Labyrinth

by Kate Mosse

  It was the last thing Simeon heard before the darkness reached out and took him.

  CHAPTER 49

  The Crusade’s advance guard arrived within sight of Carcassonne on the Feast Day of Sant-Nasari, following the road from Trèbes. The guards at the Tour Pinte lit the fires. The alarum bells were rung.

  By the evening of the first of August, the French camp on the far side of the river had grown until there was a rival city of tents and pavilions, banners and golden crosses glittering in the sun. Barons from the north, Gascon mercenaries, soldiers from Chartres and Burgundy and Paris, sappers, longbowmen archers, priests, camp followers.

  At Vespers, Viscount Trencavel ascended the ramparts, accompanied by Pierre-Roger de Cabaret, Bertrand Pelletier and one or two others. In the distance, trails of smoke spiralled up into the air. The river was a ribbon of silver.

  ‘There are so very many.’

  ‘No more than we expected, Messire,’ replied Pelletier.

  ‘How long, think you, before the main army arrives?’

  ‘It’s hard to be sure,’ he replied. ‘So large a fighting force will travel slowly. The heat will hinder them too.’

  ‘Hinder them, yes,’ said Trencavel. ‘Stop them, no.’

  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.’ Pelletier waved his hand. ‘The hawsers holding the mills in place in the river have been cut and the crops burned. The French will find little to sustain them here.’

  His eyes flashing, Trencavel suddenly turned to de Cabaret.

  ‘Let’s saddle our horses and make a sortie. Before night arrives and the sun sets, let’s take four hundred of our best men, those most skilled with lance, and with sword, and chase the French from our slopes. They will not expect us to take the battle to them. What say you?’

  Pelletier sympathised with his desire to strike first. He also knew it would be an act of supreme folly.

  ‘There are battalions on the plains, Messire, routiers, small contingents from the advance party.’

  Pierre-Roger de Cabaret added his voice. ‘Do not sacrifice your men, Raymond.’

  ‘But if we could strike the first blow. . .’

  We have prepared for siege, Messire, not open battle. The garrison is strong. The bravest, most experienced chevaliers are here, waiting for their chance to prove themselves.’

  ‘But?’ Trencavel sighed.

  ‘You would be sacrificing them for no gain,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Your people trust you, they love you,’ Pelletier said. ‘They will lay down their lives for you if need be. But, we should wait. Let them bring the battle to us.’

  ‘I fear it is my pride that has brought us to this place,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Somehow, I did not expect it to come to this, so soon.’ He smiled. ‘Do you remember how my mother used to fill the Chateau with singing and dancing, Bertrand? All the greatest troubadours and jongleurs came to play for her. Aiméric de Pegulham, Arnaut de Carcasses, even Guilhem Fabre and Bernat Alanham from Narbonne. We were always feasting, celebrating.’

  ‘I have heard it was the finest court in the Pays d’Oc.’ He put his hand on his master’s shoulder. ‘And will be again.’

  The bells fell silent. All eyes were on Viscount Trencavel.

  When he spoke, Pelletier was proud to hear all trace of self-doubt was gone from his lord’s voice. He was no longer a boy remembering his childhood, but a captain on the eve of battle.

  ‘Order the posterns to be closed and the gates to be barred, Bertrand, and summon the commander of the garrison to the donjon. We will be ready for the French when they come.’

  ‘Perhaps also send reinforcements to Sant-Vicens, Messire,’ suggested de Cabaret. When the Host attacks, they will start there. And we cannot afford to relinquish our access to the river.’

  Trencavel nodded.

  Pelletier lingered a while after the others had gone, looking out over the land, as if to imprint its image in his mind.

  To the north, the walls of Sant-Vicens were low and sparsely defended by towers. If the invaders penetrated the suburbs, they would be able to approach within bowshot of the Cite walls under the cover of the houses. The southern suburb, Sant-Miquel, would hold longer.

  It was true that the Carcassonne was ready for siege. There was plenty of food — bread, cheese, beans — and goats for milk. But there were too many people within the walls and Pelletier was concerned about the supply of water. On his word, a guard was set on each of the wells and rationing was in place.

  As he walked out of the Tour Pinte into the courtyard, Pelletier found his thoughts once more turning to Simeon. Twice he had sent François to the Jewish quartier for news, but both times he had returned empty-handed and Pelletier’s anxiety increased with each passing day.

  He took a quick look around the courtyard and decided he could be spared for a few hours.

  He headed for the stables.

  Pelletier followed the most direct route across the plains and through the woods, very aware of the Host camped in the distance.

  Although the Jewish quarter was crowded and people were on the streets, it was unnaturally quiet and hushed. There was fear and apprehension on every face, young and old. Soon, they knew, the fighting would begin. As Pelletier rode through the narrow alleys, women and children looked up at him with anxious eyes, looking for hope in his face. He had nothing to offer them.

  No one had any news of Simeon. He found his lodgings easily enough, but the door was barred. He dismounted and knocked on the house opposite.

  ‘I seek a man called Simeon,’ he said, when a woman came fearfully to the door. ‘Do you know of whom I speak?’

  She nodded. ‘He came with the others from Besièrs.’

  ‘Can you remember when last you saw him?’

  ‘A few days back, before we heard the news of Besièrs, he went to Carcassona. A man came for him.’

  Pelletier frowned. ‘What manner of man?’

  ‘A high-born servant. Orange hair,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Simeon appeared to know him.’

  Pelletier’s bafflement deepened. It sounded like François, except how could it be? He said he had not found Simeon.

  ‘That was the last time I saw him.’

  ‘You are saying Simeon did not return from Carcassona?’

  ‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll have stayed. He will be safer there than here.’

  ‘Is it possible Simeon could have come back without you seeing him?’ he said desperately. ‘You might have been sleeping. You might not have noticed him return.’

  ‘Look, Messire,’ she replied, pointing to the house across the street. ‘You can see for yourself. Vuèg.’ Empty.

  CHAPTER 50

  Oriane tiptoed along the corridor to her sister’s chamber.

  ‘Alaïs!’ Guirande was sure her sister was once again with their father, but she was cautious. ‘Sòrre?’

  When no one answered, Oriane opened the door and stepped inside. With the skill of a thief, she quickly began to search Alaïs’ possessions. Bottles, jars and bowls, her wardrobe, drawers filled with cloth and perfumes and sweet-smelling herbs. Oriane patted the pillows and found a lavender posy, which didn’t interest her. Then she checked over and beneath the bed. There was nothing but dead insects and cobwebs.

  As she turned back to face the room, she noticed a heavy brown hunting cloak lying over the back of Alaïs’ sewing chair. Her threads and needles were spread all around. Oriane felt a spark of excitement. Why a winter cloak at this time of year? Why was Alaïs mending her clothes herself?

  She picked it up and immediately felt something was wrong. It was lopsided and hung crookedly. Oriane lifted the corner and saw something had been sewn into the hem.

  Quickly, she unpicked the stitching, pushed her fingers inside and pulled out a small, rectangular object, w
rapped in a piece of linen.

  She was about to investigate, when a noise in the corridor outside drew her attention. Quick as a flash, Oriane concealed the parcel beneath her dress and returned the cloak to the back of the chair.

  A hand descended heavily on her shoulder. Oriane jumped.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said.

  ‘Guilhem,’ she gasped, clasping her hand to her chest. ‘You startled me.’

  What are you doing in my wife’s chamber, Oriane?’

  Oriane raised her chin. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  In the darkening room, she saw his expression harden and knew the dart had hit home.

  ‘I have every right to be here, whereas you do not. . .’ He glanced at the cloak, then back to her face.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She met his gaze. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’

  Guilhem kicked the door shut with his heel.

  ‘You forget yourself, Dame,’ he said, grabbing her wrist.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Guilhem,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Open the door. It will go ill for both of us if someone comes and finds us together.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Oriane. I’m in no mood for them. I’m not letting you go unless you tell me what you are doing here. Did he send you here?’

  Oriane looked at him with genuine confusion. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Guilhem, on my word.’

  His fingers were digging deep into her skin. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice, è? I saw you together, Oriane.’

  Relief flooded through her. Now she understood the reason for his temper. Provided Guilhem had not recognised her companion, she could turn the misunderstanding to her advantage.

  ‘Let me go,’ she said, trying to twist out of his grasp. ‘If you remember, Messire, you were the one who said we could meet no longer.’ She tossed her black hair and glared at him, eyes flashing. ‘So if I choose to seek comfort elsewhere, how can it concern you? You have no right over me.

  ‘Who is he?’

  Oriane thought quickly. She needed a name that would satisfy him. ‘Before I tell you, I want you to promise that you will not do anything unwise,’ she pleaded, playing for time.

  ‘At this moment, Dame, you are not in a position to set terms.’

  ‘Then at least let us go elsewhere, to my chamber, the courtyard, anywhere but here. If Alaïs should come. . .’

  From the expression on his face, Oriane knew she had got him. His greatest fear now was that Alaïs would discover his infidelity.

  ‘Very well,’ he said roughly. He flung open the door with his free hand, then half pushed, half dragged her along the corridor. By the time they reached her chamber, Oriane had gathered her thoughts.

  ‘Speak, Dame,’ he commanded.

  Her eyes fixed on the ground, Oriane confessed she had accepted the attentions of a new suitor, the son of one of the Viscount’s allies. He had long admired her.

  ‘Is this the truth?’ he demanded.

  ‘I swear it is, on my life,’ she whispered, glancing up at him through tear-stained lashes.

  He was still suspicious, but there was a flicker of indecision in his eyes.

  ‘This does not answer why you were in my wife’s chamber.’

  ‘Safe-guarding your reputation only,’ she said. ‘Returning to its rightful place something of yours.’

  ‘What manner of thing?’

  ‘My husband found a man’s buckle in my chamber.’ She made a shape with her hands. ‘About so big, fashioned from copper and silver.’

  ‘I have lost such a buckle,’ he admitted.

  ‘Jehan was determined to identify the owner and publish his name. Knowing it to be yours, I decided the safest thing was to return it to your chamber.’

  Guilhem was frowning. ‘Why not return the buckle to me?’

  ‘You are avoiding me, Messire,’ she said softly. ‘I did not know when, even if, I would see you. Besides, if we had been noticed together, it could have been proof of what once was between us. Judge my actions foolish. But do not doubt the intention behind them.’

  Oriane could see he was not convinced, but dared not push the matter further. His hand went to the blade at his waist.

  ‘If you breathe a word of this to Alaïs,’ he said, ‘I will kill you, Oriane, God strike me down if I don’t.’

  ‘She will not learn of it from me,’ she said, then smiled. ‘Unless, of course, I find myself with no choice. I must protect myself. And,’ she paused. Guilhem drew a deep breath. ‘And as it happens,’ she continued, ‘there is a favour I would ask of you.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘And if I am not so minded?’

  ‘All I want is to know if our father has given Alaïs anything of value to keep, that’s all.’

  ‘You are asking me to spy upon my own wife,’ he said, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘I will do no such thing, Oriane, and you will do nothing to upset her, is that clear?’

  ‘I upset her. It’s your fear of discovery that brings out this chivalry in you. You’re the one who betrayed her all those nights you lay with me, Guilhem. It is only information I seek. I will learn what I want to know, with or without your help. However, if you make it difficult. . .’ She left the threat hanging in the air.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘It would be nothing to tell Alaïs everything we did together, share with her the things you whispered to me, the gifts you gave me. She would believe me, Guilhem. Too much of your soul shows in your face.’

  Disgusted by her, by himself, Guilhem threw open the door. ‘Damn you to hell, Oriane,’ he said, then stormed away down the corridor.

  Oriane smiled. She had snared him.

  Alaïs had spent all afternoon trying to find her father. No one had seen him. She had ventured into the Cite, hoping at least to be able to talk to Esclarmonde. But she and Sajhë were no longer in Sant-Miquel and did not appear to have yet returned home.

  In the end, exhausted and apprehensive, Alaïs returned to her chamber alone. She could not go to bed. She was too nervous, too anxious, so she lit a lamp and sat at her table.

  It was after the bells had struck one that she was woken by footsteps outside the door. She raised her head from her arms and looked blearily in the direction of the sound.

  ‘Rixende?’ she whispered into the dark. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘No, not Rixende,’ he said.

  ‘Guilhem?’

  He came into the light, smiling as if not sure of his welcome. ‘Forgive me. I promised to leave you, I know, but . . . may I?’

  Alaïs sat up.

  ‘I have been in the chapel,’ he said. ‘I have prayed, but I do not think my words flew up.’

  Guilhem sat down on the end of the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, she went to him. He seemed to have something on his mind.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Let me help you.’

  She unstrapped his boots and helped him with his shoulder harness and belt. The leather and buckle fell with a clunk to the floor.

  What does Viscount Trencavel think will happen?’ she asked.

  Guilhem lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. ‘That the Host will attack Sant-Vicens first, then Sant-Miquel, in order to be able to approach close to the walls of the Ciutat itself.’

  Alaïs sat down beside him and smoothed his hair from his face. The feel of his skin under her fingers made her shiver.

  ‘You should sleep, Messire. You will need all your strength for the battle to come.’

  Lazily, he opened his eyes and smiled up at her. ‘You could help me rest.’

  Alaïs smiled and reached over for a preparation of rosemary she kept on her bedside table. She knelt beside him and massaged the cool lotion into his temples.

  ‘When I was looking for my father, earlier, I went to my sister’s chamber. I think there was someone with her.’

  ‘Probably Congost,’ he said sharply.

  ‘I don’t think so. He an
d the other scribes sleep in the Tour Pinte at present, in case the Viscount needs them.’ She paused. ‘There was laughter.’

  Guilhem put his finger on her mouth to stop her. ‘Enough of Oriane,’ he whispered, slipping his hands around her waist and drawing her to him. She could taste the wine on his lips. ‘You have the scent of camomile and honey,’ he said. He reached up and loosened her hair so it fell like a waterfall around her face.

  ‘Mon cor.’

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at his touch, his skin against hers, so startling and intimate. Slowly, carefully, not taking his brown eyes from her face, Guilhem eased her dress from her shoulders, then lower to her waist. Alaïs shifted. The material came loose and slithered off the bed to the floor, like a winter skin no longer needed.

  Guilhem lifted the bedcover to let her under and laid her down beside him, on pillows that still held the memory of him. For a moment, they lay, arm to arm, side to side, her feet cold against the heat of his skin. He bent over her. Now Alaïs could feel his breath, whispering over the surface of her skin like a summer breeze. His lips dancing, his tongue slipping, sliding over her breasts. Alaïs caught her breath as he took her nipple into his mouth, licking, teasing.

  Guilhem raised his head. He gave a half smile.

  Then, still holding her gaze, he lowered his body into the space between her bare legs. Alaïs stared at his brown eyes, unblinking and serious.

  ‘Mon còr,’ he said again.

  Gently, Guilhem eased himself inside her, little by little, until she had taken the whole of him. For a moment he lay still, contained within her, as if resting.

  Alaïs felt strong, powerful, as if at this moment she could do anything, be anyone. A hypnotic, heavy warmth was seeping through her limbs, filling her up, devouring her senses. Her head was filled with the sound of her blood beating. She had no sense of time or space. There was only Guilhem and the flickering shadows of the lamp.

  Slowly, he began to move.

  ‘Alaïs.’ The words slipped from between his lips.

  She placed her hands on his back, her fingers splayed wide in the shape of stars. She could feel the strength of him, the force in his tanned arms and firm thighs, the soft hair on his chest brushing against her. His tongue was darting between her lips, hot and wet and hungry.