by Kate Mosse
Arinius hid a smile. ‘I have,’ he said seriously.
‘It is said that when he abandoned his lover, Pyrène, the daughter of King Berbyx, she tried to follow him and was torn to pieces by wild animals. Here. Wolves, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
She looked suspiciously at him, thinking he was making fun of her, but Arinius smiled, and after a moment, she continued.
‘When Hercules found her remains, he was turned half mad with grief. He ripped the land apart with his bare hands and that’s how the mountains were formed.’ Her face creased in a frown. ‘I don’t think it’s a true story.’
‘Maybe not,’ he agreed.
‘But it’s where I got my name,’ she added.
‘What is your name, will you tell me?’
For a moment, he thought she would refuse.
‘Lupa,’ she said.
Arinius smiled, thinking there was perhaps something of the wolf about her. The way she walked with purpose, her long hair lying flat against her back.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Arinius,’ he said.
‘Where do you come from?’
‘I’ve travelled long distances,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I might call Carcaso home.’
Her eyes widened with interest, but then she shrugged, as if to say that such far-off places were of no interest to her. Taking him by surprise, she suddenly set off back down the wooded path and he was forced to hurry to keep up with her.
Arinius was aware of her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, though, as if to check he was real.
‘Are you ill?’ she asked again in a serious voice. ‘There’s blood on your clothes.’
Arinius thought of the gasping for air and the pain. He’d thought he was going to die, but, for whatever reason, God had spared him.
‘I am ill,’ he said. ‘But I feel better at the moment.’
Lupa stared at him for a moment. ‘Good,’ she said abruptly, then continued even faster down the hill.
It was almost dark by the time they reached a small circle of houses, buildings, huts on the far side of a wide-open plain. Tiny splashes of colour, blue and pink and yellow. Tall poppies, the colour of blood, punctuating the green with red.
‘There it is,’ she said.
‘What’s it called?’
‘It doesn’t have a proper name.’
‘All right,’ he smiled. ‘What do you call it?’
‘Tarasco,’ she said.
‡
Chapter 97
TARASCON
AUGUST 1942
‘Your plan’s worked,’ Pujol said, coming back out to the terrace.
‘Authié took it to Saurat, like you predicted, Audric. Saurat authenticated it.’
Raoul whistled.
‘Ben.’ Baillard nodded. ‘Good. My thanks to you all, especially you, madomaisèla. Because of your courage and quick thinking, we are further ahead than I could have dared to hope.’
‘I was glad to help,’ Sandrine said, squeezing Raoul’s hand.
‘My thanks to you too, Madomaisèla Lucie.’
Lucie nodded, but didn’t say anything. She continued to stare out over the cottage gardens, almost invisible now in the fading light. Sandrine and Raoul exchanged a look. Sandrine touched her arm. Lucie jumped, then caught her breath. Sandrine wanted to tell her that everything would work out all right, but she couldn’t bring herself to give her false hope.
Baillard, Pujol and Raoul had all arrived at the house at the same time, to find the girls waiting for them. Baillard and Pujol had been on their way back to the Col de Pyrène, Breillac having passed on Raoul’s earlier message that a German team was at the cave. They had met Raoul coming down from the mountain to tell them about the gunfight, the mining of the cave and the fact that Coursan – Authié as he was learning to call him – had the forgery.
Sandrine was delighted to see Raoul, although furious that he’d taken the risk of coming into town. For his part, he’d been horrified to learn about her trip to Le Vernet and that she had been in such close proximity to Authié and Laval. Quickly though, his anger had given way to pride at how she had held her nerve and set the trap.
‘Was there a real Leo Coursan?’ Sandrine said.
‘I think there must have been,’ Raoul answered. ‘That’s what alerted César in the first place.’ He sighed. ‘If only he’d confided in me, then.’
He looked at Baillard. ‘Do you think Authié was responsible for César’s murder?’
‘Yes, although I imagine Laval actually killed him.’
‘And Antoine.’ Raoul’s face hardened. ‘And I was that close to him. I could have shot him. Both of them.’
‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘You had to let him go for the plan to work.’
‘Not next time,’ he said. ‘Next time, I will kill him.’
She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Monsieur Baillard.
‘What do you think will happen now?’
‘I will watch to see what Captain Authié does with the forgery now Sénher Saurat has authenticated it. Even though Bauer is dead – thanks to you, Pujol, we know the identity of those men – it doesn’t mean that there isn’t Nazi money behind Authié.’
‘What do you think he will do with it?’
‘He might do many different things. He might offer it to the Ahnenerbe in Berlin, or even to the Weltliche Schatzkammer Museum in Vienna. He might have his own experts in Paris.’
‘Or keep it?’ she asked.
‘Or, indeed, keep it,’ Baillard agreed.
‘What are we going to do about the bodies?’ Raoul asked.
‘Leave them to rot up there,’ Pujol said.
‘Achille . . .’ Baillard reproved him.
Pujol held up his hands. ‘I know, I know. You want them safely in the earth, don’t you, Audric? But we can’t. If we open the cave, word will get back to Authié.’
Baillard sighed. ‘I understand. And it is better if he thinks he has got away with this unnoticed, yes.’
‘Are you going to stay in Tarascon, Monsieur Baillard?’ Sandrine asked.
‘I cannot. I am expected in Ax-les-Thermes to help a new group of refugees. It is an old promise and I must keep it. After that, in September – and once things have quietened in Tarascon – I shall begin the business of searching for the real Codex.’ He inclined his head to Raoul. ‘A business that, thanks to you, Sénher Pelletier, will now be easier.’
‘Let me know if I can help,’ Raoul said. ‘Perhaps I could come back in a few weeks, if you want me to.’
‘I will.’
For a moment, nobody spoke. Lucie was asleep in her chair. Pujol was tapping the ash of his cigarette on to the flagstones of the terrace.
‘Is Sandrine still in danger, Monsieur Baillard?’ Raoul asked quietly.
‘We’re all in danger, one way or another,’ Sandrine said, not wanting to think about it.
Raoul put his hand on her arm. ‘Sandrine, please.’ He looked back to Baillard.
‘Is she?’
Baillard paused. ‘I believe Madomaisèla Sandrine is in less danger than before. Captain Authié has no need of her. He believes he now knows all she had to tell. Not only that, he has the Codex itself – or so he believes.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Raoul said, pulling Sandrine even closer to him.
‘Your part in this story is done, madomaisèla,’ Baillard said. ‘You should return to Coustaussa tomorrow, then decide what to do for the best.’
‘I’ve already decided, Monsieur Baillard. Liesl will stay there with Marieta, as we’d always planned. Geneviève’s close at hand. They all know each other now.’ She paused and looked at the old policeman. ‘And Eloise and Inspector Pujol are here, if there’s any trouble.’
Pujol nodded. ‘I’ll keep an eye on things.’
‘I don’t know what Lucie will want to do, but I’ll return to Carcassonne with Marianne
and Suzanne. There’s no need to wait.’ She met Baillard’s eye. ‘I’m going to help them. Work with them.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Raoul started to say. ‘I’d be happier if you stayed in Coustaussa.’
Monsieur Baillard gave a slight smile. ‘No, Madomaisèla Sandrine is right. It is the wisest thing to return home. If you carry on as usual, Captain Authié has no reason to be suspicious. If you disappear from view, you run every risk of making him wonder what else you have to hide.’ He held her gaze. ‘But be careful, all three of you. Be very careful and circumspect in what you choose to do.’
His words sent another shiver down her spine. ‘I will.’
Lucie suddenly stretched, then sat up in her chair. Sandrine wondered how long she’d been awake.
‘There’s nothing that can be done for Max other than to keep writing, keep hoping we can get him out,’ Lucie said. ‘He said that there are trains taking the Jewish prisoners to the East. Frenchmen, not foreigners.’ She stopped, clearly struggling to keep her fear under control. ‘If they send him away, I’ll never see him again.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘We will never see him.’
Sandrine got up and put her arm around Lucie. She felt rigid, tense, unyielding. Sandrine didn’t say anything, couldn’t think of anything she could say.
‘Is it true?’ Lucie said, looking at Monsieur Baillard. ‘There are special trains?’
‘It is what they say.’
Lucie looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, as if she had come to a decision. She turned to Sandrine.
‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay in Coustaussa. If it’s possible. At least until the baby is born.’
‘Of course.’
She stood up. ‘Now, I’m sorry to be a bother, but is there somewhere I might lie down for an hour or so? We’ll have to set off for Foix to pick up the motor, if you want to get back to Coustaussa in the morning.’
‘Only if you’re up to driving,’ Sandrine said.
‘I will be. A couple of hours’ sleep will see me right.’
Pujol hauled himself out of his chair. ‘It might take a moment,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve been using the bedroom as something of a store.’
Lucie rested her hand on Sandrine’s shoulder as she passed. ‘Thanks, kid,’ she said, ‘for all of it. For coming with me, for putting up with the fuss. You and Marianne, you’ve been wonderful. Real pals.’
For a moment after she’d gone, they sat in silence.
‘What about you?’ Sandrine said in a soft voice to Raoul.
‘My only hope is to keep moving. Despite what we’ve done today, nothing’s changed for me.’
‘I suppose I thought . . .’
‘The warrant against him is for murder, filha, as well as insurgency,’ Baillard said quietly. ‘He cannot go back to Carcassonne.’
‘No.’ Sandrine felt a lump in her throat. She looked at Baillard, then at Raoul.
‘I just hoped that . . .’
‘I’ll send a message whenever I can,’ Raoul said swiftly. ‘If there’s a chance to meet, I’ll take it.’
Sandrine squeezed his hand. She knew as well as he did that it was a promise he’d struggle to keep.
‘I’ll find a way,’ he whispered.
‘I know.’
From inside the house, the sound of Pujol preparing a bed for Lucie. Low voices, a door shutting.
‘You should rest too, madomaisèla,’ said Baillard. ‘And you, Sénher Pelletier.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly sleep. I’ve got too many things going round in my head.’ She looked out towards the Pic de Vicdessos, shrouded now in the blackness of the night. ‘You believe the Codex is still there?’ she asked.
‘I do.’
‘And . . . you believe it can raise the ghost army?’
Baillard smiled. ‘Can you not hear them?’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘The shadows in the mountains.’
Sandrine stared at him for a moment, then she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to float free of the real world around her, what she could see and feel and touch. Instead tried to listen to the older echoes and sounds held in the memory of the land.
For a single, dazzling moment she saw their faces clearly. Not shadows or echoes, but instead a girl with long copper curls pinned high on her head. Another, more radiant still, in a long green dress and with dark hair loose on her shoulders. Shimmering and bright against the night sky, spirit and absence of colour.
‘Can’t you hear them?’ Baillard said again. ‘They are waiting to be summoned.’
Chapter 98
COUSTAUSSA
On Wednesday 19 August, the day of Antoine Déjean’s funeral, Sandrine boarded the northbound train at Couiza to return to Carcassonne. This time, Suzanne and Marianne sat in the carriage with her and there was no one to see them off. They had said their goodbyes to Liesl, Lucie and Marieta at the house. Geneviève and Eloise were in Tarascon with Inspector Pujol to pay their respects. Monsieur Baillard had left for Ax-les-Thermes.
Raoul had spent two days with her in Coustaussa, then left on Tuesday for Banyuls-sur-Mer. In his rucksack were false papers and a roll of francs bound up with an elastic band to pay the passeur for the next group of refugees and Allied soldiers to be guided through the mountains to Spain, then Portugal. Sandrine was proud of him. It was important work.
‘Soon,’ he whispered as he left. ‘I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.’
Sandrine had nodded and pretended she believed him.
The train pulled out of the station. Every jerk and jolt of the old rolling stock put more and more space between them.
‘It’s for the best,’ Marianne said, misinterpreting the expression on her face. ‘Marieta will look after them.’
Sandrine dragged her thoughts back to the present. ‘I think Lucie will be all right. Having told Max their news, all her attention is on the baby now.’
‘She’s always been like that,’ Marianne said. ‘Single-minded to a fault.’
‘She’s worried that you haven’t forgiven her for talking to Authié in the first place.’
Sandrine saw Marianne’s expression change, but she kept going.
‘We talked about it a fair bit. She panicked. She didn’t mean to do the wrong thing – she genuinely didn’t think it could hurt – and she doesn’t want it to be something that gets between you.’
‘I have forgiven her, as you put it, but I can’t forget it. We all have to make choices – how best to protect the people we love – and it is hard.’
‘She just didn’t think. And I don’t want to be the cause of bad feeling between you. You’ve been friends for so long.’
Marianne sighed. ‘Everyone compromises. There’s no black and no white, just shades of grey. Everybody’s trying to get by. Everyone tells themselves it’s all right to inform on a neighbour or give the police a tip-off, because it will go better for their family. Or thinks that what they do can’t really make a difference.’ She sighed. ‘But the small betrayals lead to bigger ones, morality is eroded. Whatever the inducements, whatever the threats, it’s simple. You do not betray your friends.’
‘Marianne, come on. She didn’t betray me. That’s too strong.’
Her sister met her gaze. ‘She traded information for a favour, so she thought,’ she said in a level voice. ‘The fact that they already had the information is neither here nor there. So, although I’m still very fond of her, I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I will do everything I can to make sure she is all right. But I won’t forget.’
‘I didn’t realise you felt so strongly.’
‘Yes you did.’ She paused. ‘And she knows you feel you should have done something to help Max in the first place, although you couldn’t. I think she plays on that.’
‘No, she’s never said anything like that. I just feel awful, I can’t help it. I know it’s silly.’
‘It is.’ Marianne glanced at Suzanne, and, fo
r a moment, her expression relaxed. Then the smile slipped from her face once more. ‘We have so much to do in Carcassonne. So many men are in prison, we are going to have to work twice as hard. And there’s Authié to contend with. All we can do is carry on as normal. Hope he leaves you – leaves us – alone. Be particularly careful.’
Sandrine realised how nervous she was at the thought of being back in the Bastide. Knowing Madame Fournier would be watching from next door. Accepting that she would have to be constantly on her guard.
‘So you see,’ Marianne was saying, ‘Lucie is the furthest thing from my mind.’
‘Yes, I see,’ Sandrine said, wishing she hadn’t brought it up.
She leant her head against the wooden frame of the carriage window and tilted her face to the hot August afternoon. The train hummed its lullaby song along the metal tracks parallel to the river. She wondered where Raoul would sleep tonight. She wondered how long it would be before she saw him again. Two weeks, two months? Longer?
What if the war never ended? Was that possible?
She closed her eyes, willing there to be some truth in the legend. That just as Dame Carcas had defeated the armies of Charlemagne, the ghost army might once more be summoned and drive out the new invaders from France. Only when they were free from occupation once more could she and Raoul hope to be together. She glanced at her sister and at Suzanne, and smiled.
Until such time as Monsieur Baillard found the Codex, they would do everything they could. They would play their part.
Chapter 99
THE HAUTE VALLÉE
At first sight, everything appeared the same as always. The wide drailles were empty and it didn’t look as if anyone had passed that way for some time. All the same, Baillard was anxious. To start with, the group was larger than he liked – it was safer to take people in twos and threes over Roc Blanc – and larger than he had been expecting. Three of the men were quiet and on edge, in the usual sort of way. One English airman who spoke no French, a Dutchman and a Jewish dissident, a scholar. All bore the marks of hardship and experience on their faces. The fourth, a Frenchman, was nervous too, like the others, but he kept glancing over his shoulder and looking at his watch.
