July 2005. In the Pyrenees mountains near Carcassonne, Alice, a volunteer at an archaeological dig, stumbles into a cave and makes a startling discovery-two crumbling skeletons, strange writings on the walls, and the pattern of a labyrinth.Eight hundred years earlier, on the eve of a brutal crusade that will rip apart southern France, a young woman named Alais is given a ring and a mysterious book for safekeeping by her father. The book, he says, contains the secret of the true Grail, and the ring, inscribed with a labyrinth, will identify a guardian of the Grail. Now, as crusading armies gather outside the city walls of Carcassonne, it will take a tremendous sacrifice to keep the secret of the labyrinth safe.
Contents
The Return to the Mountains
Chapter 63 – Sabarthès Mountains
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71 – Montségur
Chapter 72
Chapter 73 – Sabarthès Mountains
Chapter 74
Chapter 75 – Montségur
Chapter 76
Chapter 77 – Pic de Soularac
Chapter 78 – Los Seres
Chapter 79
Chapter 80 – Ariège
Chapter 81 – Pic de Soularac
Chapter 82 – Pic de Soularac
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Selected Glossary of Occitan Words
Select Bibliography
Reading Group Notes
Labyrinth Walk
Author Biography
By Kate Mosse
1
THE RETURN TO THE MOUNTAINS
CHAPTER 63
Sabarthès Mountains
FRIDAY 8 JULY 2005
Audric Baillard sat at a table of dark, highly polished wood in his house in the shadow of the mountain.
The ceiling in the main room was low and there were large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth. He had made few changes. This far from civilisation, there was no electricity, no running water, no cars or telephones. The only sound was the ticking of the clock marking time.
There was an oil lamp on the table, extinguished now. Next to it was a glass tumbler, filled almost to the brim with Guignolet, filling the room with the subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. On the far side of the table there was a brass tray holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine, unopened, as well as a small wooden platter of savoury biscuits covered with a white linen cloth.
Baillard had opened the shutters so he could see the sunrise. In spring, the trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight silver and white buds and yellow and pink flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks. By this late in the year, there was little colour left, only the grey and green of the mountain in whose eternal presence he had lived for so long.
A curtain separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. The whole of the back wall was covered with narrow shelves, almost empty now. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars. Also books, both those written by him, and the great voices of Cathar history – Delteil, Duvernoy, Nelli, Marti, Brenon, Rouquette. Works of Arab philosophy sat side by side with translations of ancient Judaic texts, monographs by authors ancient and modern. The rows of paperbacks, incongruous in such a setting, filled the space once occupied by medicines and potions and herbs.
He was prepared to wait.
Baillard raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
And if she did not come? If he never learned the truth of those final hours?
He sighed. If she did not come, then he would be forced to take the last steps of his long journey alone. As he had always feared.
CHAPTER 64
By the time dawn broke, Alice was a few kilometres north of Toulouse. She pulled into a service station and drank two cups of hot, sweet coffee to steady her nerves.
Alice read the letter once more. Posted in Foix on Wednesday morning. A letter from Audric Baillard giving directions to his house. She knew it was genuine. She recognised the black spidery writing.
She felt she had no choice but to go.
Alice spread the map on the counter, trying to work out precisely where she was heading. The hameau where Baillard lived didn’t appear on the map, although he’d mentioned enough landmarks and names of nearby towns for her to work out the general area.
He was confident, he said, that Alice would know the place when she saw it.
As a precaution, and one she realised she should have taken earlier, Alice exchanged her hire car at the airport for one of a different colour and make, just in case they were looking for her, then continued her journey south.
She drove past Foix towards Andorra, and then through Tarascon before following Baillard’s directions. She turned off the main road at Luzenac and went through Lordat and Bestiac. The landscape changed. It reminded Alice of the slopes of the Alps. Small mountain flowers, long grass, the houses like Swiss chalets.
She passed a sprawling quarry, like a huge white scar gouged into the side of the mountain. Towering electricity pylons and thick black cabling for the winter ski resorts dominated the skyline, black against the summer blue sky.
Alice crossed the river Lauze. She was forced to shift down into second gear as the road got steeper and the bends tighter. She was starting to feel sick from the constant doubling back, when she suddenly found herself in a small village.
There were two shops and a café with a couple of tables and chairs sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would be good to check she was still heading the right way, Alice went into the café. The air inside was thick with smoke and hunched, mulish men with weather-beaten faces and blue overalls lined the counter.
Alice ordered coffee and ostentatiously put her map on the counter. Dislike of strangers, particularly women, meant no one spoke to her for a while, but finally she managed to strike up a conversation. No one had heard of Los Seres, but they knew the area and gave what help they could.
She drove higher, gradually getting her bearings. The road became a track, and then finally petered out altogether. Alice parked the car and got out. Only now, standing in the familiar landscape, her nose filled with the smells of the mountain, did she realise that she had in fact doubled back on herself and was actually on the far side of the Pic de Soularac.
Alice climbed to the highest point and shielded her eyes. She identified the étang de Tort, a distinctively shaped tarn the men in the bar had told her to look out for. Close by was another expanse of water known locally as the Devil’s Lake.
Finally, she orientated herself to the Pic de Saint-Barthélémy, which stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montségur itself.
Straight ahead, a single track wound up through the green scrub and brown earth and bright yellow broom. The dark green leaves of the box were fragrant and sharp. She touched the leaves and rubbed the dew between her fingers.
Alice climbed for ten minutes. Then, the path opened into a clearing, and she was there.
A single-storied house stood alone, surrounded by ruins, the grey stone camouflaged against the mountain behind. And in the doorway stood a man, very thin and very old, with a shock of white hair, wearing the pale suit she remembered from the photograph.
Alice felt her legs were moving of their own accord. The ground levelled out as she walked the last few steps towards him. Baillard watched in silence and was completely still. He did not smile or raise his hand in greeting. Even when she drew close, he did not speak or move. He never took his eyes from her face. They were the most startling colour.
Amber mixed with autumn leaves.
Alice stopped in front of him. At last, he smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, transforming the crevices and lines of his face.
‘Madomaisèla Tanner,’ he said. His voice was deep and old, like the wind in the desert. ‘Benvenguda. I knew you would come.’ He stood back to let her enter. ‘Please.’
Nervous, awkward, Alice ducked under the lintel and stepped through the door into the room, still feeling the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was trying to commit every feature to memory.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, then stopped.
She was unable to think of anything to say. His delight, his wonder that she had come — mixed with his faith that she would – made ordinary conversation impossible.
‘You resemble her,’ he said slowly. ‘There is much of her in your face.’
‘I’ve only seen photos, but I thought so too.’
He smiled. ‘I did not mean Grace,’ he said softly, then turned away, as if he had said too much. ‘Please, sit down.’
Alice glanced surreptitiously around the room, noticing the lack of modern equipment. No lights, no heating, nothing electronic. She wondered if there was a kitchen.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she started again. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering . . . how did you know where to find me?’
Again, he smiled. ‘Does it matter?’
Alice thought about it and realised it did not.
‘Madomaisèla Tanner, I know about the Pic de Soularac. I have one question I must ask you before we go any further. Did you find a book?’
More than anything, Alice wanted to say she had. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He asked me about it too, but I didn’t see it.’
‘He?’
She frowned. ‘A man called Paul Authié.’
Baillard nodded his head up and down. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, in such a way that Alice felt she didn’t need to explain.
‘You found this, though, I believe?’
He lifted his left hand and placed it on the table, like a young girl showing off an engagement ring, and she saw to her astonishment he was wearing the stone ring. She smiled. It was so familiar, even though she’d held it for a few seconds at most.
She swallowed hard. ‘May I?’
Baillard removed it from his thumb. Alice took it and turned it over between her fingers, again discomforted by the intensity of his gaze.
‘Does it belong to you?’ she heard herself asking, although she feared he would say yes and all that that might mean.
He paused. ‘No,’ he said in the end, ‘although I had one like it once.’
‘Then who did this belong to?’
‘You do not know?’ he said.
For a split second, Alice thought she did. Then the spark of understanding disappeared and her mind was clouded once more.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said uncertainly, shaking her head, ‘but it lacks this, I think.’ She pulled the labyrinth disc from her pocket. ‘It was with the family tree at my aunt’s house.’ She handed it to him. ‘Did you send it to her?’
Baillard did not answer. ‘Grace was a charming woman, well educated and intelligent. During the course of our first conversation we discovered we had several interests in common, several experiences in common.’
What is it for?’ she asked, refusing to be deflected.
‘It’s called a merel. Once there were many. Now, only this one remains.’
She watched in amazement as Baillard inserted the disc into the gap in the body of the ring. ‘Aquì. There.’ He smiled and put the ring back on his thumb.
‘Is that decorative only or does it serve some purpose?’
He smiled, as if she had passed some sort of test. ‘It is the key that is needed,’ he said softly.
‘Needed for what?’
Again, Baillard did not answer. ‘Alaïs comes to you sometimes when you are sleeping, does she not?’
She was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. She didn’t know how to react.
We carry the past within us, in our bones, in our blood,’ he said. ‘Alaïs has been with you all of your life, watching over you. You share many qualities with her. She had great courage, a quiet determination, as do you. Alaïs was loyal and steadfast as, I suspect, are you.’ He stopped and smiled at her again. ‘She, too, had dreams. Of the old days, of the beginning. Those dreams revealed her destiny to her, although she was reluctant to accept it, as yours now light your way.’
Alice felt as if the words were coming at her from a long distance, as if they were nothing to do with her or Baillard or anybody, but had always existed in time and space.
‘My dreams have always been about her,’ she said, not knowing where her words were taking her. ‘About the fire, the mountain, the book. This mountain?’ He nodded. ‘I feel she’s trying to tell me something. Her face has grown clearer these past few days, but I still can’t hear her speak.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t understand what she wants of me.’
‘Or you of her, perhaps,’ he said lightly. Baillard poured the wine and handed a glass to Alice.
Despite the earliness of the hour, she took several mouthfuls, feeling the liquid warming her as it slid down her throat.
‘Monsieur Baillard, I need to know what happened to Alaïs. Until I do, nothing will make sense. You know, don’t you?’
A look of infinite sadness came over him.
‘She did survive,’ she said slowly, fearing to hear the answer. ‘After Carcassonne . . . they didn’t . . . she wasn’t captured?’
He placed his hands flat on the table. Thin and speckled brown with age, Alice thought they resembled the claws of a bird.
‘Alaïs did not die before her time,’ he said carefully.
‘That doesn’t tell me . . .’ she started to say.
Baillard held up his hand. ‘At the Pic de Soularac events were set in motion that will give you – give us — the answers we seek. Only through understanding the present, the truth of the past will be known. You seek your friend, oc?’
Again, Alice was caught out by the way Baillard jumped from one subject to another.
‘How do you know about Shelagh?’ she said.
‘I know about the excavation and what happened there. Now your friend has disappeared. You are trying to find her.’
Deciding there was no point trying to work out how or what he knew, Alice replied.
‘She left the site house a couple of days ago. No one’s seen her since. I know her disappearance is connected with the discovery of the labyrinth.’ She hesitated. ‘In fact, I think I know who might be behind it all. At first, I thought Shelagh might have stolen the ring.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘Yves Biau took it and sent it to his grandmother, Jeanne Giraud.’
Alice’s eyes widened as another part of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘Yves and your friend work for a woman called Madame de l’Oradore.’ He paused. ‘Fortunately, Yves had second thoughts. Your friend too, perhaps.’
Alice nodded. ‘Biau passed me a telephone number. Then I discovered Shelagh had called the same number. I found out the address and when I didn’t get any answer, I thought I should go and see if she was there. It turned out to be the house of Madame de l’Oradore. In Chartres.’
‘You went to Chartres?’ Baillard said, his eyes bright. ‘Tell me. Tell me. What did you see?’
He listened in silence until Alice had finished telling him about everything she’d seen and overheard.
‘But this young man, Will, he did not show you the chamber?’
Alice shook her head. ‘After a while, I started to think that maybe it didn’t really exist.’
‘It exists,’ he said.
‘I left my rucksack behind. It had all my notes about the labyrinth in it, the photograph of you with my aunt. It will lead her straight to me.’ She paused. ‘That’s why Will went back to get it for me.’
‘And now you fear something has happened to him also?’
‘I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Half the time, I’m frightened for him. The rest of the time, I think he’s probably all tied up in it as well.’
‘Why did you feel you could trust him in the first instance?’ Alice looked up, alerted by the change in his tone. His usually benign gentle expression had vanished. ‘Do you feel you owe him something?’
‘Owe him something?’ Alice repeated, surprised by his choice of words. ‘No, not that. I barely know him. But, I liked him, I suppose. I felt comfortable in his company. I felt . . .’
‘Que?’ What?
‘It was more the other way round. It sounds crazy, but it was as if he felt he owed me. Like he was making up to me for something.’
Without warning, Baillard pushed his chair back and walked to the window. He was clearly in a state of some confusion.
Alice waited, not understanding what was going on. At last, he turned to face her.
‘I will tell you Alaïs’ story,’ he said. ‘And through the knowing of it, we will perhaps find the courage to face what lies ahead. But know this, Madomaisèla Tanner. Once you have heard it, you will have no choice but to follow the path to its end.’
Alice frowned. ‘It sounds like a warning.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Far from it. But we must not lose sight of your friend. From what you overheard, we must assume her safety is guaranteed until this evening at least.’
‘But I don’t know where the meeting’s supposed to take place,’ she said. ‘François-Baptiste didn’t say. Only tomorrow night at nine-thirty.’
‘I can guess,’ Baillard said calmly. ‘By dusk we will be there, waiting for them.’ He glanced out of the open window at the rising sun. ‘That gives us some time to talk.’
‘But what if you’re wrong?’
Baillard shrugged. ‘We must hope I am not.’
Alice was quiet for a moment. ‘I just want to know the truth,’ she said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded.
He smiled. ‘Ieu tanben,’ he said. Me too.
2
CHAPTER 65
Will was aware of being dragged down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, then along the concrete corridor through the two doors. His head was hanging forward. The smell of incense was less strong, although it still hung, like a memory, in the hushed subterranean gloom.
At first, Will thought they were taking him to the chamber and that they would kill him. A memory of the block of stone at the foot of the tomb, the blood on the floor, flashed into his mind. But, then he was being bumped over a step. He felt the fresh air of early morning on his face and he realised he was outside, in some sort of alley that ran along the back of rue du Cheval Blanc. There were the early morning smells of burned coffee beans and rubbish, the sounds of the garbage truck not far off. Will realised this was how they must have got Tavernier’s body away from the house and down to the river.
A spasm of fear went through him and he struggled a little, only to register that his arms and legs were tied. Will heard the sound of a car boot being opened. He was half lifted, half thrown into the back. It wasn’t the usual sort of thing. He was in some sort of large box. It smelled of plastic.
As he rolled awkwardly on to his side, his head connected with the back of the container and Will felt the skin around the wound split open. Blood started to trickle down his temple, irritating, stinging. He couldn’t move his hands to wipe it away.
Now Will remembered standing outside the door of the study. Then the blinding crack of pain as François-Baptiste brought the gun down on the side of his head; his knees giving way under him; Marie-Cécile’s imperious voice once again demanding to know what was going on.
A calloused hand grasped his arm. Will felt his sleeve being pushed up and then the sharp point of a needle piercing his skin. Like before. Then, the sound of catches being snapped into place and some sort of covering, a tarpaulin perhaps, being pulled over his prison.
The drug was seeping into his veins, cold, pleasant, anaesthetising the pain. Hazy. Will drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt the car picking up speed. He started to feel queasy as his head rolled from side to side as they took the corners. He thought of Alice. More than anything, he wanted to see her. Tell her he had tried his best. That he had not let her down.
He was hallucinating now. He could picture the swirling, murky green waters of the river Eure flooding into his mouth and nose and lungs. Will tried to keep Alice’s face in his mind, her serious brown eyes, her smile. If he could keep her image with him, then perhaps he would be all right.
But the fear of drowning, of dying in this foreign place that meant nothing to him, was more powerful. Will slipped away into the darkness.
In Carcassonne, Paul Authié stood on his balcony looking out over the river Aude, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had used O‘Donnell as bait to get to François-Baptiste de l’Oradore, but instinctively he rejected the idea of a dummy book for her to hand over. The boy would spot it was a fake. Besides, he did want him to see the state she was in and know he’d been set up.
Authié put his cup down on the table and shot the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. The only option was to confront François-Baptiste himself — alone – and tell him he’d bring O’Donnell and the book to Marie-Cécile at the Pic de Soularac in time for the ceremony.
He regretted he’d not retrieved the ring, although he still believed Giraud had passed it to Audric Baillard and that Baillard would come to the Pic de Soularac of his own accord. Authié had no doubt the old man was out there somewhere, watching.
Alice Tanner was more of a problem. The disc O’Donnell had mentioned gave him pause for thought, all the more so because he didn’t understand its significance. Tanner was proving surprisingly adept at keeping out of his reach. She’d got away from Domingo and Braissart in the cemetery. They’d lost the car for several hours yesterday and when they did finally pick up the signal this morning, it was only to discover the vehicle was parked at the Hertz depot at Toulouse airport.
Authié closed his thin fingers around his crucifix. By midnight it would all be over. The heretical texts, the heretics themselves, would be destroyed.
In the distance the bell of the cathedral began to call the faithful to Friday mass. Authié glanced at his watch. He would go to confession. With his sins forgiven, in a state of Grace, he would kneel at the altar and receive the Holy Communion. Then he would be ready, body and soul, to fulfil God’s purpose.
Will felt the car slow down, then turn off the road on to a farm track.
The driver took it carefully, swerving to avoid the dips and hollows. Will’s teeth rattled in his head as the car bumped, jerked, jolted up the hill.
Finally, they stopped. The engine was turned off.
He felt the car rock as both men got out, then the sound of the doors slamming like shots from a gun and the clunk of the central locking. His hands were tied behind his back not in front, which made it harder, but Will twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the straps. He made little progress. The feeling was starting to come back. There was a band of pain across his shoulders from lying awkwardly for so long.
Suddenly, the boot was opened. Will lay completely still, his heart thudding, as the catches on the plastic container were unlocked. One of them took him under the arms, the other behind the knees. He was dragged out of the boot and dropped to the ground.
Even in his drugged state, Will felt they were miles from civilisation. The sun was fierce and there was a sharpness, a freshness to the air that spoke of space and lack of human habitation. It was utterly silent, utterly still. No cars, no people. Will blinked. He tried to focus, but it was too bright. The air was too clear. The sun seemed to be burning his eyes, turning everything to white.
He felt the hypodermic stab his arm again and the familiar embrace of the drug in his veins. The men pulled him roughly to his feet and started to drag him up the hill. The ground was steep and he could hear their laboured breathing, smell the sweat coming off them as they struggled in the heat.
Will was aware of the scrunch of gravel and stone, then the wooden struts of steps cut into the slope beneath his trailing feet, then the softness of grass.
As he drifted back into semi-consciousness, he realised the whistling sound in his head was the ghostly sighing of the wind.
CHAPTER 66
The Commissioner of the Police Judiciaire of the Haute-Pyrenées strode into Inspector Noubel’s office in Foix and slammed the door shut behind him.
‘This had better be good, Noubel.’
‘Thank you for coming, sir. I wouldn’t have disturbed your lunch if I thought it could wait.’
He grunted. ‘You’ve identified Biau’s killers?’
‘Cyrille Braissart and Javier Domingo,’ confirmed Noubel, waving a fax that had come through minutes earlier. ‘Two positive IDs. One shortly before the accident in Foix on Monday night, the second immediately afterwards. The car was found abandoned on the Spain-Andorra border yesterday.’ Noubel paused to wipe the sweat from his nose and forehead. ‘They work for Paul Authié, sir.’
The Commissioner lowered his massive frame on to the edge of the desk.
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’ve heard the allegations against Authié? That he’s a member of the Noublesso Véritable?’
He nodded.
‘I spoke to the police in Chartres this afternoon – following up the Shelagh O’Donnell link – and they confirmed they’re investigating the links between the organisation and a murder that took place earlier in the week.’
What’s that got to do with Authié?’
‘The body was recovered quickly due to an anonymous tip-off.’
‘Any proof it was Authié?’
‘No,’ Noubel admitted, ‘but there is evidence he met with a journalist, who’s also disappeared. The police in Chartres think there’s a link.’
Seeing the look of scepticism on his boss’s face, Noubel rushed on.
‘The excavation at the Pic de Soularac was funded by Madame de l’Oradore. Well hidden, but it’s her money behind it. Brayling, the director of the dig, is pushing the idea that O‘Donnell has disappeared, having stolen artefacts from the site. But it’s not what her friends think.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure Authié has her, either on Madame de l’Oradore’s orders or on his own account.’
The fan in his office was broken and Noubel was perspiring heavily. He could feel rings of sweat mushrooming under his arms.
‘It’s very thin, Noubel.’
‘Madame de l’Oradore was in Carcassonne from Tuesday to Thursday, sir. She met twice with Authié. I believe she went with him to the Pic de Soularac.’
‘There’s no crime in that, Noubel.’
“When I came in this morning I found this message waiting for me, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s when I decided we’d got enough to ask for this meeting.’
Noubel hit the play button on his voicemail. Jeanne Giraud’s voice filled the room. The Commissionaire listened, his expression growing grimmer by the second.
‘Who is she?’ he said when Noubel had played the message a second time.
‘Yves Biau’s grandmother.’
‘And Audric Baillard?’
‘An author and friend. He accompanied her to the hospital in Foix.’
The Commissioner put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. Noubel could see he was calculating the potential damage if they went after Authié and failed.
‘And you’re a hundred per cent certain you’ve got enough to link Domingo and Braissart to both Biau and Authié?’
‘The descriptions fit, sir.’
‘They fit half of the Ariege,’ he growled.
‘O’Donnell’s been missing for three days, sir.’
The Commissionaire sighed and heaved himself off the desk.
What do you want to do, Noubel?’
‘I want to pull in Braissart and Domingo, sir.’
He nodded.
‘Also, I need a search warrant. Authié’s got several properties, including a derelict farm in the Sabarthès Mountains, registered in his ex-wife’s name. If O’Donnell’s being held locally, chances are it’s there.’
The Commissioner was shaking his hand.
‘Maybe if you put a personal call through to the Prefect . . .’
Noubel waited.
‘All right, all right.’ He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at him. ‘But I promise you this, Claude, if you fuck up, you’re on your own. Authié’s an influential man. As for Madame de l’Oradore . . .’ He let his arms drop. ‘If you can’t make this stick, they’ll rip you to pieces and there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop them.’
He turned and walked to the door. Just before he went out, he stopped. ‘Remind me who this Baillard is? Do I know him? The name’s vaguely familiar.’
‘Writes about Cathars. An expert on Ancient Egypt too.’
‘That’s not it . . .’
Noubel waited. ‘No, it’s gone,’ said the Commissioner.
‘But for all we know, Madame Giraud could be making something out of nothing.’
‘She could, sir, although I have to tell you I’ve not been able to locate Baillard. No one’s seen him since he left the hospital with Madame Giraud on Wednesday night.’
The Commissioner nodded. ‘I’ll call you when the paperwork’s ready. You’ll be here?’
‘Actually, sir,’ he said cautiously, ‘I thought I might have another go at the English woman. She’s a friend of O’Donnell. She might know something.’
‘I’ll find you.’
As soon as the Commissioner had gone, Noubel made a few calls, then grabbed his jacket and headed for his car. By his reckoning, he’d got plenty of time to get to Carcassonne and back before the Prefect’s signature on the search warrant had dried.
By half-past four, Noubel was sitting with his opposite number in Carcassonne. Arnaud Moureau was an old friend. Noubel knew he could speak freely. He pushed a scrap of paper across the table.
‘Dr Tanner said she would be staying here.’
It took minutes to check she was registered there. ‘Nice hotel just outside the Cite walls, less than five minutes from rue de la Gaffe. Shall I drive?’
The receptionist was very nervous about being interviewed by two police officers. She was a poor witness, close to tears much of the time. Noubel got more and more impatient until Moureau stepped in. His more avuncular approach yielded better results.
‘So, Sylvie,’ he said gently. ‘Dr Tanner left the hotel early yesterday morning, yes?’ The girl nodded. ‘She said she would be back today? I just want to be clear.’
‘Oui.’
‘And you haven’t heard anything to the contrary. She hasn’t telephoned or anything?’
She shook her head.
‘Good. Now, is there anything you can tell us? For example, has she had any visitors since she’s been staying here?’
The girl hesitated.
‘Yesterday a woman came, very early, with a message.’ Noubel couldn’t help himself jumping in. What time was this?’
Moureau gestured for him to be quiet. ‘How early is early, Sylvie?’
‘I came on duty at six o’clock. Not long after that.’
‘Did Dr Tanner know her? Was she a friend?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. She seemed surprised.’
‘This is very helpful, Sylvie,’ said Moureau. ‘Can you tell us what made you think that?’
‘She was asking Dr Tanner to meet someone in the cemetery. It seemed an odd place to meet.’
‘Who?’ said Noubel. ‘Did you hear a name?’
Looking even more terrified, Sylvie shook her head. ‘I don’t know if she even went.’
‘That’s OK. You’re doing very well. Now, anything else?’
‘A letter came for her.’
‘Post or hand-delivered?’
‘There was that business with changing rooms,’ called a voice from out the back. Sylvie turned and glared at a boy, hidden behind a mound of cardboard boxes. ‘Pain in the bloody — ’
What business with rooms?’ interrupted Noubel.
‘I wasn’t here,’ said Sylvie stubbornly.
‘But I bet you know about it all the same.’
‘Dr Tanner said there was an intruder in her room. Wednesday night. She demanded to be moved.’
Noubel stiffened. Immediately, he walked through to the back.
‘Causing a lot of extra work for everybody,’ Moureau was saying mildly, keeping Sylvie occupied.
Noubel followed the smells of cooking and found the boy easily enough.
Were you here Wednesday night?’
He gave a cocky smile. ‘On duty in the bar.’
‘See anything?’
‘I saw a woman come charging out of the door and go chasing after some bloke. Didn’t know it was Dr Tanner until after.’
‘Did you see the man?’
‘Not really. It was her I noticed more.’
Noubel took the pictures out of his jacket and held them in front of the boy’s face. ‘Recognise either of them?’
‘I’ve seen that one before. Nice suit. Not a tourist. Stuck out a bit. Hanging around. Tuesday, Wednesday maybe. Can’t be sure, though.’
By the time Noubel got back to the lobby, Moureau had got Sylvie smiling.
‘He picked out Domingo. Said he’d seen him around the hotel.’
‘Doesn’t make him the intruder, though,’ murmured Moureau.
Noubel slid the photo on the counter in front of Sylvie. ‘Either of these men familiar to you?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘although. . .’ She hesitated, then pointed at the picture of Domingo. ‘The woman asking for Dr Tanner looked quite like this.’
Noubel exchanged glances with Moureau. ‘Sister?’
‘I’ll get it checked out.’
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to let us into Dr Tanner’s room,’ said Noubel.
‘I can’t do that!’
Moureau overrode her objections. We’ll only be five minutes. It’ll be much easier this way, Sylvie. If we have to wait for the manager to give permission, we’ll come back with a whole search team. It will be disruptive for everybody.’
Sylvie took a key from the hook and took them to Alice’s room, looking drawn and nervous.
The windows and curtains were shut and it was stuffy. The bed was neatly made and a quick inspection of the bathroom revealed that there were fresh towels on the rack and the water glasses had been replaced.
‘No one’s been in here since the chambermaid cleaned yesterday morning,’ muttered Noubel.
There was nothing personal in the bathroom.
‘Anything?’ asked Moureau.
Noubel shook his head as he moved on to the wardrobe. There he found Alice’s suitcase, packed.
‘Looks like she didn’t unpack anything when she moved rooms. She’s obviously got passport, phone, the basics, with her,’ he said, running his hands under the edge of the mattress. Holding the handkerchief between his fingers, Noubel pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. It contained a silver strip of headache pills and Audric Baillard’s book.
‘Moureau,’ he said sharply. As he passed it over, a small piece of paper fluttered from between the pages to the floor.
What is it?’
Noubel picked it up, then frowned as he passed it over.
‘Problem?’ said Moureau.
‘This is Yves Biau’s writing,’ he said. ‘A Chartres number.’
He got out his phone to dial, but it rang before he’d finished.
‘Noubel,’ he said abruptly. Moureau’s eyes were fixed on him. ‘That’s excellent news, sir. Yes. Right away.’
He disconnected.
We’ve got the search warrant,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Quicker than I’d expected.’
‘What do you expect?’ said Moureau. ‘He’s a worried man.’
3
CHAPTER 67
‘Shall we sit outside?’ Audric suggested. ‘At least until the heat becomes too much.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Alice replied, following him out of the little house. She felt like she was in a dream. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The vastness of the mountains, the acres of sky, Baillard’s slow and deliberate movements.
Alice felt the strain and confusion of the past few days slipping away from her.
‘This will do well,’ he said in his gentle voice, stopping by a small grassy mound. Baillard sat down with his long, thin legs straight out in front of him like a boy.
Alice hesitated, then sat at his feet. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, then saw he was smiling again.
‘What?’ she said, self-conscious suddenly.
Audric just shook his head. ‘Los ressons.’ The echoes. ‘Forgive me, Madomaisèla Tanner. Forgive an old man his foolishness.’
Alice didn’t know what had made him smile so, only that she was happy to see it. ‘Please, call me Alice. Madomaisèla sounds so formal.’
He inclined his head. ‘Very well.’
‘You speak Occitan rather than French?’ she asked.
‘Both, yes.’
‘Others too?’
He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘English, Arabic, Spanish, Hebrew. Stories shift their shape, change character, take on different colours depending on the words you use, the language in which you choose to tell them. Sometimes more serious, sometimes more playful, more melodic, say. Here, in this part of what they now call France, the langue d’Oc was spoken by the people whose land this was. The langue d‘oïl, the forerunner of modern-day French, was the language of the invaders. Such choices divided people.’ He waved his hands. ‘But, this is not what you came to hear. You want people, not theories, yes?’
It was Alice’s turn to smile. ‘I read one of your books, Monsieur Baillard, which I found at my aunt’s house in Sallèles d’Aude.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful place. The Canal de Jonction. Lime trees and pins parasols line the banks.’ He paused. ‘The leader of the Crusade, Arnald-Amalric, was given a house in Sallèles, you know? Also, in Carcassona and Besièrs.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Before, when I first arrived, you said Alaïs did not die before her time. She . . . did she survive the fall of Carcassonne?’
Alice was surprised to realise her heart was beating fast.
Baillard nodded. ‘Alaïs left Carcassona in the company of a boy, Sajhë, the grandson of one of the guardians of the Labyrinth Trilogy.’ He raised his eyes to see if she was following, then continued when she indicated she was.
‘They were heading here,’ he said. ‘In the old language Los Seres means the mountain crests, the ridges.’
Why here?’
‘The Navigatairé, the leader of the Noublesso de los Seres, the society to which Alaïs’ father and Sajhë’s grandmother had sworn allegiance, was waiting for them here. Since Alaïs feared she was being pursued, they took an indirect route, first heading west to Fanjeaux, then south to Puivert and Lavelanet, then west again towards the Sabarthès Mountains.
With the fall of Carcassona, there were soldiers everywhere. They swarmed all over our land like rats. There were also bandits who preyed on the refugees without pity. Alaïs and Sajhë travelled early in the morning and late at night, sheltering from the biting sun in the heat of the day. It was a particularly hot summer, so they slept outdoors when night fell. They survived on nuts, berries, fruit, anything they could forage. Alaïs avoided the towns, except when she was sure of finding a safe house.’
‘How did they know where to go?’ asked Alice, remembering her own journey only hours earlier.
‘Sajhë had a map, given to him . . .’
His voice cracked with distress. Alice didn’t know why, but she reached out and took his hand. It seemed to give him comfort.
‘They made good progress,’ he continued, ‘arriving in Los Seres shortly before the Feast Day of Sant-Miquel, at the end of September, just as the land was turning to gold. Already here, in the mountains, was the smell of autumn and wet earth. The smoke hung over the fields as the stubble burned. It was a new world to them, who had been brought up in the shadows and alleyways and overcrowded halls of Carcassona. Such light. Such skies that reached, as it seemed, all the way to heaven.’ He paused as he looked out over the landscape in front of them. ‘You understand?’
She nodded, mesmerised by his voice.
‘Harif, the Navigatairé, was waiting for them.’ Baillard bowed his head. When he heard all that had happened, he wept for the soul of Alaïs’ father and for Simeon too. For the loss of the books and for Esclarmonde’s generosity in letting Alaïs and Sajhë travel on without her to better secure the safety of the Book of Words.’
Baillard stopped again and, for a while, was silent. Alice did not want to interrupt or hurry him. The story would tell itself. He would speak when he was ready.
His face softened. ‘It was a blessed time, both in the mountains and on the plains, or at first so it seemed. Despite the indescribable horror of the defeat of Besièrs, many Carcassonnais believed they would soon be allowed to return home. Many trusted in the Church. They thought that if the heretics were expelled, then their lives would be returned to them.’
‘But the Crusaders did not leave,’ she said.
Baillard shook his head. ‘It was a war for land, not faith,’ he said. ‘After the Ciutat was defeated in August 1209, Simon de Montfort was elected Viscount, despite the fact that Raymond-Roger Trencavel still lived. To modern minds, it is hard to understand how unprecedented, how grave an offence this was. It went against all tradition and honour. War was financed, in part, by the ransoms paid by one noble family to another. Unless convicted of a crime, a seigneur’s lands would never be confiscated and given to another. There could have been no clearer indication of the contempt in which the northerners held the Pays d’Oc.’
‘What happened to Viscount Trencavel?’ Alice asked. ‘I see him remembered everywhere in the Cite.’
Baillard nodded. ‘He is worthy of remembrance. He died – was murdered – after three months of incarceration in the prisons of the Château Comtal, in November 1209. De Montfort published it that he had died of siege sickness, as it was known. Dysentery. No one believed it. There were sporadic uprisings and outbreaks of unrest, until de Montfort was forced to grant Raymond-Roger’s two-year-old son and heir an annual allowance of 3,000 sols in return for the legal surrender of the Viscounty.’
A face suddenly flashed into Alice’s mind. A devout, serious woman, pretty, devoted to her husband and son.
‘Dame Agnès,’ she muttered.
Baillard held her in his gaze for a moment. ‘She too is remembered within the walls of the Ciutat,’ he said quietly. ‘De Montfort was a devout Catholic. He – perhaps only he – of the Crusaders believed he was doing God’s work. He established a tax of house or hearth in favour of the Church, introduced tithes on the first fruits, northern ways.
‘The Ciutat might have been defeated, but the fortresses of the Minervois, the Montagne Noire, the Pyrenees refused to surrender. The King of Aragon, Pedro, would not accept him as a vassal; Raymond VI, uncle to Viscount Trencavel, withdrew to Toulouse; the Counts of Never and Saint-Pol, others such as Guy d’Evreux, returned north. Simon de Montfort had possession of Carcassona, but he was isolated.
‘Merchants, peddlers, weavers brought news of sieges and battles, good and bad. Montreal, Preixan, Saverdun, Pamiers fell, Cabaret was holding out. In the spring of April 1210, after three months of siege, de Montfort took the town of Bram. He ordered his soldiers to round up the defeated garrison and had their eyes put out. Only one man was spared, charged with leading the mutilated procession cross-country to Cabaret, a clear warning to any who resisted that they could expect no mercy.
‘The savagery and reprisals escalated. In July 1210, de Montfort besieged the hill fortress of Minerve. The town is protected on two sides by deep rocky gorges cut by rivers over thousands of years. High above the village, de Montfort installed a giant trébuchet, known as La Malvoisine — the bad neighbour.’ He stopped and turned to Alice. ‘There is a replica there now. Strange to see. For six weeks, de Montfort bombarded the village. When finally Minerve fell, one hundred and forty Cathar parfaits refused to recant and were burned on a communal pyre.
‘In May 1211, the invaders took Lavaur, after a siege of a month. The Catholics called it “the very seat of Satan”. In a way, they were right. It was the See of the Cathar bishop of Toulouse and hundreds of parfaits and parfaites lived peaceably and openly there.’
Baillard lifted his glass to his lips and drank.
‘Nearly four hundred credentes and parfaits were burned, including Amaury de Montreal, who had led the resistance, alongside eighty of his knights. The scaffold collapsed under their weight. The French were forced to slit their throats. Fired by bloodlust, invaders rampaged through the town searching for the lady of Lavaur, Guirande, under whose protection the Bons Homes had lived. They seized her, misused her. They dragged her through the streets like a common criminal, then threw her into the well and hurled stones down upon her until she was dead. She was buried alive. Or possibly drowned.’
‘Did they know how bad things were?’ she said.
‘Alaïs and Sajhë heard some news, but often many months after the event. The war was still concentrated on the plains. They lived simply, but happily, here in Los Seres with Harif. They gathered wood, salted meats for the long dark months of winter, learned how to bake bread and to thatch the roof with straw to protect it against storms.’
Baillard’s voice had softened.
‘Harif taught Sajhë to read, then to write, first the langue d’Oc, then the language of the invaders, as well as a little Arabic and a little Hebrew.’ He smiled. ‘Sajhë was an unwilling pupil, preferring activities of the body to those of the mind but, with Alaïs’ help, he persevered.’
‘He probably wanted to prove something to her.’
Baillard slid a glance at her, but made no comment.
‘Nothing changed until the Passiontide after Sajhë’s thirteenth birthday, when Harif told him he was to be apprenticed in the household of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix to begin his training as a chevalier.’
What did Alaïs think of that?’
‘She was delighted for him. It was what he always wanted. In Carcassona, he’d watched the écuyers polishing their masters’ boots and helmets. He had crept into the lices to watch them joust. The life of a chevalier was beyond his station, but it had not stopped him dreaming of riding out in his own colours. Now it seemed he was to have the chance to prove himself after all.’
‘So he went?’
Baillard nodded. ‘Pierre-Roger Mirepoix was a demanding master, although fair, and had a reputation for training his boys well. It was hard work, but Sajhë was clever and quick and worked hard. He learned to tilt his lance at the quintain. He practised with sword, mace, ball-and-chain, dagger, how to ride straight-backed in a high saddle.’
For a while, Alice watched him gazing out over the mountains and thought, not for the first time, how these distant people, in whose company Baillard had spent much of his life, had become flesh and blood to him.
What of Alaïs during this time?’
While Sajhë was in Mirepoix, Harif began to instruct Alaïs in the rites and rituals of the Noublesso. Already, her skills as a healer and a wise woman became well known. There were few illnesses, of spirit or body, which she could not treat. Harif taught her much about the stars, about the patterns that make up the world, drawing on the wisdom of the ancient mystics of his land. Alaïs was aware that Harif had a deeper purpose. She knew he was preparing her – preparing Sajhë too, that was why he had sent him away — for their task.
‘In the meantime, Sajhë thought little about the village. Morsels of news about Alaïs reached Mirepoix from time to time, brought by shepherds or parfaits, but she did not visit. Thanks to her sister Oriane, Alaïs was a fugitive with a price on her head. Harif sent money to purchase Sajhë a hauberk, a palfrey, armour and a sword. He was dubbed when he was only fifteen.’ He hesitated. ‘Shortly after that, he went to war. Those who had thrown in their lot with the French, hoping for clemency, switched allegiance, including the Count of Toulouse. This time when he called on his liege lord, Pedro II of Aragon, Pedro accepted his responsibilities and in January 1213 rode north. Together with the Count of Foix, their combined forces were large enough to inflict significant damage on de Montfort’s depleted forces.
‘In September 1213, the two armies, north against south, came face to face at Muret. Pedro was a brave leader and a skilled strategist, but the attack was badly mismanaged and, in the heat of battle, Pedro was slain. The South had lost its leader.’
Baillard stopped. ‘Among those fighting for independence was a chevalier from Carcassona. Guilhem du Mas.’ He paused. ‘He acquitted himself well. He was well liked. Men were drawn to him.’
An odd tone had entered his voice, admiration, mixed with something else Alice could not identify. Before she could think more of it, Baillard continued. ‘On the twenty-fifth day of June, 1218, the wolf was slain.’
‘The wolf?’
He raised his hands. ‘Forgive me. In the songs of the time, for example the Canso de lo Crosada, de Montfort was known as the wolf. He was killed besieging Tolosa. He was hit on the head by a stone from a catapult, it said, operated by a woman.’ Alice couldn’t help herself smiling. ‘They carried his body back to Carcassona and saw him buried in the northern manner. His heart, liver, stomach, were taken to Sant-Cerni and the bones to Sant-Nasari to be buried beneath a gravestone, which now hangs on the wall of the south transept of the Basilica.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you noticed it on your visit to the Ciutat?’
Alice blushed. ‘I . . . I found that I could not enter the cathedral,’ she admitted. Baillard looked quickly at her, but said nothing more about the stone.
‘Simon de Montfort’s son, Amaury, succeeded him, but he was not the commander his father was and, straight away, he began to lose the lands his father had taken. In 1224, Amaury withdrew. The de Montfort family relinquished their claim to the Trencavel lands. Sajhë was free to return home. Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix was reluctant to allow him to leave, but Sajhë had . . .’
He broke off, then stood up and wandered some way from her down the hill. When he spoke, he did not turn.
‘He was twenty-six,’ he said. ‘Alaïs was older, but Sajhë . . . he had hopes. He looked on Alaïs with different eyes, no longer the brother to the sister. He knew they could not marry, for Guilhem du Mas still lived, but he dreamed, now he had proved himself, that there could be more between them.’
Alice hesitated, then went to stand beside him. When she placed her hand on his arm, Baillard jolted, as if he had forgotten she was there at all.
What happened?’ she said quietly, feeling oddly anxious. She felt as if she was somehow eavesdropping, as if it was too intimate a story to be shared.
‘He gathered his courage to speak.’ He faltered. ‘Harif knew. If Sajhë had asked his advice, he would have given it. As it was, he kept his counsel.’
‘Perhaps Sajhë knew he wouldn’t wish to hear what Harif had to say.’
Baillard gave a half-smile, sad. ‘Benlèu.’ Perhaps. Alice waited.
‘So. . .’ she prompted, when it was clear he was not going to continue. ‘Did Sajhë tell her what he felt?’
‘He did.’
‘Well?’ said Alice quickly. What did she say?’
Baillard turned and looked at her. ‘Do you not know?’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Pray God that you never know what it is like to love, like that, without hope of that love being returned.’
Alice sprang to Alaïs’ defence, crazy as it was.
‘But she did love him,’ she said firmly. ‘As a brother. Was that not enough?’
Baillard turned and smiled at her. ‘It was what he settled for,’ he replied. ‘But enough? No. It was not enough.’
He turned and started to walk back towards the house. ‘Shall we?’ he said, formal again. ‘I am a little hot. You, Madomaisèla Tanner, must be tired after your long journey.’
Alice noticed how pale, how exhausted he suddenly looked and felt guilty. She glanced at her watch and saw they’d been talking for longer than she’d realised. It was nearly midday.
‘Of course,’ she said quickly, offering him her arm. They walked slowly back to the house together.
‘If you will excuse me,’ he said quietly, once back inside. ‘I must sleep a while. Perhaps you should rest also?’
‘I am tired,’ she admitted.
When I awake, I will prepare food, then I will finish the story. Before dusk falls and we turn our mind to other things.’
She waited until he had walked to the back of the house and drawn the curtain behind him. Then, feeling strangely bereft, Alice took a blanket for a pillow and went back outside.
She settled herself under the trees. She realised only then that the past had so held her imagination that she’d not thought about Shelagh or Will once.
4
CHAPTER 68
‘What are you doing?’ asked François-Baptiste, coming into the room of the small, anonymous chalet not far from the Pic de Soularac.
Marie-Cécile was sitting at the table with the Book of Numbers open on a black padded book rest in front of her. She didn’t look up.
‘Studying the layout of the chamber.’
François-Baptiste sat down beside her. ‘For any particular reason?’
‘To remind myself of the points of difference between this diagram and the labyrinth cave itself.’
She felt him peering over her shoulder.
‘Are there many?’ he asked.
‘A few. This,’ she said, her finger hovering above the book, her red nail varnish just visible through her protective cotton gloves. ‘Our altar is here, as marked. In the actual cave it is closer to the wall.’
‘Doesn’t that mean the labyrinth carving is obscured?’
She turned to look at him, surprised at the intelligence of the comment.
‘But if the original guardians used the Book of Numbers for their ceremonies, as the Noublesso Véritable did, shouldn’t they be the same?’
‘You would think so, yes,’ she said. ‘There is no tomb, that is the most obvious variation, although interestingly the grave where the skeletons were lying was in that exact position.’
‘Have you heard any more about the bodies?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘So we still don’t know who they are?’
She shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not,’ he replied, although she could see her lack of interest bothered him.
‘On balance,’ she continued, ‘I don’t think any of these things matter. It is the pattern that is significant, the path walked by the Navigatairé as the words are spoken.’
‘You’re confident you’ll be able to read the parchment in the Book of Words?’
‘Provided it dates from the same period as the other parchments, then yes. The hieroglyphs are simple enough.’
Anticipation swept through her, so sudden, so swift, that she raised her fingers as if a hand had wrapped itself around her throat. Tonight she would speak the forgotten words. Tonight the power of the Grail would descend to her. Time would be conquered.
‘And if O’Donnell’s lying?’ said François-Baptiste. ‘If she doesn’t have the book? Or if Authié hasn’t found it either?’
Marie-Cécile’s eyes snapped open, jolted back to the present by her son’s abrasive, challenging tone. She looked at him with dislike. ‘The Book of Words is there,’ she said.
Angry to have her mood spoiled, Marie-Cécile closed the Book of Numbers and returned it to its wrapper. She placed the Book of Potions on the rest instead.
From the outside, the books looked identical. The same wooden boards covered with leather and held together with thin leather ties.
The first page was empty apart from a tiny gold chalice in the centre. The reverse side was blank. On the third page were the words and pictures that also appeared around the top of the walls in the basement chamber in the rue du Cheval Blanc.
The first letter of each of the pages following was illuminated, in red, blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise the text ran on, one word into the next, with no gaps showing where one thought ended and another began.
Marie-Cécile turned to the parchment in the middle of the book.
Interspersed between the hieroglyphs were tiny pictures of plants and symbols picked out in green. After years of study and research, reading back through the scholarship funded by the de l’Oradore fortune, her grandfather had realised that none of the illustrations were relevant.
Only the hieroglyphs written on the two Grail parchments mattered. All the rest – the words, the pictures, the colours — were there to obscure, to ornament, to hide the truth.
‘It’s there,’ she said, fixing François-Baptiste with a fierce look. She could see the doubt in his face, but wisely he decided to say nothing. ‘Fetch my things,’ she said sharply. ‘After that, check where the car’s got to.’
He returned moments later with her square vanity case.
‘Where do you want it?’
‘Over there,’ she said, pointing at the dressing table. Once he’d gone out again, Marie-Cécile walked over and sat down. The outside was soft brown leather, with her initials picked out in gold. It had been a present from her grandfather.
She opened the lid. Inside there was a large mirror and several pockets for brushes, beauty appliances, tissues and a pair of small gold scissors. The make-up was held in place in the top tray in neat, organised rows. Lipsticks, eye shadows, mascaras, kohl pencil, powder. A deeper compartment underneath contained the three red leather jewellery boxes.
‘Where are they?’ she said, without turning round.
‘Not far away,’ François-Baptiste replied. She could hear the tension in his voice.
‘He’s all right?’
He walked towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you care, Maman?’
Marie-Cécile stared at her reflection in the mirror, then at her son, framed in the glass above her head as if posed for a portrait. His voice was casual. His eyes betrayed him.
‘No,’ she replied, and saw his face relax a little. ‘Just interested.’
He squeezed her shoulders, and then took his hands away.
‘Alive, to answer your question. Caused trouble when they were getting him out. They had to quieten him down a bit.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Not too much so, I hope,’ she said. ‘He’s no use to me half-conscious.’
‘Me?’ he said sharply.
Marie-Cécile bit her tongue. She needed François-Baptiste in an amenable mood. ‘To us,’ she said.
5
CHAPTER 69
Alice was dozing in the shade under the trees when Audric reappeared a couple of hours later.
‘I’ve prepared us a meal,’ he said.
He looked better for his sleep. His skin had lost its waxy, tight appearance and his eyes shone bright.
Alice gathered her things and followed him back inside. Goat’s cheese, olives, tomatoes, peaches and a jug of wine were laid out on the table.
‘Please. Take what you need.’
As soon as they were seated, Alice launched into the questions she’d been rehearsing in her head. She noticed he ate little, although he drank some of the wine.
‘Did Alaïs try to regain the two books stolen by her sister and husband?’
‘To reunite the Labyrinth Trilogy had been Harifs intention as soon as the threat of war first cast its shadow over the Pays d’Oc,’ he said. ‘Thanks to her sister, Oriane, there was a price on Alaïs’ head. It made it hard for her to travel. On the rare occasions she came down from the village, she went in disguise. To attempt a journey north would have been madness. Sajhë made several plans to get to Chartres. None of them was successful.’
‘For Alaïs?’
‘In part, but also for the sake of his grandmother, Esclarmonde. He felt a responsibility to the Noublesso de los Seres, as Alaïs did on behalf of her father.’
‘What happened to Esclarmonde?’
‘Many Bons Homes went to northern Italy. Esclarmonde was not well enough to travel so far. Instead, she was taken by Gaston and his brother to a small community in Navarre, where she remained until her death a few years later. Sajhë visited her whenever he could.’ He paused. ‘It was a source of great sadness to Alaïs that they never saw one another again.’
‘And what of Oriane?’ asked Alice, after a while. ‘Did Alaïs receive news of her too?’
‘Very little. Of more interest was the labyrinth built in the cathedral church of Notre Dame in Chartres. Nobody knew on whose authority it had been built or what it might mean. It was, in part, why Evreux and Oriane based themselves there, rather than return to his estates further north.’
‘And the books themselves had been made in Chartres.’
‘In truth, it was constructed to draw attention away from the labyrinth cave in the south.’
‘I saw it yesterday,’ said Alice.
Was it only yesterday?
‘I felt nothing. I mean, it was very beautiful, very impressive, but nothing else.’
Audric nodded. ‘Oriane got what she wanted. Guy d’Evreux took her north as his wife. In exchange, she gave him the Book of Potions and the Book of Numbers and the pledge to keep searching for the Book of Words.’
‘His wife?’ Alice frowned. ‘But what of — ’
‘Jehan Congost? He was a good man. Pedantic, jealous, humourless, perhaps, but a loyal servant. François killed him on Oriane’s orders.’ He paused. ‘François deserved to die. It was a bad end, but he deserved no better.’
Alice shook her head. ‘I was going to say Guilhem,’ she said.
‘He remained in the Midi.’
‘But did he not have expectations of Oriane?’
‘He was tireless in his efforts to drive the Crusaders out. As the years passed, he built up a large following in the mountains. At first, he offered his sword to Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix. Later, when Viscount Trencavel’s son attempted to regain the lands stolen from his father, Guilhem fought for him.’
‘He changed sides?’ said Alice, bewildered.
‘No, he . . .’ Baillard sighed. ‘No. Guilhem du Mas never betrayed Viscount Trencavel. He was a fool, certainly, but not, in the end, a traitor. Oriane had used him. He was taken prisoner at the same time as Raymond-Roger Trencavel when Carcassona fell. Unlike the Viscount, Guilhem managed to escape.’ Audric took a deep breath, as if it pained him to admit it. ‘He was not a traitor.’
‘But Alaïs believed him to be one,’ she said quietly.
‘He was the architect of his own misfortune.’
‘Yes, I know, but even so . . . to live with such regret, knowing Alaïs thought he was as bad as — ’
‘Guilhem does not deserve sympathy,’ Baillard said sharply. ‘He betrayed Alaïs, he broke his wedding vows, he humiliated her. Yet even so, she . . .’ He broke off. ‘Forgive me. It is sometimes hard to be objective.’
Why does it upset him so much?
‘He never attempted to see Alaïs?’
‘He loved her,’ Audric said simply. ‘He would not have risked leading the French to her.’
‘And she, too, made no attempt to see him?’
Audric slowly shook his head. Would you have done, in her position?’ he asked softly.
Alice thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. If she loved him, despite what he’d done . . .’
‘News of Guilhem’s campaigns reached the village from time to time. Alaïs made no comment, but she was proud of the man he had become.’
Alice shifted in her chair. Audric seemed to sense her impatience, for he started to talk more briskly.
‘For five years after Sajhë returned to the village,’ he continued, ‘the uneasy peace reigned. He, Alaïs and Harif lived well. Others from Carcassona lived in the mountains, including Alaïs’ former servant, Rixende, who settled in the village. It was a simple life, but a good one.’ Baillard paused.
‘In 1229, everything changed. A new king came to the French throne. Sant-Louis was a zealous man of strong religious conviction. The continuing heresy sickened him. Despite the years of oppression and persecution in the Midi, the Cathar church still rivalled the Catholic Church in authority and influence. The five Cathar bishoprics – Tolosa, Albi, Carcassona, Agen, Razès — were more respected, more influential in many places than their Catholic counterparts.
‘At first, none of this affected Alaïs and Sajhë. They carried on much as before. In the winter, Sajhë travelled to Spain to raise money and arms to fund the resistance. Alaïs remained behind. She was a skilled rider, quick with her bow and sword and had great courage, taking messages to the leaders of the resistance in the Ariège and throughout the Sabarthès Mountains. She provided refuge for parfaits and parfaites, organising food and shelter and information about where and when services would take place. The parfaits were itinerant preachers for the most part, living by their own manual labour. Carding, making bread, spinning wool. They travelled in pairs, a more experienced teacher with a younger initiate. Usually two men, of course, but sometimes women.’ Audric smiled. ‘It was much as Esclarmonde, her friend and mentor, had once done in Carcassona.
‘Excommunications, indulgences for Crusaders, the new campaign to eradicate the heresy, as they called it, might have continued much as before, were it not for the fact that there was a new Pope. Pope Grégoire IX. He was no longer prepared to wait. In 1233, he set up the Holy Inquisition under his direct control. Its task was to seek out and eradicate heretics, wherever and by whatever means. He chose the Dominicans, the Black Friars, as his agents.’
‘I thought the Inquisition came into being in Spain? You always hear of it in that context.’
‘A common mistake,’ he said. ‘No, the Inquisition was founded to extirpate the Cathars. The terror began. Inquisitors roamed from town to town as they pleased, accusing, denouncing and condemning. There were spies everywhere. There were exhumations, so corpses buried in holy ground could be burned as heretics. By comparing confessions and half confessions, the Inquisitors began to map the path of Catharism from village, to town, to city. The Pay d’Oc began to sink beneath a vicious tide of judicial murder. Good, honest people were condemned. Neighbour turned, in fear, against neighbour. Every major city had an Inquisitional Court, from Tolosa to Carcassona. Once condemned, the Inquisitors turned their victims over to the secular authorities to be imprisoned, beaten, mutilated or burned. They kept their hands clean. Few were acquitted. Even those who were released were forced to wear a yellow cross on their clothing to brand them as heretics.’
Alice had a flicker of memory. Of running through the woods to escape the hunters. Of falling. Of a fragment of material, the colour of an autumn leaf, floating away from her into the air.
Did I dream it?
Alice looked into Audric’s face and saw such distress written there that it turned her heart over.
‘In May 1234, the Inquisitors arrived in the town of Limoux. By ill fate, Alaïs had travelled there with Rixende. In the confusion – perhaps they were mistaken for parfaites, two women travelling together — they were arrested also and taken to Tolosa.’
This is what I have been dreading.
‘They did not give their true names, so it was several days before Sajhë heard what had happened. He followed straight away, not caring for his own safety. Even then, luck was not on his side. The Inquisitional hearings were mostly held in the cathedral of Sant-Sernin, so he went there to find her. Alaïs and Rixende, however, had been taken to the cloisters of Sant-Etienne.’
Alice caught her breath, remembering the ghost-woman as she was dragged away by the black-robed monks.
‘I have been there,’ she managed to say.
‘Conditions were terrible. Dirty, brutal, demeaning. Prisoners were kept without light, without warmth, with only the screams of other prisoners to distinguish night from day. Many died within the walls awaiting trial.’
Alice tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry.
‘Did she . . .’ she stopped, unable to go on.
‘The human spirit can withstand much, but once broken, it crumbles like dust. That is what the Inquisitors did. They broke our spirit, as surely as the torturers split skin and bone, until we no longer knew who we were.’
‘Tell me,’ she said quickly.
‘Sajhë was too late,’ he said in a level voice. ‘But Guilhem was not. He had heard that a healer, a mountain woman, had been brought from the mountains for interrogation and, somehow, he guessed it was Alaïs, even though her name did not appear on the register. He bribed the guards to let him through — bribed or threatened, I know not. He found Alaïs. She and Rixende were being held separately from everyone else, which gave him the chance he needed to smuggle her away from Sant-Etienne and out of Tolosa before the Inquisitors realised she had gone.’
‘But. . .’
‘Alaïs always believed that it was Oriane who had ordered her to be imprisoned. Certainly, they did not interrogate her.’
Alice felt tears in her eyes. ‘Did Guilhem bring her back to the village?’ she said quickly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. ‘She did come home again?’
Baillard nodded. ‘Eventually. She returned in agost, shortly before the Feast Day of the Assumption, bringing Rixende with her.’ The words came out in a rush.’
‘Guilhem did not travel with them?’
‘He did not,’ he said. ‘Nor did they meet again until . . .’ He paused. Alice sensed, rather than heard, him draw in his breath. ‘Her daughter was born six months later. Alaïs called her Bertrande, in memory of her father Bertrand Pelletier.’
Audric’s words seemed to hang between them.
Another piece of the jigsaw.
‘Guilhem and Alaïs,’ she whispered to herself. In her mind’s eye she could see the Family Tree spread out on Grace’s bedroom floor in Sallèles d’Aude. The name ALAïS PELLETIER-DU MAS (1193-) picked out in red ink. When she had looked before she hadn’t been able to read the name next to it, only Sajhë’s name, written in green ink on the line below and to the side.
‘Alaïs and Guilhem,’ she said again.
A direct line of descent running from them to me.
Alice was desperate to know what had happened in those three months that Guilhem and Alaïs were together. Why had they parted again? She wanted to know why the labyrinth symbol appeared beside Alaïs’ name and Sajhë’s name.
And my own.
She looked up, excitement building inside her. She was on the verge of letting loose a stream of questions when the look on Audric’s face stopped her. Instinctively, she knew he had dwelt long enough on Guilhem.
‘What happened after that?’ she asked quietly. ‘Did Alaïs and her daughter stay in Los Seres with Sajhë and Harif?’
From the fleeting smile that appeared briefly on Audric’s face, Alice knew he was grateful for the change of subject.
‘She was a beautiful child,’ he said. ‘Good natured, fair, always laughing, singing. Everybody adored her, Harif in particular. Bertrande sat with him for hours listening to his stories about the Holy Land and about her grandfather, Bertrand Pelletier. As she grew older, she did errands for him. When she was six, he even started to teach her to play chess.’
Audric stopped. His face grew sombre again. ‘However, all the time the black hand of the Inquisition was spreading its reach. Having defeated the plains, the Crusaders finally turned their attention to the unconquered strong-holds of the Pyrenees and Sabarthès. Trencavel’s son, Raymond, returned from exile in 1240 with a contingent of chevaliers and was joined by most of the nobility of the Corbières. He had no trouble regaining most of the towns between Limoux and the Montagne Noire. The whole country was mobilised: Saissac, Azille, Laure, the châteaux of Quéribus, Peyrepertuse, Aguilar. But after nearly a month of fighting, he failed to retake Carcassona. In October, he pulled back to Montreal. No one came to his aid. In the end, he was forced to withdraw to Aragon.’
Audric paused. ‘The terror began immediately. Montréal was razed to the ground, Montolieu too. Limoux and Alet surrendered. It was clear to Alaïs, to us all, that the people would pay the price for the failure of the rebellion.’
Baillard suddenly stopped and looked up. ‘Have you been to Montségur, Madomaisèla Alice?’ She shook her head. ‘It is an extraordinary place. A sacred place perhaps. Even now, the spirits linger. It is hewn out of three sides of the mountain. God’s temple in the sky.’
‘The safe mountain,’ she said without thinking, then blushed to realise she was quoting Baillard’s own words back at him.
‘Many years earlier, before the beginning of the Crusade, the leaders of the Cathar church had asked the seigneur of Montségur, Raymond de Péreille, to rebuild the crumbling castellum and strengthen its fortifications. By 1243, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, in whose household Sajhë had trained, was in command of the garrison. Fearing for Bertrande and Harif, Alaïs felt they could no longer stay in Los Seres, so Sajhë offered his service and they joined the exodus to Montségur.’
Audric nodded. ‘But they became visible when they travelled. Perhaps they should have separated. Alaïs’ name was now on an Inquisitional list.’
‘Was Alaïs a Cathar?’ she asked suddenly, realising that, even now, she was not sure.
He paused. ‘The Cathars believed that the world we can see, hear, smell, taste and touch was created by the Devil. They believed the Devil had tricked pure spirits into fleeing God’s kingdom and imprisoned them in tunics of flesh here on Earth. They believed if they lived a good enough life and “made a good end” their souls would be released from bondage and return to God in the glory of Heaven. If not, within four days they would be reincarnated on Earth to start the cycle anew.’
Alice remembered the words in Grace’s bible.
‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is Spirit.’
Audric nodded. What you must understand is that the Bons Homes were loved by the people they served. They didn’t charge for officiating at marriages, naming children or burying the dead. They extracted no taxes, demanded no tithes. There’s a story of a parfait coming across a farmer kneeling in the corner of his field: “What are you doing?” he asked the man. “Giving thanks to God for bringing forth this fine crop,” the farmer replied. The parfait smiled and helped the man to his feet: “This isn’t God’s work, but your own. For it was your hand that dug the soil in the spring, who tended it”.’ He raised his eyes to Alice. ‘You understand?’
‘I think so,’ she said tentatively. ‘They believed individuals had control over their own lives.’
‘Within the constraints and limitations of the times and place in which we were born, yes.’
‘But did Alaïs subscribe to this way of thinking?’ she persisted.
‘Alaïs was like them. She helped people, put the needs of others before her own. She did what she thought was right, regardless of what tradition or custom dictated.’ He smiled. ‘Like them she believed there would be no last judgement. She believed that the evil she saw around her could not be of God’s making, but, in the end, no. She was not. Alaïs was a woman who believed in the world she could touch and see.’
What about Sajhë?’
Audric did not answer directly. ‘Although the term Cathar is in common usage now, in Alaïs’ time believers called themselves Bons Homes. The Inquisitional Latin texts refer to them as albigenses or heretici.’
‘So where does the term Cathar come from?’
‘Ah, well, we cannot let the victors write our stories for us,’ he said. ‘It is a term that I and others . . .’ He stopped, smiling, as if sharing a joke with himself. ‘There are many different explanations. Perhaps that the word catar in Occitan – cathare in French – came from the Greek katharos, meaning pure. Who can say what was intended?’
Alice frowned, realising she was missing something, but didn’t know what.
‘Well, what of the religion itself then? Where did that originate? Not France originally?’
‘The origins of European Catharism lie in Bogomilism, a dualist faith that flourished in Bulgaria, Macedonia and Dalmatia from the tenth century onwards. It was linked with older religious beliefs — such as Zoroastrianism in Persia or Manicheism. They believed in reincarnation.’
An idea started to take shape in her mind. The link between everything Audric was telling her and what she already knew.
Wait and it will find you. Be patient.
‘In the Palais des Arts in Lyon,’ he continued, ‘there is a manuscript copy of a Cathar text of St John’s Gospel, one of very few documents to escape destruction by the Inquisition. It is written in the langue d’Oc, possession of which in those days was considered a heretical, punishable act. Of all the texts sacred to the Bons Homes, the Gospel of John was the most important. It is the one which lays most stress on personal, individual enlightenment through knowledge – gnosis. Bons Homes refused to worship idols, crosses or altars – carved from the rocks and trees of the Devil’s base creation – they held the word of God in the very highest esteem.’
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
‘Reincarnation,’ she said slowly, thinking aloud. ‘How could this possibly be reconciled with orthodox Christian theology?’
‘Central to the Christian covenant is the gift of everlasting life to those who believe in Christ and are redeemed through his sacrifice on the Cross. Reincarnation is also a form of eternal life.’
The labyrinth. The path to eternal life.
Audric stood up and walked over to the open window. As Alice stared at Baillard’s thin, upright back, she sensed a determination in him that had not been there before.
‘Tell me, Madomaisèla Tanner,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘Do you believe in destiny? Or is it the path we choose to follow that makes us who we are?’
‘I — ’ she started, then stopped. She was no longer sure what she thought. Here in the timeless mountains, high up in the clouds, the everyday world and values did not seem to matter. ‘I believe in my dreams,’ she said in the end.
‘Do you believe you can change your destiny?’ he said, seeking an answer.
Alice found herself nodding. ‘Otherwise, what’s the point? If we are simply walking a path preordained, then all the experiences that make us who we are — love, grief, joy, learning, changing – would count for nothing.’
‘And you would not stop another from making his own choices?’
‘It would depend on the circumstances,’ she said slowly, nervous now. Why?’
‘I ask you to remember it,’ he said softly. ‘That is all. When the time comes, I ask you to remember this. Si es atal es atal.’
His words stirred something in her. Alice was sure she had heard them before. She shook her head, but the memory refused to come.
‘Things will be as they will be,’ he said softly.
6
CHAPTER 70
‘Monsieur Baillard, I — ’
Audric held up his hand. ‘Benlèu,’ he said, walking back to the table and picking up the threads of the story as if there had been no interruption. ‘I will tell you everything you need to know, I give you my word of that.’
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
‘It was crowded in the citadel,’ he said, ‘but for all that, it was a happy time. For the first time in many years, Alaïs felt safe. Bertrande, now nearly ten years old, was popular with the many children who lived in and around the fortress. Harif, although old and frail, was also in good spirits. He had plenty of company: Bertrande to charm him, parfaits to argue with about the nature of God and the world. Sajhë was there at her side for much of the time. Alaïs was happy.’
Alice closed her eyes and let the past come to life in her mind.
‘It was a good existence and might have continued so but for one, reckless act of vengeance. On the twenty-eighth of May I242, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix received word that four Inquisitors had arrived in the town of Avignonet. The result would be more parfaits and credentes imprisoned or sent to the stake. He decided to act. Against the advice of his sergeants, including Sajhë, he assembled a troop of eighty-five knights from the Montségur garrison, their numbers swelled by others who joined en route.
‘They walked fifty miles to Avignonet, arriving the following day. Shortly after the Inquisitor Guillaume Arnaud and his three colleagues had gone to bed, someone within the house opened the locked door and admitted them. The doors to their bedrooms were smashed open and the four Inquisitors and their entourage were hacked to death. Seven different chevaliers claimed to have struck the first blows. It is said that Guillaume Arnaud died with the Te Deum on his lips. What is certain is that his Inquisitorial records were carried away and destroyed.’
‘That was a good thing, surely.’
‘It was the final act of provocation. The massacre brought a swift response. The King decreed that Montségur was to be destroyed, once and for all. An army comprised of northern barons, Catholic inquisitors and mercenaries and collaborators set camp at the foot of the mountain. The siege started, but yet men and women from the Citadel still came and went as they pleased. After five months, the garrison had lost only three men and it seemed the siege would fail.
‘The Crusaders hired a platoon of Basque mercenaries, who clambered up and pitched camp a stone’s throw from the castle walls just as the bitter mountain winter was setting in. There was no imminent danger, but Pierre-Roger decided to withdraw his men from the outworks on the vulnerable eastern side. It was a costly mistake. Armed with information from local collaborators, the mercenaries succeeded in scaling the vertiginous slope on the southeastern side of the mountain. Knifing the sentinels, they took possession of the Roc de la Tour, a spike of stone rising up on the easternmost point of the summit ridge of Montségur. They could only watch, helpless, as the catapults and mangomels were winched up to the Roc. At the same time, on the eastern side of the mountain, a powerful trébuchet started to inflict damage on the eastern barbican.
‘At Christmas 1243, the French took the barbican. Now they were within only a few dozen yards of the fortress. They installed a new siege engine. The southern and eastern walls of the citadel were both within range.’
He was turning the ring round and round on his thumb as he talked.
Alice watched and, as she did so, the memory of another man, turning such a ring as he told her stories, floated into her mind.
‘For the first time,’ Audric continued, ‘they had to face the possibility that Montségur would fall.
‘In the valley below, the standards and banners of the Catholic Church and the fleur-de-lys of the French King – although tattered and faded after ten months of first heat, then rain, then snow – were still flying. The Crusader army, led by the Seneschal of Carcassona, Hugues des Arcis, numbered between six and ten thousand. Inside were no more than a hundred fighting men.
‘Alaïs wanted to . . .’ he stopped. ‘A meeting was held with the leaders of the Cathar church, Bishop Bertrand Marty and Raymond Aiguilher.’
‘The Cathar treasure. That’s true, then? It existed?’
Baillard nodded. ‘Two credentes, Matheus and Peter Bonnet, were chosen for the task. Wrapped up against the bitter cold of the new year, they strapped the treasure to their backs and stole away out of the castle under cover of night. They avoided the sentries posted on the passable roads that led down from the mountain through the village, and made their way south into the Sabarthès Mountains.’
Alice’s eyes flared wide. ‘To the Pic de Soularac.’
Again, he nodded. ‘From there, to be taken on by others. The passes to Aragon and Navarre were snow-bound. Instead they headed for the ports and from there sailed to Lombardy in northern Italy, where there was a thriving, less persecuted community of Bons Homes.’
What of the Bonnet brothers?’
‘Matheus arrived back alone at the end of janvier. The sentries posted on the road this time were local men, from Camon sur l’Hers, near Mirepoix, and they let him pass. Matheus talked of reinforcements. How there were rumours that the new King of Aragon would come in the spring. But, they were brave words only. By now the siege was too tightly drawn for reinforcements to break through.’
Baillard raised his amber eyes and looked at Alice. We heard rumour too that Oriane was travelling south, accompanied by her son and husband, to provide reinforcements for the siege. This could only mean one thing. That after all the years of running and hiding, finally she had discovered that Alaïs was alive. She wanted the Book of Words.’
‘Surely Alaïs did not have it with her?’
Audric did not answer. ‘In mid-February, the attackers pushed forward yet again. On the first of March 1244, after a final attempt to dislodge the Basques from the Roc de la Tour, a single horn sounded on the ramparts of the ravaged stronghold.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Raymond de Péreille, the Seigneur of Montségur, and Pierre-Roger of Mirepoix, commander of the garrison, walked out of the Great Gate and surrendered to Hugues des Arcis. The battle was over. Montségur, the final stronghold, had fallen.’
Alice leaned back in her chair, wishing it had ended otherwise.
‘It had been a harsh and freezing winter on the rocky mountainside and in the valley below. Both sides were exhausted. Negotiations were short. The Act of Surrender was signed the following day by Peter Amiel, the Archbishop of Narbonne.
‘The terms were generous. Unprecedented, some would say. The fortress would become the property of the Catholic Church and the French crown, but every inhabitant of the fortress would be pardoned for his past crimes. Even the murderers of the Inquisitors at Avignonet were to receive pardon. The men-at-arms would be set free with only light penances, once their crimes had been confessed to the Inquisitorial registers. All those who abjured their heretical beliefs would be allowed to walk free, punished only by the obligation to wear a cross on their clothes.’
‘And those who would not?’ said Alice.
‘Those who would not recant were to be burned at the stake as heretics.’
Baillard took another sip of wine.
‘It was usual, at the conclusion of a siege, to seal a bargain by handing over hostages. They included Bishop Bertrand’s brother, Raymond, the old chevalier, Arnald-Roger de Mirepoix and Raymond de Péreille’s young son.’ Baillard paused. ‘What was not usual,’ he said carefully, ‘was the granting of a period of two weeks’ grace. The Cathar leadership asked to be allowed to stay within Montségur for two weeks before they came down from the mountain. The request was granted.’
Her heart started to beat faster. Why?’
Audric smiled. ‘Historians and theologians have argued for hundreds of years about why the Cathars requested this stay of execution. What needed to be done that had not already been done? The treasure was safe. What was so important as to make the Cathars stay in that damaged and cold mountain fortress a little longer, after all they had suffered already?’
‘And why did they?’
‘Because Alaïs was with them,’ he said. ‘She needed time. Oriane and her men were waiting for her at the foot of the mountain. Harif was within the Citadel, Sajhë also, and her daughter. It was too great a risk. If they were captured, the sacrifices made by Simeon and her father and Esclarmonde to safeguard the secret would have been for nothing.’
At last, every part of the jigsaw was in place and Alice could see the full picture, clear and vivid and bright, even though she could hardly believe it was true.
Alice looked out of the window at the unchanging, enduring landscape. It was much as it had been in the days when Alaïs lived here. The same sun, the same rain, the same skies.
‘Tell me the truth of the Grail,’ she said quietly.
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.
7
8
CHAPTER 73
Sabarthès Mountains
FRIDAY 8 JULY 2005
The stench brought him to his senses. A mixture of ammonia, goat droppings, unwashed bedding and cold, cooked meat. It stuck in his throat and made the inside of his nose burn, like smelling salts held too close.
Will was lying on a rough cot, not much more than a bench, fixed to the wall of the hut. He manoeuvred himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the stone wall. The sharp edges stuck into his arms, which were still tied behind his back.
He felt he’d done four rounds in the boxing ring. He was bruised from head to toe where he’d been thrown against the side of the boot on the journey. His temple was throbbing where François-Baptiste had struck him with the gun. He could feel the bruise beneath the skin, hard and angry, and the blood around the wound.
He didn’t know what time it was or what day it was. Friday still?
It had been dawn when they left Chartres, maybe as early as five o’clock. When they had got him out of the car it had been afternoon, hot and the sun still bright. He twisted his neck to try to see his watch, but the movement made him feel sick.
Will waited until the nausea had passed. Then he opened his eyes and tried to get his bearings. He appeared to be in some sort of shepherd’s hut. There were bars on the small window, no bigger than the size of a book. In the far corner there was a built-in shelf, like some sort of table, and a stool. In the grate alongside there were the remains of a long-dead fire, grey ash and black shavings of wood or paper. A heavy metal cooking pot hung on a stick across the fireplace. Will could see cold fat coagulated around the rim.
Will let himself fall back on the hard mattress, feeling the rough blanket on his battered skin, and wondered where Alice was now.
Outside, there was the sound of footsteps, then a key in a padlock. Will heard the metallic chink of chain being dropped on the ground, then the arthritic creak of the door being pulled open and a voice he half-recognised.
‘C’est l‘heure.’ Time to go.
Shelagh was conscious of the air on her bare arms and legs and the sensation of being moved from one place to another.
She identified Paul Authié’s voice somewhere in the murmur of sound as she was transported from the farmhouse. Then the distinctive feeling of underground air on her skin, chill and slightly damp, the ground sloping down. Both the men who had held her captive were there. She’d got accustomed to the smell of them. Aftershave, cheap cigarettes, a threatening maleness that made her muscles contract.
They had tied her legs again and her arms behind her back, pulling at the bones in her shoulders. One eye was swollen shut. The combination of lack of food and light and the drugs they gave her to keep her quiet meant that her head was spinning, but she knew where she was.
Authié had brought her back to the cave. She felt the change in atmosphere as they emerged from the tunnel into the chamber, felt the tension in his legs as he carried her down the steps to the sunken area where she’d found Alice unconscious on the ground.
Shelagh registered that there was a light burning somewhere, on the altar perhaps. The man carrying her stopped. They had walked right to the back of the chamber, past the limits she’d gone before. He swung her down off his shoulders, a dead weight, and dropped her. She sensed pain in her side as she hit the ground, but could no longer feel anything.
She didn’t understand why he hadn’t killed her already.
He had his hands under her arms now and was dragging her along the ground. Grit, stones, sharp fragments of rock, cut into the soles of her feet and her exposed ankles. She was aware of the sensation of her bound hands being tied to something metal and cold, a ring or hoop sunk into the ground.
Assuming she was still unconscious, the men were talking in low voices.
‘How many charges have you set?’
‘Four.’
‘To go off at what time?’
‘Just after ten. He’s going to do it himself.’ Shelagh could hear the smile in the man’s voice. ‘Get his hands dirty for once. One press of the button and boom! The whole lot will go.’
‘I still can’t see why we had to drag her all the way up here,’ he complained. ‘Much easier to leave the bitch at the farm.’
‘He doesn’t want her identified. In a few hours’ time, half this mountain’s going to come down. She’ll be buried under half a tonne of rock.’
Finally, fear gave Shelagh the strength to fight. She pulled against her bonds and tried to stand, but she was too weak and her legs wouldn’t hold her. She thought she heard a laugh as she sank back down to the ground, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t certain now what was real and what was only happening inside her head.
‘Aren’t we supposed to stay with her?’
The other man laughed. ‘What’s she going to do? Get up and walk out of here? I mean, Christ! Look at her!’
The light started to fade.
Shelagh heard the men’s footsteps getting fainter and fainter, until there was nothing but silence and darkness.
CHAPTER 74
‘I want to know the truth,’ Alice repeated. ‘I want to know how the labyrinth and the Grail are connected. If they are connected.’
‘The truth of the Grail,’ he said. He fixed her with a look. ‘Tell me, Madomaisèla, what do you know about the Grail?’
‘The usual sort of stuff, I suppose,’ she said, assuming he didn’t really want her to answer seriously.
‘No, truly. I am interested to hear what you have discovered.’
Alice shifted awkwardly in her chair. ‘I suppose I held to the standard idea that it was a chalice which contained within it an elixir that gave the gift of everlasting life.’
Alice broke off and looked self-consciously at Baillard.
‘A gift?’ he asked, shaking his head. ‘No, not a gift.’ He sighed. ‘And where do you think these stories come from in the first place?’
‘The Bible, I suppose. Or possibly the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps from some other early Christian writing, I’m not sure. I’ve never really thought about it in those terms before.’
Audric nodded. ‘It is a common misconception. In fact, the first versions of the story you talk about originate from the twelfth century, although there are obvious similarities with themes in classical and Celtic literature. And in medieval France in particular.’
The memory of the map she’d found at the library in Toulouse suddenly came into her mind.
‘Like the labyrinth.’
He smiled, but said nothing. ‘In the last quarter of the twelfth century lived a poet called Chrétien de Troyes. His first patron was Marie, one of the daughters of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was married to the Count of Champagne. After she died in 1181, one of Marie’s cousins, Philip of Alsace, Count of Flanders, became his patron.
‘Chrétien was immensely popular in his day. He’d made his reputation translating classic stories from Latin and Greek, before he turned his skill to composing a sequence of chivalric stories about the knights you will know as Lancelot, Gawain and Perceval. These allegorical writings gave birth to a tide of stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.’ He paused. ‘The Perceval story – Li contes delgraal-is the earliest extant narrative of the Holy Grail.’
‘But . . .’ Alice started to protest. She frowned. ‘Surely he can’t have made the story up? Not something like that. It can’t have appeared out of thin air.’
Again, the same half-smile appeared on Audric’s face.
When challenged to name his source, Chrétien claimed that he had acquired the story of the Grail from a book given to him by his patron, Philip. Indeed, it is to Philip that the story of the Grail is dedicated. Sadly, Philip died at the siege of Acre in 1191 during the Third Crusade. As a result, the poem was never finished.’
What happened to Chrétien?’
‘There is no record of him after Philip’s death. He just disappeared.’
‘Isn’t that odd, if he was so famous?’
‘It is possible his death went unrecorded,’ said Baillard slowly.
Alice looked sharply at him. ‘But you don’t think so?’
Audric did not answer. ‘Despite Chrétien’s decision not to complete his story, all the same, the story of the Holy Grail took on a life of its own. There were direct adaptations from Old French into Middle Dutch and Old Welsh. A few years later, another poet, Wolfram von Eschenbach, wrote a rather burlesque version, Parzival, around the year 1200. He claimed he was not following Chrétien’s version but another story by an unknown author.’
Alice was thinking hard. ‘How does Chrétien actually describe the Grail?’
‘He is vague. He presents it as some sort of dish, rather than a chalice, like the medieval Latin gradalis, from which comes the Old French gradal or graal. Eschenbach is more explicit. His Grail — grâl — is a stone.’
‘So where does the idea come from that the Holy Grail is the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper?’
Audric pressed his fingers together. ‘Another writer, a man called Robert de Boron. He wrote a verse poem, Joseph d’Arimathie,some time between Chrétien’s Perceval and 1199. De Boron not only has the Grail as a vessel – the chalice of the Last Supper, which he refers to as the san greal — but he also fills it with the blood taken from the Cross. In modern French the sang réal, the “true” or “royal” blood.’
He stopped and looked up at Alice.
‘For the guardians of the Labyrinth Trilogy, this linguistic confusion — san greal and sang réal — was a convenient concealment.’
‘But the Holy Grail is a myth,’ she said stubbornly. ‘It cannot be true.’
‘The Holy Grail is a myth, certainly,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘An attractive fable. If you look closely, you will see that all these stories are embellishments of the same theme. The medieval Christian concept of sacrifice and quest, leading to redemption and salvation. The Holy Grail, in Christian terms, was spiritual, a symbolic representation of eternal life rather than something to be taken as a literal truth. That through the sacrifice of Christ and the grace of God, humankind would live forever.’ He smiled. ‘But that such a thing as the Grail exists is beyond doubt. That is the truth contained within the pages of the Labyrinth Trilogy. It is this that the Grail guardians, the Noublesso de los Seres, gave their lives for to keep secret.’
Alice was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘You’re saying that the Grail is not a Christian concept at all. That all these myths and legends are built on a . . . a misunderstanding.’
‘A subterfuge rather than a misunderstanding.’
‘But for two thousand years the debate has been about the existence of the Holy Grail. If now it is revealed not only that such a thing as the Grail legends are true but . . .’ Alice broke off. She found it hard to believe what she was saying. ‘It is not a Christian relic at all, I can’t even begin to imagine . . .’
‘The Grail is an elixir that has the power both to heal and significantly prolong life. But for a purpose. It was discovered some four thousand years ago in Ancient Egypt. And those who developed it and became aware of its power realised that the secret had to be kept safe from those who would use it for their own benefit as opposed to the benefit of others. The sacred knowledge was recorded in hieroglyphs on three separate sheets of papyrus. One gave the precise layout of the Grail chamber, the labyrinth itself; one listed the ingredients required for the elixir to be prepared; the third the incantation to effect the transformation of the elixir into the Grail. They buried them in the caves outside the ancient city of Avaris.’
‘Egypt,’ she said quickly. ‘When I was doing some research, trying to understand what I had seen here, I noticed how often Egypt came up.’
Audric nodded. ‘The papyri are written in classical hieroglyphs – the word itself means “God’s words” or “divine speech”. As the great civilisation of Egypt fell into dust and decay, the ability to read the hieroglyphs was lost. The knowledge contained in the papyri was preserved, handed down from guardian to guardian, over the generations. The ability to speak the incantation or summon the Grail was lost.
‘This turn of events was without design, but it, in turn, added an additional layer of secrecy,’ he continued. ‘In the ninth century of the Christian era, an Arab alchemist, Abu Bakr Ahmad Ibn Wahshiyah, decoded the secret of the hieroglyphs. Fortunately, Harif, the Navigatairé, became aware of the danger and was able to confound his attempts to share his knowledge. In those days, centres of learning were few and communication between peoples slow and unreliable. After that, the papyri were smuggled to Jerusalem and concealed there within underground chambers on the Plains of Sepal.
‘From the 800s to the 1800s, no one made significant progress in deciphering hieroglyphs. No one. Their meaning was only elucidated when Napoleon’s scientific and military expedition to North Africa in 1799 uncovered a detailed inscription in the sacred language of hieroglyphs, in everyday demotic Egyptian of the time and Ancient Greek. You have heard of the Rosetta Stone?’
Alice nodded.
‘From that point, we feared it was only a matter of time. A Frenchman, Jean-François Champollion, became obsessed with breaking the code. In 1822, he succeeded. The wonders of the ancients, their magic, their spells, everything from funerary inscriptions to the Book of the Dead, all suddenly could be read.’ He paused. ‘Now, the fact that two books of the Labyrinth Trilogy were in the hands of those who would misuse it became a cause for fear and concern.’
His words fell like a warning. Alice shivered. She suddenly realised the day had faded. Outside, the rays of the setting sun had painted the mountains red and gold and orange.
‘If the knowledge was so devastating, if used for ill rather than good, then why did Alaïs or the other guardians not destroy the books when they had the chance?’ she asked.
She felt Audric grow still. Alice realised she had hit to the heart of his experience, of the story he was telling, even though she didn’t understand how.
‘If they had not been needed, then yes. Perhaps that might have been a solution.’
‘Needed? Needed in what way?’
‘That the Grail bestows life, the guardians have always known. You called it a gift and,’ he caught his breath, ‘I understand that some might see it so. Others might see it with different eyes.’ Audric stopped. He reached for his glass and took several mouthfuls of wine, before putting it back on the table with a heavy hand. ‘But it is life given for a purpose.’
‘What purpose?’ she said quickly, fearful he would stop.
‘Many times in the past four thousand years, when the need to bear witness has been strong, the power of the Grail has been summoned. The great, long-lived patriarchs of the Christian Bible, the Talmud, the Koran are familiar to us. Adam, Jacob, Moses, Mohammad, Methuselah. Prophets whose work could not be accomplished in the usual span allotted to men. They each lived for hundreds of years.’
‘But these are parables,’ protested Alice. ‘Allegories.’
Audric shook his head. ‘They survived for centuries precisely so that they could speak of what they had witnessed, bear testimony to the truth of their times. Harif, who persuaded Abu Bakr to conceal his work revealing the language of Ancient Egypt, lived to see the fall of Montségur.’
‘But that’s five hundred years.’
‘They lived,’ Audric repeated simply. ‘Think of the life of a butterfly, Alice. An entire existence, so brilliant, but lasting just one human day. An entire lifetime. Time has many meanings.’
Alice pushed her chair back and walked away from the table, no longer knowing what she felt, what she could believe.
She turned. ‘The labyrinth symbol I saw on the wall of the cave, on the ring you wear – this is the symbol of the true Grail?’
He nodded.
‘And Alaïs? She knew this?’
‘At first, like you, she was doubtful. She did not believe in the truth contained within the pages of the Trilogy, but she fought to protect them out of love for her father.’
‘She believed Harif was more than five hundred years old?’ she persisted, no longer trying to keep the scepticism out of her voice.
‘Not at first, no,’ he admitted. ‘But over time, she came to see the truth. And when her time came, she found she was able to speak the words, understand the words.’
Alice came back to the table and sat down. ‘But why France? Why were the papyri brought here at all? Why not leave them where they were?’
Audric smiled. ‘Harif took the papyri to the Holy City in the tenth century of the Christian era and had them hidden near the Plains of Sepal. For nearly a hundred years, they were safe, until the armies of Saladin advanced on Jerusalem. He chose one of the guardians, a young Christian chevalier called Bertrand Pelletier, to carry the papyri to France.’
Alaïs’s father.
Alice realised she was smiling, as if she had just heard news of an old friend.
‘Harif realised two things,’ Audric continued. ‘First, that the papyri would be safer kept within the pages of a book, less vulnerable. Second, that because rumours of the Grail were starting to circulate through the courts of Europe, how better to hide the truth than beneath a layer of myth and fable.’
‘The stories of the Cathars possessing the Cup of Christ,’ said Alice, suddenly understanding.
Baillard nodded. ‘The followers of Jesus the Nazarene did not expect him to die on the Cross, yet he did. His death and resurrection helped give birth to stories of a sacred cup or chalice, a grail that gave everlasting life. How these were interpreted at the time, I cannot say, but what is certain is that the crucifixion of the Nazarene gave birth to a wave of persecution. Many fled the Holy Land, including Joseph of Arimathea and Mary Magdalene, who sailed for France. They brought with them, it is said, knowledge of an ancient secret.’
‘The Grail papyri?’
‘Or treasure, jewels taken from the Temple of Solomon. Or the cup that Jesus the Nazarene had drunk from at the Last Supper in which his blood had been gathered as he hung upon the Cross. Or parchments, writings, evidence that Christ had not died crucified but yet lived, hidden in the mountains of the desert for a hundred years and more with a small elect band of believers.’
Alice stared dumbstruck at Audric, but his face was a closed book and she could read nothing in it.
‘That Christ did not die on the Cross,’ she repeated, hardly able to believe what she was saying.
‘Or other stories,’ he said slowly. ‘Some claimed that it was at Narbonne, rather than Marseilles, that Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea had landed. For centuries it has been common belief that something of great value was hidden somewhere in the Pyrenees.’
‘So it was not the Cathars who possessed the secret of the Grail,’ she said, putting the pieces together in her mind, ‘but Alaïs. They gave her sanctuary.’
A secret hidden behind a secret. Alice sat back in her chair, running back over the sequence of events in her mind.
‘And now the labyrinth cave has been opened.’
‘For the first time in nearly eight hundred years, the books can be brought together once more,’ he said. ‘And although you, Alice, do not know if you should trust me or dismiss what I say as the delusional ramblings of an old man, there are others who do not doubt.’
Alaïs believed in the truth of the Grail.
Deep inside, beyond the limits of her conscious thought, Alice knew he spoke the truth. It was her rational self that found it hard to accept.
‘Marie-Cécile,’ she said heavily.
‘Tonight, Madame de l’Oradore will go to the labyrinth cave and attempt to summon the Grail.’
Alice felt a wave of apprehension sweep over her.
‘But she can’t,’ she said quickly. ‘She doesn’t have the Book of Words. She doesn’t have the ring.’
‘I fear she realises the Book of Words must still be within the chamber.’
‘Is it?’
‘I do not know for sure.’
‘And the ring? She doesn’t have that either.’ She dropped her eyes to his thin hands laid flat on the table.
‘She knows I will come.’
‘But, that’s crazy,’ she exploded. ‘How can you even contemplate going anywhere near her?’
‘Tonight she will attempt to summon the Grail,’ he said in his low, level voice. ‘Because of that, they know I will come. I cannot let that happen.’
Alice banged her hands on the table. What about Will? What about Shelagh? Don’t you care about them? It won’t help them if you are taken as well.’
‘It is because I care about them – about you, Alice – that I will go. I believe Marie-Cécile intends to force them to participate in the ceremony. There must be five participants, the Navigatairé and four others.’
‘Marie-Cécile, her son, Will, Shelagh and Authié?’
‘No, not Authié. Another.’
‘Then who?’
He avoided the question. ‘I do not know where Shelagh or Will are now,’ he said, as if thinking aloud, ‘but I believe we will find they are taken to the cave at nightfall.’
Who, Audric?’ Alice repeated, firmer this time.
Again, he did not answer. He rose to his feet, walked to the window and closed the shutters, before turning to face her. We should go.’
Alice was frustrated, nervous, bewildered, and most of all frightened. And yet, at the same time, she felt she had no choice.
She thought of Alaïs’ name on the Family Tree, separated by eight hundred years from her own. She pictured the symbol of the labyrinth, connecting them across time and space.
Two stories woven into one.
Alice picked up her belongings and followed Audric out into the remains of the fading day.
9
CHAPTER 75
Montségur
MARÇ 1244
In their hiding place beneath the citadel, Alaïs and her three companions tried to blot out the agonised sound of the torture. But the shouts of pain and the horror penetrated even the thick rock of the mountain. The cries both of the dying and the survivors slid like monsters into her refuge.
Alaïs prayed for Rixende’s soul and for its return to God, for all her friends, good men and women, for the pity of it. All she could hope was that her plan had worked.
Only time would tell if Oriane had been deceived into thinking Alaïs and the Book of Words had been consumed by the fires.
So great a risk.
Alaïs, Harif and their guides were to remain in their stone tomb until nightfall and the evacuation of the citadel was completed. Then, under cover of darkness, the four fugitives would make their way down the precipitous mountain paths and head for Los Seres. If their luck held, she would be home by dusk tomorrow.
They were in clear breach of the terms of the truce and surrender. If they were caught, retribution would be swift and brutal, Alaïs had no doubt. The cave was barely more than a fold in the rock, shallow and close to the surface. If soldiers searched the citadel thoroughly, they were sure to be discovered.
Alaïs bit her lip at the thought of her daughter. In the darkness, she felt Harif reach for her hand. His skin was dry and dusty, like the desert sands.
‘Bertrande is strong,’ he said, as if he knew what distressed her. ‘She is like you, è? Her courage will hold. Soon, you will be together again. It’s not long to wait.’
‘But she’s so young, Harif, too young to witness such things. She must be so frightened . . .’
‘She is brave, Alaïs. Sajhë too. They will not fail us.’
If I knew you were right . . .
In the dark, her heart wracked with doubt and fear of what was to come, Alaïs sat dry-eyed, waiting for the day to pass. The anticipation, not knowing what was happening up above, was almost more than she could bear. The thought of Bertrande’s pale, white face continued to haunt her.
And the screaming of the Bons Homes as the fire took them went on in her head for a long time after the last victim had fallen silent.
A huge cloud of acrid black smoke was hovering like a storm cloud over the valley, blotting out the day.
Sajhë held Bertrande’s hand tightly as they walked through the Great Gate and out of the castle that had been their home for nearly two years. He’d locked his pain deep inside his heart, in a place where the Inquisitors could not reach it. He would not grieve for Rixende now. He could not fear for Alaïs now. He must concentrate on protecting Bertrande and seeing them both safely returned to Los Seres.
The Inquisitors’ tables were ready at the bottom of the slopes. The process was to start immediately, in the shadow of the pyre. Sajhë recognised Inquisitor Ferrier, a man loathed throughout the region for his rigid adherence to both the spirit and the letter of ecclesiastical law. He slipped his eyes to the right where Ferrier’s partner stood. Inquisitor Duranti was no less feared.
He held Bertrande’s hand tighter.
When they got on to the flatter ground, Sajhë realised they were dividing the prisoners up. Old men, members of the garrison and boys were being sent one way, the women and children another. He felt a flash of fear. Bertrande was going to have to face the Inquisitors without him.
She sensed the change in him and looked up, frightened, into his face. What’s happening? What are they going to do to us?’
‘Brava, they are interrogating the men and the women separately,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. Answer their questions. Be brave and stay exactly where you are until I come for you. Don’t go anywhere, with anyone else, you understand? No one else at all.’
‘What will they ask me?’ she said in a small voice.
‘Your name, your age,’ Sajhë replied, going over the details she was to hold in her mind one more time. ‘I’m known as a member of the garrison, but there is no reason for them to associate us together. When they ask you, say you do not know your father. Give Rixende as your mother and tell them you have lived all your life here at Mont-segur. Whatever happens, do not mention Los Seres. Can you remember all this?’
Bertrande nodded.
‘Good girl.’ Then, trying to reassure her, he added: ‘My grandmother used to give me messages to take for her when I was no older than you are now. She used to make me repeat them back several times until she was sure I was word perfect.’
Bertrande gave a thin smile. ‘Mamà says your memory is terrible. Like a sieve, she says.’
‘She’s right,’ he said, then grew serious again. ‘They might also ask you some questions about the Bons Homes and what they believe. Answer as honestly as you can. That way, you are less likely to contradict yourself. There’s nothing you can tell them they won’t already have heard from someone else.’ He hesitated and added one last reminder. ‘Remember. Do not mention Alaïs or Harif at all.’
Bertrande’s eyes filled with tears. ‘What if the soldiers search the citadel and find her?’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘What will they do if they find them?’
‘They won’t,’ he replied quickly. ‘Remember, Bertrande. When the Inquisitors have finished with you, stay exactly where you are. I will come and find you as soon as I can.’
Sajhë barely had time to finish his sentence when a guard jabbed him in the back and forced him further down the hill towards the village. Bertrande was sent in the opposite direction.
He was taken to a wooden pen, where he saw Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, the commander of the garrison. He had already been interrogated. It was a good sign to Sajhë’s mind, a courtesy. It suggested the terms of the surrender were being honoured and the garrison were being treated as prisoners of war, not criminals.
As he joined the crowd of soldiers waiting to be called forward, Sajhë slipped his stone ring from his thumb and concealed it beneath his clothes. He felt strangely naked without it. He had rarely removed it since Harif bestowed it upon him twenty years before.
The interrogations were taking place inside two separate tents. The friars were waiting with yellow crosses to attach to the backs of those who’d been found guilty of fraternising with heretics, and then the prisoners were taken to a secondary holding area beyond, like animals at a market.
It was clear they did not intend to release anyone until everybody, from the oldest to the youngest, had been questioned. The process could take days.
When Sajhë’s turn came, he was allowed to walk unaccompanied into the tent. He stopped before Inquisitor Ferrier and waited.
Ferrier’s waxen face expressed nothing. He demanded Sajhë’s name, his age, his rank and his home town. The goose quill scratched over the parchment.
‘Do you believe in Heaven and Hell?’ he said abruptly.
‘I do.’
‘Do you believe in Purgatory?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you believe the Son of God was made perfect Man?’
‘I’m a soldier, not a monk,’ he replied, keeping his eyes to the ground.
‘Do you believe a human soul has only one body in which, and with which, it will be resurrected?’
‘The priests say that it is so.’
‘Have you ever heard anyone say that swearing oaths is a sin? If so, who?’
This time, Sajhë raised his eyes. ‘I have not,’ he said defiantly.
‘Come now, sergeant. You’ve served in the garrison for more than a year and yet do not know that heretici refuse to swear oaths?’
‘I serve Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Inquisitor. I heed not the words of others.’
The interrogation continued for some time, but Sajhë stayed faithful to his role as a simple soldier, pleading ignorance of all matters of scripture and belief. He incriminated no one. Claimed to know nothing.
In the end, Inquisitor Ferrier had no choice but to let him go.
It was only late afternoon, but already the sun was setting. Dusk was creeping back into the valley, stealing the shape from things and covering everything with black shadows.
Sajhë was sent to join a group of other soldiers who had already been interrogated. Each of them had been given a blanket, a hunk of stale bread and a cup of wine. He could see such kindness had not been extended to the civilian prisoners.
As the day gathered to a close, Sajhë’s spirits fell further.
Not knowing if Bertrande’s ordeal was over — or even where in the vast camp she was being held – was eating away at his mind. The thought of Alaïs, waiting, watching the fading of the light, her anxiety growing as the hour of departure approached, filled him with apprehension, all the worse for being unable to do anything to help.
Restless and unable to settle, Sajhë got up to stretch. He could feel the damp and chill seeping into his bones and his legs were stiff from sitting still for so long.
‘Assis,’growled a guard, tapping him on the shoulder with his pike. He was about to obey, when he noticed movement higher up the mountain. There was a search party making its way towards the rocky outcrop where Alaïs, Harif and their guides were hidden. The flames from their torches flickered, throwing shadows against the bushes shivering in the wind.
Sajhë’s blood turned cold.
They had searched the castle earlier and found nothing. He had thought it was over. But it was clear they were intending to search the undergrowth and the labyrinth of paths that led around the base of the citadel. If they went much further in that direction, it would bring them to precisely the point where Alaïs would emerge. And it was almost dark.
Sajhë started to run towards the perimeter of the compound.
‘Hey!’ the guard shouted. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Arrête!’
Sajhë ignored him. Without thinking about the consequences, he vaulted the wooden fence and pounded up the slope, towards the search party. He could hear the guard calling for reinforcements. His only thought was to draw attention away from Alaïs.
The search party stopped and looked to see what was going on.
Sajhë shouted, needing to turn them from spectators to participants. One by one, they turned. He saw confusion in their faces turn to aggression. They were bored and cold, itching for a fight.
Sajhë had just enough time to realise his plan had worked as a fist was driven into his stomach. He gasped for breath and doubled over. Two of the soldiers held his arms behind him as the punches came at him from all directions. The hilts of their weapons, boots, fists, the onslaught was relentless. He felt the skin beneath his eye split. He could taste blood on his tongue and at the back of his throat as the blows continued to rain down.
Only now did he accept how seriously he’d misjudged the situation. He’d thought only of drawing attention away from Alaïs. An image of Bertrande’s pale face, waiting for him to come, slipped into his mind as a fist connected with his jaw and everything went black.
10
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.’
11
CHAPTER 77
Pic de Soularac
FRIDAY 8 JULY 2005
Audric and Alice climbed the mountain in silence.
Too much had been said for any more words to be needed. Audric was breathing heavily, but he kept his eyes trained on the ground at his feet and did not once falter.
‘It can’t be much further,’ she said, as much to herself as to him.
‘No.’
Five minutes later, Alice realised they had come at the site from the opposite side to the car park. The tents had all gone, but there was evidence of their recent occupancy with the brown, dried-out patches of ground and the odd random piece of rubbish. Alice noticed a trowel and a tent peg, which she picked up and put in her pocket.
They kept climbing, turning up to the left, until they arrived at the boulder Alice had dislodged. It was lying on its side below the entrance to the chamber, exactly where it had fallen. In the ghostly white light of the moon it looked like the head of a fallen idol.
Was it really only Monday?
Baillard stopped and leaned back against the boulder to catch his breath.
‘There’s not much further to go,’ she said, wanting to reassure him. ‘I’m sorry. I should have warned you it was so steep.’
Audric smiled. ‘I remember,’ he said. He took her hand. His skin felt tissue-thin. ‘When we get to the cave, you will wait until I say it is safe to come after me. You must promise me you will stay hidden.’
‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in alone,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Even if you’re right and they don’t come until after dark, you could get trapped. I wish you’d let me help you, Audric. If I come in with you, I can help you find the book. It will be quicker with two, easier. We can be in and out in minutes. Then we can both hide out here and see what happens.’
‘Forgive me, but it is better for us to separate.’
‘I really don’t see why, Audric. Nobody knows we’re here. We should be quite safe,’ she said, even though she felt far from it.
‘You are very brave, Madomaisèla,’ he said softly. ‘As she was. Alaïs always put the safety of others before her own. She sacrificed much for those she loved.’
‘No one’s sacrificing anything,’ Alice said sharply. Fear was making her nervous. ‘And I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me come earlier. We could have come to the chamber when it was still light and not run the risk of being caught.’
Baillard behaved as if she had not spoken.
‘You telephoned Inspector Noubel?’ he asked.
There is no point arguing. Not now.
‘Yes,’ she sighed heavily. ‘I said what you told me to say.’
‘Ben,’ he said softly. ‘I understand you think I am being unwise, Madomaisèla, but you will see. All must happen at the right time, in the right order. There will be no truth else.’
‘Truth?’ she repeated. ‘You’ve told me all there is to know, Audric. Everything. Now my only concern is to get Shelagh – and Will — out of here in one piece.’
‘Everything?’ he said softly. ‘Is such a thing possible?’
Audric turned and looked up at the entrance, a small black opening in the expanse of rock. ‘One truth may contradict another,’ he murmured. ‘Now is not then.’ He took her arm. ‘Shall we complete the last stage of our journey?’ he said.
Alice glanced quizzically at him, wondering at the mood that had overtaken him. He was calm, thoughtful. A kind of passive acceptance had descended over him, while she was very nervous, frightened at all the things that could go wrong, terrified Noubel would be too late, scared that Audric would turn out to be mistaken.
What if they’re already dead?
Alice pushed the thought from her mind. She couldn’t afford to think like that. She had to keep believing that everything was going to be all right.
At the entrance, Audric turned and smiled at her, his speckled amber eyes sparkling in anticipation.
‘What is it, Audric?’ she said quickly. ‘There’s something,’ she broke off, unable to find the word she wanted. ‘Something . . .’
‘I have been waiting a long time,’ he said softly.
‘Waiting? To find the Book?’
He shook his head. ‘For redemption,’ he said.
‘Redemption? But for what?’ Alice was astonished to realise she had tears in her eyes. She bit her lip to stop herself breaking down. ‘I don’t understand, Audric,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘Pas a pas se va luènh,’ he said. ‘You saw these words in the chamber carved at the top of the steps?’
Alice looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes, but how did — ’
He held out his hand for the torch. ‘I must go in.’
Battling her conflicting emotions, Alice handed it to him without another word. She watched him walk down the tunnel, waiting until the last pinprick of light had disappeared, before turning away.
The cry of an owl nearby made her jump. The slightest sound seemed magnified a hundred times over. There was malignancy in the darkness. The trees looming around her, the awesome shadow of the mountain itself, the way the rocks seemed to be taking on unfamiliar, threatening shapes. In the distance she thought she heard the sound of a car on a road somewhere down in the valley.
Then the silence came surging back.
Alice glanced at her watch. It was nine-forty.
At a quarter to ten, two powerful car headlights swept into the car park at the foot of the Pic de Soularac.
Paul Authié killed the engine and got out. He was surprised to find François-Baptiste wasn’t there waiting for him. Authié glanced up in the direction of the cave with a sudden flash of alarm that they might already be in the chamber.
He dismissed the thought. His nerves were starting to get to him. Braissart and Domingo had been there until an hour ago. If Marie-Cécile or her son had turned up, he’d have heard about it.
His hand went to the control box in his pocket, set to detonate the explosives and already counting down. There was nothing he had to do. Just wait. And watch.
Authié felt for the cross around his neck and started to pray.
A sound in the woods that bordered the car park caught his attention. Authié opened his eyes. He could see nothing. He went back to the car and turned the headlamps on full beam. The trees leaped out of the darkness at him, stripped of colour.
He shielded his eyes and looked again. This time, he detected movement in the dense undergrowth.
‘François-Baptiste?’
No one answered. Authié could feel the short hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. We haven’t got the time for this,’ he shouted into the darkness, injecting a tone of irritation into his voice. ‘If you want the Book and the ring, come out here where I can see you.’
Authié started to wonder if he’d misjudged the situation.
‘I’m waiting,’ he called out.
This time, he heard something. He suppressed a smile as a figure started to take shape among the trees.
Where’s O‘Donnell?’
Authié nearly laughed at the sight of François-Baptiste walking towards him, wearing a jacket several sizes too large for him. He looked pathetic.
‘You’re alone?’ he said.
‘None of your fucking business,’ he said, coming to a halt on the edge of the woods. Where’s Shelagh O‘Donnell?’
Authié jerked his head in the direction of the cave. ‘She’s already up there waiting for you, François-Baptiste. Thought I’d save you the bother.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t think she’ll give you any trouble.’
What about the Book?’
‘In there too.’ He shot the cuffs on his shirt. ‘The ring as well. All delivered as promised. On time.’
François-Baptiste gave a sharp laugh. ‘Gift-wrapped too, I suppose,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You don’t expect me to believe you’ve just left them up there?’
Authié looked at him with contempt. ‘My task was to retrieve the Book and the ring, which is what I’ve done. I’ve also returned your – what shall we call her – your spy, at the same time. Call it philanthropy on my part.’ He narrowed his eyes. What Madame de l‘Oradore chooses to do with her is her business.’
Doubt flickered across the boy’s face.
‘All out of the goodness of your heart?’
‘For the Noublesso Véritable,’ Authié said mildly. ‘Or have you not yet been invited to join? I imagine being merely her son makes no difference. Go and have a look. Or is your mother already up there getting ready?’
François-Baptiste darted a glance at him.
‘Did you think she hadn’t told me?’ Authié took a step towards him. ‘Do you think I don’t know what she does?’ He could feel the anger rising in him. ‘Have you seen her, François-Baptiste? Have you seen the ecstasy on her face when she speaks those obscene words, those blasphemous words? It’s an offence against God!’
‘Don’t you dare talk about her like that!’ he said, his hand moving to his pocket.
Authié laughed. ‘That’s right. Ring her. She’ll tell you what to do. What to think. Don’t do anything without asking her first.’
He turned away and started to walk back to the car. He heard the release of the safety catch seconds before it registered what it was. In disbelief, Authié spun round. He was too slow. He heard the snap of the bullets, one, two in quick succession.
The first went wide. The second hit him in the thigh. The bullet went straight through, shattering the bone, and out the other side. Authié went down, screaming, as the shock of the pain went through him.
François-Baptiste was walking towards him, the gun held straight in front of him with both hands. Authié tried to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood behind him on the gravel, but the boy was upon him now.
For a moment, their eyes met. Then François-Baptiste fired again.
Alice jumped.
The sound of the shots cut through the still mountain air. It bounced off the rock and reverberated around her.
Her heart started to race. She couldn’t work out where the shots had come from. At home, she’d know it was only a farmer shooting rabbits or crows.
It didn’t sound like a shotgun.
She jumped down to the ground, as quietly as she could, and peered out into the darkness to where she thought the car park was. She heard a car door slam shut. Now, she could pick out the sound of human voices, words carried on the air.
What’s Audric doing in there?
They were a long way off, but she could sense their presence on the mountain. Alice heard the occasional sound of a pebble as their feet dislodged gravel and stones from the path. The crack of a twig.
Alice edged closer to the entrance, sending desperate glances towards the cave as if, by sheer force of will, she could conjure Audric out of the darkness.
Why doesn’t he come?
‘Audric?’ she hissed. ‘There’s someone coming. Audric?’
Nothing but silence. Alice peered into the darkness of the tunnel stretching out before her and felt her courage waver.
But you have to warn him.
Praying she’d not left it too late, Alice turned and ran down towards the labyrinth chamber.
12
CHAPTER 78
Los Seres
MARÇ 1244
Despite Sajhë’s injuries, they made good time, following the line of the river south from Montségur. They travelled light and rode hard, stopping only to rest and water the horses, using their swords to break the ice. Guilhem saw immediately that Sajhë’s skills exceeded his own.
He knew a little of Sajhë’s past, how he had carried messages from the parfaits to the isolated and far-flung villages of the Pyrenees and delivered intelligence to the rebel fighters. It was clear the younger man knew every passable valley and ridge, and every concealed track in the woods, gorges and the plains.
At the same time, Guilhem was aware of Sajhë’s fierce dislike, although he said nothing. It was like the burning sun beating down on the back of his neck. Guilhem knew Sajhë’s reputation as a loyal, brave and honourable man, ready to die fighting for what he believed in. Despite his animosity, Guilhem could see why Alaïs would love this man and have a child with him, even though the thought was like a knife through his heart.
Luck was with them. There was no new snowfall during the night. The following day, the nineteenth of March, was bright and clear, with few clouds and little wind.
Sajhë and Guilhem arrived in Los Seres at dusk. The village was nestled in a small, secluded valley and, despite the cold, there was the soft smell of spring in the air. The trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight green and white. The earliest spring flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks as they rode up the track that led to the small cluster of houses. The village seemed deserted, abandoned.
The two men dismounted and led their horses the final distance into the centre of the village. The sound of their iron shoes striking against the flint and stone of the hard earth echoed loudly in the silence. A few wisps of smoke floated carefully from one or two of the houses. Eyes peered suspiciously out through the slits and cracks of the shutters, then darted quickly away. French deserters were uncommon this high in the mountains, but not unheard of. Usually, they brought trouble.
Sajhë tethered his horse beside the well. Guilhem did likewise, then followed him as he walked through the centre of the village to a small dwelling. There were tiles missing from the roof and the shutters were in need of repair, but the walls were strong. Guilhem thought it wouldn’t take much to bring the house back to life.
Guilhem waited while Sajhë pushed the door. The wood, swollen by the damp and stiff from disuse, juddered on its hinges, then creaked open enough for Sajhë to get in.
Guilhem followed, feeling the damp, tomb-like air on his face, numbing his fingers. A mound of leaves and mulch was piled up against the wall opposite the door, clearly blown in by the winter winds. There were fingers of ice on the inside of the shutters and, like a ragged fringe, at the bottom of the sill.
The remains of a meal sat on the table. An old jug, plates, cups and a knife. There was a film of mould on the surface of the wine, like green weed on the surface of a pond. The benches were neatly tucked against the wall.
‘This is your home?’ Guilhem asked softly.
Sajhë nodded.
‘When did you leave?’
‘A year ago.’
In the centre of the room, a rusted cooking pot hung suspended over a pile of ash and charred wood that had long since burned itself out. Guilhem watched with pity as Sajhë leaned over and straightened the lid.
At the back of the house, there was a tattered curtain. He lifted it to reveal another table with two chairs set on either side. The wall was covered with rows of narrow, almost empty shelves. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars, covered in dust, were all that had been left behind. Above the shelf small hooks had been set into the low ceiling from which a few dusty bunches of herbs still hung. A petrified sprig of fleabane and another of blackberry leaves.
‘For her medicines,’ he said, taking Guilhem by surprise. He stood still, his hands folded in front of him, not wanting to interrupt Sajhë’s recollections.
‘Everybody came to her, men as well as women. When they were sick or their spirits were troubled, to keep their children healthy through the winter. Bertrande . . . Alaïs let her help with the preparations and deliver packages to the houses.’
Sajhë faltered, then fell silent. Guilhem was aware of the lump in his own throat. He too remembered the bottles and jars with which Alaïs had filled their chamber in the Château Comtal, the silent concentration with which she had worked.
Sajhë let the curtain drop from his hand. He tested the rungs of the ladder, then cautiously climbed to the upper platform. Here, rotten with mildew and soiled by animals, was a pile of old blankets and rotten straw, all that remained of where the family had slept. A single candlestick, with the remains of wax, stood beside the bedding, the tell-tale smoke marks spread like a stain up the wall behind it.
Guilhem couldn’t bear to witness Sajhë’s grief any longer and went outside to wait. He had no right to intrude.
Some time later, Sajhë reappeared. His eyes were red, but his hands were steady and he walked purposefully towards Guilhem, who was standing at the highest point of the village, looking to the west.
‘When does it grow light in the morning?’ he said as Sajhë drew level.
The two men were a similar height, although the lines on Guilhem’s face and the flecks of grey in his hair betrayed he was fifteen years closer to the grave.
‘The sun rises late in the mountains at this time of year.
Guilhem was silent for a moment. What do you want to do?’ he said, respecting Sajhë’s right to dictate things from here.
We must stable the horses, then find somewhere for ourselves to sleep. I doubt they will be here before morning.’
‘You don’t want . . .’ Guilhem started, looking towards the house.
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Not there. There’s a woman who will give us food and shelter for the night. Tomorrow, we should move further up the mountain and set up camp somewhere near the cave itself to wait for them.’
‘You think Oriane will bypass the village?’
‘She will guess where Alaïs has concealed the Book of Words. She’s had time enough to study the other two Books over these past thirty years.’
Guilhem glanced sideways at him. ‘Is she right? Is it still there in the cave?’
Sajhë ignored him. ‘I don’t understand how Oriane persuaded Bertrande to go with her,’ he said. ‘I told her not to leave without me. To wait until I came.’
Guilhem said nothing. There was nothing he could say to allay Sajhë’s fears. The younger man’s anger quickly burned itself out.
‘Do you think Oriane has brought the other two Books with her?’ he said suddenly.
Guilhem shook his head. ‘I imagine the Books are safe in her vaults somewhere in Evreux or Chartres. Why would she risk bringing them here?’
‘Did you love her?’
The question took Guilhem by surprise. ‘I desired her,’ he said slowly. ‘I was bewitched, flushed with my own importance, I . . .’
‘Not Oriane,’ Sajhë said abruptly, ‘Alaïs.’
Guilhem felt as if an iron band had fixed itself round his throat.
‘Alaïs,’ he whispered. For a moment, he stood locked in his memories, until the force of Sajhë’s intense gaze brought him back to the cold present.
‘After . . .’ he faltered. ‘After Carcassona fell, I saw her only once. For three months, she stayed with me. She had been taken by the Inquisitors, and — ’
‘I know,’ Sajhë shouted, then his voice seemed to collapse. ‘I know of it.’
Mystified by Sajhë’s reaction, Guilhem kept his eyes straight ahead. To his own surprise, he realised he was smiling.
‘Yes.’ The word slipped from between his lips. ‘I loved her more than the world. I just did not understand how precious a thing love is, how fragile until I had crushed it in my hands.’
‘It’s why you let her be. After Tolosa, and she returned here?’
Guilhem nodded. ‘After those weeks together, God knows it was hard to stay away. To see her, just once more . . . I had hoped, when this was all over, we might be . . . But, obviously, she found you. And now today . . .’
Guilhem’s voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes, making them smart in the cold. Beside him, he felt Sajhë shift. For a moment, there was a different quality to the atmosphere between them.
‘Forgive me. That I should break down before you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The bounty Oriane put on Alaïs’ head was substantial, tempting even for those who had no reason to wish her harm. I paid Oriane’s spies to pass false information. For nigh on thirty years it helped keep her safe.’
Guilhem stopped again, the image of the burning Book against the blackened red cloak slipping, like an unwelcome guest, into his mind.
‘I did not know her faith was so strong,’ he said. ‘Or that her desire to keep the Book of Words from Oriane would drive her to such steps.’
He looked at Sajhë, trying to read the truth written in his eyes.
‘I would that she had not chosen to die,’ he said simply. ‘For you, as the man she chose, and me, as the fool who had her love and lost it.’ He stumbled. ‘But most for the sake of your daughter. To know Alaïs — ’
‘Why are you helping us?’ Sajhë interrupted. Why did you come?’
‘To Montségur?’
Sajhë shook his head, impatient. ‘Not Montségur. Here. Now.’
‘Revenge,’ he said.
13
CHAPTER 79
Alaïs woke with a jolt, stiff and cold. A delicate purple light swept across the grey and green landscape at dawn. A gentle white mist tiptoed through the gulleys and crevices of the mountainside, silent and still.
She looked to Harif. He was sleeping peacefully, his fur-lined cloak drawn up to his ears. He’d found the day and night they had spent travelling hard.
The silence was heavy over the mountain. Despite the cold in her bones and her discomfort, Alaïs relished the solitude after the months of desperate overcrowding and confinement within Montségur. Careful not to disturb Harif, she stood up and stretched, then reached into one of the saddlebags to break off a piece of bread. It was as hard as wood. She poured herself a cup of thick red mountain wine, which was almost too cold to taste. She dipped the bread to soften it, then ate quickly, before preparing food for the others.
She hardly dared think about Bertrande and Sajhë and where they might be at this moment. Still in the camp? Together or apart?
The call of a screech owl returning from his night’s hunting split the air. She smiled, soothed by the familiar sounds. Animals rustled in the undergrowth, sudden flurries of claws and teeth. In the woodlands of the valleys lower down, wolves howled their presence. It served to remind her that the world went on the same, its cycles changing with the seasons, without her.
She roused the two guides and told them food was ready, then led the horses to the stream and broke the ice with the hilt of her sword so they could drink.
Then, when the light strengthened, she went to wake Harif. She whispered to him in his own language and put her hand gently on his arm. He often woke in distress these days.
Harif opened his hooded brown eyes, faded now with age.
‘Bertrande?’
‘It’s Alaïs,’ she said softly.
Harif blinked, confused to find himself on this grey mountainside. Alaïs imagined he had been dreaming of Jerusalem again, the curve and sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful, his travels across the endless sea of the desert.
In the years they had spent in one another’s company, Harif had told her of the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the food, the terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun. He had told her stories of how he had used the long years of his life. He had talked of the Prophet and the ancient city of Avaris, his first home. He had told her stories about her father in his youth, and the Noublesso.
As she looked down at him, his olive skin grey with age, his once black hair white, her heart ached. He was too old for this struggle. He had seen too much, witnessed too much, for it to finish so harshly.
Harif had left his last journey too late. And Alaïs knew, although he had never said so, that only thoughts of Los Seres and Bertrande gave him the strength to keep going.
‘Alaïs,’ he said quietly, adjusting to his surroundings. ‘Yes.’
‘It won’t be much longer,’ she said, helping him to his feet. We’re nearly home.’
Guilhem and Sajhë talked little as they sat huddled in the shelter of the mountain out of reach of the vicious claws of the wind.
Several times, Guilhem tried to initiate conversation, but Sajhë’s taciturn responses defeated him. In the end he gave up trying and withdrew into his own private world, as Sajhë had intended.
He was sick in conscience. He’d spent a lifetime first envying Guilhem, then hating him, and finally learning to forget about him. He had taken Guilhem’s place at Alaïs’ side, but never in her heart. She had remained constant to her first love. It had endured, despite absence and silence.
Sajhë knew of Guilhem’s courage, his fearless and long struggle to drive the Crusaders from the Pays d’Oc, but he did not want to find himself liking Guilhem, admiring him. Nor did he want to feel pity for him. He could see how he grieved for Alaïs. His face spoke of deep loss, regret. Sajhë could not bring himself to speak. But he hated himself for not doing so.
They waited all day, taking it in turns to sleep. Close to dusk a sudden flurry of crows took flight lower down the slopes, flying up into the air like ash from a dying fire. They wheeled and hovered and cawed, beating the chill air with their wings.
‘Someone’s coming,’ said Sajhë, immediately alert.
He peered out from behind the boulder, which was perched on the narrow ledge above the entrance to the cave, as if placed there by some giant hand.
He could see nothing, no movement lower down. Cautiously, Sajhë came out of his hiding place. Everything ached, everything was stiff, a combination of the after-effects of the beating and inactivity. His hands were numb, the raw knuckles red and cracked. His face was a mass of bruises and ragged skin.
Sajhë lowered himself over the rocky ledge and dropped to the ground. He landed badly. Pain shot up from his injured ankle.
‘Pass me my sword,’ he said, holding up his arm.
Guilhem handed him the weapon, then came down and joined him as he stood looking out over the valley.
There was a burst of distant voices. Then, faintly in the fading light, Sajhë saw a thin wraith of smoke winding up through the sparse cover of the trees.
He looked to the horizon, where the purple land and the darkening sky met.
‘They’re on the southeastern path,’ he said, ‘which means Oriane’s avoided the village altogether. From that direction, they won’t be able to come any further with the horses. The terrain is too rough. There are gulleys with sheer drops on both sides. They’ll have to continue on foot.’
The thought of Bertrande, so close by, was suddenly too much to bear.
‘I’m going down.’
‘No!’ Guilhem said quickly, then more quietly. ‘No. The risk is too great. If they see you, you’ll put Bertrande’s life in danger. We know Oriane will come to the cave. Here, we have the element of surprise. We must wait for her to come to us.’ He paused. ‘You must not blame yourself, friend. You could not have prevented this. You serve your daughter by holding fast to our plan.’
Sajhë shook Guilhem’s hand from his arm.
‘You don’t have any idea what I’m feeling,’ he said, his voice shaking with fury. ‘How dare you presume to know me?’
Guilhem put up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘She’s only a child.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Nine,’ he replied abruptly.
Guilhem frowned. ‘So old enough to understand,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘So even if Oriane did persuade her, rather than force her, to leave the camp, it’s likely by now Bertrande will realise something’s wrong. Did she know Oriane was in the camp? Does she even know she has an aunt?’
Sajhë nodded. ‘She knows Oriane is no friend to Alaïs. She would not have gone with her.’
‘Not if she knew who she was,’ agreed Guilhem. ‘But if she didn’t?’
Sajhë thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Even then, I can’t believe she would go with a stranger. We were clear that she had to wait for us — ’
He broke off, realising he had nearly given himself away, but Guilhem was following his own train of thought. Sajhë gave a sigh of relief.
‘I think we will be able to deal with the soldiers after we have rescued Bertrande,’ Guilhem said. ‘The more I think about it, the more likely I think it is that Oriane will leave her men in the camp and continue on alone with your daughter.’
Sajhë started to listen. ‘Go on.’
‘Oriane has waited more than thirty years for this. Concealment is as natural to her as breathing. I don’t think she’ll risk anybody else knowing the precise location of the cave. She would not want to share the secret and since she believes no one, except her son, knows she is here, she will not be expecting any opposition.’
Guilhem paused. ‘Oriane is — ’ He broke off. ‘To gain possession of the Labyrinth Trilogy Oriane has lied, murdered, betrayed her father and her sister. She has damned herself for the Books.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Her first husband, Jehan Congost, certainly, although it was not her hand that wielded the knife.’
‘François,’ murmured Sajhë, too soft for Guilhem to hear. A shaft of memory, the screaming, the desperate thrashing of the horse’s hooves as man and beast were sucked down into the boggy marsh.
‘And I’ve always believed she was responsible for the death of a woman very dear to Alaïs,’ Guilhem continued.
‘Her name is lost to me this far after the event, but she was a wise woman who lived in the Ciutat. She taught Alaïs everything, about medicines, healing, how to use nature’s gifts for good.’ He paused. ‘Alaïs loved her.’
It was obstinacy that had stopped Sajhë revealing his identity. It was obstinacy and jealousy that prevented him confiding anything of his life with Alaïs.
‘Esclarmonde did not die,’ he said, no longer able to dissemble. Guilhem went very still.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Does Alaïs know this?’
Sajhë nodded. ‘When she fled from the Château Comtal, it was to Esclarmonde – and her grandson – that Alaïs turned for help. She left — ’
The sound of Oriane’s sharp voice, authoritative and cold, interrupted the conversation. The two men, mountain fighters both, dropped down to the ground. Without a sound, they drew their swords and took up their positions close to the entrance of the cave. Sajhë concealed himself behind a section of rock slightly below the entrance, Guilhem behind a ring of hawthorn bushes, their spiked branches sharp and menacing in the dusk.
The voices were getting nearer. They could hear the soldiers’ boots, armour and buckles, as they clambered over the flint and stone of the rocky path.
Sajhë felt as if he was taking every step with Bertrande. Every moment stretched an eternity. The sound of the footsteps, the echo of the voices, repeating over and over again yet never appearing to get any closer.
Finally, two figures emerged from the cover of the trees. Oriane and Bertrande. As Guilhem had thought, they were alone. He could see Guilhem staring at him, warning him not to move yet, to wait until Oriane was in striking distance and they could get Bertrande safely away.
As they got closer, Sajhë clenched his fists to stop himself roaring out in anger. There was a cut on her cheek, red against her white frozen face. Oriane had tied a rope around Bertrande’s neck, which ran down her back to her hands bound at the wrists behind her waist. The other end was in Oriane’s left hand. In her right, she had a dagger, which she used to jab Bertrande in the back to keep her moving.
Bertrande was walking awkwardly and stumbled often. He narrowed his eyes and saw that, beneath her skirts, her ankles were tied together. The loose measure of rope between them allowed no more than a stride.
Sajhë forced himself to remain still, waiting, watching until they reached the clearing that lay directly beneath the cave.
‘You said it was beyond the trees.’
Bertrande murmured something too quiet for Sajhë to hear.
‘For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth,’ Oriane said.
‘It’s in there,’ Bertrande said. Her voice was steady, but Sajhë could hear the terror behind it and his heart contracted.
The plan was to ambush Oriane at the mouth of the cave. He was to concentrate on getting Bertrande out of Oriane’s reach, Guilhem on disarming Oriane before she had the chance to use the knife.
Sajhë looked at Guilhem who nodded, to let him know he was ready.
‘But you mustn’t go in,’ Bertrande was saying. ‘It’s a sacred place. No one but the Guardians can enter.’
‘Is that so,’ she jeered. ‘And who is going to stop me? You?’ A look of bitterness came down over her face. ‘You are so like her, it disgusts me,’ she said, jerking the rope around her neck so Bertrande cried out in pain. ‘Alaïs was always telling everyone what to do. Always thought herself better than everyone else.’
‘That’s not true,’ shouted Bertrande, brave despite the hopelessness of her situation. Sajhë willed her to stop. At the same time, he knew Alaïs would be proud of her courage. He was proud of her courage. She was so much her parents’ child.
Bertrande had started to cry. ‘It’s wrong. You mustn’t go in. It will not allow you to enter. The labyrinth will protect its secret, from you or anyone who seeks it wrongly.’
Oriane gave a short laugh. ‘They are just stories to frighten stupid little children like you.’
Bertrande held her ground. ‘I will not take you any further.’
Oriane raised her hand and struck her, sending her flying back against the rock. A red mist filled Sajhë’s head. In three or four strides he threw himself down upon Oriane, a visceral roar issuing from deep inside his chest.
Oriane reacted too quickly, pulling Bertrande to her feet and holding the knife to her throat.
‘How disappointing. I thought my son might have coped with so simple a matter. You were already captive – or so I was told – but no matter.’
Sajhë smiled at Bertrande, trying to reassure her despite the hopelessness of their situation.
‘Drop your sword,’ Oriane said calmly, ‘or I will kill her.’
‘I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Sajhë,’ Bertrande cried, ‘but she had your ring. She told me you’d sent her to fetch me.’
‘Not my ring, brava,’ Sajhë said. He let his sword fall. It fell with a heavy clatter on the hard ground.
‘That’s better. Now come out here where I can see you. That will do. Stop.’ She smiled. ‘All on your own?’
Sajhë said nothing. Oriane flattened the blade against Bertrande’s throat, and then nicked her skin beneath her ear. Bertrande cried out as a trail of blood trickled down her neck, like a red ribbon against her pale skin.
‘Let her go, Oriane. It’s not her you want, but me.’
At the sound of Alaïs’ voice, the mountain itself seemed to draw breath.
A spirit? Guilhem couldn’t tell.
He felt his breath had been sucked from his body, leaving him hollow and weightless. He did not dare move from his hiding place for fear of setting the apparition to flight. He looked at Bertrande, so like her mother, then down the slope to where Alaïs, if it was she, was standing.
A fur hood framed her face and her riding cloak, dirty from the journey, skimmed the white, hoary ground. Her hands, warm within leather gloves, were folded in front of her.
‘Let her go, Oriane.’
Her words broke the spell.
‘Mamà,’ cried Bertrande, desperately reaching out her arms.
‘It cannot be . . .’ Oriane said, narrowing her eyes. ‘You died. I saw you die.’
Sajhë lunged towards Oriane and tried to grab Bertrande, but he wasn’t quick enough.
‘Don’t come closer,’ she shouted, recovering herself. She dragged Bertrande back towards the mouth of the cave. ‘I swear, I’ll kill her.’
‘Mamà!’
Alaïs took another step forward. ‘Let her go, Oriane. Your quarrel is with me.’
‘There is no quarrel, sister. You have the Book of Words. I want it. C’est pas difficile.’
‘And once you have it?’
Guilhem was transfixed. He still dared not believe the evidence of his eyes, that this was Alaïs, as he had dreamed her in his imagination so often, in his waking hours and when he lay down to sleep.
A movement caught his attention, the glint of steel, of helmets. Guilhem peered. Two soldiers were creeping up behind Alaïs through the heavy scrub. Guilhem glanced to his left at the sound of a boot against the rock.
‘Seize them!’
The soldier nearest to Sajhë grabbed his arms and held him fast, as the others broke cover. Quick as lightning, Alaïs drew her sword and spun round, slicing the blade into the closest soldier’s side. He fell. The other soldier lunged at her. Sparks flew as the blades clashed, right, left.
Alaïs had the advantage of the higher ground, but she was smaller and weaker.
Guilhem leaped from his hiding place and ran towards her, just as she stumbled and lost her footing. The soldier lunged, stabbing the inside of her arm. Alaïs screamed and dropped the sword, clutching at the wound with her glove to staunch the blood.
‘Mamà!’
Guilhem launched himself the last few steps and thrust his sword into the soldier’s stomach. Blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes bulged with shock, then he fell.
He did not have time to draw breath.
‘Guilhem!’ Alaïs shouted. ‘At the rear.’
He spun round to see two more soldiers running up the slopes. With a roar, he withdrew his sword and charged at them. The blade sliced down through the air as he drove them back, striking randomly, mercilessly, first one, then the other.
He was the better swordsman, but he was outnumbered.
Sajhë was now bound and on his knees. One of the soldiers stayed guard, the point of his knife at Sajhë’s neck, as the other came to help subdue Guilhem. He came within striking distance of Alaïs. Although she was losing blood fast, she managed to draw a knife from her belt and with her remaining strength, drove it with force between her assailant’s legs. He screamed as the blade sank itself into the top of his thigh.
Blindsided with pain, he lashed out. Guilhem saw Alaïs fly back and hit her head against the rock. She tried to stand, but she was disorientated, and staggering, and her legs gave out. She sank to the ground, blood flowing from the cut on her head.
The dagger still embedded in his leg, the soldier lumbered towards Guilhem, like a bear in a baiting pit. Guilhem stepped back to get out of his way and skidded on the slippery ground, sending stones skeetering down the hillside. It gave the two others the opportunity they needed to jump him and pin him, face down, on the ground.
He felt his ribs snap as a boot connected with his side. He jerked in agony as they kicked him again. He could taste blood in his mouth.
There was no sound from Alaïs. She didn’t appear to be moving at all.
Then he heard Sajhë shout. Guilhem lifted his head just as the soldier struck Sajhë sideways with the flat of his sword, knocking him senseless.
Oriane had disappeared into the cave, taking Bertrande with her.
With a roar, Guilhem summoned every last bit of strength left in him, and hurled himself to his feet, sending one of the soldiers flying backwards down the hill. He grasped his sword and drove it into the throat of the one man left standing, as Alaïs staggered to her knees and stuck the other soldier in the back of the leg with his own knife. The howl of pain died in his throat.
Guilhem realised everything had fallen silent.
For a moment, he just stared at Alaïs. Even now, Guilhem was terrified to believe the evidence of his eyes for fear she would be taken away from him again. Then he held out his hand.
Guilhem felt her fingers entwine with his. He felt her skin, torn and battered, like his, cold like he was. Real.
‘I thought — ’
‘I know,’ she said quickly.
Guilhem didn’t want to let her go, but the thought of Bertrande called him back.
‘Sajhë’s hurt,’ he said, striding up the slope towards the entrance. ‘You help him. I’m going after Oriane.’
Alaïs bent down to check Sajhë, then immediately ran to catch him up.
‘He’s unconscious only,’ she said. ‘You stay. Tell him what’s happened. I have to find Bertrande.’
‘No, it’s what she wants. She’ll force you to reveal where you’ve concealed the Book, then she’ll kill you both. I’ve a better chance of bringing your daughter out alive without you, can’t you see?’
‘Our daughter,’ she said.
Guilhem heard the words, although he could make no sense of them. His heart started to race.
‘Alaïs, what — ?’ he started to say, but she had ducked under his arm and was already running down the tunnel into the darkness.
14
CHAPTER 80
Ariège
FRIDAY 8 JULY, 2005
‘They’ve gone to the cave,’ shouted Noubel, slamming down the receiver, ‘of all the stupid — ’
Who?’
‘Audric Baillard and Alice Tanner. They’ve taken it into their heads that Shelagh O’Donnell is being held at the Pic de Soularac and are on their way there. She said someone else was there too. An American, William Franklin.’
Who’s he?’
‘No idea,’ said Noubel, grabbing his jacket from the back of the door and lumbering out into the corridor.
Moureau followed him. Who was it on the phone?’
‘The front desk. They took the message from Dr Tanner at nine o’clock, apparently, but “didn’t think I’d want to be disturbed in the middle of an interrogation!” N‘importe quoi!’ Noubel mimicked the nasal voice of the night sergeant.
Both men automatically glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was ten-fifteen.
What about Braissart and Domingo?’ said Moureau, with a glance down the corridor to the interview rooms. Noubel’s hunch had been right. The two men had been arrested not far from Authié’s ex-wife’s farmhouse. They’d been heading south towards Andorra.
‘They can wait.’
Noubel threw open the door to the car park, sending it flying back against the fire escape. They hurried down the metal stairs to the tarmac.
‘Did you get anything out of them?’
‘Nothing,’ said Noubel, jerking open the car door, slinging his jacket on the back seat. He forced himself in behind the steering wheel. ‘Silent as the grave, the pair of them.’
‘More frightened of their boss than you,’ said Moureau, slamming his door. ‘Any word on Authié?’
‘Nothing. He went to Mass earlier in Carcassonne. No sign of him since then.’
‘The farmhouse?’ suggested Moureau, as the car jumped forward towards the main road. ‘Has the search team reported in yet?’
‘No.’
Noubel’s phone started to ring. Keeping his right hand on the wheel, he stretched into the back seat, releasing a smell of stale sweat from under his arms. He dropped the jacket in Moureau’s lap and made frantic gestures while Moureau fished through his pockets.
‘Noubel, oui?’
His foot slammed down on the brake, sending Moureau flying forward in his seat. ‘Putain! Why in the name of Christ am I only hearing about this now! Is anybody inside?’ He listened. When did it start?’ The line was bad and Moureau could hear the signal breaking. ‘No, no! Stay there. Keep me informed.’
Noubel tossed his phone on the dashboard, turned the siren on and accelerated towards the motorway.
‘The farm’s on fire,’ he said, putting his foot to the floor.
‘Arson?’
‘The nearest neighbour’s half a kilometre away. He claims to have heard a couple of loud explosions, then saw the flames and called the firefighters. By the time they’d arrived, the fire had already taken hold.’
‘Is there anybody in there?’ said Moureau anxiously.
‘They don’t know,’ he said grimly.
Shelagh was drifting in and out of consciousness.
She had no idea how long it had been since the men had gone. One by one her senses were shutting down. She was no longer aware of her physical surroundings. Arms, legs, body, head, she felt as if she was floating, weightless. She wasn’t aware of heat or of cold, nor the stones and dirt beneath her. She was cocooned in her own world. Safe. Free.
She wasn’t alone. Faces floated into her mind, people from the past and present, a procession of silent images.
The light seemed to be growing stronger again. Somewhere, just out of her line of vision, there was a juddering white beam of light, sending dancing shadows running up the walls and across the rocky roof of the cave. Like a kaleidoscope, the colours were shifting and changing shape before her eyes.
She thought she could see a man. Very old. She felt his cold, dry hands on her brow, skin as dry as tracing paper. His voice telling her it was going to be all right. That she was safe now.
Now Shelagh could hear other voices, whispering in her head, murmuring, speaking softly, caressing her.
She felt black wings at her shoulder, cradling her tenderly, like a child. Calling her home.
Then, spoiling it, another voice.
‘Turn round.’
Will realised the roaring was inside his head, the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears, thick and heavy. The sound of the bullets reverberating again and again in his memory.
He swallowed hard and tried to catch his breath. The pungent smell of the leather in his nose and mouth was too strong. It turned his stomach.
How many shots had he heard? Two? Three?
His two bodyguards got out. Will could hear them talking, arguing with François-Baptiste perhaps. Slowly, careful not to draw attention, he levered himself up a little on the back seat of the car. In the light of the headlights, he could see François-Baptiste standing over Authié’s dead body, arm hanging by his side, the gun still in his hand. It looked as if someone had thrown a can of red paint over the door and bonnet of Authié’s car. Blood, tissue and shards of bone. What remained of Authié’s skull.
The nausea rose in his throat. Will swallowed again. Forced himself to keep looking. François-Baptiste started to bend down, hesitated, then quickly turned back instead.
Even though the repeated doses of the drug had left his arms and legs unresponsive, Will felt his body stiffen. He dropped back on the seat, grateful at least they hadn’t put him back in the claustrophobic box in the boot of the car.
The door closest to his head was jerked open and Will felt the familiar calloused hands on his arms and neck, dragging him across the seat and dropping him on to the ground.
The night air was cool on his face and bare legs. The robe they’d dressed him in was long and wide, although tied at the waist. Will felt self-conscious, vulnerable. And terrified.
He could see Authié’s body lying motionless on the gravel. Next to it, tucked behind the front wheel of the car, he could see a tiny red light blinking on and off.
‘Portez-le jusqu’à la grotte.’ François-Baptiste’s voice drew Will back. ‘Vous nous attendez dehors. En face de l‘ouverture.’ He paused. ‘Il est dix-heures moins cinq maintenant. Nous allons rentrer dans quarante, peut-être cinquante minutes.’
Nearly ten o’clock. He let his head hang as the man took hold beneath his arms. As they started to drag him up the slope towards the cave, he wondered if he’d still be alive at eleven.
‘Turn round,’ Marie-Cécile repeated.
A harsh, arrogant voice, Audric thought. He stroked his hand once more across Shelagh’s head, and then slowly he drew himself to his full height. His relief at finding her alive had been short-lived. She was in a very bad condition. Without medical help soon, Audric feared she would die.
‘Leave the torch there,’ Marie-Cécile ordered him. ‘Come down here where I can see you.’
Slowly, Audric turned round and stepped down from behind the altar.
She was holding an oil lamp in one hand, a pistol in the other. His first thought was how alike they were. The same green eyes, the black hair curling around the beautiful, austere face. With the gold headdress and necklace, the amulets circling her upper arms and her lean, tall body encased in the white robe, she looked like an Egyptian princess.
‘You have come alone, Dame?’
‘I hardly think it necessary to be accompanied everywhere I go, Monsieur, besides . . .’
He dropped his eyes to the gun. ‘You do not think I will trouble you,’ he nodded. ‘I am old, after all, oc?’ Then he added: ‘But also you do not want anyone else to hear.’
A suggestion of a smile crossed her lips. ‘Strength lies in secrecy.’
‘The man who taught you that is dead, Dame.’
Pain sparked in her eyes. ‘You knew my grandfather?’
‘I knew of him,’ he replied.
‘He taught me well. Never confide in anyone. Never trust anyone.’
‘A lonely way to live, Dame.’
‘I do not find it so.’
She had moved round, circling him like an animal stalking its prey, until she had her back to the altar and he was standing in the centre of the chamber, near a dip in the ground.
The grave, he thought. The grave where the bodies were found.
Where is she?’ Marie-Cécile demanded.
He did not answer. ‘You are much like your grandfather. In character, your features, your persistence. Also, like him, you are misguided.’
Anger flickered across her face. ‘My grandfather was a great man. He honoured the Grail. He devoted his life to the quest to find the Book of Words, the better to understand.’
‘Understand, Dame? Or exploit?’
‘You don’t know anything about him.’
‘Ah, but I do,’ he said softly. ‘People do not change so very much.’ He hesitated. ‘And he was so close, was he not?’ he continued, dropping his voice even further. ‘A few kilometres further to the west and it would have been him who found the cave. Not you.’
‘It makes no difference now,’ she said fiercely. ‘It belongs to us.’
‘The Grail belongs to no one. It is not something that can be owned or manipulated or bargained with.’
Audric stopped. In the light of the oil lamp burning on the altar he looked straight into her eyes.
‘It would not have saved him,’ he said.
From across the chamber, he heard her draw her breath.
‘The elixir heals and extends life. It would have kept him alive.’
‘It would have done nothing to save him from the illness stripping the flesh from his bones, Dame, any more than it will give you what you desire.’ He paused. ‘The Grail will not come for you.’
She took a step towards him. ‘You hope it will not, Baillard, but you’re not sure. For all your knowledge, all your research, you do not know what will happen.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘This is your chance, Baillard. After all your years of writing, studying, wondering. Like me, you have devoted your lifetime to this. You want to see this done as much as I do.’
‘And if I refuse to cooperate?’
She gave a sharp laugh. ‘Come now. You hardly need to ask. My son will kill her, you know that. How he does so — and how long it takes – is up to you.’
Despite the precautions he’d taken, a shiver ran down his spine. Provided Alice stayed where she was, as she had promised, there was no need for alarm. She was safe. It would be over before she realised what was happening.
Memories of Alaïs — Bertrande too – rushed unbidden into his mind. Their impetuous nature, their reluctance to ever obey an order, their foolhardy courage.
Was Alice made of the same metal?
‘Everything is ready,’ she said. ‘The Book of Potions and the Book of Numbers are here. So if you will just give me the ring and tell me where the Book of Words is concealed . . .’
Audric forced himself to concentrate on Marie-Cécile, not Alice.
Why are you certain it is still in the chamber?’
She smiled. ‘Because you are here, Baillard. Why else would you come? You want to see the ceremony performed, just once before you die. You will put on the robe,’ she shouted, suddenly impatient. She gestured with the gun to the piece of white material sitting at the top of the steps. He shook his head and, for a fraction of a second, he saw doubt in her face. ‘Then you will get me the Book.’
He noticed that three small, metal rings had been sunk into the floor of the lower section of the chamber. And he remembered that it was Alice who discovered the skeletons in the shallow grave.
He smiled. Soon, he would have the answers he sought.
‘Audric,’ Alice whispered, feeling her way down the tunnel.
Why doesn’t he answer?
She felt the ground sloping down beneath her feet as before. It seemed further this time.
Ahead, in the chamber, she could see a faint glow of yellow light.
‘Audric,’ she called again, her fears growing.
She walked faster, covering the last few metres at a run, until she burst into the chamber and then stopped dead.
This cannot be happening.
Audric was standing at the foot of the steps. He was wearing a long white robe.
I remember this.
Alice shook the memory from her head. Audric’s hands were tied in front of him and he was tethered to the ground, like an animal. On the far side of the chamber, lit by an oil lamp flickering on the altar, was Marie-Cécile de l’Oradore.
‘That’s far enough, I think,’ she said.
Audric turned, regret and sorrow in his eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, realising she had ruined everything. ‘But I had to warn you . . .’
Before Alice had realised what was happening, someone had grabbed her from behind. She screamed and kicked out, but there were two of them.
It happened like this before.
Then someone called her name. Not Audric.
A wave of nausea swept over her and she started to fall.
‘Catch her, you idiots,’ Marie-Cécile shouted.
15
CHAPTER 81
Pic de Soularac
MARÇ 1244
Guilhem couldn’t catch Alaïs. She was already too far ahead.
He staggered down the tunnel in the dark. Pain pierced his side where his ribs were cracked, stopping him breathing easily. Alaïs’ words reeling in his head and fear hardening in his chest kept him going.
The air seemed to be getting colder, chill, as if the life was being sucked out of the cave. He didn’t understand. If this was a sacred place, the labyrinth cave, why did he feel in the presence of such malevolence?
Guilhem found himself standing on a natural stone platform. A couple of wide, shallow steps directly in front led down to an area where the ground was flat and smooth. A calèlh was burning on a stone altar, giving a little light.
The two sisters were standing facing one another, Oriane still holding the knife to Bertrande’s throat. Alaïs was completely still.
Guilhem ducked down, praying Oriane had not seen him. As quietly as he could, he started to edge around the wall, hidden in the shadows, until he was close enough to hear and see what was happening.
Oriane tossed something down on the ground in front of Alaïs.
‘Take it,’ she shouted. ‘Open the labyrinth. I know the Book of Words is concealed here.’
Guilhem saw Alaïs’ eyes widen in surprise.
‘Did you never read the Book of Numbers? You astound me, sister. The explanation is there for the key.’
Alaïs hesitated.
‘The ring, with the merel inserted in it, unlocks the chamber within the heart of the labyrinth.’
Oriane jerked Bertrande’s head back, so the skin on her neck was pulled tight. The blade glinted in the light.
‘Do it now, sister.’
Bertrande cried out. The noise seemed to run right through Guilhem’s head like a knife. He looked at Alaïs, frowning, her bad arm hanging uselessly at her side.
‘Let her go first,’ she said.
Oriane shook her head. Her hair had come unbound and her eyes were wild, obsessive. Holding Alaïs’ gaze, slowly, with deliberation, she made a small incision on Bertrande’s neck.
Bertrande cried again as blood began to trickle down her neck.
‘The next cut will be deeper,’ Oriane said, her voice shaking with hatred. ‘Get the Book.’
Alaïs bent down and picked up the ring, then walked to the labyrinth. Oriane followed, dragging Bertrande with her. Alaïs could hear her daughter’s breath coming faster and faster and she was losing consciousness, staggering with her feet still tied.
For a moment, she stood, her thoughts spiralling back in time to the moment when first she had seen Harif perform the same task.
Alaïs pressed her left hand on the rough stone labyrinth. Pain shot up her damaged arm. She needed no candle to see the outline of the Egyptian symbol of life, the ankh as Harif had taught her to call it. Then, shielding her actions from Oriane with her back, she inserted the ring into a small opening at the base of the central circle of the labyrinth, directly in front of her face. For Bertrande’s sake, she prayed it would work. Nothing had been spoken; nothing had been prepared as it should have been. The circumstances could not be more different from the only other time she had stood as a supplicant before the labyrinth of stone.
‘Di ankh djet,’ she murmured. The ancient words felt as ashes in her mouth. There was a sharp click, like a key in a lock. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, from deep in the wall, there was the noise of something shifting, stone against stone. Then Alaïs moved and, in the half-light, Guilhem saw that a compartment had been revealed at the very centre of the labyrinth. A book lay inside.
‘Pass it to me,’ ordered Oriane. ‘Put it there, on the altar.’
Alaïs did as she was told, never taking her eyes from her sister’s face.
‘Let her go now. You don’t need her any more.’
‘Open it,’ shouted Oriane. ‘I want to make sure you’re not deceiving me.’
Guilhem edged closer. Shimmering in gold on the first page was a symbol he had never seen before. An oval, more like a tear in shape, set atop a kind of cross, like a shepherd’s crook.
‘Keep going,’ said Oriane. ‘I want to see it all.’
Alaïs’ hands were shaking as she turned the pages. Guilhem could see a mixture of strange drawings and lines, row after row of tightly drawn symbols covering the entire sheet.
‘Take it, Oriane,’ said Alaïs, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘Take the book and give me back my daughter.’
Guilhem saw the blade glint. He realised what was going to happen the instant before it did, that Oriane’s jealousy and bitterness would lead her to destroy everything Alaïs loved or valued.
He threw himself at Oriane, knocking her sideways. He felt his cracked ribs give and he nearly passed out with the pain, but he’d done enough to force her to loosen her hold on Bertrande.
The knife dropped from her hand and skidded away out of sight, in the shadows behind the altar. Bertrande was thrown forward in the collision. She screamed, and banged her head on the corner of the altar. Then, she was still.
‘Guilhem, take Bertrande,’ Alaïs screamed at him. ‘She’s hurt, Sajhë’s hurt. Help them. There’s a man called Harif waiting in the village. He will help you.’
Guilhem hesitated.
‘Please, Guilhem. Save her!’
Her last words were lost as Oriane staggered to her feet, the knife in her hand, and launched herself at Alaïs. The blade sliced into her already damaged arm.
Guilhem felt as if his heart was being ripped in two. He didn’t want to leave Alaïs to face Oriane alone, but he could see Bertrande lying white and still on the ground.
‘Please, Guilhem. Go!’
With a last backward glance at Alaïs, he picked up their daughter in his wounded arms, and ran, trying not to see the blood pouring from the cut. He realised it was what Alaïs wanted him to do.
As he staggered clumsily across the chamber, Guilhem heard a rumbling sound, like thunder trapped in the hills. He stumbled, assumed it was his legs unable to hold him. He moved forward again, clearing the top of the steps and going back into the tunnel. He slipped on the loose stones, his legs and arms burning with pain. Then he realised the ground was moving, shaking. The earth beneath his feet was trembling.
His strength was almost gone. Bertrande was motionless in his arms and seemed heavier with every step he took. The noise was getting louder as he plunged on. Chunks of rock and dust began to fall from the roof, plummeting down around him.
Now he could feel the cold air coming to meet him. A few more steps and he had emerged into the grey dusk.
Guilhem ran to where Sajhë lay unconscious, but breathing steadily.
Bertrande was deathly white, but she was starting to whimper and stir in his arms. He laid her down on the ground beside Sajhë, then ran to each of the dead soldiers in turn and ripped their cloaks from their backs to make a covering. Then he tore his own cloak from his neck, sending his silver and copper buckle flying into the dirt. He folded it beneath Bertrande’s head for a pillow.
He paused to kiss his daughter on the forehead.
‘Filha,’ he murmured. It was the first, and the last, kiss he would ever give her.
There was an enormous crack from within the cave, like lightning after thunder. Guilhem ran back into the tunnel. The noise was overwhelming in the confined space.
He realised there was something hurtling out of the darkness towards him.
‘A spirit . . . a face,’ Oriane was gibbering, her eyes crazed with fear. ‘A face in the centre of the labyrinth.’
Where is she?’ he shouted, grabbing her arm. What have you done to Alaïs?’
Oriane was covered in blood, her hands, her clothes.
‘Faces in the . . . the labyrinth.’
Oriane screamed again. Guilhem spun round to see what was behind him, but could see nothing. In that moment, Oriane plunged the knife into his chest.
He knew she had dealt him a mortal blow. Instantly, he felt death taking possession of his limbs. He watched her running from him through clouds, his eyes darkening. He felt revenge die in him too. It no longer mattered.
Oriane ran out into the grey light of the passing day, while Guilhem stumbled blind down into the chamber, desperate to find Alaïs in the chaos of rock and stone and dust.
He found her lying in a small depression in the ground, her fingers wound round the bag that had held the Book of Words, the ring clutched in her hand.
‘Mon cor,’ he whispered.
Her eyes flickered open at the sound of his voice. She smiled and Guilhem felt his heart turn over.
‘Bertrande?’
‘She’s safe.’
‘Sajhë?’
‘He will live too.’
She caught her breath. ‘Oriane . . .’
‘I let her go. She’s badly hurt. She will not get far.’
The final flame in the lamp, still burning on the altar, guttered and died. Alaïs and Guilhem did not notice as they lay in one another’s arms. They were not aware of the darkness or the peace that descended over the chamber. They knew nothing but each other.
16
CHAPTER 82
Pic de Soularac
FRIDAY 8 JULY 2005
The thin robe provided little protection from the damp chill of the chamber. Alice shivered as she slowly turned her head.
To her right was the altar. The only light came from an old-fashioned oil lamp, standing in its centre, sending shadows running up the sloping walls. It was enough to see the symbol of the labyrinth on the rock behind, large and imposing in the confined space.
She sensed there were other people nearby. Alice looked down to her right and nearly cried out loud as she caught her first sight of Shelagh. She was lying curled up on the stone floor like an animal, thin, lifeless, defeated, the evidence of her mistreatment on her skin. Alice couldn’t see whether or not she was breathing.
Please God let her still be alive.
Alice slowly became accustomed to the flickering light. She turned her head slightly and saw Audric in the same place as before. He was still tethered by the rope to a ring set in the floor. His white hair formed a kind of halo around his head. He was as still as a statue carved on a tomb.
As if he could sense her eyes on him, he caught her eye, and smiled.
Forgetting for a moment that he must be angry with her for charging in when she’d promised to stay outside, she gave a weak smile.
Just like Shelagh said.
Then she realised something was different about him. She lowered her eyes to Audric’s hands, fanned out against the white of the robe.
The ring is missing.
‘Shelagh’s here,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘You were right.’
He nodded.
We have to do something,’ she hissed.
He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and glanced to the far side of the chamber. She followed his gaze.
‘Will!’ she whispered in disbelief. Relief rushed through her, and something else, followed by pity for the state of him. His hair was matted with dried blood, one of his eyes was swollen and she could see cuts on his face, his hands.
But he’s here. With me.
At the sound of her voice, Will opened his eyes. He peered into the darkness. Then, as he saw her, recognised her, a half-smile came to his battered lips.
For a moment, they stared at each other, holding one another’s gaze.
Mon cor. My love. The realisation gave her courage.
The mournful howl of the wind in the tunnel intensified, mixed now with the murmur of a voice. A monotonous chant, not quite singing. Alice couldn’t work out where it was coming from. Fragments of oddly familiar words and phrases echoed through the cave until the air was saturated with the sound: montanhas, mountains; Noblesa, nobility; libres, books; graal, grail. Alice started to feel dizzy, intoxicated by the words that clamoured like the bells of a cathedral in her head.
Just as she thought she could take no more, the chanting stopped. Quickly, quietly, the melody faded away, leaving nothing but a memory.
A single voice floated into the watchful silence. A woman’s voice, clear and precise.
In the beginning of time,
In the land of Egypt,
The master of secrets,
Gave words and scripts.
In the land of Egypt,
The master of secrets,
Gave words and scripts.
Alice tore her eyes from Will’s face and turned towards the sound. Marie-Cécile appeared from the shadows behind the altar like an apparition. As she stood before the labyrinth, her green eyes, painted with black and gold, sparkled like emeralds in the flickering lamp. Her hair, held back from her face by a golden band with a diamond motif on the forehead, shone like jet. Her elegant arms were bare, except for matching amulets of twisted metal.
She was carrying the three books, one on top of the other, in her hands. She placed them in a row on the altar, beside a plain, earthenware bowl. As she reached out to adjust the position of the oil lamp on the altar, Alice registered, almost without realising it, that Marie-Cécile was wearing Audric’s ring on her left thumb.
It looks wrong on her hand.
Alice found herself immersed deep in a past she did not remember. The vellum should be dry and brittle to the touch, like dying leaves on the tree in autumn. But she could almost feel the leather ties between her own fingers, soft and flexible, even though they ought to be stiff through the long years of disuse, as if the memory was written in her bones and blood. She remembered how the covers shimmered, shifted colour under the light.
She could see the image of a tiny gold chalice, no bigger than a ten-pence piece, shining like a jewel on the heavy cream parchment. On the following pages, lines of ornate script. She heard Marie-Cécile speaking into the gloom and, at the same time, behind her eyes she saw the red and blue and yellow and gold letters. The Book of Potions.
Images of two-dimensional figures, animals and birds flooded into her head. She could picture a sheet of parchment, thicker than the other pages but different – translucent, yellow. It was papyrus, the weave of the leaves apparent. It was covered with identical symbols as at the beginning of the book, except this time tiny drawings of plants, numbers and measurements were interspersed between them.
She was thinking of the second book now, the Book of Numbers. On the first page was a picture of the labyrinth itself, rather than a chalice. Without realising she was doing so, Alice looked around the chamber once more, this time seeing the space through different eyes, unconsciously verifying its shape and proportions.
She looked back to the altar. Her memory of the third book was the strongest. Shimmering in gold on the first page was the ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life, familiar now the world over. Between the leather-covered wooden boards of the Book of Words were blank pages, like a white guard surrounding the papyrus buried in the centre of the book. The hieroglyphs were dense and unyielding. Row after row of tightly drawn symbols covered the entire sheet. There were no splashes of colour, no indication of where one word ended and the next began.
Concealed within this was the incantation.
Alice opened her eyes and sensed Audric looking at her.
A look of understanding flashed between them. The words were coming back to her, slipping quietly from the dusty corners of her mind. She was momentarily transported out of herself, for a fraction of a second, looking down on the scene from above.
Eight hundred years ago Alaïs had said these words. And Audric had heard them.
The truth will make us free.
Nothing had changed, yet she was suddenly no longer afraid.
A sound from the altar drew her attention. The stillness passed and the world of the present came rushing back. And, with it, fear.
Marie-Cécile took up the earthenware bowl, small enough to cup between her hands. From beside it she took a small knife with a dull worn blade. She raised her long, white arms above her head.
‘Dintrar,’ she called. Enter.
François-Baptiste stepped from the darkness of the tunnel. His eyes swept around his surroundings like a searchlight, skimming over Audric, then Alice, then coming to rest on Will. Alice saw the triumph on the boy’s face and knew that Francois-Baptiste had inflicted the injuries on Will.
I’ll not let you hurt him this time.
Then his gaze moved on. He paused a moment at the sight of the three books laid out in a row on the altar, surprised or relieved, Alice couldn’t tell, then his eyes came to rest on the face of his mother.
Despite the distance, Alice could feel the tension between them.
A flicker of a smile played across Marie-Cécile’s face as she stepped down from the altar, the knife and the bowl in her hands. Her robe shimmered like spun moonshine in the flickering light of the candles as she moved through the chamber. Alice could smell the subtle trace of her perfume in the air, light beneath the heavy aroma of burning oil in the lamp.
François-Baptiste too started to move. He came down the steps until he was standing behind Will.
Marie-Cécile stopped in front of him and whispered something to Will, too quiet for Alice to hear. Although François-Baptiste’s smile stayed in place, she saw the anger in his face as he leaned forward, lifted Will’s bound hands and offered his arm to Marie-Cécile.
Alice flinched as Marie-Cécile made a single incision between Will’s wrist and elbow. He winced and she could see the shock in his eyes, but he made no sound.
Marie-Cécile held the bowl to catch five drops of blood.
She repeated the process with Audric, then came to a halt in front of Alice. She could see the excitement in Marie-Cécile’s face as she traced the point of the blade along the white underside of Alice’s arm, along the line of the old wound. Then with the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel, she inserted the knife into the skin and pressed the tip down, slowly, until her scar split open again.
The pain took her by surprise, an ache, not a sharp sensation. Alice felt warm at first, then quickly cold and numb. She stared mesmerised by the drops of blood falling, one by one, into the oddly pale mixture in the bowl.
Then it was over. François-Baptiste released her and followed his mother towards the altar. Marie-Cécile repeated the procedure with her son, then positioned herself between the altar and the labyrinth.
She placed the bowl in the centre and drew the knife across her own skin, watching as her own blood trickled down her arm.
The mingling of bloods.
A flash of understanding went through Alice. The Grail belonged to all faiths and none. Christian, Jew, Moslem. Five guardians, chosen for their character, their deeds, not their bloodline. All were equal.
Alice watched Marie-Cécile reach forward and slip something out from between the pages of each of the books in turn. She held up the third one. A sheet of paper. No, not paper, papyrus. As Marie-Cécile held it up to the light, the weave of the reeds was clear. The symbol was clear.
The ankh, the symbol of life.
Marie-Cécile lifted the bowl to her lips and drank. When it was empty, she replaced the bowl with both hands and looked out over the chamber until she had fixed Audric with her gaze. It seemed to Alice she was challenging him to make her stop.
Now she pulled the ring from her thumb and turned to the stone labyrinth, disturbing the hushed air. As the lamplight flickered behind her, sending shadows leaping up the walls, Alice saw, in the shadows in the carved rock, two shapes that she had never before noticed.
Hidden within the outline of the labyrinth, the shadow of the shape of the ankh and the outline of a cup were clearly identifiable.
Alice heard a sharp click, as if a key was being inserted into a lock. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, from deep in the wall, there was the noise of something shifting, stone against stone.
Marie-Cécile stepped back. Alice saw that a small opening a little bigger than the books had been revealed at the centre of the labyrinth. A compartment.
Words and phrases sprang into her mind, Audric’s explanation and her own investigations all mixed up together.
At the centre of the labyrinth is enlightenment, at the centre lies understanding. Alice thought about the Christian pilgrims walking the Chemin de Jérusalem in the nave of Chartres Cathedral, walking the ever-decreasing spirals of the labyrinth in search of illumination.
Here, in the Grail labyrinth, the light — literally — was at the heart of things.
Alice watched as Marie-Cécile took the lantern from the altar and hung it in the alcove. It was a perfect fit. Straight away it brightened and the chamber was flooded with light.
Marie-Cécile lifted a papyrus from one of the books on the altar and slid it into a slot at the front of the alcove. A little of the lamplight was lost and the cave darkened.
She spun round and stared at Audric, her words breaking the spell.
‘You said I would see something,’ she shouted.
He raised his amber eyes to hers. Alice willed him to remain silent, but she knew he would not. For reasons she did not understand, Audric was determined to let the ceremony run its course.
‘The true incantation is revealed only when the three papyri are laid one on top of the other. Only then, in the play of light and shadow, will the words that must be spoken, rather than the words that must be silent, be revealed.’
Alice was shivering. She understood the cold was inside her, as if her body warmth was bleeding out of her, but she couldn’t control herself. Marie-Cécile turned the three parchments around in her fingers.
Which way round?’
‘Release me,’ Audric said in his calm, quiet voice. ‘Release me, then take up your position in the centre of the chamber. I will show you.’
She hesitated, then nodded to François-Baptiste.
‘Maman, je ne pense — ’
‘Do what you’re told,’ she snapped.
In silence, François-Baptiste sliced through the rope holding Audric to the floor, then stepped back.
Marie-Cécile reached behind her and picked up the knife.
‘If you do anything,’ Marie-Cécile said, pointing it at Alice, as Audric walked slowly up the chamber, ‘I’ll kill her. Understand?’ She gestured to where François-Baptiste was standing by Will. ‘Or he will.’
‘I understand.’
He darted a glance at Shelagh lying motionless on the floor, then whispered to Alice. ‘I am right?’ he whispered, suddenly doubtful. ‘The Grail will not come to her?’
Although Audric was looking at her, Alice felt he was asking his question of somebody else. Someone with whom he had already shared this experience.
Despite herself, Alice found she knew the answer. She was certain. She smiled, giving him the reassurance he needed.
‘It will not come,’ she said under her breath.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Marie-Cécile shouted.
Audric stepped forward.
‘You must take each of the three papyri,’ he said, ‘then place them in front of the flame.’
‘You do it.’
17
Alice watched him take the three translucent sheets and arrange them in his hands, then carefully insert the papyri. For a moment the flame burning in the alcove guttered and seemed to fade. The cave became very dark, as if the lights had been dimmed.
Then, as her eyes adjusted to the increased gloom, Alice saw that now only a handful of hieroglyphs remained, illuminated in a pattern of light and dark that followed the lines of the labyrinth. All unnecessary words had been veiled. ‘Di ankh djet . . .’ The words were clear in her mind. ‘Di ankh djet,’ she said out loud, then the rest of the phrase, translating in her mind the ancient words she spoke.
‘In the beginning of time, in the land of Egypt, the master of secrets, gave words and scripts. Gave life.’
Marie-Cécile turned on Alice.
‘You read the words,’ she said, striding towards her and grabbing her arm. ‘How do you know what they mean?’
‘I don’t. I don’t know.’
Alice tried to pull away, but Marie-Cécile jerked her forwards towards the point of the knife, so close that Alice could see the brown stains on the worn blade. Her eyes closed and she repeated the phrase.
‘Di ankh djet . . .’
Everything seemed to happen at once.
Audric launched himself at Marie-Cécile.
‘Maman!’
Will took advantage of François-Baptiste’s lapse in concentration. He pulled his leg back and kicked him in the small of the back. Taken by surprise, the boy fired his pistol into the roof of the cave as he fell, deafeningly loud in the confined space. Instantaneously, Alice heard the bullet smash into the solid rock of the mountain and ricochet across the space.
Marie-Cécile’s hand flew to her temple. Alice saw the blood pouring between her fingers. She swayed on her feet a moment, then collapsed.
‘Maman!’ François-Baptiste was already on his feet and running. The gun skidded away across the ground towards the altar.
Audric snatched up Marie-Cécile’s knife and cut through Will’s bonds with surprising strength, then placed the knife in his hand.
‘Release Alice.’
Ignoring him, Will dashed across the chamber to where François-Baptiste was on his knees cradling Marie-Cécile in his arms.
‘Non, maman. Ne t’en vas pas. Ecoute-moi, maman, reveille-toi.’
Will took hold of the shoulders of the boy’s oversized jacket and slammed his head down on to the rough stone floor. Then he ran to Alice and started to hack at the rope binding her.
‘Is she dead?’
‘I don’t know.’
What about — ’
He kissed her, quickly, on the lips, and then shook her hands free of the rope.
‘François-Baptiste will be out long enough for us to get the hell out,’ he said.
‘Get Shelagh, Will,’ she said, pointing urgently. ‘I’ll help Audric.’
Will lifted Shelagh’s depleted frame in his arms and started to walk towards the tunnel. Alice ran to Audric.
‘The Books,’ she said urgently. We’ve got to take them before they come round.’
He was standing looking down on the inert bodies of Marie-Cécile and her son.
‘Audric, quick,’ Alice repeated. We have to get out of here.’
‘I was wrong to involve you in this,’ he said softly. ‘My desire to know, to fulfil a promise I once made and failed to keep, has left me blind to other considerations. Selfish. I thought too much of myself.’
Audric put his hand on one of the Books.
‘You asked why Alaïs did not destroy it,’ he said suddenly. ‘The answer is, I wouldn’t let her. So we devised a plan to deceive Oriane. Because of that, we came back to the chamber. The cycle of dying, of sacrifice, continued. If it had not been for that, then perhaps . . .’
He walked round to where Alice was trying to get the papyri from the lamp. ‘She would not have wanted this. Too many lives lost.’
‘Audric,’ she said desperately, ‘we can talk about this later. Now, we must get them out. This is what you have been waiting for, Audric. The chance to see the Trilogy reunited again. We can’t leave them for her.’
‘I still don’t know,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. What happened to her at the end.’
The oil in the lamp was nearly out, but the gloom was lifted little by little as Alice pulled out the first, then the second, then finally the last of the papyri.
‘I have them,’ she said, spinning round. She scooped up the books from the altar and thrust them at Audric.
‘Bring the books. Come on.’
Almost dragging Audric with her, Alice picked their way across the gloom of the chamber towards the tunnel. They had stumbled over the dip in the ground where the skeletons had been found, when, from the darkness behind them, there was a loud crack, then the sound of rock shifting, then another two muffled bangs, in quick succession.
Alice threw herself to the ground. It wasn’t the sound of the gun again, but a different sort of noise altogether. A rumbling from deep within the earth.
Adrenalin kicked in. Desperately, she crawled forward, holding the papyri in her teeth and praying that Audric was behind her. The material of the robe caught between her legs, slowing her down. Her arm was bleeding profusely and she couldn’t put any weight on it, but she managed to get to the bottom of the steps.
Alice was aware of a rumbling sound now, but she could afford to turn round. Her fingers had just found the letters carved at the top, when a voice rang out.
‘Stop right there. Or I will shoot him.’
Alice froze.
It cannot be her. She was shot. I saw her fall.
‘Turn round. Slowly.’
Slowly, Alice pulled herself to her feet. Marie-Cécile was standing in front of the altar, unsteady on her feet. Her robe was splattered with blood and her headdress had come off, leaving her hair wild and untamed around her face. In her hand she had François-Baptiste’s gun. It was pointed straight at Audric.
Walk slowly back towards me, Dr Tanner.’
Alice realised that the ground was shifting. She felt the tremor vibrating up through her feet and legs, a low rumbling deep in the ground, getting stronger and more insistent every second.
Marie-Cécile suddenly seemed to hear it too. Confusion momentarily clouded her face. Another thump shook the chamber. This time there was no doubt it was an explosion. A blast of cold air swept through the cave. Behind Marie-Cécile, the lantern started to shake as the stone labyrinth cracked open and started to fragment.
Alice ran back to Audric. The ground was fracturing in two, crumbling beneath her as solid stone and ages-old earth started to split apart. Debris rained down on her from every corner as she jumped to avoid the holes that were opening up all around.
‘Give them to me!’ Marie-Cécile shouted, turning the gun towards Alice. ‘Do you really think I’m going to let her take these from me?’
Her words were swallowed by the sounds of falling rock and stone as the chamber collapsed in on itself.
Audric got to his feet and spoke for the first time.
‘Her?’ he said. ‘No, not Alice.’
Marie-Cécile spun round to see what Audric was looking at.
She screamed.
In the darkness Alice could see something. A glow, a white glow, almost like a face. In terror, Marie-Cécile swung the gun back to Alice. She hesitated, then pulled the trigger. Long enough for Audric to move between them.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Alice screamed. Audric sank to his knees. The force of the shot propelled Marie-Cécile backwards and she lost her balance. Her fingers clawed at the air, grasping, desperate, as she slipped into the vast chasm that had opened up in the ground.
Audric was lying on the ground, blood spreading out from the bullet hole in the middle of his chest. His face was the colour of paper and she could see the blue veins beneath the thin veneer of skin.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ she cried. ‘There might be another explosion. It could come down at any moment.’
He smiled. ‘It is over, Alice,’ he said softly. ‘Ala perfin. The Grail has protected its secrets, as it did before. It would not let her take what she wanted.’
Alice was shaking her head. ‘No, the cave was mined, Audric,’ she said. ‘There might be another bomb. We have to get out.’
‘There will be no more,’ he said. There was no doubt in his voice. ‘It was the echo of the past.’
Alice could see it hurt him to speak. She lowered her head to his. There was a gentle rattling in his chest and his breathing was shallow and faint. She tried to staunch the bleeding, but she could see it was hopeless.
‘I wanted to know how she spent her final moments. You understand? I couldn’t save her. She was trapped inside and I couldn’t get to her.’ He gasped in pain. Took another gulp of air.
‘But this time . . .’
Finally, Alice accepted what she had instinctively known from the moment she had walked into Los Seres and seen him standing in the doorway of the little stone house in the folds of the mountain.
This is his story. These are his memories.
She thought of the family tree, so lovingly and painstakingly compiled.
‘Sajhë,’ she said. ‘You are Sajhë.’
For a moment, life flicked in his amber eyes. A look of intense pleasure flooded his dying face.
When I woke, Bertrande was beside me. Someone had covered us with cloaks to keep the cold out — ’
‘Guilhem,’ said Alice, knowing it was true.
‘There was a terrible thundering. I saw the stone ledge above the entrance collapse. The boulder was sent crashing to the ground in a welter of stone and flint and dirt, trapping her inside. I couldn’t get to her,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘To them.’
Then it stopped. Everything was suddenly quiet, still.
‘I didn’t know,’ he said again in anguish. ‘I had given my word to Alaïs if anything happened to her I would ensure the Book of Words was safe, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know if Oriane had the Book or where she was.’ His voice faded to a whisper. ‘Nothing.’
‘So the bodies I found were Guilhem and Alaïs,’ she said, a statement, not a question.
Sajhë nodded. We found Oriane’s body a little way down the hillside. The Book was not with her. Only then did I know.’
‘They died together saving the Book. Alaïs wanted you to live, Sajhë. To live and care for Bertrande, your daughter in every way but one.’
He smiled. ‘I knew you would understand,’ he said. The words slipped from between his lips like a sigh. ‘I have lived too long without her. Every day I felt her absence. Every day I wished I had not been cursed, to be forced to live my life, while all those whom I love grow old and die. Alaïs, Bertrande . . .’
He broke off. Her heart ached for him.
‘You must not feel guilty any longer, Sajhë. Now you know what happened, you must forgive yourself.’
Alice could feel him slipping from her.
Keep him talking. Don’t let him go to sleep.
‘There was a prophecy,’ he said, ‘that in the lands of the Pays d’Oc, in our times, one would be born whose destiny was to bear witness to the tragedy that overtook these lands. Like those before me — like Abraham, Methuselah, Harif — I did not wish it. But I accepted it.’
Sajhë gasped for breath. Alice drew him closer, cradling his head in her arms. ‘When?’ she tried to say. ‘Tell me.’
‘Alaïs summoned the Grail. Here. In this very chamber. I was twenty-five years old. I had returned to Los Seres, believing my life was about to change. I believed I could woo Alaïs and be loved by her.’
‘She did love you,’ Alice said fiercely.
‘Harif taught her to understand the ancient language of the Egyptians,’ he continued, smiling. ‘It seems that some trace of that knowledge lives yet in you. Using the skills Harif had taught her and from her knowledge of the parchments, we came here. Like you, when the time came, Alaïs knew what to say. The Grail worked through her.’
‘How . . .’ Alice stumbled. What happened?’
‘I remember the smooth touch of the air on my skin, the flicker of the candles, the beautiful voices spiralling in the dark. The words seemed to flow from her lips, hardly spoken. Alaïs stood before the altar, Harif with her.’
‘There must have been others.’
‘There were, but . . . you will think it strange, but I can hardly remember. All I could see was Alaïs. Her face, rapt in concentration, a slight line between her eyes where she frowned. Her hair flowed down her back like a sheet of water. I saw nothing but her, was aware of nothing but her. She held the cup in her hands and spoke the words. Her eyes flew open in a single moment of illumination. She gave the cup to me and I drank.’
His eyelids were fluttering open and shut rapidly, like the beating of a butterfly’s wings.
‘If your life was such a burden to you, why did you carry on without her?’
‘Perqué?’ he said with surprise. Why? Because it was what Alaïs wanted. I had to live to tell the story of what happened to the people of these lands, here within these mountains and the plains. To make sure that their story did not die. That is the purpose of the Grail. To help those to bear witness. History is written by the victorious, the liars, the strongest, the most determined. Truth is found most often in the silence, in the quiet places.’
Alice nodded. ‘You did this, Sajhë. You made a difference.’
‘Guilhem de Tudèla wrote a false record of the Crusade against us for the French. La Chansonde la Croisade, he called it. When he died, an anonymous poet, one who was sympathetic to the Pays d’Oc instead, completed it. La Canso. Our story.’
Despite everything, Alice found herself smiling.
‘Los mots, vivents,’ he whispered. Living words. ‘It was the beginning. I vowed to Alaïs I would speak the truth, write the truth, so that future generations would know of the horror that once was done in the lands in their name. That they were remembered.’
Alice nodded.
‘Harif understood. He had walked the lonely path before me. He had travelled the world and seen how words were twisted and broken and turned into lies. He too lived to bear witness.’ Sajhë drew in his breath. ‘He lived for only a short time after Alaïs, although he was more than eight hundred years old when he died. Here, in Los Seres, with Bertrande and me at his side.’
‘But where have you lived, all these years? How have you lived?’
‘I watched the green of spring give way to the gold of summer, the copper of autumn give way to the white of winter as I have sat and waited for the fading of the light. Over and over again I have asked myself why? If I had known how it would feel to live with such loneliness, to stand, the sole witness to the endless cycle of birth and life and death, what would I have done? I have survived this long life with emptiness in my heart, an emptiness that over the years has spread and spread until it became bigger than my heart itself.’
‘She loved you, Sajhë,’ she said, softly. ‘Not in the way you loved her, but truly and deeply.’
A look of peace had come over his face. ‘Es vertat. Now I know it.’
‘If . . .’
Another flurry of coughing overtook him. This time, specks of blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Alice wiped them away with the hem of her robe.
He struggled to sit. ‘I have written it all down for you, Alice. My last testament. It is waiting for you in Los Seres. In Alaïs’ house, where we lived, which now I pass to you.’
In the distance, Alice thought she heard the sound of sirens piercing the still night of the mountain.
‘They’re nearly here,’ she said, keeping her grief in check. ‘I said they’d come. Stay with me. Please don’t give up.’
Sajhë shook his head. ‘It is done. My journey is ended. Yours is just beginning.’
Alice smoothed his white hair away from his face.
‘I am not her,’ she said softly. ‘I am not Alaïs.’
He gave a long, soft sigh. ‘I know. But she lives on in you . . . and you in her.’ He stopped. Alice could see how much it hurt him to talk. ‘I wish we could have had longer, Alice. But to have met you, to have shared these hours with you. It is more than ever I hoped.’
Sajhë fell silent. The last vestiges of colour drained from his face, from his hands, until there was nothing left.
A prayer, one spoken a long time ago, came to her mind.
‘Payre sant, Dieu dreyturier de bons esperits.’ The once familiar words fell easily from her lips. ‘Holy Father, legitimate God of good spirits, grant us to know what Thou knowest, and to love what Thou lovest.’
Biting back her tears, Alice held him in her arms while his breathing became lighter, softer. Finally, it stopped altogether.
18
EPILOGUE
Los Seres
SUNDAY 8 JULY 2007
It is eight o’clock in the evening. The end of another perfect summer’s day.
Alice walks over to the wide, casement window and opens the shutters to let in the slanting orange light. A slight breeze skims her bare arms. Her skin is the colour of hazelnuts and her hair is tied in a single plait down her back.
The sun is low now, a perfect red circle in the pink and white sky. It casts huge black shadows across the neighbouring peaks of the Sabarthès Mountains, like swathes of material laid out to dry. From the window she can see the Col des Sept Frères and behind it the Pic de St Bartélémy.
It is two years to the day that Sajhë died.
At first, Alice found it hard to live with the memories. The sound of the gun in the claustrophobic chamber; the trembling of the earth; the white face in the darkness; the look on Will’s face as he burst into the chamber with Inspector Noubel.
Most of all, she was haunted by the memory of the light fading in Audric’s eyes – Sajhe, as she learned to think of him. It was peace she saw in them at the end, not sorrow, but it has not made her pain any the less.
But the more Alice learned, the more the terrors that held her locked in those final moments began to fade. The past lost its power to hurt her.
She knows Marie-Cécile and her son were killed by the falling rock, both lost to the mountain itself in the earthquake. Paul Authié was found where François-Baptiste had shot him, the timer detonating the four charges ticking relentlessly down to zero beside his dead body. An Armageddon of his own making.
As that summer turned into autumn, autumn to winter, Alice began to recover, with Will’s help. Time is doing its work. Time and the promise of a new life. Gradually, the painful memories are fading. Like old photographs, half remembered and indistinct, they gather dust in her mind.
Alice sold her flat in England and together with the proceeds from the sale of her aunt’s house in Sallèles d’Aude, she and Will came to Los Seres.
The house where Alaïs once lived with Sajhë, Bertrande and Harif is now their home. They have added to it, made it suitable for modern living, but the spirit of the place is unaltered.
The secret of the Grail is safe, as Alaïs had intended it should be, hidden here in the timeless mountains. The three papyri, torn from their medieval books, lie buried under the rock and stone.
Alice understands that she was destined to finish what had been left unfinished eight hundred years before. She also understands, as Alaïs did, that the real Grail lies in the love handed down from generation to generation, the words spoken by father to son, mother to daughter. The truth lies all about us. In the stones, in the rocks, in the changing pattern of the mountain seasons.
Through the shared stories of our past, we do not die.
Alice does not believe she can put it into words. Unlike Sajhë, she is not a spinner of tales, a writer. She wonders if perhaps it is beyond words. Call it God, call it faith. Perhaps the Grail is too great a truth to be spoken or tied down in time and space and context by so slippery a thing as language.
Alice puts her hands on the ledge and breathes in the subtle smells of evening. Wild thyme, broom, the shimmering memory of heat on the stones, mountain parsley and mint, sage, the scents of her herb garden.
Her reputation is growing. What started as a sequence of private favours, supplying herbs to the restaurants and neighbours in the villages, has become a profitable business. Now, most of the hotels and shops in the area, even as far away as Foix and Mirepoix, carry a range of their products, with the distinctive Epices Pelletier et Fille label. The name of her ancestors, reclaimed now as her own.
The hameau, Los Seres, is not yet on the map. It is too small. But soon it will be. Benlèu.
In the study below, the keyboard has fallen silent. Alice can hear Will moving about in the kitchen, getting plates from the dresser and bread from the pantry. Soon, she will go down. He will open a bottle of wine and they will drink while he cooks.
Tomorrow, Jeanne Giraud will come, a dignified, charming woman who has become part of their lives. In the afternoon, they will go to the nearest village and lay flowers at a monument in the square, which commemorates the celebrated Cathar historian and Resistance fighter, Audric S. Baillard. On the plaque, there is an Occitan proverb, chosen by Alice.
‘Pas a pas se va luènh.’
Later, Alice will walk alone into the mountains where a different plaque marks the spot where he lies beneath the hills, as he always wanted. The stone simply reads SAJHË.
It is enough that he is remembered.
The Family Tree, Sajhë’s first gift to Alice, hangs on the wall in the study. Alice has made three changes. She has added the date of Alaïs’ and Sajhë’s deaths, separated by eight hundred years.
She added Will’s name to hers and the date of their marriage.
At the very end, where the story is continuing still, she’s added a line:
SAJHËSSE GRACE FARMER PELLETIER, 28 February 2007 — .
Alice smiles and walks over to the cot where their daughter is stirring. Her pale, sleepy toes twitch as she starts to wake. Alice catches her breath as her daughter opens her eyes.
She plants a murmuring kiss on the top of her daughter’s head and begins a lullaby in the old language, handed down from generation to generation.
Bona nuèit, bona nuèit . . .
Braves amics, pica mièja-nuèit
Cal finir velhada
E jos la flassada
Braves amics, pica mièja-nuèit
Cal finir velhada
E jos la flassada
One day, Alice thinks, Sajhësse might sing it to a child of her own.
Holding her daughter in her arms, Alice walks back to the window, thinking of all the things she will teach her. The stories she will tell her of the past and of how things came to be.
Alaïs no longer comes to her in her dreams. But as Alice stands in the fading light looking out over the ancient peaks and crests of the mountains and valleys that stretch further than her eye can see, she feels the presence of the past all around her, embracing her. Spirits, friends, ghosts who hold out their hands and whisper of their lives, share their secrets with her. They connect her to all those who have stood here before — and all those yet to come – dreaming of what life might hold.
In the distance, a white moon is rising in the speckled sky, promising another fine day tomorrow.
19
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many friends and colleagues have given support, advice and help during the course of the writing of Labyrinth. It goes without saying that any mistakes, in either fact or interpretation, are mine and mine alone.
My agent, Mark Lucas, was brilliant throughout and gave not only fantastic editorial feedback but copious yellow stickers! Thanks, too, to everyone else at LAW for their hard work and to everybody at ILA, especially Nicki Kennedy, who was patience personified and helped make the process such fun.
At Orion, I’ve been very lucky to have worked with Kate Mills, whose light editorial touch, efficiency and thoughtfulness has made this publication so very enjoyable; and Genevieve Pegg; I’d also like to thank Malcolm Edwards and Susan Lamb, who started the whole thing off, not to mention the hard work, enthusiasm and energy of the marketing, publicity and sales teams, in particular Victoria Singer, Emma Noble and Jo Carpenter.
Both Bob Elliott and Bob Clack, of the Chichester Rifle Club, gave fascinating advice and information about firearms; as did Professor Anthony Moss on medieval warfare.
At the British Library in London, Dr Michelle Brown, Curator of Illuminated Manuscripts, provided invaluable information about medieval manuscripts, parchments and book-making in the thirteenth century; Dr Jonathan Phillips, Senior Lecturer in Medieval History, Royal Holloway, University of London, very kindly read the 695 typescript and gave excellent advice. I’d also like to thank all those who helped at the Bibliothèque de Toulouse and at the Centre National d’Etudes Cathares in Carcassonne.
I’d like to thank all those who have worked with us on the creative reading and writing website – www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk — based on the historical research and process of writing Labyrinth over the past couple of years, especially Nat Price and Jōn Hörôdal.
I’m very grateful to my friends for their tolerance about my long-time obsessions with the Cathars and Grail legends. In Carcassonne, I’d particularly like to thank Yves and Lydia Guyou for their insights into Occitan music and poetry and for introducing me to many of the writers and composers whose work has so inspired me; and Pierre and Chantal Sanchez for their support and friendship over many years. In England, I’d like to mention Jane Gregory, whose enthusiasm way-back-when was so important; Maria Rejt, for being such a great teacher in the first place; as well as Jon Evans, Lucinda Montefiore, Robert Dye, Sarah Mansell, Tim Bouquet, Ali Perrotto, Malcolm Wills, Kate and Bob Hingston and Robert and Maria Pulley.
Most of all, my thanks go to my family. My mother-in-law, Rosie Turner, not only introduced us to Carcassonne in the first place, but while I was writing provided day-today help, practical support and companionship well beyond the call of duty. My love and thanks to my parents, Richard and Barbara Mosse, for always being proud and to my sisters, Caroline Matthews and Beth Huxley, and her husband Mark, for all their support.
Most important, my love and gratitude to my children, Martha and Felix, for their steadfast support and faith. Martha was relentlessly upbeat, positive and encouraging, never doubting that I would finish in the end! Felix not only shared my passion for medieval history, but talked me through the finer points of medieval weapons and siege warfare and made brainy suggestions! I cannot thank either of them enough.
Finally, to Greg. His love and support – not to mention his intellectual, practical and editorial help – made all the difference. As it always does and always has.
20
SELECTED GLOSSARY OF OCCITAN WORDS
agost August
ambans wooden galleries built for defence around
battlements
ben good
benvenguda welcome
bonjorn hello
cadefalcs brattices
calèche an open carriage
calèlh oil lamp
coratge courage
défora outside
deman tomorrow
dintrar enter
doçament softly
faitilhièr a witch
faratjals pastures
filba daughter
gata a cat (type of siege engine)
graal grail
janvièr January
julhet July
libres books
Lo Ciutat the Cite
Lo Miègjorn the Midi
març March
menina grandmother
meravelhós miraculous
mercé thank you
molin blatier a wheat mill
montanhas mountains
Na Madame/Mrs
nenon baby
noblessa nobility
oc yes
oustâou home
paire father
pan de blat wheat bread
panièr basket
Payre Sant Holy Father
payrola cauldron
pec idiot
perfin at last
perilhòs danger
res nothing
Sénher Sir/Mr
sirjan d’arms sergeant at arms
sòrre sister
trouvère troubadour
vuèg empty
ambans wooden galleries built for defence around
battlements
ben good
benvenguda welcome
bonjorn hello
cadefalcs brattices
calèche an open carriage
calèlh oil lamp
coratge courage
défora outside
deman tomorrow
dintrar enter
doçament softly
faitilhièr a witch
faratjals pastures
filba daughter
gata a cat (type of siege engine)
graal grail
janvièr January
julhet July
libres books
Lo Ciutat the Cite
Lo Miègjorn the Midi
març March
menina grandmother
meravelhós miraculous
mercé thank you
molin blatier a wheat mill
montanhas mountains
Na Madame/Mrs
nenon baby
noblessa nobility
oc yes
oustâou home
paire father
pan de blat wheat bread
panièr basket
Payre Sant Holy Father
payrola cauldron
pec idiot
perfin at last
perilhòs danger
res nothing
Sénher Sir/Mr
sirjan d’arms sergeant at arms
sòrre sister
trouvère troubadour
vuèg empty
OTHER TERMS
Guignolet a Languedocien homebrewed alcoholic aperitif
Mangomel, Cat, Trebuchet, Catapult all forms of medieval siege engines
Michelmas Christmas
Passiontide Easter
Prime the first religious office of the day (about dawn/five o’clock in the morning)
Rocade the ring road in Toulouse
Tierce mid afternoon
Toussaint All Saints Day, i November
Vesprè final religious office of the day (about seven o’clock)
21
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
A History of the Crusades — S Runciman, Cambridge University Press, 3 volumes, 1951 — 1954
Bélibaste — Henri Gougaud, Editions du Seuil, 1982
Carcassonne in my Heart — Claude Marti, Loubatières, 1999
Cathars — Yves Rouquette, Loubatières, 1998
Chòlera — Joseph Delteil, Grasset, 1923
Crusader:by Horse to Jerusalem — Tim Severin, Hutchinson, 1989
Eleanor of Aquitaine — Alison Weir, Jonathan Cape, 1999
La Canso: 1209 — 1219 Les Croisades Contre le Sud — edition by Claude Marti, Loubatières, 1994
La Religion Cathare — Michel Roquebert, Loubatières, 1986
La Religion des Cathares — Jean Duvernoy, Mouton, 1976
La Vie Quotidienne des Cathares au XIIIe Siècle — René Nelli, Hachette, 1989
La Vrai Visagedu Catharisme — Anne Brenon, Loubatières, 1997
Pays cathares — Georges Serrus, Loubatières, 1996
LesCathares — René Nelli, Ouest-France, 1993
Les Femmes Cathares — Anne Brenon, Perrin, 1992
Massacre at Montségur — Zoë Oldenburg, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1997
Montaillou: Cathars and Catholics in a French Village — Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, Penguin, 1990
Parzival — Wolfram von Eschenbach translated by A. T. Hatto, Penguin, 1980
The Albigensian Crusade — Jonathan Sumption, Faber and Faber, 1999
The Crusades 1095 — 1197 — J P Phillips, Longman, 2002
The Fourth Crusade — J P Phillips, Cape, 2004
The Gospel of John — Claus Westermann translated by Siegfried S Schatzmann, Hendrickson, 1998
The Keys of Egypt: The Race to Read the Hieroglyphs – Lesley & Roy Adkins, HarperCollins, 2000
The Story of the Grail (Perceval) — Chrétien de Troyes, Yale University Press, 1999
The Yellow Cross: The Story of the Last Cathars 1290 — 1329 — René Weis, Penguin, 2001
For a comprehensive list of titles and source material — or to add your own recommended reading — please visit www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk.
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Reading Group Notes
LABYRINTH
By Kate Mosse
In Brief:
It’s July 2005. Dr Alice Tanner is a volunteer on an archaeological dig in the Pyrenees when she is unwisely drawn away from the rest of her group by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Dangerously dislodging a boulder that she later learns has concealed a cave for eight centuries, Alice stumbles upon two intact skeletons and a carving of a labyrinth that looks oddly familiar to her. The discovery is to provoke the intense interest of the local police, whom Alice immediately distrusts; but too late she realises that her actions have irrevocably placed many lives in danger – including her own. Alice has no choice but to rediscover her distant past, and act on what she learns before her present enemies catch up with her.
In Detail:
Labyrinth features two intelligently headstrong heroines, 17-year-old Alaïs Pelletier from 13th century Carcassonne and modern-day PhD graduate Dr Alice Tanner. It is a grippingly told adventure that skilfully blends the lives of these two women, separated by time but united in a common destiny. Both protagonists display tremendous reserves of courage, steadfastness and loyalty on their respective quests. They also, in the author’s own words, ‘have lovely frocks, sex and swords and don’t hang about waiting to be rescued’!
This is a stunning novel set in both medieval and contemporary southwest France. As the parallel storylines unfold, both ancient and modern-day conspiracies are unearthed, all revolving around three hidden books – The Book of Words, The Book of Potions and The Book of Numbers. Together, these tomes hold the secret of the true Grail, which dates back to the Ancient Egyptian era many years before Christ. The appointed Guardians of the Books, of which Alaïs’s father is one, must devote their lives to the protection of this secret. Meanwhile, back in the present day, Alice faces a race against time to put together the curiously familiar pieces of a jigsaw puzzle representing her long-buried history.
Set against a historical backdrop of religious persecution, Labyrinth also tells the story of a real-life Christian sect, the Cathars, who were a powerful presence in the community of Carcassonne from the late 11th century until the early 13th century. (The failure of military force to eradicate the Cathars led directly to the foundation of the Inquisition.) Seen as a rival to the Catholic Church, Catharism was a tolerant faith offering universal redemption, irrespective of the individual’s creed. It is this compassionate ideology that Alaïs and those closest to her must battle to protect. But in her efforts to also save the Books, Alaïs soon discovers she can trust no one – least of all her cruelly manipulative sister, Oriane.
Labyrinth’s story and colourful cast of characters resonate back and forth between past and present, but what remains constant throughout is a gripping plot and the depth and accuracy of the author’s research into the history and cultural landscape of the region. The language of the Cathars, particularly, is portrayed with richness and authenticity; as well as French snippets (the dialect of their persecutors) there is a fascinating and significant peppering of medieval Occitan words and phrases, with a glossary at the back for the reader’s reference.
Tightly plotted and packed with suspense, Labyrinth sets a new benchmark for adventure writing and gives precursors such as The Da Vinci Code more than a run for their money.
About the author:
Born in 1961, Kate Mosse was educated at Chichester High School for Girls and read English at New College, Oxford. On graduating, she started as a secretary at Hodder and Stoughton and went on to become an editorial director of Hutchinson, Random House. Kate is both the author of four previous books and a broadcaster – she presented BBC Four’s flagship Readers and Writers Roadshow, is the book reviewer for BBC Two’s The Culture Show, and is a guest presenter of Radio 4’s Saturday Review Open Book. The co-founder and Honorary Director of the Orange Prize for Fiction, Kate is additionally a trustee of Arts & Business, and was the first ever female Executive Director of the Chichester Festival Theatre.
In 2000, Kate Mosse was named European Woman of Achievement for her contribution to the arts. Together with her husband Greg Mosse, Kate runs courses for writers as well as the writers’ internet resource www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk. They have two children and divide their time between West Sussex and Carcassonne, southwest France.
Themed questions for discussion:
HISTORY
1. ‘History is a novel that has been lived; a novel is history that could have been.’ Discuss this quotation from E & J de Goncourt with reference to Labyrinth.
2. In the novel’s prologue, there are glimpses of the two time periods. Do you think it is important that, after the prologue, the author starts the novel proper with ten chapters set in the medieval past? How well do you think the twin storylines worked throughout the whole of Labyrinth?
INHERITANCE
3. ‘Last night’s ceremony had been exhilarating . . . she had felt transformed, fulfilled by the ritual and seduced by the power inherited from her grandfather’ (page 205). Consider Marie-Cïcile’s words and discuss the nature of inheritance with reference to other characters in Labyrinth. Can good or evil be inherited or must it be nurtured?
CHARACTERISATION
4. How quickly did you discover that some of the modern characters mirror or echo characters from the past? Which ones did you spot first? What were the clues?
5. ‘Guilhem shook his head. “Can’t you see what she’s doing, Alaïs? She’s trying to turn you against me”’ (page 503). Do you see Guilhem as an unhappy character, who never fully atones for his betrayal of Alaïs, or does he finally put things right?
6. Some of Labyrinth’s medieval characters are real. People with those names lived and breathed in the circumstances narrated 800 years ago. Did you notice anything different about the ‘real’ characters? (For example, Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Agnès de Montpellier, the papal legate and others.)
SETTING
7. Have you ever experienced, like Alice, such an affinity with a place that you seem to know who must have previously lived there and the emotions they enjoyed or endured? How did the novel’s setting(s) contribute to your enjoyment as a reader?
VIOLENCE AND ADVENTURE
8. ‘He raised his arm a second time and plunged his sword into the top of the old man’s skull, splattering red pulp and grey brains into the straw’ (page 196). There are very few scenes of violence in the novel, but those few are very graphic. Do you think they were ‘too much’, ‘not enough’ or ‘just right’?
9. In interviews, Kate Mosse has said that she wanted to tell an adventure story in which active women shaped their own destinies. One journalist called her ‘Wilma Smith’! Is this aspect of the adventure important to your enjoyment of the novel?
RELIGION
10. The 13th century Cathars were surprised by the extent of persecution against them. Although the Labyrinth story and the trilogy of special books have a spiritual element, they exist alongside Catharism, Christianity, Judaism and Islam, not as part of any of these faiths. How do you think the novel handles questions of religion? Can you draw any parallels with more recent religious conflicts?
To find out more about the characters and places in Labyrinth, visit www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk.
Suggested Further Reading:
Massacre at Montségur by Zoë Oldenburg
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
The Yellow Cross: The Story of the Last Cathars 1290–1329 by René Weis
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
The Last Templar by Raymond Khoury
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
The Boudica series by Manda Scott
Les Femmes Cathares by Anne Brenon
Eleanor of Aquitaine by Alison Weir
Audiobooks:
Read by Emilia Fox and Anton Lesser, the Labyrinth audiobook is available on CD at £16.99.
23
The
Laybrinth Walk
One of the reasons I wrote Labyrinth was because I was inspired by the amazing fortified medieval Cité of Carcassonne. I have written this guided tour – The Labyrinth Walk – so that you can see for yourself some of the sights that greeted my heroine, Alice Tanner, when she first stepped within the battlements. And, of course, the places that Alaïs Pelletier called home.
I think the tour should take about two hours. If you are tired, there is a short cut about two thirds of the way round. Of course, if you stop for lunch in the middle, who knows if you will ever finish it!
Carcassonne, January 2006
24
Author Biography
Kate Mosse is the author of two works of non-fiction, two plays and five novels in addition to Labyrinth. Kate’s illustrated tribute to her local theatre – Chichester Festival Theatre at Fifty – and the third novel in her Languedoc Trilogy, Citadel, will both be published in 2012. Labyrinth was an international bestseller, published in 40 countries and translated into 38 languages. It won the 2006 Richard & Judy Best Read at the British Book Awards and was chosen as one of Waterstone’s Top 25 novels of the past 25 years. The Co-Founder and Honorary Director of the Orange Prize for Fiction, Kate is Co-Director of the Chichester Writing Festival and on the Board of the National Theatre. She lives with her family in West Sussex.
For more information and up-to-date news about forthcoming projects visit her website at www.katemosse.co.uk
25
BY KATE MOSSE
Novels
Eskimo Kissing
Crucifix Lane
Labyrinth
Sepulchre
The Winter Ghosts
Citadel
Non-Fiction
Becoming a Mother
The House: Behind the Scenes at the
Royal Opera House, Covent Garden
Plays
Syrinx
Endpapers
26
Historical Note
In March 1208, Pope Innocent III preached a Crusade against a sect of Christians in the Languedoc. They are now usually known as Cathars. They called themselves Bons Chrétiens; Bernard of Clairvaux called them Albigensians and the Inquisitional Registers refer to them as ‘heretici’. Pope Innocent aimed to drive the Cathars from the Midi and restore the religious authority of the Catholic Church. The northern French barons who joined his Crusade saw an opportunity to acquire land, wealth and trading advantage by subjugating the fiercely independent southern nobility.
Although the principle of crusading had been an important fixture of medieval Christian life since the late eleventh century — and during the Fourth Crusade at the siege of Zara in 1204 Crusaders had turned on fellow Christians — this was the first time a Holy War had been preached against Christians and on European soil. The persecution of the Cathars led directly to the founding of the Inquisition in 1233 under the auspices of the Dominicans, the Black Friars.
Whatever the religious motivations of the Catholic Church and some of the Crusade’s temporal leaders — such as Simon de Montfort — the Albigensian Crusade was ultimately a war of occupation and marked a turning point in the history of what is now France. It signified the end of the independence of the South and the destruction of many of its traditions, ideals and way of life.
Like the term ‘Cathar’, the word ‘Crusade’ was not used in medieval documents. The army was referred to as ‘the Host’ — or ‘l’Ost’ in Oc. However, since both terms are now in common usage, I’ve sometimes borrowed them for ease of reference.
Note on Language
In the medieval period, the langue d’Oc — from which the region of Languedoc takes its name — was the language of the Midi from Provence to Aquitaine. It was also the language of Christian Jerusalem and the lands occupied by the Crusaders from 1099, and spoken in some parts of northern Spain and northern Italy. It is closely related to Provençal and Catalan.
In the thirteenth century, the langue d’oil — the forerunner of modern-day French — was spoken in the northern parts of what is now France.
During the course of the invasions of the south by the north, which began in 1209, the French barons imposed their language on the region they conquered. From the middle of the twentieth century, there has been an Occitan language revival, led by authors, poets and historians such as René Nelli, Jean Duvernoy, Déodat Roché, Michel Roquebert, Anne Brenon, Claude Marti and others. At the time of writing, there is a bilingual Oc/French school in La Cite in the heart of the medieval citadel of Carcassonne and the Occitan spellings of towns and regions appear alongside the French spellings on road signs.
In Labyrinth, to distinguish between the inhabitants of the Pays d’Oc and the French invaders, I have used Occitan or French accordingly. As a result, certain names and places appear in both French and Oc — for example, Carcassonne and Carcassona, Toulouse and Tolosa, Béziers and Besièrs.
Extracts of poetry and sayings are taken from Proverbes & Dictons de la langue d’Oc collected by Abbé Pierre Trinquier and from 33 Chants Populaires du Languedoc.
Inevitably there are differences between medieval Occitan spellings and contemporary usage. For the sake of consistency, I have for the most part used La Planqueta by André Lagarde — an Occitan — French dictionary — as my guide. For further reference a glossary is provided at the end of this book.
27
28
29
1
‘The Cité was set on top of a grassy hill. The slopes swept down to streets filled with red-roofed houses. On the flat land at the bottom there were fields of vines, fig and olive trees, wigwams of heavy ripe tomatoes in rows.’
The best view of the fortified medieval Cité is from the Pont Vieux, the old bridge that links the Bastide Saint-Louis on the north bank of the River Aude with the citadel on the south. The Pont Vieux is closed to traffic so take it on foot. At night, the Cité is floodlit and looks like a movie set. The outer ring of walls was built in the middle of the 13th century, as additional fortifications, and was not there in Alaïs’ day.
On Tuesday 5 July 2005, the elusive Audric Baillard walks this way in Chapter 23 en route to Jeanne Giraud’s house.
30
2
‘The Pont Vieux led straight into the Quartier de la Trivalle, which had been transformed from a drab suburb into the gateway to the medieval Cité. Black wrought-iron railings had been set at intervals along the pavements to stop cars from parking. Fiery orange, purple and crimson pansies trailed out of their containers like hair tumbling down a young girl’s back.’
At the end of the Pont Vieux, turn sharp right into rue Barbacane – which follows the ancient path of the River Aude – past the Pharmacie. You will pass rue de la Gaffe on your left, before you arrive in Place Saint-Gimer.
To the left of the church – which was built in 1854 by Viollet-le-Duc, the man responsible for the restoration of the medieval Cité – are the ruins of a stone barbacane that replaced the two wooden palisades between which Alaïs threads her way to the hidden glade by the river in Chapter 2 to gather herbs.
31
3
‘The path down to the barbican was steep and rocky. It ran between the two high, protective wooden palisade walls and it was hard to see anything. But Alaïs had taken this route out of the Cité many times, knew every dip and rise of the land, and she climbed down without difficulty.’
In the top right hand corner of the Place Saint-Gimer, is a long, steep cobbled ramp, signposted Grande Caponière. The Château Comtal, built into the western fortifications of the Cité, looms above you. Look up at the distinctive Tour Pinte watchtower – some 28 metres high – which points like a finger to the sky and belongs to the earliest phase of building of the Château. Taking it slowly, climb to the top of the ramp. Turn sharp left, then right, doubling back on yourself between the two sets of walls in the space between the outer and inner ring, known as the Lices.
Just before you go through the Porte d’Aude into the heart of the Cité itself, turn and look away northwest through the battlements. The flat land of Lauragais stretches before you towards Toulouse. The Montagne Noire National Park is to the right. Further west – if you are lucky – in winter and spring you will see the snow-capped Pyrenees. The Pic de Soularac – the site of the Labyrinth cave – is one of the highest you can see.
32
4
‘Every major city had an Inquisitional Court, from Tolosa to Carcassona. Once condemned, the Inquisitors turned their victims over to the secular authorities to be imprisoned, beaten, mutilated or burned. They kept their hands clean.’
Once inside the walls, turn right into a narrow cobbled alleyway with a stone arch above it. The house on the corner here is the Maison de l’Inquisition. It used to have a footbridge from the first floor onto the ramparts, giving access to the Tour de la Justice where the Inquisitors kept their régistres – the records of their interrogations. On the stone walls inside, the twelve iron hooks – where the Dominican Friars hung the leather bags containing these forced testimonies – are still there.
The alleyway – the rue du Four Saint-Nazaire – slopes quite steeply upwards, winding first left, then right, behind the kitchens of the Hôtel de la Cité.
33
5
‘It was the fin-de-siècle façade of the Hôtel de la Cité, understated but grand all the same, that caught her eye. Covered by ivy, with wroughtiron gates, arched stained-glass windows and deep red awnings the colour of ripe cherries, it whispered of money.’
The alleyway leads to the Place Saint-Nazaire. On the left are souvenir shops, on the right is the Hôtel de la Cité – which opened in 1909 on the site where the Bishop’s Palace once stood. Like her grandfather before her, it is the sumptuous accommodation that Marie-Cécile de l’Oradore chooses when she visits Carcassonne. She and Paul Authié share a meal in the impressive dining room.
34
6
Standing outside the Hôtel de la Cité, straight ahead is the Basilica Saint-Nazaire et Saint-Celse – ‘Sant Nasari’ as it was in Alaïs’ times. This is where Bertrand Pelletier hid the Book of Numbers, behind an unremarkable tomb. Of the 11th and 12th century church Alaïs and her father Bertrand knew, only the Romanesque nave remains. The rest was rebuilt in the gothic style on the orders of the French king Saint-Louis once the Trencavel lands had been finally subdued by the Crusaders. Today, there is even a memorial to a sermon preached by the founder of the Inquisition, St Dominic.
‘Kneeling down, Alaïs reached around behind the altar as Bertrand had shown her. She paddled her fingers over the surface of the wall. 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.’
35
7
‘The difference in age between the inner and outer walls was most evident here. The outer fortifications, which she read had been built at the end of the 13th century and restored during the 19th, were grey and the blocks were relatively equal in size. Alice felt a sense of peace after the noise within the Cité, a feeling of belonging here among such mountains and skies.’
Keeping the Basilica to your right – and the hideously grimacing gargoyles above you – follow the path and you will come out in another open square. To your left is the rue du Plô – to your right a gate and railings, the entrance to the amphitheatre where the Carcassonne summer festival stages dramatic son et lumière dramas.
Take the rue du Plô and walk uphill on the cobbles, past the school museum, past the little well – Place du Petit Puits – and make your way towards the bustle and noise of the central square, Place Marcou.
36
8
‘Alice let her feet guide her to the main square, Place Marcou. It was small and filled with restaurants and clipped plane trees. Their spreading branches, wide like entwined and sheltering hands above the tables and chairs, competed with the brightly coloured awnings. The names of the individual cafés were printed on the top – Le Marcou, Le Trouvère, Le Ménestrel.’
I have lost count of the number of times I have eaten in this square: toohot summer lunches under the lime trees, close evenings indoors with the fans turning, pizza in the hidden square by the fountain with buskers singing, bright cold winter mornings of milky coffee or sharp little black espressos and delicious butter croissants.
37
9
Leave Place Marcou along a narrow cobbled path in the northwest corner, next to Le Trouvère – the Occitan word for a troubadour.
‘Alice strolled over the cobbles and out the other side, finding herself at the junction of the rue Cros-Mayrevieille and the Place du Château, where a triangle of shops, crêperies and restaurants surrounded a stone obelisk about eight feet high, topped by a bust of the nineteenth-century historian Jean-Pierre Cros-Mayrevieille.’
The monument is decorated with a bronze circlet of the Carcassonne battlements. Cros-Mayrevieille, a historian and important local administrator, who became inspector of historic monuments, inspired the listing and restoration of the Cité.
38
10
‘She walked forward until she was standing in front of a sweeping semicircular wall that protected the Château Comtal. Behind the imposing locked gates were the turrets and battlements of the castle. A fortress within a fortress. Alice stopped, realising that this had been her destination all along.’
Ahead of you is the Château Comtal where Alaïs lived alongside her father Bertrand, her husband Guilhem and sister Oriane in the dynastic home of the Trencavel family. The semi-circular stone barbacane was added in the mid-13th century. The Château itself dates from the mid-12th century, constructed on the foundations of a much older castle. There are options to visiting the Château – a guided tour and the more restricted independent visit. For both, you pay at the kiosk just inside the gate.
Once inside, cross the flat stone bridge across a dry moat and enter through the Eastern Gatehouse into the Cour d’Honneur. In Viscount Trencavel’s time, a feudal elm stood in the centre of this main courtyard, mentioned in many documents and edicts of the time.
39
11
In the northwest corner of the Cour d’Honneur, in the shadow of the Tour de Degré, is where the chapel stood.
‘Alice looked down. Two raised bronze lines on the ground marked out the site of where a building had once stood. There was a row of letters. She crouched down and read that this had been the site of the chapel of the Château Comtal. Nothing remained.’
From the courtyard you can enter the Musée Lapidaire – the museum of stones – on the first floor of what used to be the Château’s living quarters. Walk through the museum to the third chamber. This is the Donjon Room – council chamber – or Round Room, so called because of its barrel-shaped ceiling. The beautiful 12th-century murals were only uncovered in 1926.
‘Alice looked up in admiration at the cerulean blue ceiling, faded and cracked, but beautiful still. On the panel to her left, two chevaliers were fighting, the one dressed in black, holding a round shield, destined to fall for ever more under the other’s lance.’
40
12
‘We’re ready for them, Messire. The Ciutat is well stocked. The hourds are completed to protect the walls from their sappers; all broken sections or points of weakness have been repaired and blocked; all the towers are manned.’
High up on the walls you will see modern reproductions of medieval hourds. These wooden galleries were designed to allow the defenders of the Château to attack invading forces, should the Cité itself be breached, and hurl projectiles down at them.
Viollet-le-Duc’s restoration of the Cité chose slate cones instead of flatter clay-tiled roofs, which have survived on the older Gallo-Roman towers. Detractors say that the 19th-century restoration transformed the Cité in the way Saint-Louis, the French king, would have wanted it.
41
13
‘Alaïs climbed up on the stone bench and reached for the lowest window of the Tour Pinte that gave on to the Cour du Midi. She hauled herself up, wriggled over the stone ledge and threaded herself in through the narrow gap. She was in luck. The room was empty.’
The Trencavels built the Château Comtal in the 12th century on Roman and Visigoth foundations as part of the western fortifications. Although most of the oldest buildings are gone – their stones scavenged to build the Bastide Saint-Louis – the Cour d’Honneur, the smaller Cour du Midi and the distinctive square watchtower, the Tour Pinte, remain. The watchtower – as all the defensive towers – had no stairs, just landings connected by wooden ladders that the guards could draw up after them.
42
14
It would be fun to leave the Château Comtal by the Western Gate, but it is locked. You must leave the same way you came in, past the ticket office.
Once outside the castle, turn left into rue Viollet-le-Duc, lined with restaurants and shops. Follow the road uphill to the big well at the Place du Grand Puits. Follow the road round to the right and go down past the Chambre d’Hôtes guest house. Take the second left into rue Notre-Dame, a charming cobbled street that leads down to the fortifications on the north side of the city. Make your way through the Porte de Rodez into the Lices – the open space between the twin rings of battlements.
‘The guards on duty at the Porte de Rodez were nodding most local people through without question, but stopping vagabonds and beggars, gypsies, Saracens and Jews, demanding to know their business in Carcassonne.’
The Porte de Rodez originally connected the Cité to the market garden suburb of Sant-Vicens. It was the first area to be attacked by the Crusaders at dawn on Monday 3rd August. Many people died here in 1209. Now, there are just the sharply sloping grassy banks . . .
43
15
Here is the possible short cut I promised you!
If you are tired, you can turn left here and follow the walls back round to the Porte d’Aude where you first entered the Cité. From there, you will be able to see the cobbled ramp leading down to Place Saint-Gimer and back to the Pont Vieux – the old bridge where you started.
If you are still feeling fit, turn to the right – keeping out of the way of the horse-drawn carriages – and follow the Lices round to the Porte Narbonnaise, the most important ceremonial entrance into the Cité. As you make your way along the dusty ground, glance up at the towers of the inner wall – some of the oldest stonework in Carcassonne is here, dating back to Gallo-Roman times. Of course, there was no outer ring in Alaïs’ day. Perhaps that is why she felt so insecure and tried to persuade her father Bertrand to let her take the Books to safety . . .
‘With respect, Paire, there is even more reason to let us go. If we don’t, the books will be trapped within the Ciutat. That cannot be what you want.’ She paused. He made no answer. ‘After everything you and Simeon and Esclarmonde have sacrificed, all the years of hiding, keeping the books safe, only to fail at the last.’
44
16
‘The crowds were several deep as they passed under the Trencavel coat of arms hanging between the two towers of the Porte Narbonnaise. Children ran alongside the horses, throwing flowers in their path and cheering.’
After about 200 metres you will reach the main gate into the Cité. Look up at the Tours de la Porte Narbonnaise to see the statue of the Virgin Mary that has replaced the Trencavel ensign.
Leave the Cité by the incongruous drawbridge – Pont-Levis – constructed by Viollet-le-Duc in his 19th-century restoration. Look out for the carved stone pillar with a bas relief of Dame Carcas, after whom, in the reign of the Emperor Charlemagne, the city was named. It reads Sum Carcas – ‘I am Carcas’.
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17
Once outside the walls, you will find you have a view that extends for miles southeast towards Narbonne and the Mediterranean Sea. Turn left and look north and you will see Minervois, the pleasant downland through which the Crusaders marched on their way to besiege Carcassonne. If you come this way by night you will see clusters of lights folded in the hills; many of the villages they indicate saw combat or surrendered in fear of reprisals.
‘On his orders, the fugitives were dragged from their hiding place. He lifted his arm and thrust his blade into the parfait’s chest. For an instant, he held his gaze. The Frenchman’s flint grey eyes were stiff with contempt.’
In contrast, there is a lovely two-tiered 19th-century carousel on the piazza. I recommend the spinning teacups!
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On the other side of the piazza from the carousel is the magnificent 19th-century cemetery where Jeanne Giraud is kidnapped and from which Alice escapes Paul Authié’s henchmen to head north to Chartres and her fateful meetings with Will, Marie-Cécile and François-Baptiste.
‘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.’
In the summer, this is the place to find the calèches – open horse-drawn carriages – for a tour of the Cité.
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As you emerge from the cemetery, recross the piazza past the carousel and take the path through the Jardin du Prado. It will bring you down to a roundabout. Take the first exit on the left – again downhill – onto rue Gustave-Nadaud. As you follow the pavement down, you will see, on the north wall to your right, a magnificent mural depicting the history of Carcassonne.
If you are still full of energy, you could explore the lovely – but busy with traffic – rue Trivalle, which runs parallel. Have a look at the wrought-iron gates of the church of Notre-Dame de l’Abbaye and the eclectic selection of shops, galleries and restaurants.
‘Even when she left the Cité and started to walk down rue Trivalle towards the main town, she felt just as nervous. No matter what she said to herself, she was sure someone was following her.’
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From the bottom of rue Gustave-Nadaud – where it meets rue Trivalle – you will be able to see the Pont Vieux where your tour began. Walk up onto the pedestrianised old bridge and look down into the water. Imagine the salt mills moored in the current, the chevaliers’ chargers cooling off in the shallows after exercise . . . Imagine the Crusader encampment on the far bank . . .
Then turn and look up at the battlements of the Cité – once thought impregnable, then besieged and forced by treachery and intolerance to submit.
Yes, the stones of the Cité were conquered, but thanks to Alaïs, Sajhë, Alice, Audric and the rest – the sprit of this special place was victorious.
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