CHAPTER 71
Montségur
MARÇ 1244
Alaïs stood on the walls of the citadel of Montségur, a slight and solitary figure in her thick winter cloak. Beauty had come with the passing of the years. She was slight, but there was a grace to her face, her neck, her bearing. She looked down at her hands. In the early morning light they looked blue, almost transparent.
The hands of an old woman.
Alaïs smiled. Not old. Younger still than her father when he died.
The light was soft as the rising sun struggled to give the world back its shape and brush away the silhouettes of the night. Alaïs gazed at the ragged snow-covered peaks of the Pyrenees, rising and falling away into the pale horizon, and the purple pine forests on the eastern flank of the mountain. Early morning clouds were scudding over the ragged slopes of the Pic de Sant- Bartélémy. Beyond that, she could almost see the Pic de Soularac.
She imagined her house, plain and welcoming, tucked inside the folds of the hills. She remembered the smoke unfurling from the chimney on cold mornings such as this. Spring came late to the mountains and this had been a hard winter, but it wouldn’t be long now. She could see its promise in the pink blush of the sky at dusk. In Los Seres the trees would soon be coming into bud. By April, the mountain pastures would be covered once more with delicate blue, white and yellow flowers.
Down below Alaïs could make out the surviving buildings that made up the village of Montségur, the few huts and dwellings left standing after ten months of siege. The ramshackle cluster of houses was surrounded by the standards and tents of the French army, tattered pinpricks of colour and fluttering banners, ragged around the edges. They had suffered the same hard winter as the inhabitants of the citadel.
On the western slopes, at the foot of the mountain, stood a wooden palisade. The besiegers had been building it for days. Yesterday, they hammered a row of stakes up the middle, a crooked wooden spine, each post held in place by a heap of tinder and faggots of straw. At dusk, she had seen them prop ladders around the edges.
A pyre to burn the heretics.
Alaïs shivered. In a few hours it would be over. She was not afraid to die when her time came. But she’d seen too many people burn to be under any illusion that faith would spare them pain. For those that wished it, Alaïs had provided medicines to numb the suffering. Most had chosen to walk unaided from this world to the next.
The purple stones beneath her feet were slippery with frost. Alaïs traced the pattern of the labyrinth on the crisp, white ground with the top of her boot. She was nervous. If her subterfuge worked, the quest for the Book of Words would end. If it failed, she had gambled the lives of those who’d given her shelter for all these years – Esclarmonde’s people, her father’s people – for the sake of the Grail.
The consequences were dreadful to think about.
Alaïs closed her eyes and let herself fly back through the years to the labyrinth cave. Harif, Sajhë, herself. She remembered the smooth caress of the air on her bare arms, the flicker of the candles, the beautiful voices spiralling in the dark. The recollection of the words as she spoke them, so vivid she could almost taste them on her tongue.
Alaïs shivered, thinking of the moment when she finally understood and the incantation came from her lips as if of its own accord. That single moment of ecstasy, of illumination, as everything that had happened before and everything that was yet to come were joined uniquely, as the Grail descended to her.
And through her voice and her hands, to him.
Alaïs gasped. To have lived and had such experiences.
A noise disturbed her. Alaïs opened her eyes and let the past fade. She turned to see Bertrande picking her way along the narrow battlements. Alaïs smiled and raised her hand in greeting.
Her daughter was less serious by nature than Alaïs had been at this age. But in looks, Bertrande was made in her image. The same heart-shaped face, the same direct gaze and long brown hair. But for Alaïs’ grey hairs and the lines around her eyes, they could almost be sisters.
The strain of waiting showed on her daughter’s face.
‘Sajhë says the soldiers are coming,’ she said in an uncertain voice.
Alaïs shook her head. ‘They will not come until tomorrow,’ she said firmly. ‘And there is still much to occupy our time between now and then.’ She took Bertrande’s cold hands between hers. ‘I am relying on you to help Sajhë and to care for Rixende. Tonight especially. They need you.’
‘I don’t want to lose you, Mamà,’ she said, her lip trembling.
‘You won’t,’ she smiled, praying it was true. ‘We’ll all be together again soon. You must have patience.’ Bertrande gave her a weak smile. ‘That’s better. Now, come, Filha. Let us go down.’
CHAPTER 72
At dawn on Wednesday the sixteenth of March, they gathered inside the Great Gate of Montségur.
From the battlements, the members of the garrison watched the Crusaders sent to arrest the Bons Homes climb the last section of the rocky path, still slippery with frost this early in the day.
Bertrande was standing with Sajhë and Rixende at the front of the crowd. It was very quiet. After the months of relentless bombardment, she still had not got used to the absence of sound now the mangomels and catapults had fallen silent.
The last two weeks had been a peaceful time. For many, the end of their time. Easter had been celebrated. The parfaits and a few parfaites had fasted. Despite the promise of pardon for those who abjured their faith, almost half the population of the Citadel, Rixende among them, had chosen to receive the consolament. They preferred to die as Bons Chrétiens rather than live, defeated, under the French crown. Possessions had been bequeathed by those condemned to die for their faith to those condemned to live deprived of their loved ones. Bertrande had helped distribute gifts of wax, pepper, salt, cloth, shoes, a purse, breeches, even a felt hat.
Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix had been presented with a coverlet full of coins. Others had given corn and jerkins for him to distribute among his men. Marquesia de Lanatar had given all her belongings to her granddaughter Philippa, Pierre-Roger’s wife.
Bertrande looked around at the silent faces and offered a silent prayer for her mother. Alaïs had chosen Rixende’s garments carefully. The dark green dress and a red cloak, the edges and hem embroidered with an intricate pattern of blue and green squares and diamonds and yellow flowers. Her mother had explained it was the image of the cloak she’d worn on her wedding day in the capèla Santa-Maria in the Chateau Comtal. Alaïs was sure her sister Oriane would remember it, despite the passage of years.
As a precaution, Alaïs had also made a small sheepskin bag to be held against the red cloak, a copy of the chemise in which each of the books of the Labyrinth Trilogy were stored. Bertrande had helped to fill it with fabric and sheets of parchment so that, from a distance at least, it would deceive. She didn’t understand entirely the point of these preparations, only that they mattered. She had been delighted to be allowed to help.
Bertrande reached out and took Sajhë’s hand.
The leaders of the Cathar Church, Bishop Bertrand Marty and Raymond Aiguilher, both old men now, stood quietly in their dark blue robes. For years, they had served their ministry from Montségur, travelling from the citadel, preaching the word and delivering comfort to credentes in the isolated villages of the mountains and the plains. Now they were ready to lead their people into the fire.
‘Mamà will be all right,’ Bertrande whispered, trying to reassure herself as much as him. She felt Rixende’s arm on her shoulder.
‘I wish you were not . . .’
‘I have made my choice,’ Rixende said quickly. ‘I choose to die in my faith.’
‘What if Mamà is taken?’ whispered Bertrande.
Rixende stroked her hair. ‘There is nothing we can do but pray.’
Bertrande felt tears well up in her eyes when the soldiers reached them. Rixende held out her wrists to be shackled. The boy shook his head. Having not expected so many to choose death, they had not brought enough chains to secure them all.
Bertrande and Sajhë watched in silence as Rixende and the others walked through the Great Gate and began their last descent of the steep, winding mountain path. The red of Alaïs’ cloak stood out among the subdued browns and greens, bright against the grey sky.
Led by Bishop Marty, the prisoners began to sing. Montségur had fallen, but they were not defeated. Bertrande wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She had promised her mother to be strong. She would do her best to keep her word.
Down below on the meadows of the lower slopes, stands had been erected for the spectators. They were full. The new aristocracy of the Midi, French barons, collaborators, Catholic legates and Inquisitors, invited by Hugues des Arcis, the Seneschal of Carcassonne. All had come to see ‘justice’ done after more than thirty years of civil war.
Guilhem pulled his cloak hard about him, taking care not to be recognised. His face was known after a lifetime fighting the French. He could not afford to be taken. He glanced around.
If his information was right, somewhere in this crowd was Oriane. He was determined to keep her away from Alaïs. Even after all this time, just the thought of Oriane moved him to anger. He clenched his fists, wishing he could act now. That he did not have to dissemble or wait, just put a knife in her heart as he should have done thirty years before. Guilhem knew he had to be patient. If he tried something now, he’d be cut down before he’d even had the chance to draw his sword.
He ran his eyes along the rows of spectators until he saw the face he was looking for. Oriane was sitting in the middle of the front row. There was nothing of the southern lady left in her. Her clothes were expensive in the more formal and elaborate style of the north. Her blue velvet cloak was trimmed in gold with a thick ermine collar around the neck and hood and matching winter gloves. Although her face was still striking and beautiful, it had grown thin and was spoiled by its hard and bitter expression.
There was a young man with her. The likeness was strong enough for Guilhem to guess he must be one of her sons. Louis, the eldest, he’d heard had joined the Crusade. He had Oriane’s colouring and black curls, with his father’s aquiline profile.
There was a shout. Guilhem turned round to see the line of prisoners had reached the foot of the mountain and were now being driven towards the pyre. They walked quietly and with dignity. They were singing. Like a choir of angels, Guilhem thought, seeing the look of discomfort the sweetness of the sound brought to the faces of the spectators.
The Seneschal of Carcassonne stood shoulder to shoulder with the Archbishop of Narbonne. On his sign, a gold cross was raised high in the air and the black friars and clergy moved forward to take up their position in front of the palisade.
Behind them, Guilhem could see a row of soldiers holding burning torches. They were struggling to keep the smoke from drifting over to the stands as the flames whipped and cracked in the bitter, gusting north wind.
One by one, the names of the heretics were called out. They stepped forward and climbed the ladders into the pyre. Guilhem felt numb with the horror of it. He hated the fact he could do nothing to stop the executions. Even if he’d enough men with him, he knew they themselves would not wish it. Through force of circumstance rather than belief, Guilhem had spent much time in the company of the Bons Homes. He admired and respected them, though he could not claim to understand them.
The mounds of kindling and straw had been soaked in pitch. A few soldiers had climbed inside and were chaining the parfaits and parfaites to the central posts.
Bishop Marty began to pray.
‘Payre sant, Dieu dreiturier dels bons esperits.’
Slowly, other voices joined his. The whispering grew and grew, until soon it became a roar. In the stands, the spectators exchanged embarrassed glances with one another and grew restless. This was not what they had come to see.
The Archbishop gave a hurried signal and the clergy began to sing, their black robes flapping in the wind, the psalm that had become the anthem of the Crusade. Veni Spirite Sancti, the words shouted to drown out the Cathar prayers.
The Bishop stepped forward and cast the first torch on to the pyre. The soldiers followed his lead. One by one the burning brands were tossed in. The fire was slow to catch, but soon the sparks and crackles became a roar. The flames started to writhe through the straw like snakes, darting this way and that, billowing and puffing, swirling like reeds in the river.
Through the smoke, Guilhem saw something that turned his blood to ice. A red cloak, embroidered with flowers, a deep green dress, the colour of moss. He pushed his way to the front.
He couldn’t — didn’t want to — believe his eyes.
The years fell away and he saw himself, the man he had been, a young chevalier, arrogant, proud, confident, kneeling in the capèla Santa-Maria. Alaïs was at his side. A Michaelmas wedding, lucky some said. Flowering hawthorn on the altar and the red candles flickering as they exchanged their vows.
Guilhem ran along the back of the stands, desperate to get closer, desperate to prove to himself that it was not her. The fire was hungry. The sickly smell of burning human flesh, surprisingly sweet, was floating over the spectators. The soldiers stood back. Even the clergy were forced to retreat as the furnace burned.
Blood hissed as the soles of feet split open and the bones slid out into the fire, like animals roasting on a spit. The prayers turned to screams.
Guilhem was choking, but he didn’t stop. Holding his cloak across his mouth and nose to keep out the foul, pungent, smoke, he tried to get close to the palisade walls, but the swirling cloud of smoke obscured everything.
Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and precise, from within the fire.
‘Oriane!’
Was it Alaïs’ voice? Guilhem couldn’t tell. Shielding his face with his hands, he stumbled towards the noise.
‘Oriane!’
This time, there was a shout from the stands. Guilhem spun round and, through a gap in the smoke, saw Oriane’s face contorted with anger. She was on her feet and gesturing wildly to the guards.
Guilhem imagined he was shouting Alaïs’ name too, but he couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself. He had come to save her. He had come to help her escape from Oriane, he had helped her once before.
Those three months he had spent with Alaïs after fleeing the Inquisitors in Toulouse had been, quite simply, the happiest time of his life. Alaïs would not stay longer and he could not persuade her to change her mind, nor even to tell him why she had to go. But she had said — and Guilhem had believed it to be true – that one day, when the horror was over, they would once more be together.
‘Mon cor,’ he whispered, almost a sob.
That promise, and the memory of days together, were what had sustained him through the ten long, empty years. Like a light in the dark.
Guilhem felt his heart crack. ‘Alaïs!’
Against the red cloak, the small white sheepskin package, the size of a book, was burning. The hands that held it were no longer there. They had been reduced to bone and spitting fat and blackened flesh.
There was nothing left, he knew it.
For Guilhem, everything was silent now. There was no more noise, no more pain, nothing but a clear white expanse. The mountain had gone, the sky and the smoke and the screaming had gone. Hope had gone.
Now, his legs could no longer hold him. Guilhem fell to his knees as despair claimed him.