CHAPTER 76
Oriane had devoted her life to her quest to retrieve the Book of Words.
Quite soon after returning to Chartres after the defeat of Carcassonne, her husband lost patience with her failure to secure the prize he had paid for. There was never love between them and, when his desire for her faded, his fist and his belt replaced conversation.
She endured the beatings, all the time devising ways in which she would be revenged on him. As his land and wealth increased, and his influence with the French king grew, his attention was drawn to other prizes. He left her alone. Free to resume her quest, Oriane paid informers and employed a network of spies in the Midi, all hunting down information.
Only once had Oriane come close to capturing Alaïs. In May 1234 Oriane had left Chartres and travelled south to Toulouse. When she arrived at the cathedral of Saint-Etienne, it was to discover the guards had been bribed and her sister had disappeared again, as if she had never been.
Oriane was determined not to make the same mistake again. This time, when a rumour had surfaced about a woman, of the right age, the right description, Oriane had come south with one of her sons under cover of the Crusade.
This morning she thought she had seen the book burn in the purple light of dawn. To be so close and yet to fail had sent her into a rage that neither her son Louis nor her servants could assuage. But during the course of the afternoon, Oriane had started to revise her interpretation of the morning’s events. If it was Alaïs she had seen — and she was even questioning that – was it likely she would allow the Book of Words to burn on an Inquisitional pyre?
Oriane decided not. She sent her servants out into the camp for information and learned that Alaïs had a daughter, a girl of nine or ten, whose father was a soldier serving under Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix. Oriane did not believe her sister would have entrusted so precious an object to a member of the garrison. The soldiers would be searched. But a child?
Oriane waited until it was dark before making her way to the area where the women and children were being held. She bought her passage into the compound. No one questioned or challenged her. She could feel the disapproving looks from the Black Friars as she passed, but their ill judgement did not move her.
Her son, Louis, appeared in front of her, his arrogant face flushed. He was always too desperate for approval, too eager to please.
‘Qui?’ she snapped. ‘Qu’est-ceque tu veux?’
Il y a une fille que vous devez voir, Maman.’
Oriane followed him to the far side of the enclosure, where a girl lay sleeping a little apart from the others.
The physical resemblance to Alaïs was striking. But for the passage of years, Oriane could be looking at her sister’s twin. She had the same look of fierce determination, the same colouring as Alaïs at the same age.
‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘She will not trust me with you standing here.’
Louis’s face fell, irritating her even more. ‘Leave me,’ she repeated, turning her back on him. ‘Go prepare the horses. I have no need of you here.’
When he’d gone, Oriane crouched down and tapped the girl on the arm.
The girl woke immediately and sat up, her eyes bright with fear.
‘Who are you?’
‘Una amiga,’ she said, using the language she had abandoned thirty years ago. ‘A friend.’
Bertrande didn’t move. ‘You’re French,’ she said stubbornly, staring at Oriane’s clothes and hair. ‘You weren’t in the citadel.’
‘No,’ she said, trying to sound patient, ‘but I was born in Carcassona, just like your mother. We were children together in the Château Comtal. I even knew your grandfather, Intendant Pelletier. I’m sure Alaïs has talked often of him.’
‘I’m named for him,’ she said promptly.
Oriane hid a smile. ‘Well, Bertrande. I’ve come to get you away from here.’
The girl frowned. ‘But Sajhë told me to stay here until he came for me,’ she said, a little less cautiously. ‘He said not to go with anyone else.’
‘Sajhë said that, did he?’ Oriane said, smiling. ‘Well, he said to me that you were good at looking after yourself, that I should give you something to persuade you to trust me.’
Oriane held out the ring she had stolen from her father’s cold hand. As she expected, Bertrande recognised it and reached for it.
‘Sajhë gave you this?’
‘Take it. See for yourself.’
Bertrande turned the ring, examining it thoroughly. She stood up.
Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, frowning furiously. ‘Unless . . .’
‘Yes?’ Bertrande looked up at her.
‘Do you think he meant you should go home?’
Bertrande thought for a moment. ‘He might,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Is it far?’ asked Oriane casually.
‘A day on horseback, perhaps more at this time of year.’
‘And does this village have a name?’ she said lightly.
‘Los Seres,’ Bertrande replied, ‘although Sajhë told me not to tell the Inquisitors.’
The Noublesso de los Seres. Not just the name of the Grail guardians but the place where the Grail would be found. Oriane had to bite her tongue to stop herself laughing.
‘Let us get rid of this to start with,’ she said, leaning over and pulling the yellow cross from Bertrande’s back. We don’t want anyone to guess that we’re runaways. Now, do you have anything to bring with you?’
If the girl had the book with her, there was no need to go any further. The quest would end here.
Bertrande shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Very well, then. Quietly now. We don’t want to attract attention.’
The girl was still cautious, but as they walked through the sleeping compound, Oriane talked about Alaïs and the Château Comtal. She was charming, persuasive and attentive. Little by little, she won the girl over.
Oriane slipped another coin into the guard’s hand at the gate, then led Bertrande to where her son was waiting at the outskirts of the camp with six soldiers on horseback and a covered cart already prepared.
‘Are they coming with us?’ Bertrande said, suddenly suspicious.
Oriane smiled as she lifted the child into the calèche. We need to be protected from bandits on the journey, don’t we? Sajhë would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.’
Once Bertrande was settled, Oriane turned to her son.
What about me?’ he said. ‘I want to accompany you.’
‘I need you to stay here,’ she said, restless now to be gone. ‘You, if you have not forgotten, are part of the army. You cannot simply disappear. It will be easier and quicker for us all if I go alone.’
‘But — ’
‘Do as I say,’ she said, keeping her voice low so Bertrande could not hear. ‘Look after our interests here. Deal with the girl’s father as discussed. Leave the rest to me.’
All Guilhem could think about was finding Oriane. His purpose in coming to Montségur had been to help Alaïs and to keep Oriane from harming her. For nearly thirty years, he’d watched over her from afar.
Now Alaïs was dead, he had nothing to lose. His desire for revenge had grown year by year. He should have killed Oriane when he had the chance. He would not let this opportunity pass by.
With the hood of his cloak pulled down over his face, Guilhem slipped through the Crusaders camp, until he saw the green and silver of Oriane’s pavilion.
There were voices inside. French. A young man giving orders. Remembering the youth sitting beside Oriane in the stalls, her son, Guilhem pressed himself against the flapping side of the tent and listened.
‘He’s a soldier in the garrison,’ Louis d‘Evreux said in his arrogant voice. ‘Goes by the name of Sajhë de Servian. The one who created the disturbance earlier. Southern peasants,’ he said with contempt. ‘Even when they’re treated well, they behave like animals.’ He gave a sharp laugh. ‘He was taken to the enclosure near the pavilion of Hugues des Arcis, away from the other prisoners in case he incited any more trouble.’
Louis dropped his voice so Guilhem could barely hear. ‘This is for you,’ he said. Guilhem heard the clinking of coins. ‘Half now. If the peasant’s still alive when you find him, remedy the situation. The rest when the job is done.’
Guilhem waited until the soldier came out, then slipped in through the unguarded opening.
‘I told you I did not want to be disturbed,’ he said abruptly, without turning round. Guilhem’s knife was at his throat before the man had a chance to call out.
‘If you make a sound, I’ll kill you,’ he said.
‘Take what you want, take what you want. Don’t harm me.’
Guilhem cast his eyes around the opulent tent, at the fine carpets and warm blankets. Oriane had achieved the wealth and status she’d always desired. He hoped it had not brought her happiness.
‘Tell me your name,’ he said in a low, savage voice.
‘Louis d’Evreux. I don’t know who you are, but my mother will — ’
Guilhem jerked his head back. ‘Don’t threaten me. You sent your guards away, remember? There’s no one to hear you.’ He pressed the blade harder against the boy’s pale northern skin. Evreux went completely still. ‘That’s better. Now. Where is Oriane? If you do not answer, I will cut your throat.’
Guilhem felt him react at the use of Oriane’s name, but fear loosened his tongue. ‘She’s gone to the women’s compound,’ he gabbled.
‘For what purpose?’
‘In search of . . . a girl.’
‘Don’t waste my time, nenon,’ he said, jerking his neck back again. What manner of girl? Why does she matter to Oriane?’
‘The child of a heretic. My mother’s . . . sister,’ he said, as if the word was poison in his mouth. ‘My aunt. My mother wished to see the girl for herself.’
‘Alaïs,’ Guilhem whispered in disbelief. ‘How old is this child?’
He could smell the fear on Evreux’s skin. ‘How do I know? Nine, ten.’
‘And the father? Did he die too?’
Evreux tried to move. Guilhem increased the pressure around his neck and turned the blade so the tip was pressing beneath Evreux’s left ear, ready.
‘He’s a soldier, one of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix’s men.’
Guilhem straight away understood. ‘And you’ve sent one of your men to make sure he doesn’t live to see the sun rise,’ he said.
The blade of Guilhem’s dagger flashed as it caught the light from the candle.
Who are you?’
Guilhem ignored him. Where is Lord Evreux? Why is he not here?’
‘My father is dead,’ he said. There was no grief in his voice, only a sort of boastful pride Guilhem could not understand. ‘I am master of the Evreux estates now.’
Guilhem laughed. ‘Or, most likely, your mother is.’
The boy flinched as if he had been struck.
‘Tell me, Lord Evreux,’ he said with contempt, stressing the word, ‘what does your mother want with the girl?’
What does it matter? She’s the child of heretics. They should’ve burned them all.’
Guilhem felt Evreux’s regret at his momentary loss of control the instant the words were spoken, but it was too late. Guilhem flexed his arm and dragged his knife from ear to ear, slitting the youth’s throat.
‘Per lo Miègjorn,’ he said. For the Midi.
The blood gushed in spurts on to the fine carpets along the line of the cut. Guilhem released his hold and Evreux fell forward.
‘If your servant comes back quickly, you may live. If not, you had better pray your God will forgive your sins.’
Guilhem pulled his hood back over his head and ran out. He had to find Sajhë de Servian before Evreux’s man did.
The small group jolted its uncomfortable way through the cold night.
Already, Oriane regretted deciding to take the calèche. They would have been quicker on horseback. The wooden wheels banged and scraped against the flints and the hard, icy ground.
They avoided the main routes in and out of the valley where roadblocks were still in place, heading south for the first few hours. Then as the winter dusk gave way to the black of night, they turned to the southeast.
Bertrande was asleep, her cloak pulled up over her head to keep out the biting wind that whipped under the bottom of the hangings erected over the cart. Oriane had found her endless chatter irritating. She’d plagued her with questions about life in Carcassonne in the old days, before the war.
Oriane fed her biscuits, sugar loaf and spiced wine, with a sleeping draught strong enough to knock a soldier out for days. Finally, the child stopped talking and fell into a deep sleep.
‘Wake up!’
Sajhë could hear someone talking. A man. Close by.
He tried to move. Pain shot through every part of his body. Blue flashes sparked behind his eyes.
‘Wake up!’ The voice was more insistent this time.
Sajhë flinched as something cold was pressed against his bruised face, soothing his skin. Slowly, the memory of the blows beating down on his head, his body, everywhere, came crawling back.
Was he dead?
Then he remembered. Someone shouted, further down the slope, yelling at the soldiers to stop. His assailants, caught out suddenly, stepping back. Someone, a commander, shouting orders in French. Being dragged down the mountain.
Not dead perhaps.
Sajhë tried to move again. He could feel something hard against his back. He realised his shoulders were pulled tight behind him. He tried to open his eyes, but found one was swollen shut. His other senses were heightened in response. He was aware of the movements of the horses, stamping their hooves on the ground. He could hear the voice of the wind and the cries of nightjars and a solitary owl. These were sounds he understood.
‘Can you move your legs?’ the man asked.
Sajhë was surprised to find he could, although it ached cruelly. One of the soldiers had stamped on his ankle when he was lying on the ground.
‘Can you manage to ride?’
Sajhë watched the man go behind him to cut the ropes binding his arms to the post, and realised there was something familiar about him. Something he recognised in his voice, the turn of his head.
Sajhë staggered to his feet.
‘To what do I owe this kindness?’ he said, rubbing his wrists. Then, suddenly, he knew. Sajhë saw himself as an eleven-year-old boy again, climbing the walls of the Chateau Comtal and along the battlements, looking for Alaïs. Listening at the window to hear laughter floating on the breeze. A man’s voice, talking and teasing.
‘Guilhem du Mas,’ he said slowly.
Guilhem paused and looked with surprise at Sajhë. ‘Have we met, friend?’
‘You would not remember,’ he said, barely able to look him in the face. ‘Tell me, amic,’ he stressed the word. What do you want with me?’
‘I came to . . .’ Guilhem was nonplussed by his hostility. ‘You are Sajhë de Servian?’
What of it?’
‘For the sake of Alaïs, whom we both . . .’ Guilhem stopped and composed himself. ‘Her sister, Oriane, is here, with one of her sons. Part of the Crusader army. Oriane has come for the Book.’
Sajhë stared. ‘What book?’ he said belligerently.
Guilhem pressed on regardless. ‘Oriane learned that you had a daughter. She’s taken her. I don’t know where they’re heading, but they left the camp just after dusk. I came to tell you and offer my help.’ He stood up. ‘But if you don’t want it . . .’
Sajhë felt the colour drain from his face. ‘Wait!’ he cried.
‘If you want to get your daughter back alive,’ Guilhem continued steadily, ‘I suggest you put your grievance against me to one side, whatever its cause.’
Guilhem held out his hand to help Sajhë to his feet.
‘Do you know where Oriane is likely to have taken her?’
Sajhë stared at the man he had spent a lifetime hating, then for the sake of Alaïs and his daughter, took the outstretched hand.
‘She has a name,’ he said. ‘She’s called Bertrande.’