by Kate Mosse
For a moment, she thought she had been over-familiar and presumed too much. But, after a moment’s hesitation, Jacques grinned.
‘Ben,’ she said. Good. ‘I will come back when the sun is high and see to it. Dins d’abord.’ Soon.
As Alaïs left the kitchen and climbed back up the stairs, she heard Jacques bellowing at everybody to stop gawping and get back to work, pretending the interruption had never happened. She smiled.
Everything was as it should be.
Alaïs pulled open the heavy door that led into the main courtyard and stepped out into the newborn day.
The leaves of the elm tree that stood in the centre of the enclosed courtyard, under which Viscount Trencavel dispensed justice, looked black against the fading night. Its branches were alive with larks and wrens, their voices warbling shrill and clear in the dawn.
Raymond-Roger Trencavel’s grandfather had built the Chateau Comtal, more than a hundred years ago, as the seat from which to rule his expanding territories. His lands stretched from Albi in the north and Narbonne in the south, to Béziers in the east and Carcassonne in the west.
The Chateau was constructed around a large rectangular courtyard and incorporated, on the western side, the remains of an older castle. It was part of the reinforcement of the western section of the fortified walls that enclosed the Cite, a ring of solid stone that towered high above the river Aude and the northern marshlands beyond.
The donjon, where the Consuls met and significant documents were signed, was in the southwest corner of the courtyard and well guarded. In the dim light, Alaïs could see something propped against the outside wall. She looked harder and realised it was a dog, curled up asleep on the ground. A couple of boys, perched like crows on the edge of the goose pen, were trying to wake the animal up by flicking stones at it. In the stillness, she could hear the regular dull thud, thud of their heels banging against the wooden railings.
There were two ways in and out of the Chateau Comtal. The wide arched West Gate gave directly on to the grassy slopes that led to the walls and was mostly kept closed. The Eastern Gate, small and narrow, was tucked between two high gate towers and led straight into the streets of the Ciutat, the Cite, itself.
Communication between the upper and lower floors of the gatehouse towers was only possible by means of wooden ladders and a series of trap doors. As a girl, one of her favourite games was to scramble up and down between the levels with the boys from the kitchen, trying to evade the guards. Alaïs was fast. She always won.
Pulling her cloak tightly about her, she walked briskly across the courtyard. Once the curfew bell had rung, the gates barred for the night and the guard set, nobody was supposed to pass without her father’s authorisation. Although not a consul, Bertrand Pelletier occupied a unique and favoured position in the household. Few dared disobey him.
He had always disliked her habit of slipping out of the Cite in the early morning. These days, he was even more adamant that she should stay within the walls of the Chateau at night. She assumed her husband felt the same, although Guilhem had never said so. But it was only in the stillness and anonymity of the dawn, free from the restrictions and limitations of the household, that Alaïs felt really herself. Nobody’s daughter, nobody’s sister, nobody’s wife. Deep down, she had always believed her father understood. Much as she disliked disobeying him, she did not want to give up these moments of freedom.
Most of the night-watch turned a blind eye to her comings and goings. Or, at least they had. Since rumours of war had started to circulate, the garrison had become more cautious. On the surface, life went on much the same and although refugees arrived in the Cite from time to time, their tales of attacks or religious persecution seemed to Alaïs nothing out of the ordinary. Raiders who appeared from nowhere and struck like summer lightning before passing on were facts of existence for any who lived outside the safety of a fortified village or town. The reports seemed no different, neither more nor less, than usual.
Guilhem didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the whisperings of a conflict, at least not so far as she could tell. He never talked to her of such things. Oriane, however, claimed that a French army of Crusaders and churchmen was making ready to attack the lands of the Pays d’Oc. Moreover, she said the campaign was supported by the Pope and the French King. Alaïs knew from experience that much of what Oriane said was intended only to upset her. Nonetheless her sister often seemed to know things before anybody else in the household and there was no denying the fact that the number of messengers coming in and out of the Chateau was increasing by the day. It was also undeniable that the lines on their father’s face were deeper and darker, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced.
The sirjans d’arms on guard at the Eastern Gate were alert, although their eyes were rimmed with red after a long night. Their square silver helmets were pushed high on their heads and their chain-mail coats were dull in the pale dawn light. With their shields slung wearily across their shoulders and their swords sheathed, they looked more ready for bed than battle.
As she got closer, Alaïs was relieved to recognise Bérenger. When he identified her, he grinned and he bowed his head.
‘Bonjorn, Dame Alaïs. You’re up and about early.’
She smiled. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Can’t that husband of yours think of something to fill your nights?’ said the other with a lewd wink. His face was pockmarked and the nails on his fingers were bitten and bleeding. His breath smelled of stale food and ale.
Alaïs ignored him. ‘How is your wife, Berenger?’
Well, Dame. Quite back to her usual self.’
‘And your son?’
‘Bigger by the day. He’ll eat us out of house and hearth if we don’t watch out!’
‘Clearly following in his father’s footsteps!’ she said, poking his ample belly.
‘That’s exactly what my wife says.’
‘Send her my best wishes, Berenger, will you?’
‘She will be grateful to be remembered, Dame.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you want me to let you through?’
‘I’m only going out into the Ciutat, maybe the river. I won’t be long.’
‘We’re not supposed to let anybody through,’ growled his companion. ‘Intendant Pelletier’s orders.’
‘Nobody asked you,’ snapped Bérenger. ‘It’s not that, Dame,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘But you know how things are at present. What if something was to happen to you and it came out that it was I who let you pass, your father would — ’
Alaïs put her hand on his arm. ‘I know, I know,’ she said softly. ‘But really there’s no need to worry. I can take care of myself. Besides . . .’ — She let her eyes slide sideways to the other guard, who was now picking his nose and wiping his fingers on his sleeve — ‘what trials I might face at the river could hardly be worse than those you endure here!’
Bérenger laughed. ‘Promise me you will be careful, è?’ Alaïs nodded, opening her cloak a fraction to show him the hunting knife at her waist. ‘I will. I give you my word.’
There were two doors to negotiate. Bérenger unbolted them in turn, then lifted the heavy beam of oak securing the outer door and pulled it open just wide enough for Alaïs to slip through. Smiling her thanks, she ducked under his arm and stepped out into the world.
CHAPTER 2
Alaïs felt her heart lift as she emerged from the shadows between the gate towers. She was free. For a while at least.
A moveable wooden walkway linked the gatehouse to the flat stone bridge that connected the Chateau Comtal to the streets of Carcassona. The grass in the dry moat way beneath the bridge was glistening with dew in the shimmering purple light. There was still a moon, although it was fading against the gathering dawn.
Alaïs walked quickly, her cloak leaving swirling patterns in the dust, wanting to avoid questions from the guards on duty on the far side. She was lucky. They were slumbering at their posts and did not see her pass. She hurried ove
r the open ground and ducked into a network of narrow alleyways, heading for a postern by the Tour du Moulin d’Avar, the oldest part of the walls. The gate gave straight on to the vegetable gardens and faratjals, the pastures that occupied the land surrounding the Cite and the northern suburb of Sant-Vicens. At this time of day, it was the quickest way down to the river without being seen.
Holding up her skirts, Alaïs picked her way carefully through the evidence of another riotous night in the taberna Sant Joandels Evangèlis. Bruised apples, half-eaten pears, gnawed meat bones and shattered ale pots lay discarded in the dirt. A little further along, a beggar was huddled asleep in a doorway, his arm resting along the back of a huge, bedraggled old dog. Three men were slumped against the well, grunting and snoring loud enough to drown out the birds.
The sentry on duty at the postern was miserable, coughing and spluttering and wrapped up in his cloak so that only the tip of his nose and his eyebrows were visible. He didn’t want to be disturbed. At first he refused to acknowledge her presence. Alaïs dug into her purse and produced a coin. Without even looking at her, he snatched it with a filthy hand, tested it between his teeth, then shot the bolts and opened the postern gate a crack to let her slide through.
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 Cite many times, knew every dip and rise of the land, and she climbed down without difficulty. She skirted the foot of the squat, round wooden tower, following the path of the fast-flowing water where it sped, like a mill race, through the barbican.
The brambles scratched sharp at her legs and the thorns snagged her dress. By the time she reached the bottom, the hem of her cloak was a deep crimson and soaking wet from skimming the grass. The tips of her leather slippers were stained dark.
Alaïs felt her spirits soar the moment she stepped out of the shadow of the palisade into the wide, open world. In the distance, a white July mist was hovering above the Montagne Noire. The breaking sky on the horizon was slashed through with pink and purple.
As she stood looking out over the perfect patchwork of fields of barley, corn and wheat and the woodlands that stretched further than her eye could see, Alaïs felt the presence of the past all around her, embracing her. Spirits, friends and ghosts who held out their hands and whispered of their lives, and shared their secrets with her. They connected her to all those who had stood on this hill before — and all who were yet to stand here — dreaming of what life might hold.
Alaïs had never travelled beyond Viscount Trencavel’s lands. She found it hard to picture the grey cities of the north, Paris, Amiens or Chartres, where her mother had been born. They were just names, words with no colour or warmth, as harsh as the language, the langue d’oïl, they spoke there. But even though she had little to compare it with, she could not believe that anywhere else was as beautiful as the enduring, timeless landscape of Carcassona.
Alaïs set off down the hill, weaving her way through the scrub and the coarse bushes until she reached the flat marshlands on the southern banks of the river Aude. Her sodden skirts kept twisting themselves around the backs of her legs and she stumbled from time to time. She felt uneasy, she realised, watchful, and was walking faster than usual. It wasn’t that Jacques or Bérenger had alarmed her, she told herself. They were always anxious on her behalf. But today she felt isolated and vulnerable.
Her hand moved to the dagger at her waist as she remembered the story of the merchant who claimed to have seen a wolf on the opposite bank, just last week. Everybody thought he was exaggerating. At this time of year, it was probably just a fox or a wild dog. But now she was out here on her own, the tale seemed more believable. The cold hilt was reassuring.
For a moment, Alaïs was tempted to turn back. Do not be so cowardly. She carried on. Once or twice she turned, startled, by noises nearby that turned out to be no more than the flapping of a bird’s wing or the slither and splash of a yellow river eel in the shallows.
Gradually, as she followed her familiar path, her nerves melted away. The river Aude was wide and shallow, with several tributaries leading off it, like veins on the back of a hand. A dawn mist shimmered translucent above the surface of the water. During the winter, the river flowed fast and furiously, swollen by the icy streams from the mountains. But it had been a dry summer so the water was low and still. The salt mills barely moved in the current. Secured to the banks by thick ropes, they formed a wooden spine up the centre of the river.
It was too early for the flies and mosquitoes that would hover like black clouds over the pools as the heat intensified, so Alaïs took the shortcut over the mud flats. The path was marked by little heaps of white stones to help people from slipping into the treacherous sludge. She followed it carefully until she arrived at the edge of the woods that lay immediately below the western section of the Cite walls.
Her destination was a small, secluded glade, where the best plants grew in the partially shaded shallows. As soon as she reached the shelter of the trees, Alaïs slowed her pace and began to enjoy herself. She pushed aside the tendrils of ivy that overhung her path and breathed in the rich, earthy smell of leaf and moss.
Although there was no sign of human activity, the wood was alive with colour and sound. The air was filled with the shriek and twitter of starlings, wrens and linnets. Twigs and leaves crackled and snapped beneath her feet. Rabbits scampered through the undergrowth, their white tails bobbing as they dived for cover among the clusters of yellow, purple and blue summer flowers. High in the spreading branches of the pines, red-coated squirrels cracked the cones’ shells apart, sending thin, aromatic needles showering down on the ground below.
Alaïs was hot by the time she arrived at the glade, a small island of land with an open space that led down to the river. With relief, she put down her panièr, rubbing the inside of her elbow where the handle had cut into her skin. She removed her heavy cloak and hung it over a low-hanging branch of a white willow, before wiping her face and neck with a handkerchief. She put the wine in the hollow of a tree to keep it cool.
The sheer walls of the Chateau Comtal loomed high above her. The distinctive tall, thin outline of the Tour Pinte was silhouetted against the pale sky. Alaïs wondered if her father was awake, already sitting with the Viscount in his private chambers. Her eyes drifted to the left of the watchtower, seeking out her own window. Was Guilhem still sleeping? Or had he woken to find her gone?
It always amazed her, when she looked up through the green canopy of leaves, that the Cite was so close. Two different worlds thrown into sharp relief. There, in the streets and the corridors of the Chateau Comtal, all was noise and activity. There was no peace. Down here, in the realm of the creatures of the woods and marshlands, a deep and timeless silence reigned.
It was here that she felt at home.
Alaïs eased off her leather slippers. The grass was deliciously cool between her toes, still wet with early morning dew, and tickled the soles of her feet. In the pleasure of the moment, all thoughts of the Cite and the household were driven from her mind.
She carried her tools down to the water’s edge. A clump of angelica was growing in the shallows at the river’s edge. Their strong fluted stems looked like a line of toy soldiers standing to attention in the muddy ground. Their bright green leaves — some bigger than her hand — threw a faint shadow over the water.
Nothing was better than angelica for purifying the blood and protecting against infection. Her friend and mentor, Esclarmonde, had drummed it into her how essential it was to gather ingredients for poultices, medicines and remedies wherever and whenever she found them. Even if the Cite was free from infection today, who could say what tomorrow would bring. Disease or illness could take hold at any time. Like everything Esclarmonde told her, it was good advice.
Rolling up her sleeves, Alaïs slipped the sheath round until the knife was lying flat against her back and wouldn’t be
in the way. She twisted her hair into a plait to stop it falling over her face as she worked, then tucked the skirts of her dress into her girdle before stepping into the river. The sudden cold on her ankles brought her skin out in goosebumps and made her draw breath.
Alaïs dipped the strips of cloth into the water and laid them out in a row along the bank, then she started to dig at the roots with her trowel. It wasn’t long before the first plant came free from the riverbed with a slurp. Dragging it up on to the bank, she used her small axe to cut it into different sections. She wrapped the roots in the cloth and laid them flat at the bottom of the panièr, then wrapped the small, yellow-green flowers, with their distinctive peppery aroma, in a separate cloth in her leather pouch. She discarded the leaves and the rest of the stems before going back into the water and starting the process again. Pretty soon, her hands were stained green and her arms smeared with mud.
Once she had harvested all the angelica, Alaïs looked around to see if there was anything else she could make use of. A little further upstream she spotted comfrey, with its strange, telltale leaves that grew down into the stem itself, and its lopsided clusters of bell-shaped pink and purple flowers. Comfrey, or knitbone as most called it, was good for reducing bruising and helping skin and bone to mend. Postponing her breakfast for just a while longer, Alaïs took her tools and got back to work, only stopping when the panièr was full and she had used up every strip of cloth.
Carrying her basket back up the bank, she sat down under the trees and stretched her legs in front of her. Her back, shoulders and fingers were stiff, but she felt pleased with what she’d achieved. She leaned over and took Jacques’s jar of wine from the hollow. The stopper came loose with a gentle pop. Alaïs shivered a little as the cool liquid trickled over her tongue and down her throat. Then she unwrapped the fresh bread and tore a large chunk out of it. It tasted of a strange combination of wheat, salt, river water and weed, but she was ravenous. It was as good a meal as she had ever eaten.
