by Kate Mosse
He was breathing faster, harder, driven on by desire, by need. Alaïs held him to her as Guilhem cried out her name. He shuddered, then was still.
Gradually, the roaring in her head faded away until nothing remained but the hushed silence of the room.
Later, after they had talked and whispered promises in the dark, they drifted into sleep. The oil burned away. The flame in the lamp guttered and died. Alaïs and Guilhem did not notice. They were not aware of the silver march of the moon across the sky, nor the purple light of dawn as it came creeping through the window. They knew nothing but each other as they lay sleeping in one another’s arms, a wife and her husband, lovers once more.
Reconciled. At peace.
CHAPTER 51
THURSDAY 7 JULY 2005
Alice woke seconds before the alarm went off, to find herself sprawled across the bed, papers strewn all about her.
The family tree was in front of her, together with her notes from the library in Toulouse. She grinned. Quite like her student days, when she was forever falling asleep at her desk.
She didn’t feel bad on it, though. Despite the burglary last night, this morning she felt in good spirits. Contented, happy even.
Alice stretched her arms and neck, then got up to open the shutters and window. The sky was cut through with pale slashes of light and flat white clouds. The slopes of the Cite were in shadow and the grassy banks beneath the walls shimmered with early morning dew. Above the turrets and towers, the sky was blue, like a bolt of silk. Wrens and larks sang to one another across the rooftops. Evidence of the aftermath of the storm was everywhere. Debris blown against railings, boxes sodden and upturned at the back of the hotel, newspapers pooled at the foot of the street lamps in the car park.
Alice was uneasy at the idea of leaving Carcassonne, as if the act of departure would precipitate something. But she had to take some action and, at this point, Chartres was her only lead to Shelagh.
It was a good day for a journey.
As she packed her papers away, she admitted she was also being sensible. She didn’t want to sit around like a victim, waiting for last night’s intruder to come back.
She explained to the receptionist that she was going out of town for a day but to hold her room.
‘You have a woman waiting to see you, Madame,’ the girl said, pointing to the lounge. ‘I was about to call your room.
‘Oh?’ Alice turned to look. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
The receptionist shook her head.
‘OK. Thank you.’
‘Also, this came for you this morning,’ she added, handing over a letter. Alice glanced at the postmark. It came from Foix yesterday. She didn’t recognise the handwriting. She was about to open it, when the woman waiting for her approached.
‘Dr Tanner?’ she said. She looked nervous.
Alice put the letter in her jacket pocket to read later. ‘Yes?’
‘I have a message for you from Audric Baillard. He wonders if you could meet him in the cemetery?’
The woman was vaguely familiar, although Alice couldn’t immediately place her.
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ she said.
The woman hesitated. ‘From Daniel Delagarde,’ she said in a rush. ‘Notaires.’
Alice looked again. She didn’t remember seeing her yesterday, but there were a lot of people in the central office.
‘Monsieur Baillard is waiting for you at the Giraud-Biau tomb.’
‘Really?’ said Alice. Why didn’t he come himself?’
‘I have to go now.’
Then the woman turned tail and disappeared, leaving Alice staring after her, baffled. She turned to the receptionist, who shrugged.
Alice glanced at her watch. She was keen to get going. She’d got a long drive ahead of her. On the other hand, ten minutes wasn’t going to make any difference.
‘A demain,’ she said to the receptionist, but she’d already gone back to whatever it was she was doing.
Alice detoured via the car to leave her rucksack, then, vaguely irritated, she hurried across the road to the cemetery.
The atmosphere changed the moment Alice walked through the high metal gates. The early morning bustle of the Cite awaking was replaced by stillness.
There was a low, whitewashed building on her right. Outside a row of black and green plastic watering cans hung on hooks. Alice peered in through the window and saw an old jacket slung over the back of a chair and a newspaper open on the table, as if someone had only just left.
Alice walked slowly up the central aisle, feeling suddenly on edge. She found the atmosphere oppressive. Grey sculpted headstones, white porcelain cameos and black granite inscriptions marking birth and death, resting places bought by local families à perpétuité to mark their passing. Photographs of those who had died young jostled for space beside the features of the old. At the base of many of the tombs were flowers, some real and dying, others fashioned from silk or plastic or porcelain.
Following the directions Karen Fleury had given her, Alice found the Giraud-Biau grave easily enough. It was a large flat tomb at the top of the central aisle overlooked by a stone angel with open arms and furled wings.
She glanced around. There was no sign of Baillard.
Alice traced her fingers across the surface. Here lay most of Jeanne Giraud’s family, a woman she knew nothing about other than she was a link between Audric Baillard and Grace. Only now, as she stood staring at the chiselled names of one family, did Alice realise how very unusual it was that space had been found here for her aunt.
A noise in one of the cross aisles caught her attention. She looked around, expecting to see the elderly man of the photograph making her way towards her.
‘Dr Tanner?’
There were two men, both wearing light summer suits, both dark-haired and with their eyes obscured by sunglasses.
‘Yes?’
The shorter of the two flashed a badge at her.
‘Police. We have a few questions we need to ask you.’
Alice’s stomach lurched. ‘Concerning what?’
‘It won’t take long, Madame.’
‘I’d like to see some ID.’
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a card. She had no idea if it was authentic or not. But the gun in the holster underneath the jacket looked real enough. Her pulse started to race.
Alice pretended to examine it as she cast a look around the graveyard. There was no one about. The aisles stretched away empty in all directions.
What is this about?’ she said again, trying to keep her voice steady.
‘If you could just come with us.’
They can’t do anything in broad daylight.
Too late, Alice realised why the woman who’d delivered the message was familiar. She’d similar characteristics to the man she’d seen briefly in her room last night. This man.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice could see there was a flight of concrete steps leading down to the newest section of the graveyard. Beyond that there was a gate.
He put his hand on her arm. ‘Maintenant, Dr Tan — ’
Alice launched herself forward, like a sprinter out of the blocks, taking them by surprise. They were slow to react. A shout went up, but she was already down the steps and running through the gate, out into the Chemin des Anglais.
A car phut-phutting up the hill slammed on its brakes. Alice didn’t stop. She hurled herself over a rickety wooden farm gate and tore through the rows of vines, stumbling on the furrowed earth. She could feel the men at her back, gaining on her. Blood pounded in her ears, the muscles in her legs were pulled tight as piano strings, but she kept going.
At the bottom of the field was a tight-meshed wire fence, too high to jump. Alice looked round in panic, then spotted a gap in the far corner. Throwing herself to the ground, she crawled along the earth on her belly, feeling the sharp rocks and stones digging into her palms and knees. She slithered under the wire, the frayed edges catching
on her jacket, holding her as fast as a fly in a spider’s web. She pulled and, with a superhuman effort, yanked herself free, leaving a scrap of blue denim on the wire.
She found herself in a market garden, filled with long rows of tall bamboo frames supporting aubergines, courgettes and runner beans, which shielded her. Keeping her head down, Alice zigzagged through the allotments, heading for the shelter of the outbuildings. A huge mastiff on a heavy metal chain lunged at her as she rounded the corner, barking ferociously and snapping its vicious jaws. She stifled a scream and jumped back.
The main entrance to the farm led straight out on to the busy main road at the bottom of the hill. Once she was on the pavement, she allowed herself a glance over her shoulder. Empty, silent space stretched behind her. They’d stopped following.
Alice put her hands on her knees and doubled over, panting with exertion and relief, waiting for the shaking in her arms and legs to stop. Already, her mind was starting to click into motion.
What are you going to do? The men would go back to the hotel and wait for her there. She couldn’t go back there. She felt in her pocket and was relieved to find she hadn’t lost the car keys in her panic to get away. Her rucksack was squashed under the front seat.
You must call Noubel.
She could picture the scrap of paper with Noubel’s number in her rucksack under the seat of the car with everything in it. Alice brushed herself down. Her jeans were covered in dirt and ripped on one knee. Her only chance was to go back to the car and pray they weren’t waiting for her there.
Alice walked fast along rue Barbarcane, keeping her head down every time a car went past. She passed the church, then took a shortcut down a small road to the right called rue de la Gaffe.
Who’d sent them?
She walked quickly, keeping to the shadows. It was hard to tell where one house ended and the next began. Alice felt a sudden prickling at the back of her neck. She stopped, glanced to her right at the pretty house with yellow walls, expecting to see someone watching her from the doorway. But the door was firmly shut and the shutters locked. After a moment’s hesitation, Alice continued.
Should she change her mind about Chartres?
If anything, Alice realised that having confirmation she was in danger — that it wasn’t just her imagination — strengthened her resolve. As she thought about it, she became more certain Authié was behind what was going on. He believed she’d stolen the ring. He was clearly determined to get it back.
Call Noubel.
Again, she ignored her own advice. So far, the Inspector had done nothing. A policeman was dead, Shelagh was missing. Better to rely on no one but herself.
Alice had arrived at the steps that connected rue Trivalle to the back of the car park, reasoning that if they were waiting for her, they were more likely to be at the main entrance.
The steps were steep and there was a high wall on this side of the area, which stopped her from being able to see in but gave a clear view to anyone looking down from above. If they were there, she wouldn’t know it until it was too late.
Only one way to find out.
Alice took a deep breath and ran up the steps, her legs powered by the adrenalin racing through her veins. At the top, she stopped and looked around. There were a couple of coaches and cars, but very few people about.
The car was sitting where she’d left it. She picked her way between the lines of parked cars, keeping low. Her hands were shaking as she slid into the front seat. She was still expecting the men to loom up in front of her. She could still hear their voices, shouting, in her head. The moment she was in, she locked the doors and rammed the key into the ignition.
Her eyes darting in all directions, hands white on the steering wheel, Alice waited until a camper van was pulling away and the attendant raised the barrier. She accelerated and shot across the tarmac, too fast, aiming straight for the exit. The attendant shouted and leaped back, but Alice took no notice.
She kept driving.
CHAPTER 52
Audric Baillard stood on the railway station platform at Foix with Jeanne, waiting for the Andorra train.
‘Ten minutes,’ Jeanne said, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s not too late. You could change your mind and come with me?’
He smiled at her persistence. ‘You know I cannot.’
She waved her hand impatiently. ‘You’ve devoted thirty years to telling their story, Audric. Alaïs, her sister, her father, her husband — you have spent your life in their company.’ Her voice softened. ‘But what of the living?’
‘Their life is my life, Jeanne,’ he said with a quiet dignity. ‘Words are our only weapons against the lies of history. We must bear witness to the truth. If we do not, those we love die twice over.’ He paused. ‘I will not find peace until I know how it ended.’
‘After eight hundred years? The truth might be buried too deep.’ Jeanne hesitated. ‘And perhaps it is better that way. Some secrets are better for remaining hidden.’
Baillard was looking ahead at the mountains. ‘I regret the sorrow I have brought into your life, you know that.’
‘That’s not what I meant, Audric.’
‘But to discover the truth and set it down,’ he continued, as if she had not spoken. ‘It is that I live for, Jeanne.’
‘Truth! But what about those you fight, Audric? What are they seeking? The truth? I doubt it.’
‘No,’ he admitted in the end. ‘I do not think that is their purpose.’
‘Then what?’ she said, impatient. ‘I am going, as you advised me to do. What possible harm can it do to tell me now?’
Still he hesitated.
Jeanne persisted. ‘Are the Noublesso Véritable and the Noublesso de los Seres but different names for the same organisation?’
‘No,’ the word escaped from his lips more severely than he’d intended. ‘No.’
Well then?’
Audric sighed. ‘The Noublesso de los Seres were the appointed guardians of the Grail parchments. For thousands of years they fulfilled this role. Until, indeed, the parchments were separated.’ He paused, choosing his words with care. ‘The Noublesso Véritable, on the other hand, was formed only one hundred and fifty years ago, when the lost language of the parchments began to be understood once more. The name Véritable — meaning true or real guardians — was a deliberate attempt to give validity to the organisation.’
‘So the Noublesso de los Seres no longer exists?’
Audric shook his head. ‘Once the Trilogy was separated the reason for the guardians’ existence was gone.’
Jeanne frowned. ‘But did they not attempt to regain the lost parchments?’
‘At first, yes,’ he admitted, ‘but they failed. In time, it became more foolhardy to continue, for fear of sacrificing the one remaining parchment for the sake of regaining the other two. Since the ability to read the texts was lost by all, the secret could not be revealed. Only one person . . .’ Baillard faltered. He felt Jeanne’s eyes on him. ‘The one person with the knowledge to read the parchments chose not to pass on his learning.’
‘What changed?’
‘For hundreds of years, nothing. Then in 1798 the Emperor Napoleon sailed for Egypt, taking savants and scholars with him as well as soldiers. They discovered there the remains of the ancient civilisations that had ruled those lands thousands of years ago. Hundreds of artefacts, sacred tables, stones, were brought back to France. From that moment on, it was only a matter of time before the ancient languages — demotic, cuneiform, hieroglyphs — were deciphered. As you know, Jean-François Champollion was the first to realise that hieroglyphs should be read, not as symbols of ideas or scripts, but as a phonetic script. In 1822, he cracked the code, to use the vulgar expression. To the ancient Egyptians, writing was a gift from the Gods — indeed the word hieroglyph means divine speech.’
‘But if the Grail parchments are written in the language of ancient Egypt . . .’ she tailed off. ‘If you are saying what I think you are, Audric . .
.’ She shook her head. ‘That such a society as the Noublesso existed, yes. That the Trilogy was believed to contain an ancient secret, then again, yes. But, for the rest? It’s inconceivable.’
Audric smiled. ‘But how better to protect a secret than allow it to be concealed beneath another? To appropriate or assimilate the powerful symbols, the ideas of others, is the way civilisations survive.’
What do you mean?’
‘People dig for the truth. They think they have found it. They stop, never imagining that something more astounding lies beneath. History is full of religious, ritualistic, social signifiers, stolen from one society to help build up another. For example, the day Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus the Nazarene, December the twenty-fifth, is actually the feast of the Sol Invictus, as well as the winter Solstice. The Christian cross, just like the Grail, is actually an ancient Egyptian symbol, the ankh, appropriated and modified by the Emperor Constantine. In hoc signo vinces — by this sign shalt thou conquer — words attributed to him when seeing a symbol in the shape of a cross appear in the sky. More recently, followers of the Third Reich appropriated the swastika to symbolise their order. It is in fact an ancient Hindu symbol of rebirth.’
‘The labyrinth,’ she said, understanding.
‘L’antica simbol del Miègjorn.’ The ancient symbol of the Midi.
Jeanne sat in thoughtful silence, hands folded in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankles. ‘And what of now?’ she said at last.
‘Once the cave was opened, it was only ever a matter of time, Jeanne,’ he said. ‘I am not the only one who knows this.’
‘But the Sabarthès Mountains were excavated by the Nazis during the war,’ she said. ‘The Nazi Grail hunters knew the rumours that the Cathar treasure was buried somewhere in the mountains. They spent years excavating every site of possible esoteric interest. If this cave is of such significance, how was it not discovered sixty years ago?’
We made sure that they did not.’
