THE GUARDIANS OF THE BOOKS
CHAPTER 26
Besièrs
JULHET 1209
Dusk was falling as Alaïs reached the plains outside the town of Coursan.
She had made good speed, following the old Roman road through the Minervois towards Capestang, across the sweeping hemp fields, the canabières, and the emerald seas of barley.
Each day since setting out from Carcassonne, Alaïs had ridden until the sun became too fierce. Then she and Tatou took shelter and rested, before travelling on until dusk when the air was filled with biting insects and the cries of night jays, owls and bats.
The first night she’d found lodgings in the fortified town of Azille with friends of Esclarmonde. As she travelled further east, she saw fewer people in the fields and villages and those that she did see were suspicious, wariness showing in their dark eyes. She heard rumours of atrocities committed by renegade bands of French soldiers or by routiers, mercenaries, bandits. Each tale was more bloody, more wicked than the last.
Alaïs pulled Tatou to a walk, not sure if she should press on to Coursan or look for shelter close by. The clouds were marching fast across an increasingly angry grey sky and the air was very still. In the distance, there was the occasional rumble of thunder, growling like a bear waking from a winter sleep. Alaïs did not want to risk being caught in the open when the storm hit.
Tatou was nervous. Alaïs could feel her tendons bristling beneath her coat and twice she shied away from sudden movements of hare or fox in hedgerows at the roadside.
Ahead Alaïs could see there was a small copse of oak and ash. It wasn’t dense enough to be the natural summer habitat of larger animals, such as wild boar or lynx. But the trees were tall and generous and the tops of their branches looked to be woven tightly together, like entwined fingers, which would provide good cover. The fact there was a clear path, a winding ribbon of dry earth worn away by countless feet, suggested the wood was a popular local shortcut to the town.
Tatou shifted uneasily beneath her as a flicker of lightning momentarily lit the darkening sky. It helped her make up her mind. She would wait until the storm had passed over.
Whispering encouragement, Alaïs persuaded the mare forward into the dark green embrace of the wood.
The men had lost their quarry some time earlier. Only the threat of a storm prevented them doubling back and returning to camp.
After several weeks of riding, their pale French skin was tanned dark by the fierce southern sun. Their travelling armour and surcoats, bearing the arms of their master, lay hidden in the thicket. They hoped yet to retrieve something from their abortive mission.
A sound. The crack of a dried branch, the rolling gait of a bridled horse, the iron of its hooves striking occasional pieces of stone.
A man with a mouthful of jagged, blackened teeth crawled forward to get a better look. Some way off he could see a figure on a small, chestnut Arab threading its way through the woods. He leered. Perhaps their sortie was not going to be a waste of time after all. The rider’s clothes were plain and worth little, but a horse of that calibre would fetch a good price.
He threw a stone at his companion hidden on the other side of the track.
‘Leve-toi!’he said, jerking his head towards Alaïs. ‘Regarde.’
Would you look at that,’ he muttered. ‘Une femme. Et seule.’
‘Are you certain she’s alone?’
‘I can’t hear any others.’
The two men picked up the ends of the rope that lay across the path, concealed under the leaves, and waited for her to come to them.
Alaïs’ courage ebbed as she rode deeper into the wood.
The topsoil was damp, although the ground beneath was still hard. The leaves at the side of the path rustled beneath Tatou’s feet. Alaïs tried to concentrate on the reassuring sounds of the birds in the trees, but the hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck were standing on end. There was threat in the silence, not peace.
It is but your imagination only.
Tatou sensed it too. Without warning, something flew up out of the ground, with the sound of an arrow from a bow.
A woodcock? A snake?
Tatou reared up on her hind legs, slashing wildly at the air with her hooves and whinnying in terror. Alaïs had no time to react. Her hood flew back off her face and her arms came away from the reins as she was thrown backwards out of her saddle. Pain exploded in her shoulder as she hit the ground hard, knocking the breath clean out of her. Panting, she rolled on to her side and tried to stand. She had to try to hold Tatou before she bolted.
‘Tatou, doçament,’ she cried, staggering to her feet. ‘Tatou!’
Alaïs staggered forward, then stopped. There was a man standing in front of her on the path, blocking her way. He was smiling through blackened teeth. In his hand was a knife, its dull blade discoloured brown at the tip.
There was a movement to her right. Alaïs’ eyes darted sideways. A second man, his face disfigured by a jagged scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, was holding Tatou’s bridle and waving a stick.
‘No,’ she heard herself cry out. ‘Leave her.’
Despite the pain in her shoulder, her hand found the hilt of her sword. Give them what they want and they may yet not harm you. He took a step towards her. Alaïs drew her blade, slicing through the air in an arc. Keeping her eyes on his face, she fumbled in her purse and threw a handful of coins down on the path.
‘Take it. I have nothing else of value.’
He looked at the scattering of silver on the ground, then spat contemptuously. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took another step closer.
Alaïs raised her sword. ‘I warn you. Do not approach,’ she shouted, making a figure of eight in the air with the blade so he couldn’t get near.
‘Ligote-la,’ he ordered to the other.
Alaïs turned cold. For an instant, her courage faltered. They were French soldiers, not bandits. The stories she’d heard on her journey flashed into her mind.
Then she gathered herself and swung the sword again.
‘Come no closer,’ she shouted, her voice stiff with fear. ‘I will kill you before I — ’
Alaïs spun round and hurled herself at the second man, who had come round behind her. Screaming, Alaïs sent the stick flying from his hand. Pulling a knife from his belt, he roared and dived towards her. Grasping her sword with both hands, Alaïs plunged it down on his hand, stabbing at him like a bear at a baiting. Blood spurted from his arm.
She pulled her arms back for a second strike when stars suddenly exploded in her head, purple and white. She staggered forward at the force of the blow, then pain brought tears to her eyes as she was jerked back to her feet by her hair. She felt the cold point of a blade at her throat.
‘Putain,’ he hissed, striking her across the face with his bleeding hand.
‘Laisse tomber.’ Drop it.
Cornered, Alaïs let the sword fall from her hand. The second man kicked it away, before producing a coarse linen hood from his belt and forcing it over her head. Alaïs struggled to get free, but the sour smell of the dusty material caught in her mouth and made her cough. Still, she fought it, until a fist hit her in the stomach and she doubled over on the path.
She had no strength left to resist as they wrenched her arms behind her back and bound her wrists.
‘Reste là.’
They moved away. Alaïs could hear them going through her saddlebags, lifting the leather flaps and throwing things out on to the ground. They were talking, arguing perhaps. She found it hard to tell in their harsh language.
Why have they not killed me?
Straight away, the answer crept like an unwelcome ghost into her mind. They would have some sport first.
Alaïs struggled desperately to loosen her ties, even though she knew that if she did get her hands free, she wouldn’t get far. They’d hunt her down. They were laughing now. Drinking. They were in no hurry.
Tears of desperation sprang into her eyes. Her head fell back, exhausted, on the hard ground.
At first, Alaïs couldn’t work out where the rumbling was coming from. Then she realised. Horses. The sound of their iron hooves galloping over the plains. She pressed her ear closer to the ground. Five, maybe six horses, heading towards the wood.
In the distance, there was a growl of thunder. The storm was also getting closer. At last, there was something she could do. If she could get far enough away, then maybe she had a chance.
Slowly, as quietly as possible, she started to edge her way off the path until she felt the sharp brambles against her legs. Struggling to her knees, she moved her head up and down until she managed to work the hood loose. Are they looking?
No one shouted. Bending her neck, she shook her head from side to side, gently at first, then more vigorously, until finally the material slid off. Alaïs took a couple of deep gulps of air, then tried to get her bearings.
She was just out of their line of vision, although if they turned round and saw her gone, it would take them no time to find her. Alaïs pressed her ear to the ground once more. The riders were coming from Coursan. A party of hunters? Scouts?
A crack of thunder echoed through the wood, setting birds to flight from the highest nests. Their panicked wings beat the air, swooped and fell, before falling back into the protection of the trees. Tatou whinnied and pawed at the ground.
Praying that the gathering storm would continue to mask the sound of the riders until they were close enough, Alaïs pushed herself back into the undergrowth, crawling over the stones and twigs.
‘Ohé!’
Alaïs froze. They’d seen her. She swallowed a scream as the men came running back to where she’d been lying. A clap of thunder overhead drew their eyes up, a look of fear in their faces. They are not accustomed to the violence of our southern storms. Even from here, she could smell the fear. Their skin was rank with it.
Taking advantage of their hesitation, Alaïs pressed on. She was on her feet now, starting to run.
She was not quick enough. The one with the scar launched himself at her, punching her in the side of the head as he brought her down.
‘Hérétique,’ he yelled as he scrambled on top of her, pinioning her to the ground. Alaïs tried to shake him off, but he was too heavy and her skirts were caught in the thorns of the undergrowth. She could smell the blood from his injured hand as he thrust her face down into the twigs and leaves on the ground.
‘I warned you to stay still, putain.’
He unbuckled his belt, breathing heavily as he tossed it aside. Pray he has not yet heard the riders. She tried to shake him off her, but he was too heavy. She let loose a roar from her throat, anything to mask the approach of the horses.
He hit her again, splitting her lip. She could taste the blood in her mouth.
‘Putain.’
Suddenly, different voices. ‘Ara, ara!’Now.
Alaïs heard the twang of a bow and the flight of a single arrow through the air, then again and again as a storm of darts flew out of the evergreen shadows, splintering bark and wood where they made contact.
‘Avança! Ara, avança!’
The Frenchman sprang up just as an arrow thudded into his chest, thick and heavy, spinning him round like a top. For a moment, he seemed to be held in the air, then he started to sway, his eyes frozen like the stone gaze of a statue. A single drop of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, and then rolled down his chin.
His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, as if in prayer, then very slowly tipped forward like a tree felled in the wood. Alaïs came to her senses just in time, scrambling out of his way as the body crashed heavily to the ground.
‘Aval! On!’
The riders rode the other Frenchman down. He had run into the woods for cover, but more arrows flew. One hit his shoulder and he stumbled. The next hit the back of his thigh. The third, in the small of his back, brought him down. His body fell forward to the ground, spasmed, then was still.
The same voice called the halt. ‘Arèst. Hold fire.’ At last, the hunters broke cover and came into view. ‘Hold your fire.’
Alaïs got to her feet. Friends or men also to be feared? The leader was wearing a cobalt-blue hunting tunic under his cloak, both of good quality. His leather boots, belt and quiver were fashioned from pale leather in the local style and his boots heavy, unmarked. He looked a man of moderate means and substance, a man of the Midi.
Her arms were still bound behind her back. She was aware that she had little advantage on her side. Her lip was swollen and bleeding and her clothes were stained.
‘Seigneur, my gratitude for this service,’ she said, stiffening her voice with confidence. ‘Raise your visor and identify yourself, so I may know the face of my liberator.’
‘Is that all the gratitude I get, Dame?’ he said, doing as she asked. Alaïs was relieved to see he was smiling.
He dismounted and drew a knife from his belt. Alaïs stepped back. ‘To cut your ties,’ he said lightly.
Alaïs flushed and offered her wrists. ‘Of course. Mercé.’
He gave a brief bow. ‘Amiel de Coursan. These are my father’s woods.’
Alaïs gave a sigh of relief. ‘Forgive me my discourtesy, but I had to be sure you were not . . .’
‘Your caution is both wise and understandable in the circumstances. And you are, Dame?’
‘Alaïs of Carcassona, daughter to Intendant Pelletier, steward to Viscount Trencavel, and wife to Guilhem du Mas.’
‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Dame Alaïs.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Are you much hurt?’
‘A few cuts and scratches only, although my shoulder pains me a little where I was thrown.’
Where is your escort?’
Alaïs hesitated a moment. ‘I am travelling alone.’
He looked at her with surprise. ‘These are strange times to venture out without protection, Dame. These plains are overrun with French soldiers.’
‘I did not intend to ride so late. I was seeking shelter from the storm.’
Alaïs glanced up, suddenly realising that no rain had yet fallen.
‘It’s just the heavens making complaint,’ he said, reading her look. ‘A false tempest, no more.’
While Alaïs calmed Tatou, de Coursan’s men ordered the corpses to be stripped of weapons and clothing. They found their armour and ensigns hidden deeper in the wood where they had tethered their horses. De Coursan picked up the corner of material with the tip of his sword revealing, beneath a coating of mud, a flash of silver on a green background.
‘Chartres,’ said de Coursan with contempt. ‘They’re the worst. Jackals, the lot of them. We’ve had more reports of acts — ’
He broke off abruptly.
Alaïs looked at him. ‘Reports of what?’
‘It is of no matter,’ he said quickly. ‘Shall we return to the town?’
They rode in single file to the far side of the woods and out on to the plains.
‘You have some purpose in these parts, Dame Alaïs?’
‘I go in search of my father, who is in Montpelhièr with Viscount Trencavel. I have news of great importance that could not wait for his return to Carcassona.’
A frown fell across de Coursan’s face.
‘What? What have you heard?’
‘You will stay with us the night, Dame Alaïs. Once your injuries have been tended, my father will tell you what news we have heard. At dawn I will escort you myself to Besièrs.’
Alaïs turned to look at him. ‘To Besièrs, Messire?’
‘If the rumours are true, it is in Besièrs you will find your father and Viscount Trencavel.’