Labyrinth

by Kate Mosse

  At least my father did not live to see the Viscount in French hands.

  ‘Esclarmonde improves daily, but she is still weak. Can I impose upon you further and ask if you could accompany her from the Ciutat?’ She paused. ‘For reasons I dare not confide, for your sake as much as Esclarmonde’s, it would be wisest if we travelled separately.’

  Gaston nodded. ‘You fear those who inflicted these appalling injuries in the first instance might yet be looking for her?’

  Alaïs looked at him in surprise. ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘It will be an honour to help you, Dame Alaïs.’ He flushed red. ‘Your father . . . He was a fair man.’

  She nodded. ‘He was.’

  As the dying rays of the setting sun painted the outer walls of the Chateau Comtal with a fierce orange light, the courtyard, the walkways and the Great Hall were silent. Everything was abandoned, empty.

  At the Porte d’Aude, a mass of frightened and bewildered people were herded together, desperately trying to keep sight of their loved ones, averting their eyes from the contemptuous faces of the French soldiers, who stared at them as if they were less than human. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords as if only waiting for an excuse.

  Alaïs hoped her disguise would be good enough. She shuffled forward, awkward in men’s boots several times too big for her, keeping close to the man in front. She had strapping around her chest to flatten her and to conceal the books and parchments. In breeches, shirt and a nondescript straw hat, she looked like any other boy. She had pebbles in her mouth, which altered the shape of her face, and she’d cut her hair and rubbed mud in it to darken it.

  The line moved forward. Alaïs kept looking down, for fear of catching the eye of anyone who might recognise her and give her away. The line thinned to a single file the closer they got to the gate. There were four Crusaders on guard, their expressions dull and resentful. They were stopping people, forcing them to remove their clothes to prove they were smuggling nothing underneath.

  Alaïs could see the guards had stopped Esclarmonde’s litter. Clutching a kerchief over his mouth, Gaston was explaining his mother was very ill. The guard pulled back the curtain and immediately stepped back. Alaïs hid a smile. She had sewed rotting meat into a pig’s bladder and wrapped stained, bloodied bandages around Esclarmonde’s feet.

  The guard waved them through.

  Sajhë was several families behind, travelling with Sénher and Na Couza and their six children, who had similar colouring. She had rubbed dirt into his hair to darken it too. The only thing she could not disguise were his eyes, so he was under strict instruction not to look up if he could help it.

  The line lurched forward once more. It’s my turn. They’d agreed she would pretend not to understand if anyone spoke to her.

  ‘Toi ! Paysan. Qu’est-ce que tu portes là?’

  She kept her head down, resisting the temptation to touch the strapping around her body.

  ‘Eh, toi!’

  The pike cut through the air and Alaïs braced herself for a blow that never came. Instead, the girl in front of her was knocked to the ground. She scrambled in the dirt for her hat. She raised her frightened face to her accuser.

  ‘Canhòt.’

  ‘What’s she say?’ the guard muttered. ‘I can’t understand a word they say.’

  ‘Chien. She’s got a puppy.’

  Before any of them knew what was happening, the soldier had hauled the dog out of her arms and run it through with his spear. Blood splattered over the front of the girl’s dress.

  ‘Allez! Vite.’

  The girl was too shocked to move. Alaïs helped her to her feet and encouraged her to keep moving, steering her through the gate, fighting the impulse to turn around and check on Sajhë. Soon, she was out.

  Now I see them.

  On the hill overlooking the gate were the French barons. Not the leaders, who Alaïs presumed were waiting until the evacuation was over before making their entrance into Carcassonne, but knights wearing the colours of Burgundy, Nevers and Chartres.

  At the end of the row, closest to the path, a tall, thin man sat astride a powerful grey stallion. Despite the long southern summer, his skin was still as white as milk. Beside him was François. Next to him, Alaïs recognised Oriane’s familiar red dress.

  But not Guilhem.

  Keep walking, keeping your eyes fastened on the ground.

  She was so close now that she could smell the leather of the saddles and bridles of the horses. Oriane’s eyes seemed to be burning into her.

  An old man, with sad eyes full of pain, tapped her on the arm. He needed help on the steep slope. Alaïs gave him her shoulder. It was the luck she needed. Looking to all the world like a grandson and grandfather, she passed directly beneath Oriane’s gaze without being recognised.

  The path seemed to last forever. Finally, they reached the shaded area at the bottom of the slope where the ground levelled out and the woods and marshes began. Alaïs saw her companion reunited with his son and daughter-in-law, then detached herself from the main crowd and slipped into the trees.

  As soon as she was out of sight, Alaïs spat the stones from her mouth. The inside of her cheeks were raw and dry. She rubbed her jaw, trying to ease the discomfort. She took her hat off and ran her fingers through her stubbly hair. It felt like damp straw, prickly and uncomfortable on the back of her neck.

  A shout at the gate drew her attention.

  No, please. Not him.

  A soldier was holding Sajhë by the scruff of the neck.

  She could see him kicking, trying to get free. He was holding something in his hands. A small box.

  Alaïs’s heart plummeted. She couldn’t risk going back up, so was powerless to do anything. Na Couza was arguing with the soldier, who struck her round the head, sending her sprawling back into the dirt. Sajhë took his chance. He wriggled out of the man’s grasp and scrambled down the slope. Sénher Couza helped his wife to her feet.

  Alaïs held her breath. For a moment, it seemed as if it was going to be all right. The soldier had lost interest. But then Alaïs heard a woman shouting. Oriane was shouting and pointing at Sajhë, ordering the guards to stop him.

  She’s recognised him.

  Sajhë might not be Alaïs, but he was the next best thing. There was an immediate outburst of activity. Two of the guards set off down the slopes after Sajhë, but he was a fast runner, sure-footed and confident. Weighted down by their weapons and armour, they were no match for an eleven-year-old boy. Silently, Alaïs urged him on, watching as he darted this way and that, jumping and leaping over the uneven patches of ground, until he reached the cover of the woods.

  Realising she was about to lose him, Oriane sent François to follow. His horse thundered down the track, slipping and skidding on the steep, dry earth, but he covered the ground quickly. Sajhë hurtled into the undergrowth, François hard on his heels.

  Alaïs realised Sajhë was heading for the boggy marshland where the Aude split into several tributaries. The ground was green and looked like a meadow in spring, but it was lethal underneath. Local people stayed away.

  Alaïs pulled herself up into a tree for a better view. François either didn’t realise where Sajhë was going or didn’t care, because he spurred his horse on. He’s gaining on him. Sajhë stumbled and nearly lost his footing, but he managed to keep running, zigzagging through the thicket, leading them through blackberry bushes and thistles.

  Suddenly, François let out a howl of anger, which turned immediately to alarm. The sinking mud had wrapped itself around the hind legs of his horse. The terrified animal was baying, flailing its legs. Every desperate attempt only hastened its descent into the treacherous mud.

  François threw himself from the saddle and tried to swim to the edges of the bog, but his body sank lower and lower, clawed down into the mud, until only the tips of his fingers could be seen.

  Then, there was silence. It seemed to Alaës as if even the birds had stopped singing
. Terrified for Sajhë, she dropped down to the ground, just as he came back into view. He was ashen-faced, his bottom lip trembling with exertion, and he was still clutching the wooden box.

  ‘I led him into the marsh,’ he said.

  Alaïs put her hand on his shoulder. ‘I know. That was clever.’

  Was he a traitor too?’

  She nodded. ‘I think that was what Esclarmonde was trying to tell us.’ Alaïs pursed her lips together, glad her father had not lived to know it was François who had betrayed him. She shook the thought from her mind. ‘But what were you thinking, Sajhë? Why on earth were you carrying this box? It almost got you killed.’

  ‘Menina told me to keep it safe.’

  Sajhë stretched his fingers across the bottom of the box until he was able to press both sides at once. There was a sharp click, then he turned the base, to reveal a flat, concealed drawer. He reached in and pulled out a piece of cloth.

  ‘It’s a map. Menina said we would need it.’

  Alaïs understood immediately. ‘She doesn’t mean to come with us,’ she said heavily, fighting the tears welling up in her eyes.

  Sajhë shook his head.

  ‘But why didn’t she tell me?’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Could she not trust me?’

  ‘You would not have let her go.’

  Alaïs let her head fall back against the tree. She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of her task. Without Esclarmonde she didn’t know how she could find the strength to do what was required of her.

  As if he could read her mind, Sajhë said: ‘I’ll look after you. And it won’t be for long. When we have given the Book of Words to Harif, we will come back and find her. Si es atal es atal.’ Things will be as they will be.

  ‘That we should all be as wise as you.’

  Sajhë flushed. ‘This is where we have to go,’ he said, pointing at the map. ‘It doesn’t appear on any map, but Menina calls the village Los Seres.’

  Of course. Not just the name of the guardians, but also a place.

  ‘You see?’ he said. ‘In the Sabarthès Mountains.’

  Alaïs nodded. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘At last, I think I do.’

  THE RETURN TO THE MOUNTAINS

  CHAPTER 63

  Sabarthès Mountains

  FRIDAY 8 JULY 2005

  Audric Baillard sat at a table of dark, highly polished wood in his house in the shadow of the mountain.

  The ceiling in the main room was low and there were large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth. He had made few changes. This far from civilisation, there was no electricity, no running water, no cars or telephones. The only sound was the ticking of the clock marking time.

  There was an oil lamp on the table, extinguished now. Next to it was a glass tumbler, filled almost to the brim with Guignolet, filling the room with the subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. On the far side of the table there was a brass tray holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine, unopened, as well as a small wooden platter of savoury biscuits covered with a white linen cloth.

  Baillard had opened the shutters so he could see the sunrise. In spring, the trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight silver and white buds and yellow and pink flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks. By this late in the year, there was little colour left, only the grey and green of the mountain in whose eternal presence he had lived for so long.

  A curtain separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. The whole of the back wall was covered with narrow shelves, almost empty now. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars. Also books, both those written by him, and the great voices of Cathar history - Delteil, Duvernoy, Nelli, Marti, Brenon, Rouquette. Works of Arab philosophy sat side by side with translations of ancient Judaic texts, monographs by authors ancient and modern. The rows of paperbacks, incongruous in such a setting, filled the space once occupied by medicines and potions and herbs.

  He was prepared to wait.

  Baillard raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.

  And if she did not come? If he never learned the truth of those final hours?

  He sighed. If she did not come, then he would be forced to take the last steps of his long journey alone. As he had always feared.

  CHAPTER 64

  By the time dawn broke, Alice was a few kilometres north of Toulouse. She pulled into a service station and drank two cups of hot, sweet coffee to steady her nerves.

  Alice read the letter once more. Posted in Foix on Wednesday morning. A letter from Audric Baillard giving directions to his house. She knew it was genuine. She recognised the black spidery writing.

  She felt she had no choice but to go.

  Alice spread the map on the counter, trying to work out precisely where she was heading. The hameau where Baillard lived didn’t appear on the map, although he’d mentioned enough landmarks and names of nearby towns for her to work out the general area.

  He was confident, he said, that Alice would know the place when she saw it.

  As a precaution, and one she realised she should have taken earlier, Alice exchanged her hire car at the airport for one of a different colour and make, just in case they were looking for her, then continued her journey south.

  She drove past Foix towards Andorra, and then through Tarascon before following Baillard’s directions. She turned off the main road at Luzenac and went through Lordat and Bestiac. The landscape changed. It reminded Alice of the slopes of the Alps. Small mountain flowers, long grass, the houses like Swiss chalets.

  She passed a sprawling quarry, like a huge white scar gouged into the side of the mountain. Towering electricity pylons and thick black cabling for the winter ski resorts dominated the skyline, black against the summer blue sky.

  Alice crossed the river Lauze. She was forced to shift down into second gear as the road got steeper and the bends tighter. She was starting to feel sick from the constant doubling back, when she suddenly found herself in a small village.

  There were two shops and a café with a couple of tables and chairs sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would be good to check she was still heading the right way, Alice went into the café. The air inside was thick with smoke and hunched, mulish men with weather-beaten faces and blue overalls lined the counter.

  Alice ordered coffee and ostentatiously put her map on the counter. Dislike of strangers, particularly women, meant no one spoke to her for a while, but finally she managed to strike up a conversation. No one had heard of Los Seres, but they knew the area and gave what help they could.

  She drove higher, gradually getting her bearings. The road became a track, and then finally petered out altogether. Alice parked the car and got out. Only now, standing in the familiar landscape, her nose filled with the smells of the mountain, did she realise that she had in fact doubled back on herself and was actually on the far side of the Pic de Soularac.

  Alice climbed to the highest point and shielded her eyes. She identified the étang de Tort, a distinctively shaped tarn the men in the bar had told her to look out for. Close by was another expanse of water known locally as the Devil’s Lake.

  Finally, she orientated herself to the Pic de Saint-Barthélémy, which stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montségur itself.

  Straight ahead, a single track wound up through the green scrub and brown earth and bright yellow broom. The dark green leaves of the box were fragrant and sharp. She touched the leaves and rubbed the dew between her fingers.

  Alice climbed for ten minutes. Then, the path opened into a clearing, and she was there.

  A single-storied house stood alone, surrounded by ruins, the grey stone camouflaged against the mountain behind. And in the doorway stood a man, very thin and very old, with a shock of white hair, wearing the pale suit she remembered from the photograph.

  Alice felt her legs were moving of their own accord. The ground levelled out as she walked the last few steps towards him. Baillard watched in si
lence and was completely still. He did not smile or raise his hand in greeting. Even when she drew close, he did not speak or move. He never took his eyes from her face. They were the most startling colour.

  Amber mixed with autumn leaves.

  Alice stopped in front of him. At last, he smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, transforming the crevices and lines of his face.

  ‘Madomaisèla Tanner,’ he said. His voice was deep and old, like the wind in the desert. ‘Benvenguda. I knew you would come.’ He stood back to let her enter. ‘Please.’

  Nervous, awkward, Alice ducked under the lintel and stepped through the door into the room, still feeling the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was trying to commit every feature to memory.

  ‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, then stopped.

  She was unable to think of anything to say. His delight, his wonder that she had come — mixed with his faith that she would - made ordinary conversation impossible.

  ‘You resemble her,’ he said slowly. ‘There is much of her in your face.’

  ‘I’ve only seen photos, but I thought so too.’

  He smiled. ‘I did not mean Grace,’ he said softly, then turned away, as if he had said too much. ‘Please, sit down.’

  Alice glanced surreptitiously around the room, noticing the lack of modern equipment. No lights, no heating, nothing electronic. She wondered if there was a kitchen.

  ‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she started again. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering . . . how did you know where to find me?’

  Again, he smiled. ‘Does it matter?’

  Alice thought about it and realised it did not.

  ‘Madomaisèla Tanner, I know about the Pic de Soularac. I have one question I must ask you before we go any further. Did you find a book?’

  More than anything, Alice wanted to say she had. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He asked me about it too, but I didn’t see it.’

  ‘He?’

  She frowned. ‘A man called Paul Authié.’

  Baillard nodded his head up and down. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, in such a way that Alice felt she didn’t need to explain.