by K. M. Grant
Girald completed his triumph in a travesty of amiability. “What a help you’ve been, Raimon,” he said. “You’ve certainly earned the reprieve for your family, and as for you yourself, well, people, especially children, always wait for the first telltale and after that they all join in. Before the week’s out I’ll know every heretic and heretic’s hiding place in Castelneuf. If anyone has scruples, they can say to themselves, ‘If Raimon Belot’s helping Inquisitor Girald, we better help too.’ “His tongue was sticky. “Help him put on the tabard, Sanchez, and don’t forget, Raimon, that it will be the duty of anyone who catches you without it to report to me so you can be dealt with in the appropriate manner.” Then he left the room because his bowels would wait no longer.
The tabard was forced over Raimon’s head and when he re-emerged, he could not avoid Hugh. The perfect knight had taken Yolanda’s hand, and the message Raimon took from both his glance and his clasp was that he did not intend to let it go. In a morning of very bad moments, that was the worst moment of all.
11
The Bear Hunt
Fear compresses time, and fear now engulfed my town of Castelneuf and permeated throughout my lands and among my people. No longer could they pretend to live in a cocoon, immune to what was going on elsewhere. The world had come to my people and they had to decide how to respond. The fear they felt did not spread like a stain. There was no panic, such as comes with a natural disaster, just a leaden sense of foreboding interspersed with these jolts. People still went about their daily toil, but with heads bowed like nuns.
Girald’s “telltale” prediction came true. After Raimon had been forcefully paraded through the town, his yellow-crossed tunic hideously bright, Simon Crampcross sat in the small square in front of his church, wagging his finger and urging people to come forward and reveal the identity of all the Cathars in the town. His theme was very clear: if Raimon could help the inquisitor, they could too. He was very persuasive. Singly and in groups, people trickled up to the chateau; some dragging their feet, others walking with determined strides, the quicker to get their betrayal over with. They betrayed longstanding neighbors. They betrayed friends. Some betrayed those against whom they had a grudge. Others betrayed anybody at all because the very act of betrayal, they thought, would make their own families safe from the inquisitor. Slowly, the cellars, which had been used previously only for storage or children’s games, were transformed into prisons. Sicart and Adela disappeared and Castelneuf became a town of living ghosts, with Girald’s black shadow king of them all. There was still talk of the Flame, for scouts went out to search for it every day. But since it never showed itself, just surviving and getting through the days became the most important thing in the minds of the ordinary people. If they could just hold their breath, then sooner or later this would pass and life would be normal again.
Not for Raimon. Life for him would never be normal again. After he had been released, he threw his tabard into the river and ran back to the cave. As he neared it, he recited, to the pounding of his feet, “He must be there, the Blue Flame must be there.” He felt as though he had no one and nothing else. Pushing back the tree roots, he couldn’t see anything at first.
“Sir Parsifal!” he cried out, forgetting to be careful in his need. “Sir Parsifal!”
“Just Parsifal, please. Really, I shall have to put up a notice,” came a voice from behind him.
Raimon spun around. He could hold on no longer. “I shouldn’t have … it was … I said … they wouldn’t … I thought … I lost …” He stood, trembling in spasms that rocked him on his feet. Parsifal moved toward him tentatively. The boy’s need was almost intoxicating, but also a little alarming.
“Tell me everything,” he said, and remained quite still until Raimon’s flood had run its course and the boy was sagging, empty of everything. Only then did he bring the Flame out again from under his cloak, give the box a little shake, and hold it in front of Raimon’s face.
The Flame did nothing at first, but then something of the boy’s anguish seemed to touch it, deep in its fiery heart. It folded itself down, then slowly wound itself up—not smoothly, but jerkily like a clockwork toy—and then, instead of shedding light, it began to draw what light there was into itself until Parsifal and Raimon could not see each other, but could only look at it. Gradually, it filled up the vacuum in which Raimon had been despairing, until his trembling ceased. It was hard to despair when the Flame was so alive, so mesmerizing, and so confident. It reached out to him, smoothing and soothing, until he felt as though he was looking at it properly for the first time. It was not just offering comfort, it was telling him something, he was sure of that. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, he would understand, but when it died down and he found himself staring at Parsifal’s blackberry bush of a beard, he was still wondering.
“Well,” Parsifal said, “that was something.” Then he took Raimon gently by the arm, sat him down in the cave’s most comfortable corner, and gave him rabbit stew.
Yolanda was confined to the chateau by Girald and she did not dare disobey. If she did, so Girald told her, others would be punished. She believed him. She kept herself sane by tending to Brees, having his leg set properly and bathing his wounds. She tried to imagine where Raimon was and what he was doing, but the pictures she conjured up were almost too wretched to be borne. As soon as Brees was strong enough, she decided she would send him out to look, but frightened by what Pierre and Sanchez might do if they caught him, decided against it. Hugh, careful not to press his advantage too obviously, sent his groom up with pastes and tonics for the dog and was glad to find that Yolanda did not turn them away.
The person most openly agitated was Aimery. It was unpleasant in the chateau with Girald’s dreary courts, the servants skulking and whispering, and the bread oven cold because the baker was imprisoned in the cellar. This was not the Amouroix he wanted to show Hugh. And he was nervous. Yolanda had stopped combing her hair. Perhaps Hugh would think twice about marrying her and then this fine chance to link Castelneuf to France would be lost. Moreover, Aimery was disturbed by news of the rebellion. Raymond of Toulouse, enjoying some small successes, had not yet sent for Count Berengar and his forces to bolster up his troops, but it could not be long until he did and then Aimery would be caught in a trap. It was one thing for his father to send a letter of support to Raymond, and quite another for Castelneuf troops to be seen in battle at his side. King Louis would never forgive that. And, so Aimery told himself again and again, there was no way at all that Raymond was ever going to win and the Occitan remain free. Small successes were only putting off the inevitable end, for the French war machine was relentless. It would ride over the Flame, ride over them all, and Aimery was not going to be crushed under the weight when, with a little judicious maneuvering, he could enjoy life not as a powerless Occitanian nobleman but as a rich and powerful member of the French court. All the stuff about the Occitanian soul, all that nonsense encapsulated in the “Song of the Flame” was romance, and the days of such romance were over.
However, with the main hall unlit and stale aired, the glory of the French court seemed very far away. For now he sat feet splayed, flicking the top off a tankard of ale, staring at the moth-eaten bear’s head, and listening to the doleful tread of Girald’s victims. He wished the Cathars were at the bottom of the sea. Burn them, drown them, serve them up on toast; they were nothing but an irritant and his father should have done something about them years before. His father! Aimery could hardly think of the count without losing his temper. The man was like the bear’s head: threadbare and in urgent need of replacement. Then, with a sudden exclamation, he tossed the ale into the rushes and walked swiftly out of the hall toward the stables.
An hour later, his favorite horse was saddled and he was in the kennel courtyard giving instructions to the huntsman. Several hunt pages were already clutching nets and leather couples. The whinnying, anticipatory howling, and low grind of spears on the sharpening stone were just wha
t he needed to hear. This was what Castelneuf should be like: efficient and ready to do its master’s bidding. He had changed his clothes, and warm in his red-sleeved woolen tunic, his feet encased in two layers of pigskin and his beard finely brushed, his spirits were rising. He sent a page for Hugh. Never mind the cold bread oven, he would show him something today that he’d never forget.
He hoped to get away quickly, but when the kennel doors were opened and the hounds burst out, Yolanda appeared.
“I’m coming too,” she said.
Aimery was dismissive. “You know you can’t, Yola, and we’re only going to hunt for food. Besides, I don’t think that old creature you usually ride could keep up with Argos.” He patted the arched neck in front of him.
“If you’re hunting for the pot she can easily keep up. Please.”
Aimery regarded her quizzically. She was so transparent. She thought Raimon was in the hills and wanted to find him.
“No,” he said. “You can’t come.”
More men appeared. Yolanda frowned. “Why do you need spears and crossbows?”
“You never know, we might disturb a bear!” Hugh was right behind her.
Yolanda looked at him and then swiftly back at Aimery. “You’re not going hunting for the pot at all, are you? But you can’t go bear hunting. It’s too early. They’ll only just have woken and some will have cubs!” She seized Argos’s rein.
“Look, Yola, that’s my business. Let go.”
“No, I won’t. If you’re going after bears, Uncle Girald should know,” she said in her most dangerous voice. “Bear hunting has always been forbidden in Amouroix during Lent. You’d better clear it with him. You won’t want to sin by mistake and go to hell.” She called to one of the pages. “Denys, go and get the inquisitor at once.”
Aimery gripped the pommel of his saddle. “Come back here.” Denys looked uncertain.
“Go on, Denys. The inquisitor.” Yolanda could sound just like their mother.
“All right, you win,” Aimery said. “If you can find yourself a decent mount, you can come too. But if anything happens to you, I take no responsibility and I’ll tell father and Uncle Girald that you tagged along without my permission. Oh, and you can’t bring Brees. He’ll just get in among the hounds and upset them.” That would surely put her off.
“Brees is in no fit state to go anywhere,” replied Yolanda at once. “I’ve put wine in his water, so he’s sleeping. He won’t even notice I’ve gone.”
“Well then,” said Aimery, still determined, “it’s just a pity you haven’t a proper horse. Bad luck.” He kicked Argos and made him jump.
“I’ll find one.”
“We can’t wait any longer. Come on, Hugh. Alain, where are my gloves?” His squire handed them to him.
“Just one minute!” cried Yolanda.
Aimery laughed at her. “How will you conjure up a horse in a minute?”
Alain made a sympathetic face, but shrugged.
“I’ll lend you a horse, Lady Yolanda.” Hugh was once again her savior. “Would you allow me?”
Yolanda threw a glance of fiery triumph at her brother. “Allow you? I’d be very grateful.”
He swung easily off his own mount. “Come,” he said. “You shall choose.”
Aimery tried not to smile. This was turning out well.
All four of Hugh’s spare mounts moved in their stalls when their master approached, but Hugh spoke to only two, a gray with a lean, rather sorrowful face, its mane and tail sparse and almost white, and a heavier black, with a Roman nose and a crisscross of white-haired scars across its rump.
“Which would you like?” Hugh asked her. “They’ve both seen a great deal of service. I shall retire them at the end of this campaigning season. Some men sell them for meat, you know, but I think they deserve better.” He didn’t, really, and had always sent his horses for meat, but he knew it would please her. Courtship was not about truth.
Yolanda breathed in the horses’ leathery smell and stroked their noses. “What are their names?”
“The gray’s Galahad and the black’s Bors.”
“I’ll take Galahad,” said Yolanda at once. “I’m sure they’re both as gallant as their namesakes, but Galahad was the Perfect Knight.”
“The Perfect Knight? Oh, yes! Of course.” Making a mental note to brush up on Arthur’s blessed table, Hugh called for the gray to be saddled and helped Yolanda to her mount. When they returned, Yolanda raised her eyebrows at Aimery and he doffed his hat and grinned. She knew just what his grin meant. Hugh was laying claim to her and she was not entirely unwilling. It made her smart.
The mounted huntsman, noting that everyone was now ready, blew his horn and the hounds tumbled over themselves like children anticipating a picnic. It was a mixed pack today, led by sad-faced, long-eared Farvel, the count’s best scenting bloodhound. Among the loose hounds, two sharp-eyed greyhounds and a few of the more impetuous running hounds were on leashes. With keen eyes and keener noses they all formed an undulating carpet of swaying sterns, flapping ears, and dripping tongues. Hugh thought they looked a rabble.
Last to appear, like prize boxers before a bout, were the broad-headed, prick-eared alaunts and glowering mastiffs, their collars studded with the broken teeth of previous quarry. They were muzzled and wore their restraints not as badges of subjection, but of pride, as they surveyed the noisy scene, keeping their own sterns clamped tight between their hind legs. Now Hugh felt a prickle. A bite by one of those could take off your leg.
Aimery rode directly behind the pack with Hugh and Yolanda behind him, the horses scraping over slimy cobbles. Yolanda clung to the front of her saddle when Galahad, throwing off his years, kicked up his heels. As she crunched back into the hard seat, she missed the soft roundness of her old mare’s unsaddled back and the feel of Raimon’s ribs where she was used to clasping her hands.
“Just sit tight,” Hugh advised. “He’ll settle when we’re over the river.” His legs were shapely in leaf green and his jerkin, cleverly cut to disguise a thickening waist, was embroidered with yellow roses. No girl could be unaware that he was a handsome companion.
He stuck closely by Yolanda. She was pale, her face too thin and too shell-like for real beauty. He imagined her skin cool and slightly forbidding to the touch. Cool and forbidding—he was turning poet! Hugh was surprising himself. Though the girl was so unhappy and withdrawn and the dance she had danced on the night he arrived had never been repeated, increasingly he found her a drink of clear water after too much rich wine. In comparison with her, the women of Paris, with their capricious grace and self-conscious chastity, seemed cloying and contrived. Hugh was no romantic. He knew he would tire of any woman in the end, but by that time, with luck, the houses of Amouroix and des Arcis would be linked by legions of strong and pretty children. Meanwhile, he began to look forward to Yolanda adding glancing spring light to his gray northern castle, for she had a dazzle about her that her brother certainly lacked. As she relaxed onto Galahad, allowing him his head when he snorted as they passed a tethered pig, he laughed quietly. “Hugh des Arcis,” he said to himself, “you must take care not to fall in love.”
The whole party jostled joyfully out of the gate and streamed down the main road out of the town, apart from the alaunts and the mastiffs, who padded with methodical aggression. Lumping along in their wake came the baggage wagon laden with weapons and food. The river was soon crossed and they were past the cemeteries, through the sunny meadows, and into the woods. On the other side of the woods, they headed down the valley and toward the mountains. The sky was not completely clear and the lower clouds were already smudging the mountaintops and threatening to descend farther. But Aimery sniffed the wind and was satisfied. The day promised reasonable light and good scent. Hugh would be mightily impressed. He let out a whoop, which startled a hare, and at once a wild hawk rose lazily over the easy prey, then plunged down, successfully binding the hare to her until one of the running hounds frightened her off and dis
patched it himself.
At the first blood of the day, Aimery’s own blood tingled. He kicked his horse. “Come on, huntsman! Faster!” he cried and set off at a gallop. Galahad leaped forward and Yolanda’s hair tumbled loose. She could feel the wind tugging at it and suddenly her spirits rose. She would find Raimon. They would find each other. Things would go well today.
The hounds pressed on for mile after mile, up farther hills, across ever more uneven plateaus, and then plunging down into unseen and unexpected valleys until eventually they reached the steeper slopes of the true mountains. Here the baggage wagon was unloaded. Spears, bows, arrows, and nets would have to be carried now. After a short breather and a drink at a stream, they set off again, this time up true mountain tracks with Aimery talking and swapping jokes with Hugh until the paths grew too narrow to ride abreast. Then, in single file, often hardly visible to each other under trees clustered and bent from the wind, some with snow still wedged in branches never touched by the sun, they spoke only to their horses, encouraging them as they stretched their shoulders and puffed. After two hours, the slopes cleared as the thicker forests sank away. Yolanda, with Galahad now steady as a rock beneath her, felt as though she could ride into the sky.
The huntsman led them on a circuitous route, trying to save the energy of both hound and horse, but each peak was higher than the last and each plateau more rocky. Everyone’s ears throbbed to the boom of heavy water. On every side, the snowmelt turned winter’s icy grottoes back into falls and cascades.
Deep in the dappled shadows, and often having to make wide detours to find cover, Parsifal and Raimon followed the hunt. The singing of the hounds had alerted them in the Castelneuf valley and Raimon had picked out Yolanda at once, on a warhorse rather than on the old mare they used to ride together, and with Hugh beside her. His heart grew hot. When he saw the boy’s face, Parsifal had not even suggested that they should not follow. What harm could it do? He tucked the Flame away carefully. It did not object.
