CHAPTER 60
Alaïs put her foot on to the ledge and climbed out on to the sill, her head spinning at the thought of what she was about to attempt.
You will fall.
If she did, what did it matter now? Her father was dead. Guilhem was lost to her. In the end, her father’s judgement of her husband’s character had proved to be true.
What more is there to lose?
Taking a deep breath, Alaïs carefully lowered herself over the sill until her right foot found the tiles. Then, muttering a prayer, she braced her arms and legs and let go. She dropped with a small thump. Her feet slipped from under her. Alaïs hurled herself forward as she skidded down the tiles, desperately trying to gain purchase. Cracks in the tiles, gaps in the wall, anything to stop her plummeting down.
It seemed like she was falling forever. Suddenly, there was a violent jerk and Alaïs came to an abrupt halt. The hem of her dress had snagged on a nail and was holding her fast. She lay quite still, not daring to move. She could feel the tension in the cloth. It was of good quality, but it was stretched as tight as a drum and could tear at any moment.
Alaïs glanced up at the nail. Even if she could reach up that high, it would take both hands to untangle the material, which had wrapped itself several times round the metal spike. She couldn’t risk letting go. The only option was to abandon the cloak and try to crawl back up the roof, which joined the outer wall of the Château Comtal on the western side. She should be able to squeeze through the wooden slats of the hourds. The gaps in the defences were narrow, but she was slight. It was worth trying.
Careful to make no sudden movements, Alaïs reached up and shredded the material until it began to tear. She pulled, first one side, then the other, until she ripped a square from the skirt. Leaving a pocket of material behind, she was free once more.
Alaïs brought up one knee and pushed, then the other. She could feel drops of sweat forming at her temples and between her breasts, where she’d stowed the parchments. Her skin was sore from rubbing against the rough tiles.
Bit by bit, she pulled herself up until the ambans were in reach.
Alaïs put her hands out and grasped the wooden struts, which felt reassuringly solid between her fingers. Then she drew her knees up so that she was almost crouching on the roof, wedged into the corner between the battlements and the wall. The gap was smaller than she’d hoped, no deeper than the stretch of a man’s hand and perhaps three times as wide. Alaïs extended her right leg, twisted her left leg under to anchor herself firmly, then pulled herself up through the gap. The purse with the copies of the labyrinth parchments was awkward and kept tangling between her legs, but she kept going.
Ignoring her aching limbs, she quickly stood up and picked her way along the barricade. Although she knew the guards would not betray her to Oriane, the sooner she got out of the Château Comtal and to Sant-Nasari, the better.
Peering down to make sure there was no one at the bottom, Alaïs quickly shinned down the ladders to the ground. Her legs buckled under her as she jumped the last few rungs and she cracked down on her back, knocking every last gasp of air out of her.
She glanced towards the chapel. There was no sign of Oriane or François. Keeping close to the walls, Alaïs passed through the stables, pausing at Tatou’s stall. She was desperate to drink, to give her suffering mare water, but what little there was went only to the warhorses.
The streets were filled with refugees. Alaïs covered her mouth with her sleeve to keep out the stench of suffering and sickness that hung like a fog over the streets. Wounded men and women, the dispossessed cradling children in their arms, stared blankly up at her with hopeless eyes as she passed.
The square in front of Sant-Nasari was filled with people. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her, Alaïs opened the door and slipped inside. There were people sleeping in the nave. In their misery, they paid little attention.
Candles burned on the main altar. Alaïs hurried up the north transept to a little-visited side chapel with a small plain altar where her father had taken her. Mice ran for cover, their tiny claws scuttling over the flagstones. Kneeling down, Alaïs reached around behind the altar, as he’d shown her. She paddled her fingers over the surface of the wall. A spider, its hiding place disturbed, darted over the exposed skin of her hand, then was gone.
There was a soft click. Alaïs slowly, carefully, eased out the stone and slid it to one side, then stretched her hand into the dusty recess behind. She found the long, thin key, the metal dull with age and disuse, and put it into the lock of the wooden latticed door. The hinges creaked as the wood scraped over the stone floor.
She felt her father’s presence strongly now. Alaïs bit her lip to stop herself breaking down.
This is all you can do for him now.
Alaïs reached in and pulled out the box, as she had seen him do. No bigger than a jewellery casket, it was plain and undecorated, with a simple clasp. She lifted the lid. Inside was a sheepskin pouch, as it had been when her father showed her this place. She gave a sigh of relief, only now realising how much she feared Oriane would somehow have been here before her.
Aware of what little time she had, Alaïs quickly concealed the book beneath her dress and then replaced everything exactly as it had been. If Oriane or Guilhem knew of the hiding place, it would at least delay them if they believed the casket was still in its place.
She ran back through the church, her head covered by her hood, then pushed open the heavy door and was swallowed up in the tide of suffering people milling aimlessly through the square. The sickness that had claimed her father spread quickly. The alleyways were filled with decaying and decomposing carcasses – sheep and goats, even cattle, their swollen bodies releasing foul-smelling gas into the foetid air.
Alaïs found herself heading for Esclarmonde’s house. There was no reason to hope she would find her there this time, having failed so many times in the past few days, but she could think of nowhere else to go.
Most of the houses in the southern quartier were shuttered and boarded, Esclarmonde’s included. Alaïs raised her hand and knocked on the door.
‘Esclarmonde?’
Alaïs knocked again. She tried the door, but it was locked. ‘Sajhë?’
This time she heard something. The sound of feet running and a bolt being shot.
‘Dame Alaïs?’
‘Sajhë, thank God. Quick, let me in.’
The door opened just wide enough to allow her to slip inside.
‘Where have you been?’ she said, hugging him tight. What’s been happening? Where’s Esclarmonde?’
Alaïs felt Sajhë’s small hand slip into hers. ‘Come with me.’
He led her through the curtain to the room at the back of the house. A trap door was open in the floor. ‘You’ve been here all along?’ she said. She peered down into the dark and saw a calèlh was burning at the bottom of the ladder. ‘In the cellars? Has my sister been back — ’
‘It wasn’t her,’ he said in a quavering voice. ‘Quick, Dame.’ Alaïs went down first. Sajhë released the catch and the trap door clattered shut above their heads. He scrambled down after her, jumping the last few rungs to the earth floor.
‘This way.’
He led her along a damp tunnel into a small hollowed-out area, then held the lamp up so Alaïs could see Esclarmonde, who was lying motionless on a pile of furs and blankets.
‘No!’ she gasped, running to her side.
Her head was heavily bandaged. Alaïs lifted the corner of the padding and covered her mouth. Esclarmonde’s left eye was red, everything covered by a film of blood. There was a clean compress over the wound, but the skin flapped loose around the crushed socket.
‘Can you help her?’ said Sajhë.
Alaïs lifted the blanket. Her stomach lurched. There was a line of angry red burns across Esclarmonde’s chest, the skin yellow and black where the flames had been held.
‘Esclarmonde,’ she whispered, leaning over her. ‘Can you hear me? It’s me, Alaïs. Who did this to you?’
She fancied she saw movement in Esclarmonde’s face. Her lips moved slightly. Alaïs turned to Sajhë. ‘How did you get her down here?’
‘Gaston and his brother helped.’
Alaïs turned back to the brutalised figure on the bed. What happened to her, Sajhë?’
He shook his head.
‘Has she told you nothing?’
‘She . . .’ For the first time, his self-possession faltered.
‘She cannot speak . . . her tongue . . .’
Alaïs turned white. ‘No,’ she whispered in horror, then strengthened her voice. ‘Tell me what you do know then,’ she said softly.
For Esclarmonde’s sake, they both had to be strong.
‘After we heard that Besièrs had fallen, Menina was worried that Intendant Pelletier would change his mind about letting you take the Trilogy to Harif.’
‘She was right,’ she said grimly.
‘Menina knew you would try to persuade him, but thought Simeon was the only person Intendant Pelletier would heed. I didn’t want her to go,’ he wailed, ‘but she went anyway to the Jewish quartier. I followed, but because I couldn’t let her see me, I stayed back, and so I lost sight of her in the woods. I got frightened. I waited until sundown, but then imagining what she would say if she returned home and found I’d disobeyed her, I came home. That’s when I . . .’ he broke off, his amber eyes burning in his white face.
‘Straight away I knew it was her. She had collapsed, outside the gates. Her feet were bleeding as if she had walked a long way.’ Sajhë looked up at her. ‘I wanted to fetch you, Dame, but I didn’t dare. With Gaston’s help, I got her down here. I tried to remember what she would do, which ointments to use.’ He shrugged. ‘I did my best.’
‘You did excellently well,’ Alaïs said fiercely. ‘Esclarmonde will be very proud of you.’
A movement from the bed drew their attention. They both turned back immediately.
‘Esclarmonde,’ said Alaïs. ‘Can you hear me? We’re both here. You’re quite safe.’
‘She’s trying to say something.’
Alaïs watched her hands working frantically. ‘I think she wants parchment and ink,’ she said.
With Sajhë’s help, Esclarmonde managed to write.
‘It says François, I think,’ said Alaïs, frowning.
‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he can help,’ she said. ‘Listen to me, Sajhë. I have bad news. Simeon is almost certainly dead. My father — my father also has died.’
Sajhë took her hand. The gesture was so thoughtful, it brought tears to her eyes. ‘I am sorry.’
Alaïs bit her lip to stop herself from crying. ‘So for his sake — Simeon and Esclarmonde also — I must keep my word and find my way to Harif. I have . . .’ she faltered again. ‘I regret I have only the Book of Words. Simeon’s book is gone.’
‘But Intendant Pelletier gave it to you.’
‘My sister took it. My husband admitted her to our chamber,’ she said. ‘He . . . he has given his heart to my sister. He is no longer to be trusted, Sajhë. It’s why I cannot go back to the Chateau. With my father dead, there is nothing to stop them.’
Sajhë looked to his grandmother, then back to Alaïs.
‘Will she live?’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘Her injuries are severe, Sajhë. She’s lost the sight in her left eye, but there is no infection. Her spirit in strong. She will recover if she chooses to do so.’
He nodded, suddenly older than his eleven years.
‘But I will take Esclarmonde’s book, by your leave, Sajhë.’
For a moment, he looked as if his tears were at last going to claim him. ‘That book, also, is lost,’ he said in the end.
‘No!’ said Alaïs. ‘How?’
‘The people who did . . . they took it from her,’ he said. ‘Menina took it with her when she set out for the Jewish quartier. I saw her take it from its hiding place.’
‘Only one book,’ Alaïs said, close to tears herself. ‘Then we are lost. It has all been in vain.’
For the next five days, they lived a strange existence.
Alaïs and Sajhë took it in turns to venture up into the streets under cover of darkness. It was immediately clear that there was no way of getting out of Carcassonne unseen. The siege was unbreakable. There was a guard on every postern, every gate, beneath every tower, a solid ring of men and steel around the walls. Day and night, the siege engines bombarded the walls, so the inhabitants of the Cite no longer knew if they heard the sounds of the missiles or but the echo of them in their heads.
It was a relief to return to the cool, damp tunnels where time stood still and there was no night or day.
CHAPTER 61
Guilhem stood beneath the shade of the great elm in the centre of the Cour d’Honneur.
On behalf of the Abbot of Citeaux, the Count of Auxerre had ridden up to the Porte Narbonnaise and offered safe conduct to parley. With this surprise proposition Viscount Trencavel’s natural optimism had returned. It was evident in his face and his bearing as he addressed the household. His hope and fortitude rubbed off a little on those listening.
The reasons behind the Abbot’s sudden change of mind were debatable. The Crusaders were making little progress, but the siege had only lasted a little over a week, which was nothing. Did the Abbot’s motive matter? Viscount Trencavel claimed not.
Guilhem was barely listening. He was trapped in a web of his own making and could see no way out, neither through words nor the sword. He lived on a knife-edge. Alaïs had been missing for five days. Guilhem had sent discreet search parties out into the Cite and scoured the Château Comtal, but was no nearer to finding where Oriane was keeping her prisoner. He was trapped in a web of his own deceit. Too late had he realised how well Oriane had prepared the ground. If he did not do what she wanted, he would be denounced as a traitor and Alaïs would suffer.
‘So, my friends,’ Trencavel concluded. ‘Who will accompany me on this journey?’
Guilhem felt Oriane’s sharp finger in his back. He found himself stepping forward. He knelt down, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and offered his service. As Raymond-Roger clasped him on the shoulder in gratitude, Guilhem burned with shame.
‘You have our great thanks, Guilhem. Who, now, will go with you?’
Six other chevaliers joined Guilhem. Oriane slipped between them and bowed before the Viscount.
‘Messire, by your leave.’
Congost had not noticed his wife in the mass of men. He flushed red and flapped his hands in embarrassment, as if shooing crows from a field.
Withdraw, Dame,’ he stammered in his shrill voice. ’This is no place for you.’
Oriane ignored him. Trencavel raised his hand and summoned her forward. ‘What is it that you want to say, Dame?’
‘Forgive me, Messire, honoured chevaliers, friends. . . husband. With your leave and God’s blessing, I want to offer myself as a member of this party. I have lost a father and now, it appears, a sister too. Such grief is heavy to bear. But if my husband will release me, I would like to redeem my loss and show my love for you, Messire, by this act. It is what my father would wish.’
Congost looked as if he would like the ground to open up and swallow him. Guilhem stared at the ground. Viscount Trencavel could not hide his surprise.
With respect, Dame Oriane, this is not a woman’s office.’
‘In which case, I offer myself as a willing hostage, Messire. My presence will be proof of your fair intentions, as clear an indication as any that Carcassona will abide by the conventions of the parley.’
Trencavel considered for a moment, and then turned to Congost. ‘She is your wife. Can you spare her in our cause?’
Jehan stuttered and rubbed his sweaty hands on his tunic. He wanted to refuse his permission, but it was clear the proposal had merit in the Viscount’s eyes.
‘My wishes are but the servants to yours,’ he mumbled.
Trencavel bid her rise. ‘Your late father, my esteemed friend, would be proud of what you do today.’
Oriane looked up at him from under her dark lashes. ‘And with your leave, may I take François with me? He too, united as we all are in grief for my worthy father, would be glad of the chance to serve.’
Guilhem felt the bile rising in his throat, unable to believe any of the listeners would be convinced by Oriane’s show of filial affection, but they were. Admiration showed in every face, bar her husband’s. Guilhem grimaced. He and Congost alone knew Oriane’s true worth. All others were beguiled by her beauty, her gentle words. As once he had been.
Sickened to the bottom of his heart, Guilhem glanced to where François stood impassive, his face a perfect mask, on the outskirts of the group.
‘If you believe it will aid our cause, Dame,’ Viscount Trencavel replied, ‘then you have my permission.’
Oriane curtseyed once more. ‘Thank you, Messire.’
He clapped his hands. ‘Saddle the horses.’
Oriane kept close to Guilhem as they rode across the devastated land to the pavilion of the Count of Nevers, where the parley was to take place. From the Cite, those with the strength to climb the walls stood in silence and watched them go.
The moment they entered the camp, Oriane slipped away. Ignoring the lewd and rough calls of the soldiers, she followed François through the sea of tents and colours, until they found themselves in the green and silver of Chartres.
‘This way, Dame,’ murmured François, pointing to a pavilion set a little apart from everyone else. The soldiers stood to attention as they approached and held their pikes across the opening. One of them acknowledged François with a nod.
‘Tell your master that Dame Oriane, daughter of the late steward of Carcassona, is here and wishes audience with Lord Evreux.’
Oriane was taking a terrible risk coming to him. From François, she knew of his cruelty and quick temper. She was playing for high stakes.
‘On what matter?’ demanded the soldier.
‘My lady will speak to none but Lord Evreux himself.’
The man hesitated, then he ducked beneath the opening and disappeared into the tent. Moments later, he came out and beckoned them to follow.
Her first sight of Guy d’Evreux did nothing to allay her fears. He had his back to her as she entered the tent. He turned and flint grey eyes burned in his pale face. His black hair was oiled back from his forehead in the French style. He had the look of a hawk about to strike.
‘Lady, I have heard much about you.’ His voice was calm and steady, but there was a hint of steel behind it. ‘I did not expect to have the pleasure of meeting you in person. What can I do for you?’
‘I hope it will be a question of what I can do for you, my lord,’ she said.
Before she knew it, Evreux had taken hold of her wrist.
‘I advise you not to bandy words with me, Lady Oriane. Your peasant southern ways will do you no good here.’ Behind her, she felt François trying not to react. ‘Do you have news for me, yes or no?’ he said. ‘Speak.’
Oriane held her nerve. ‘This is an ill way to treat one who brings you what most you desire,’ she said, meeting his gaze.
Evreux raised his arm. ‘I could beat the information out of you, as soon as be kept waiting and save us both time.’
Oriane held her gaze. ‘Then you will learn only part of what I have to say,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘You have invested much in your quest for the Labyrinth Trilogy. I can give you what you want.’
Evreux stared at her a moment, then lowered his arm.
‘You have courage, Lady Oriane, I give you that. Whether you also have wisdom remains to be seen.’
He clicked his fingers and a servant brought a tray of wine. Oriane’s hands were shaking too hard to risk taking a cup.
‘No thank you, my lord.’
‘As you wish,’ he said, gesturing to her to sit. ‘What is it you want, my lady?’
‘If I deliver to you what you seek, I wish you to take me north when you return home.’ From the look on his face, Oriane knew she had finally succeeded in surprising him. ‘As your wife.’
‘You have a husband,’ Evreux said, looking over her head to François for confirmation. ‘Trencavel’s scribe, I heard. Is that not the case?’
Oriane held his gaze. ‘I regret to say my husband was killed. Struck down within the walls whilst doing his duty.’
‘My condolences for your loss.’ Evreux pressed his long, thin fingers together, making a church of his hands. ‘This siege could yet last years. What makes you so sure that I will return north?’
‘It is my belief, my Lord Evreux,’ she said, choosing her words with care, ‘that your presence here is for one purpose. If, with my assistance, you are able to conclude your business in the south speedily, I can see no reason you would wish to stay beyond your forty days.’
Evreux gave a tight smile. ‘You have no faith in your lord Trencavel’s power to persuade?’
‘With all due respect to those under whose banner you march, my lord, I do not believe the revered Abbot’s intention is to conclude this engagement by diplomatic means.
Evreux continued to stare at her. Oriane held her breath.
‘You play your hand well, Lady Oriane,’ he said in the end.
She bowed her head, but did not speak. He got up and walked towards her.
‘I accept your proposal,’ he said, handing her a goblet.
This time, she took it.
‘There is one thing more, my lord,’ she said. ‘Within Viscount Trencavel’s party is a chevalier, Guilhem du Mas. He is the husband of my sister. It would be advisable, if this is within your power, to take steps to contain his influence.’
‘Permanently?’
Oriane shook her head. ‘He may yet have a part to play in our plans. But it would be advisable to limit his influence. Viscount Trencavel favours him and, with my father gone . . .’
Evreux nodded and dispatched Frangois. ‘Now, my Lady Oriane,’ he said, as soon as they were alone. ‘No more prevarication. Tell me what you have to offer.’