in no mood for them. I’m not letting you go unless you tell me what you are doing here. Did he send you here?’
Oriane looked at him with genuine confusion. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Guilhem, on my word.’
His fingers were digging deep into her skin. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice, è? I saw you together, Oriane.’
Relief flooded through her. Now she understood the reason for his temper. Provided Guilhem had not recognised her companion, she could turn the misunderstanding to her advantage.
‘Let me go,’ she said, trying to twist out of his grasp. ‘If you remember, Messire, you were the one who said we could meet no longer.’ She tossed her black hair and glared at him, eyes flashing. ‘So if I choose to seek comfort elsewhere, how can it concern you? You have no right over me.
‘Who is he?’
Oriane thought quickly. She needed a name that would satisfy him. ‘Before I tell you, I want you to promise that you will not do anything unwise,’ she pleaded, playing for time.
‘At this moment, Dame, you are not in a position to set terms.’
‘Then at least let us go elsewhere, to my chamber, the courtyard, anywhere but here. If Alaïs should come. . .’
From the expression on his face, Oriane knew she had got him. His greatest fear now was that Alaïs would discover his infidelity.
‘Very well,’ he said roughly. He flung open the door with his free hand, then half pushed, half dragged her along the corridor. By the time they reached her chamber, Oriane had gathered her thoughts.
‘Speak, Dame,’ he commanded.
Her eyes fixed on the ground, Oriane confessed she had accepted the attentions of a new suitor, the son of one of the Viscount’s allies. He had long admired her.
‘Is this the truth?’ he demanded.
‘I swear it is, on my life,’ she whispered, glancing up at him through tear-stained lashes.
He was still suspicious, but there was a flicker of indecision in his eyes.
‘This does not answer why you were in my wife’s chamber.’
‘Safe-guarding your reputation only,’ she said. ‘Returning to its rightful place something of yours.’
‘What manner of thing?’
‘My husband found a man’s buckle in my chamber.’ She made a shape with her hands. ‘About so big, fashioned from copper and silver.’
‘I have lost such a buckle,’ he admitted.
‘Jehan was determined to identify the owner and publish his name. Knowing it to be yours, I decided the safest thing was to return it to your chamber.’
Guilhem was frowning. ‘Why not return the buckle to me?’
‘You are avoiding me, Messire,’ she said softly. ‘I did not know when, even if, I would see you. Besides, if we had been noticed together, it could have been proof of what once was between us. Judge my actions foolish. But do not doubt the intention behind them.’
Oriane could see he was not convinced, but dared not push the matter further. His hand went to the blade at his waist.
‘If you breathe a word of this to Alaïs,’ he said, ‘I will kill you, Oriane, God strike me down if I don’t.’
‘She will not learn of it from me,’ she said, then smiled. ‘Unless, of course, I find myself with no choice. I must protect myself. And,’ she paused. Guilhem drew a deep breath. ‘And as it happens,’ she continued, ‘there is a favour I would ask of you.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And if I am not so minded?’
‘All I want is to know if our father has given Alaïs anything of value to keep, that’s all.’
‘You are asking me to spy upon my own wife,’ he said, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘I will do no such thing, Oriane, and you will do nothing to upset her, is that clear?’
‘I upset her. It’s your fear of discovery that brings out this chivalry in you. You’re the one who betrayed her all those nights you lay with me, Guilhem. It is only information I seek. I will learn what I want to know, with or without your help. However, if you make it difficult. . .’ She left the threat hanging in the air.
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘It would be nothing to tell Alaïs everything we did together, share with her the things you whispered to me, the gifts you gave me. She would believe me, Guilhem. Too much of your soul shows in your face.’
Disgusted by her, by himself, Guilhem threw open the door. ‘Damn you to hell, Oriane,’ he said, then stormed away down the corridor.
Oriane smiled. She had snared him.
Alaïs had spent all afternoon trying to find her father. No one had seen him. She had ventured into the Cite, hoping at least to be able to talk to Esclarmonde. But she and Sajhë were no longer in Sant-Miquel and did not appear to have yet returned home.
In the end, exhausted and apprehensive, Alaïs returned to her chamber alone. She could not go to bed. She was too nervous, too anxious, so she lit a lamp and sat at her table.
It was after the bells had struck one that she was woken by footsteps outside the door. She raised her head from her arms and looked blearily in the direction of the sound.
‘Rixende?’ she whispered into the dark. ‘Is that you?’
‘No, not Rixende,’ he said.
‘Guilhem?’
He came into the light, smiling as if not sure of his welcome. ‘Forgive me. I promised to leave you, I know, but . . . may I?’
Alaïs sat up.
‘I have been in the chapel,’ he said. ‘I have prayed, but I do not think my words flew up.’
Guilhem sat down on the end of the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, she went to him. He seemed to have something on his mind.
‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Let me help you.’
She unstrapped his boots and helped him with his shoulder harness and belt. The leather and buckle fell with a clunk to the floor.
What does Viscount Trencavel think will happen?’ she asked.
Guilhem lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. ‘That the Host will attack Sant-Vicens first, then Sant-Miquel, in order to be able to approach close to the walls of the Ciutat itself.’
Alaïs sat down beside him and smoothed his hair from his face. The feel of his skin under her fingers made her shiver.
‘You should sleep, Messire. You will need all your strength for the battle to come.’
Lazily, he opened his eyes and smiled up at her. ‘You could help me rest.’
Alaïs smiled and reached over for a preparation of rosemary she kept on her bedside table. She knelt beside him and massaged the cool lotion into his temples.
‘When I was looking for my father, earlier, I went to my sister’s chamber. I think there was someone with her.’
‘Probably Congost,’ he said sharply.
‘I don’t think so. He and the other scribes sleep in the Tour Pinte at present, in case the Viscount needs them.’ She paused. ‘There was laughter.’
Guilhem put his finger on her mouth to stop her. ‘Enough of Oriane,’ he whispered, slipping his hands around her waist and drawing her to him. She could taste the wine on his lips. ‘You have the scent of camomile and honey,’ he said. He reached up and loosened her hair so it fell like a waterfall around her face.
‘Mon cor.’
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at his touch, his skin against hers, so startling and intimate. Slowly, carefully, not taking his brown eyes from her face, Guilhem eased her dress from her shoulders, then lower to her waist. Alaïs shifted. The material came loose and slithered off the bed to the floor, like a winter skin no longer needed.
Guilhem lifted the bedcover to let her under and laid her down beside him, on pillows that still held the memory of him. For a moment, they lay, arm to arm, side to side, her feet cold against the heat of his skin. He bent over her. Now Alaïs could feel his breath, whispering over the surface of her skin like a summer breeze. His lips dancing, his tongue slipping, sliding over her breasts. Alaïs caught her breath as he took her nipple into his mouth, licking, teasing.
Guilhem raised his head. He gave a half smile.
Then, still holding her gaze, he lowered his body into the space between her bare legs. Alaïs stared at his brown eyes, unblinking and serious.
‘Mon còr,’ he said again.
Gently, Guilhem eased himself inside her, little by little, until she had taken the whole of him. For a moment he lay still, contained within her, as if resting.
Alaïs felt strong, powerful, as if at this moment she could do anything, be anyone. A hypnotic, heavy warmth was seeping through her limbs, filling her up, devouring her senses. Her head was filled with the sound of her blood beating. She had no sense of time or space. There was only Guilhem and the flickering shadows of the lamp.
Slowly, he began to move.
‘Alaïs.’ The words slipped from between his lips.
She placed her hands on his back, her fingers splayed wide in the shape of stars. She could feel the strength of him, the force in his tanned arms and firm thighs, the soft hair on his chest brushing against her. His tongue was darting between her lips, hot and wet and hungry.
He was breathing faster, harder, driven on by desire, by need. Alaïs held him to her as Guilhem cried out her name. He shuddered, then was still.
Gradually, the roaring in her head faded away until nothing remained but the hushed silence of the room.
Later, after they had talked and whispered promises in the dark, they drifted into sleep. The oil burned away. The flame in the lamp guttered and died. Alaïs and Guilhem did not notice. They were not aware of the silver march of the moon across the sky, nor the purple light of dawn as it came creeping through the window. They knew nothing but each other as they lay sleeping in one another’s arms, a wife and her husband, lovers once more.
Reconciled. At peace.
CHAPTER 51
THURSDAY 7 JULY 2005
Alice woke seconds before the alarm went off, to find herself sprawled across the bed, papers strewn all about her.
The family tree was in front of her, together with her notes from the library in Toulouse. She grinned. Quite like her student days, when she was forever falling asleep at her desk.
She didn’t feel bad on it, though. Despite the burglary last night, this morning she felt in good spirits. Contented, happy even.
Alice stretched her arms and neck, then got up to open the shutters and window. The sky was cut through with pale slashes of light and flat white clouds. The slopes of the Cite were in shadow and the grassy banks beneath the walls shimmered with early morning dew. Above the turrets and towers, the sky was blue, like a bolt of silk. Wrens and larks sang to one another across the rooftops. Evidence of the aftermath of the storm was everywhere. Debris blown against railings, boxes sodden and upturned at the back of the hotel, newspapers pooled at the foot of the street lamps in the car park.
Alice was uneasy at the idea of leaving Carcassonne, as if the act of departure would precipitate something. But she had to take some action and, at this point, Chartres was her only lead to Shelagh.
It was a good day for a journey.
As she packed her papers away, she admitted she was also being sensible. She didn’t want to sit around like a victim, waiting for last night’s intruder to come back.
She explained to the receptionist that she was going out of town for a day but to hold her room.
‘You have a woman waiting to see you, Madame,’ the girl said, pointing to the lounge. ‘I was about to call your room.
‘Oh?’ Alice turned to look. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
The receptionist shook her head.
‘OK. Thank you.’
‘Also, this came for you this morning,’ she added, handing over a letter. Alice glanced at the postmark. It came from Foix yesterday. She didn’t recognise the handwriting. She was about to open it, when the woman waiting for her approached.
‘Dr Tanner?’ she said. She looked nervous.
Alice put the letter in her jacket pocket to read later. ‘Yes?’
‘I have a message for you from Audric Baillard. He wonders if you could meet him in the cemetery?’
The woman was vaguely familiar, although Alice couldn’t immediately place her.
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ she said.
The woman hesitated. ‘From Daniel Delagarde,’ she said in a rush. ‘Notaires.’
Alice looked again. She didn’t remember seeing her yesterday, but there were a lot of people in the central office.
‘Monsieur Baillard is waiting for you at the Giraud-Biau tomb.’
‘Really?’ said Alice. Why didn’t he come himself?’
‘I have to go now.’
Then the woman turned tail and disappeared, leaving Alice staring after her, baffled. She turned to the receptionist, who shrugged.
Alice glanced at her watch. She was keen to get going. She’d got a long drive ahead of her. On the other hand, ten minutes wasn’t going to make any difference.
‘A demain,’ she said to the receptionist, but she’d already gone back to whatever it was she was doing.
Alice detoured via the car to leave her rucksack, then, vaguely irritated, she hurried across the road to the cemetery.
The atmosphere changed the moment Alice walked through the high metal gates. The early morning bustle of the Cite awaking was replaced by stillness.
There was a low, whitewashed building on her right. Outside a row of black and green plastic watering cans hung on hooks. Alice peered in through the window and saw an old jacket slung over the back of a chair and a newspaper open on the table, as if someone had only just left.
Alice walked slowly up the central aisle, feeling suddenly on edge. She found the atmosphere oppressive. Grey sculpted headstones, white porcelain cameos and black granite inscriptions marking birth and death, resting places bought by local families à perpétuité to mark their passing. Photographs of those who had died young jostled for space beside the features of the old. At the base of many of the tombs were flowers, some real and dying, others fashioned from silk or plastic or porcelain.
Following the directions Karen Fleury had given her, Alice found the Giraud-Biau grave easily enough. It was a large flat tomb at the top of the central aisle overlooked by a stone angel with open arms and furled wings.
She glanced around. There was no sign of Baillard.
Alice traced her fingers across the surface. Here lay most of Jeanne Giraud’s family, a woman she knew nothing about other than she was a link between Audric Baillard and Grace. Only now, as she stood staring at the chiselled names of one family, did Alice realise how very unusual it was that space had been found here for her aunt.
A noise in one of the cross aisles caught her attention. She looked around, expecting to see the elderly man of the photograph making her way towards her.
‘Dr Tanner?’
There were two men, both wearing light summer suits, both dark-haired and with their eyes obscured by sunglasses.
‘Yes?’
The shorter of the two flashed a badge at her.
‘Police. We have a few questions we need to ask you.’
Alice’s stomach lurched. ‘Concerning what?’
‘It won’t take long, Madame.’
‘I’d like to see some ID.’
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a card. She had no idea if it was authentic or not. But the gun in the holster underneath the jacket looked real enough. Her pulse started to race.
Alice pretended to examine it as she cast a look around the graveyard. There was no one about. The aisles stretched away empty in all directions.
What is this about?’ she said again, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘If you could just come with us.’
They can’t do anything in broad daylight.
Too late, Alice realised why the woman who’d delivered the message was familiar. She’d similar characteristics to the man she’d seen briefly in her room last night. This man.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice could see there was a flight of concrete steps leading down to the newest section of the graveyard. Beyond that there was a gate.
He put his hand on her arm. ‘Maintenant, Dr Tan — ’
Alice launched herself forward, like a sprinter out of the blocks, taking them by surprise. They were slow to react. A shout went up, but she was already down the steps and running through the gate, out into the Chemin des Anglais.
A car phut-phutting up the hill slammed on its brakes. Alice didn’t stop. She hurled herself over a rickety wooden farm gate and tore through the rows of vines, stumbling on the furrowed earth. She could feel the men at her back, gaining on her. Blood pounded in her ears, the muscles in her legs were pulled tight as piano strings, but she kept going.
At the bottom of the field was a tight-meshed wire fence, too high to jump. Alice looked round in panic, then spotted a gap in the far corner. Throwing herself to the ground, she crawled along the earth on her belly, feeling the sharp rocks and stones digging into her palms and knees. She slithered under the wire, the frayed edges catching on her jacket, holding her as fast as a fly in a spider’s web. She pulled and, with a superhuman effort, yanked herself free, leaving a scrap of blue denim on the wire.
She found herself in a market garden, filled with long rows of tall bamboo frames supporting aubergines, courgettes and runner beans, which shielded her. Keeping her head down, Alice zigzagged through the allotments, heading for the shelter of the outbuildings. A huge mastiff on a heavy metal chain lunged at her as she rounded the corner, barking ferociously and snapping its vicious jaws. She stifled a scream and jumped back.
The main entrance to the farm led straight out on to the busy main road at the bottom of the hill. Once she was on the pavement, she allowed herself a glance over her shoulder. Empty, silent space stretched behind her. They’d stopped following.
Alice put her hands on her knees and doubled over, panting with exertion and relief, waiting for the shaking in her arms and legs to stop. Already, her mind was starting to click into motion.
What are you going to do? The men would go back to the hotel and wait for her there. She couldn’t go back there. She felt in her pocket and was relieved to find she hadn’t lost the car keys in her panic to get away. Her rucksack was squashed under the front seat.
You must call Noubel.
She could picture the scrap of paper with Noubel’s number in her rucksack under the seat of the car with everything in it. Alice brushed herself down. Her jeans were covered in dirt and ripped on one knee. Her only chance was to go back to the car and pray they weren’t waiting for her there.
Alice walked fast along rue Barbarcane, keeping her head down every time a car went past. She passed the church, then took a shortcut down a small road to the right called rue de la Gaffe.
Who’d sent them?
She walked quickly, keeping to the shadows. It was hard to tell where one house ended and the next began. Alice felt a sudden prickling at the back of her neck. She stopped, glanced to her right at the pretty house with yellow walls, expecting to see someone watching her from the doorway. But the door was firmly shut and the shutters locked. After a moment’s hesitation, Alice continued.
Should she change her mind about Chartres?
If anything, Alice realised that having confirmation she was in danger — that it wasn’t just her imagination — strengthened her resolve. As she thought about it, she became more certain Authié was behind what was going on. He believed she’d stolen the ring. He was clearly determined to get it back.
Call Noubel.
Again, she ignored her own advice. So far, the Inspector had done nothing. A policeman was dead, Shelagh was missing. Better to rely on no one but herself.
Alice had arrived at the steps that connected rue Trivalle to the back of the car park, reasoning that if they were waiting for her, they were more likely to be at the main entrance.
The steps were steep and there was a high wall on this side of the area, which stopped her from being able to see in but gave a clear view to anyone looking down from above. If they were there, she wouldn’t know it until it was too late.
Only one way to find out.
Alice took a deep breath and ran up the steps, her legs powered by the adrenalin racing through her veins. At the top, she stopped and looked around. There were a couple of coaches and cars, but very few people about.
The car was sitting where she’d left it. She picked her way between the lines of parked cars, keeping low. Her hands were shaking as she slid into the front seat. She was still expecting the men to loom up in front of her. She could still hear their voices, shouting, in her head. The moment she was in, she locked the doors and rammed the key into the ignition.
Her eyes darting in all directions, hands white on the steering wheel, Alice waited until a camper van was pulling away and the attendant raised the barrier. She accelerated and shot across the tarmac, too fast, aiming straight for the exit. The attendant shouted and leaped back, but Alice took no notice.
She kept driving.