by Kate Mosse
The merchant had laid out his display in the shape of a wheel: greens and yellows, oranges, browns and reds, ochre. At the front were rosemary and parsley, garlic, marigold and lavender, but at the back there were more expensive spices, such as cardamom, nutmeg and saffron. Sajhë didn’t recognise any of the others, but he was already looking forward to telling his grandmother what he had seen.
He was about to step forward to get a better look, when the Saracen roared in a voice like thunder. His heavy dark hand grabbed the skinny wrist of a cutpurse who’d tried to steal a coin from the embroidered purse that hung from a twisted, red cord around his waist. He cuffed the boy around the head, sending him flying back into a woman standing behind, who started shouting. Straight away a crowd started to gather.
Sajhë slipped away. He didn’t want to get caught up in any trouble.
Sajhë wandered out of the square towards the taberna Sant Joan dels Evangèlis. Since he had no money with him, at the back of his mind was the idea he could offer to run errands in exchange for a cup of brout. Then he heard someone calling his name.
Sajhë turned and saw one of his grandmother’s friends, Na Marti, sitting with her husband at their stall, waving to attract his attention. She was a weaver and her husband was a carder. Most weeks they could be found in the same spot, spinning and combing, preparing their wool and threads.
Sajhë waved back. Like Esclarmonde, Na Marti was a follower of the new church. Her husband, Sénher Marti was not a believer, although he had come to Esclarmonde’s house with his wife at Pentecost to hear the Bons Homes preach.
Na Marti ruffled his hair.
‘How are you, young man? You’re getting so tall, these days, I hardly recognise you.’
‘Fine, thank you,’ he replied, smiling at her, then turned to her husband who was combing wool into skeins ready to sell. Bonjorn, Sénher.’
‘And Esclarmonde?’ Na Marti continued. ‘She’s keeping well too? Keeping everyone in order as usual?’
He grinned. ‘She’s the same as always.’
‘Ben, ben.’ Good.
Sajhë sat himself down cross-legged at her feet and watched the spinning wheel as it turned round and round.
‘Na Marti?’ he said, after a while. Why don’t you come to pray with us any more?’
Sénher Marti stopped what he was doing and exchanged a worried glance with his wife.
‘Oh, you know how it is,’ Na Marti replied, avoiding his eye. We’re so busy these days. It’s hard to make the journey to Carcassona as often as we’d like.’
She adjusted her bobbin and continued to spin, the rocking of the treadle filling the silence that had fallen between them.
‘Menina misses you.’
‘I miss her too, but friends can’t always be together.’
Sajhë frowned. ‘But then why — ’
Sénher Marti tapped him sharply on the shoulder.
‘Do not talk so loudly,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This sort of thing is best kept to ourselves.’
‘What’s best kept to ourselves?’ he said, puzzled. ‘I only — ’
‘We heard, Sajhë,’ said Sénher Marti, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The whole market heard. Now, no more about prayer, é?’
Confused about what he’d done to make Sénher Marti so angry, Sajhë scrambled to his feet. Na Marti turned on her husband. They seemed to have forgotten all about him.
‘You’re being too harsh on him, Rogier,’ she hissed. ‘He’s just a boy.’
‘And it only takes one person with a loose tongue and we’ll be rounded up with the others. We can’t afford to take risks. If people think we associate with heretics — ’
‘Heretic, indeed,’ she snapped back. ‘He’s only a child!’
‘Not the boy. Esclarmonde. It’s common knowledge she’s one of them. And if it gets out that we go to pray in her house, they’ll accuse us of following the Bons Homes too and we’ll be persecuted.’
‘So we abandon our friends? Just because of a few scare stories you’ve heard.’
Sénher Marti dropped his voice. ‘I’m just saying we should be careful. You know what people are saying. That an army is coming to drive the heretics out.’
‘They’ve been saying that for years. You are making too much of it. As for the legates, these “men of God” have been strolling around the countryside for years now, drinking themselves into the grave and nothing’s ever come of it. Let the bishops argue it out amongst themselves and leave the rest of us to get on with our lives.’
She turned away from her husband. ‘Take no notice,’ she said, putting her hand on Sajhë’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’
Sajhë looked at his feet, not wanting her to see him cry.
Na Marti continued in an unnaturally bright voice. ‘Now then, weren’t you saying the other day that you wanted to buy a present for Alaïs? Why don’t we see what we can find?’
Sajhë nodded. He knew she was trying to reassure him, but he felt muddled and embarrassed.
‘I don’t have any means to pay,’ he said.
Well, don’t you worry about that. I’m sure we can overlook that just this once. Now, why don’t you take a look.’ Na Marti ran her fingers over the colourful rows of thread. ‘What about this? Do you think she’d like it? It’s a perfect match for her eyes.’
Sajhë fingered the delicate copper-brown thread.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, I think she will. Shall I wrap it for you?’
She turned away to look for a square of cloth to protect the thread. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Sajhë tried to think of something safe to say.
‘I saw her earlier.’
‘Alaïs, yes? How was she? With that sister of hers?’
He pulled a face. ‘No. But she didn’t look very happy all the same.’
‘Well,’ said Na Marti, ‘if she was upset before, then this is just the right time to give her a present. It will cheer her up. Alaïs usually comes to market in the morning, doesn’t she? If you keep your eyes open and your wits about you, I’m sure you’ll find her.’
Glad to be excused from the strained company, Sajhë tucked the package under his tunic and said his goodbyes. After a couple of steps, he turned to wave. The Martis were standing side by side, looking after him, but saying nothing.
The sun was now high in the sky. Sajhë wandered around, asking after Alaïs. No one had seen her.
He was hungry now and had decided he might as well go home, when he suddenly caught sight of Alaïs standing at a stall offering goat’s cheese for sale. He broke into a run and crept up on her, throwing his arms around her waist.
‘Bonjorn.’
Alaïs spun round, rewarding him with a wide smile when she saw who it was.
‘Sajhë,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘You gave me a surprise!’
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ he grinned. ‘Are you all right? I saw you earlier. You looked upset.’
‘Earlier?’
‘You were riding into the Château with your father. Just after the messenger.’
‘Ah, oc,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’d just had a tiring morning. How lovely to see your lively face, though.’ She gave him a kiss on the top of his head, making Sajhë scarlet. He stared furiously at his feet, not wanting her to see. ‘Anyway, since you’re here, help me choose a good cheese.’
The smooth round tablets of fresh goat’s cheese were laid out in a perfect pattern on a bed of straw pressed tight inside wooden trays. Some looked dry with a yellowish skin. These were stronger flavoured and might be a fortnight old. Others, made more recently, glistened wet and soft. Alaïs asked the prices, pointing at this portion and that, asking Sajhë’s advice, until at last they had chosen the piece she wanted. She gave him a coin from her purse to hand to the seller, while she pulled out a small polished wooden board on which to carry the cheese.
Sajhë’s eyes flared wide with surprise when he glimpsed the patter
n on the reverse. Why did Alaïs have it? How? In his confusion, he dropped the coins on the ground. Embarrassed, he dived under the table, playing for time. When he stood up again, to his relief Alaïs appeared not to have noticed anything amiss, so Sajhë put the matter out of his mind. Instead, once the transaction was complete, he plucked up the courage to give Alaïs her present.
‘I have something for you,’ he said shyly, thrusting the package abruptly into her hands.
‘How kind,’ she said. ‘Is it from Esclarmonde?’
‘No, from me.’
‘What a lovely surprise. May I open it now?’
He nodded, face serious, but eyes sparkling with anticipation as Alaïs carefully unwrapped the parcel.
‘Oh, Sajhë, it’s beautiful,’ she said, holding up the shiny, brown thread. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’
‘I didn’t steal it,’ he said quickly. ‘Na Marti gave it to me. I think she was trying to make it up to me.’
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Sajhë regretted them.
‘Make up to you for what?’ said Alaïs quickly.
Just then, a shout went up. A man close by was pointing up at the sky. A flock of large, black birds was flying low across the Cite, from west to east, in the shape of an arrow. The sun seemed to glance off their sleek, dark feathers, like sparks from an anvil. Somebody close by said it was an omen, although nobody could agree if it was a good one or a bad one.
Sajhë did not believe in such superstitions, but today it made him shiver. Alaïs seemed to feel something too, because she put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘Res,’ she said, too quickly. Nothing.
High above them, unconcerned with the human world, the birds continued on their way, until they were no more than a smudge in the sky.
CHAPTER 5
By the time Alaïs had shaken off her faithful shadow and made her way back to the Chateau Comtal, the midday bells were ringing out from Sant-Nasari.
She was exhausted and tripped several times going up the stairs, which seemed steeper than usual. All she wanted was to lie down in the privacy of her own chamber and rest.
Alaïs was surprised to find her door closed. By now, the servants should have been in and finished their tasks. The curtains around the bed were still drawn. In the half-light, Alaïs saw François had put her panièr on the low table beside the hearth as she’d asked him.
She put the cheese board down on the nightstand, then walked to the window to pin back the shutter. It should have been opened well before now to air the chamber. Daylight flooded in, revealing a layer of dust on the furniture and the patches on the bed curtains where the material had grown thin.
Alaïs walked over to the bed and pulled back the curtains.
To her astonishment Guilhem was still lying there, sleeping just as she’d left him before dawn. She gaped in surprise. He looked so perfectly at ease, so fine. Even Oriane, who had little good to say about anyone, admitted Guilhem was one of the finest-looking of Viscount Trencavel’s chevaliers.
Alaïs sat down on the bed next to him and ran her hand over his golden skin. Then, feeling unaccountably bold, she dipped a finger into the soft wet goat’s cheese and spread a tiny amount on her husband’s lips. Guilhem murmured and stirred beneath the bedclothes. He did not open his eyes, but he smiled languidly and reached out his hand.
Alaïs caught her breath. The air around her seemed to vibrate with expectation and promise as she allowed him to pull her down towards him.
The intimacy of the moment was shattered by the sound of heavy feet in the corridor. Somebody was bellowing Guilhem’s name, a familiar voice, distorted by anger. Alaïs sprang up, mortified at the thought of her father witnessing so private a scene between them. Guilhem’s eyes snapped open, just as the door was flung open and Pelletier strode into the room, François at his heels.
‘You’re late, du Mas,’ he roared, snatching a cloak from the nearest chair and hurling it at his son-in-law’s head.
‘Get up. Everybody else is already in the Great Hall, waiting.’
Guilhem scrambled upright. ‘The Hall?’
‘Viscount Trencavel summons his chevaliers, yet here you lie in bed. Do you think that you can just please yourself?’ He was standing over Guilhem. ‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’
Pelletier suddenly noticed his daughter standing at the far side of the bed. His face softened. ‘Excuse me, Filha. I did not see you. Are you feeling better?’
She bowed her head. ‘Pleasing you, Messire, I am quite well.’
‘Feeling better?’ asked Guilhem with confusion. ‘Are you unwell? Is something wrong?’
‘Get up!’ Pelletier yelled, switching his attention back to the bed. ‘You have as much time as it takes me to walk down the stairs and cross the courtyard, du Mas. If you are not in the Great Hall by then, it will be the worse for you!’ Without another word, Pelletier spun on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.
In the painful silence that followed his departure, Alaïs felt rooted to the spot with embarrassment, although whether for herself or her husband, she could not tell.
Guilhem exploded. ‘How dare he burst in here as if he owns me? Who does he think he is?’ With a savage kick, he launched the covers to the floor and hurled himself out of bed. ‘Duty calls,’ he said sarcastically. ‘It wouldn’t do to keep the great Intendant Pelletier waiting.’
Alaïs suspected that anything she said would make Guilhem’s temper worse. She wanted to tell him what had happened at the river, at least to take his mind off his own anger, but she had given her father her word she would speak to no one.
Guilhem had already crossed the room and was getting dressed with his back to her. His shoulders were tense as he pulled on his tabard and fastened his belt.
‘There may be news . . .’ she started to say.
‘That’s no excuse,’ he snapped. ‘I received no word.’
‘I . . .’ Alaïs let her words tail off. What to say?
She picked up his cloak from the bed and offered it to him. ‘Will you be long?’ she said softly.
‘Since I do not know why I am summoned to Council in the first place, how can I say?’ he said, still angry.
All at once, his temper seemed to leave him. His shoulders relaxed and he turned to face her, no longer scowling. ‘Forgive me, Alaïs. You cannot answer for your father’s behaviour.’ He traced the outline of her chin with his hand. ‘Come. Help me with this.’
Guilhem bent forward so Alaïs could reach the fastening more easily. Even so, she had to stand on tiptoe to fasten the round silver and copper brooch at his shoulder.
‘Mercé, mon còr,’ he said when she was done. ‘Right. Let’s find out what this is all about. It’s probably nothing of importance.’
‘As we were riding back into the Cite this morning, a messenger arrived,’ she said without thinking about it.
Immediately, Alaïs castigated herself. Now he was sure to ask where she’d been so early, and with her father, but his attention was on retrieving his sword from under the bed and he didn’t pick up on her words.
Alaïs winced at the harsh sound of the metal as he pushed the blade back into its scabbard. It was a sound that, more than any other, symbolised his departure from her world to the world of men.
As Guilhem turned, his cloak fell against the wooden cheese board that was still balanced precariously on the edge of the table. It fell, tumbling with a clatter to the stone floor.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Alaïs said quickly, not wanting to risk her father’s anger by delaying Guilhem any longer. ‘The servants will do this. You go. Return when you can.’
Guilhem smiled and was gone.
When she could no longer hear his tread, Alaïs turned back to the room and looked at the mess. Lumps of white cheese, wet and viscous, were stuck in the straw matting covering the floor. She sighed and bent down to retrieve the board.
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It had come to rest on its side propped against the wooden bolster. As she picked it up, her fingers brushed against something on the underside. Alaïs turned it over to look.
A labyrinth had been carved into the polished surface of the dark wood.
‘Meravelhós. So beautiful,’ she murmured.
Captivated by the perfect lines of the circles, curving around in ever-decreasing circles, Alaïs traced the pattern with her fingers. It was smooth, flawless, a labour of love created with care and precision.
She felt a memory shift at the back of her mind. Alaïs held the board up, sure now that she had seen something like it once before, but the memory was elusive and refused to come out of the dark. She couldn’t even remember where the board had come from in the first place. In the end she gave up trying to chase down the thought.
Alaïs summoned her servant, Severine, to clear the room. After that, to keep her mind from what was happening in the Great Hall, she turned her attention to the plants she had harvested from the river at dawn.
The crop already had been left too long. The linen cloths had dried out, the roots were brittle and the leaves had lost most of their moisture. Confident she could salvage something, Alaïs sprinkled water over the panièr and set to work.
But all the time she was grinding the roots and sewing the flowers into sachets for air sweeteners, all the time she was preparing the lotion for Jacques’s leg, her eyes kept drifting back to the wooden board where it lay mute on the table in front of her, refusing to give up its secrets.
Guilhem ran across the courtyard, his cloak flapping uncomfortably around his knees, cursing his bad luck that today of all days he should be caught out.
It was unusual for chevaliers to be included in the Council. The fact that they’d been summoned to the Great Hall, rather than the donjon, suggested something serious.
Was Pelletier speaking the truth when he said he’d sent a personal messenger to Guilhem’s chamber earlier? He couldn’t be sure. What if François had come and found him absent? What would Pelletier have to say about that?
