by Kate Mosse
‘But these are parables,’ protested Alice. ‘Allegories.’
Audric shook his head. ‘They survived for centuries precisely so that they could speak of what they had witnessed, bear testimony to the truth of their times. Harif, who persuaded Abu Bakr to conceal his work revealing the language of Ancient Egypt, lived to see the fall of Montségur.’
‘But that’s five hundred years.’
‘They lived,’ Audric repeated simply. ‘Think of the life of a butterfly, Alice. An entire existence, so brilliant, but lasting just one human day. An entire lifetime. Time has many meanings.’
Alice pushed her chair back and walked away from the table, no longer knowing what she felt, what she could believe.
She turned. ‘The labyrinth symbol I saw on the wall of the cave, on the ring you wear - this is the symbol of the true Grail?’
He nodded.
‘And Alaïs? She knew this?’
‘At first, like you, she was doubtful. She did not believe in the truth contained within the pages of the Trilogy, but she fought to protect them out of love for her father.’
‘She believed Harif was more than five hundred years old?’ she persisted, no longer trying to keep the scepticism out of her voice.
‘Not at first, no,’ he admitted. ‘But over time, she came to see the truth. And when her time came, she found she was able to speak the words, understand the words.’
Alice came back to the table and sat down. ‘But why France? Why were the papyri brought here at all? Why not leave them where they were?’
Audric smiled. ‘Harif took the papyri to the Holy City in the tenth century of the Christian era and had them hidden near the Plains of Sepal. For nearly a hundred years, they were safe, until the armies of Saladin advanced on Jerusalem. He chose one of the guardians, a young Christian chevalier called Bertrand Pelletier, to carry the papyri to France.’
Alaïs’s father.
Alice realised she was smiling, as if she had just heard news of an old friend.
‘Harif realised two things,’ Audric continued. ‘First, that the papyri would be safer kept within the pages of a book, less vulnerable. Second, that because rumours of the Grail were starting to circulate through the courts of Europe, how better to hide the truth than beneath a layer of myth and fable.’
‘The stories of the Cathars possessing the Cup of Christ,’ said Alice, suddenly understanding.
Baillard nodded. ‘The followers of Jesus the Nazarene did not expect him to die on the Cross, yet he did. His death and resurrection helped give birth to stories of a sacred cup or chalice, a grail that gave everlasting life. How these were interpreted at the time, I cannot say, but what is certain is that the crucifixion of the Nazarene gave birth to a wave of persecution. Many fled the Holy Land, including Joseph of Arimathea and Mary Magdalene, who sailed for France. They brought with them, it is said, knowledge of an ancient secret.’
‘The Grail papyri?’
‘Or treasure, jewels taken from the Temple of Solomon. Or the cup that Jesus the Nazarene had drunk from at the Last Supper in which his blood had been gathered as he hung upon the Cross. Or parchments, writings, evidence that Christ had not died crucified but yet lived, hidden in the mountains of the desert for a hundred years and more with a small elect band of believers.’
Alice stared dumbstruck at Audric, but his face was a closed book and she could read nothing in it.
‘That Christ did not die on the Cross,’ she repeated, hardly able to believe what she was saying.
‘Or other stories,’ he said slowly. ‘Some claimed that it was at Narbonne, rather than Marseilles, that Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea had landed. For centuries it has been common belief that something of great value was hidden somewhere in the Pyrenees.’
‘So it was not the Cathars who possessed the secret of the Grail,’ she said, putting the pieces together in her mind, ‘but Alaïs. They gave her sanctuary.’
A secret hidden behind a secret. Alice sat back in her chair, running back over the sequence of events in her mind.
‘And now the labyrinth cave has been opened.’
‘For the first time in nearly eight hundred years, the books can be brought together once more,’ he said. ‘And although you, Alice, do not know if you should trust me or dismiss what I say as the delusional ramblings of an old man, there are others who do not doubt.’
Alaïs believed in the truth of the Grail.
Deep inside, beyond the limits of her conscious thought, Alice knew he spoke the truth. It was her rational self that found it hard to accept.
‘Marie-Cécile,’ she said heavily.
‘Tonight, Madame de l’Oradore will go to the labyrinth cave and attempt to summon the Grail.’
Alice felt a wave of apprehension sweep over her.
‘But she can’t,’ she said quickly. ‘She doesn’t have the Book of Words. She doesn’t have the ring.’
‘I fear she realises the Book of Words must still be within the chamber.’
‘Is it?’
‘I do not know for sure.’
‘And the ring? She doesn’t have that either.’ She dropped her eyes to his thin hands laid flat on the table.
‘She knows I will come.’
‘But, that’s crazy,’ she exploded. ‘How can you even contemplate going anywhere near her?’
‘Tonight she will attempt to summon the Grail,’ he said in his low, level voice. ‘Because of that, they know I will come. I cannot let that happen.’
Alice banged her hands on the table. What about Will? What about Shelagh? Don’t you care about them? It won’t help them if you are taken as well.’
‘It is because I care about them - about you, Alice - that I will go. I believe Marie-Cécile intends to force them to participate in the ceremony. There must be five participants, the Navigatairé and four others.’
‘Marie-Cécile, her son, Will, Shelagh and Authié?’
‘No, not Authié. Another.’
‘Then who?’
He avoided the question. ‘I do not know where Shelagh or Will are now,’ he said, as if thinking aloud, ‘but I believe we will find they are taken to the cave at nightfall.’
Who, Audric?’ Alice repeated, firmer this time.
Again, he did not answer. He rose to his feet, walked to the window and closed the shutters, before turning to face her. We should go.’
Alice was frustrated, nervous, bewildered, and most of all frightened. And yet, at the same time, she felt she had no choice.
She thought of Alaïs’ name on the Family Tree, separated by eight hundred years from her own. She pictured the symbol of the labyrinth, connecting them across time and space.
Two stories woven into one.
Alice picked up her belongings and followed Audric out into the remains of the fading day.
CHAPTER 75
Montségur
MARÇ 1244
In their hiding place beneath the citadel, Alaïs and her three companions tried to blot out the agonised sound of the torture. But the shouts of pain and the horror penetrated even the thick rock of the mountain. The cries both of the dying and the survivors slid like monsters into her refuge.
Alaïs prayed for Rixende’s soul and for its return to God, for all her friends, good men and women, for the pity of it. All she could hope was that her plan had worked.
Only time would tell if Oriane had been deceived into thinking Alaïs and the Book of Words had been consumed by the fires.
So great a risk.
Alaïs, Harif and their guides were to remain in their stone tomb until nightfall and the evacuation of the citadel was completed. Then, under cover of darkness, the four fugitives would make their way down the precipitous mountain paths and head for Los Seres. If their luck held, she would be home by dusk tomorrow.
They were in clear breach of the terms of the truce and surrender. If they were caught, retribution would be swift and brutal, Alaïs had no doubt. The cave was barely more
than a fold in the rock, shallow and close to the surface. If soldiers searched the citadel thoroughly, they were sure to be discovered.
Alaïs bit her lip at the thought of her daughter. In the darkness, she felt Harif reach for her hand. His skin was dry and dusty, like the desert sands.
‘Bertrande is strong,’ he said, as if he knew what distressed her. ‘She is like you, è? Her courage will hold. Soon, you will be together again. It’s not long to wait.’
‘But she’s so young, Harif, too young to witness such things. She must be so frightened . . .’
‘She is brave, Alaïs. Sajhë too. They will not fail us.’
If I knew you were right . . .
In the dark, her heart wracked with doubt and fear of what was to come, Alaïs sat dry-eyed, waiting for the day to pass. The anticipation, not knowing what was happening up above, was almost more than she could bear. The thought of Bertrande’s pale, white face continued to haunt her.
And the screaming of the Bons Homes as the fire took them went on in her head for a long time after the last victim had fallen silent.
A huge cloud of acrid black smoke was hovering like a storm cloud over the valley, blotting out the day.
Sajhë held Bertrande’s hand tightly as they walked through the Great Gate and out of the castle that had been their home for nearly two years. He’d locked his pain deep inside his heart, in a place where the Inquisitors could not reach it. He would not grieve for Rixende now. He could not fear for Alaïs now. He must concentrate on protecting Bertrande and seeing them both safely returned to Los Seres.
The Inquisitors’ tables were ready at the bottom of the slopes. The process was to start immediately, in the shadow of the pyre. Sajhë recognised Inquisitor Ferrier, a man loathed throughout the region for his rigid adherence to both the spirit and the letter of ecclesiastical law. He slipped his eyes to the right where Ferrier’s partner stood. Inquisitor Duranti was no less feared.
He held Bertrande’s hand tighter.
When they got on to the flatter ground, Sajhë realised they were dividing the prisoners up. Old men, members of the garrison and boys were being sent one way, the women and children another. He felt a flash of fear. Bertrande was going to have to face the Inquisitors without him.
She sensed the change in him and looked up, frightened, into his face. What’s happening? What are they going to do to us?’
‘Brava, they are interrogating the men and the women separately,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. Answer their questions. Be brave and stay exactly where you are until I come for you. Don’t go anywhere, with anyone else, you understand? No one else at all.’
‘What will they ask me?’ she said in a small voice.
‘Your name, your age,’ Sajhë replied, going over the details she was to hold in her mind one more time. ‘I’m known as a member of the garrison, but there is no reason for them to associate us together. When they ask you, say you do not know your father. Give Rixende as your mother and tell them you have lived all your life here at Mont-segur. Whatever happens, do not mention Los Seres. Can you remember all this?’
Bertrande nodded.
‘Good girl.’ Then, trying to reassure her, he added: ‘My grandmother used to give me messages to take for her when I was no older than you are now. She used to make me repeat them back several times until she was sure I was word perfect.’
Bertrande gave a thin smile. ‘Mamà says your memory is terrible. Like a sieve, she says.’
‘She’s right,’ he said, then grew serious again. ‘They might also ask you some questions about the Bons Homes and what they believe. Answer as honestly as you can. That way, you are less likely to contradict yourself. There’s nothing you can tell them they won’t already have heard from someone else.’ He hesitated and added one last reminder. ‘Remember. Do not mention Alaïs or Harif at all.’
Bertrande’s eyes filled with tears. ‘What if the soldiers search the citadel and find her?’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘What will they do if they find them?’
‘They won’t,’ he replied quickly. ‘Remember, Bertrande. When the Inquisitors have finished with you, stay exactly where you are. I will come and find you as soon as I can.’
Sajhë barely had time to finish his sentence when a guard jabbed him in the back and forced him further down the hill towards the village. Bertrande was sent in the opposite direction.
He was taken to a wooden pen, where he saw Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, the commander of the garrison. He had already been interrogated. It was a good sign to Sajhë’s mind, a courtesy. It suggested the terms of the surrender were being honoured and the garrison were being treated as prisoners of war, not criminals.
As he joined the crowd of soldiers waiting to be called forward, Sajhë slipped his stone ring from his thumb and concealed it beneath his clothes. He felt strangely naked without it. He had rarely removed it since Harif bestowed it upon him twenty years before.
The interrogations were taking place inside two separate tents. The friars were waiting with yellow crosses to attach to the backs of those who’d been found guilty of fraternising with heretics, and then the prisoners were taken to a secondary holding area beyond, like animals at a market.
It was clear they did not intend to release anyone until everybody, from the oldest to the youngest, had been questioned. The process could take days.
When Sajhë’s turn came, he was allowed to walk unaccompanied into the tent. He stopped before Inquisitor Ferrier and waited.
Ferrier’s waxen face expressed nothing. He demanded Sajhë’s name, his age, his rank and his home town. The goose quill scratched over the parchment.
‘Do you believe in Heaven and Hell?’ he said abruptly.
‘I do.’
‘Do you believe in Purgatory?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you believe the Son of God was made perfect Man?’
‘I’m a soldier, not a monk,’ he replied, keeping his eyes to the ground.
‘Do you believe a human soul has only one body in which, and with which, it will be resurrected?’
‘The priests say that it is so.’
‘Have you ever heard anyone say that swearing oaths is a sin? If so, who?’
This time, Sajhë raised his eyes. ‘I have not,’ he said defiantly.
‘Come now, sergeant. You’ve served in the garrison for more than a year and yet do not know that heretici refuse to swear oaths?’
‘I serve Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Inquisitor. I heed not the words of others.’
The interrogation continued for some time, but Sajhë stayed faithful to his role as a simple soldier, pleading ignorance of all matters of scripture and belief. He incriminated no one. Claimed to know nothing.
In the end, Inquisitor Ferrier had no choice but to let him go.
It was only late afternoon, but already the sun was setting. Dusk was creeping back into the valley, stealing the shape from things and covering everything with black shadows.
Sajhë was sent to join a group of other soldiers who had already been interrogated. Each of them had been given a blanket, a hunk of stale bread and a cup of wine. He could see such kindness had not been extended to the civilian prisoners.
As the day gathered to a close, Sajhë’s spirits fell further.
Not knowing if Bertrande’s ordeal was over — or even where in the vast camp she was being held - was eating away at his mind. The thought of Alaïs, waiting, watching the fading of the light, her anxiety growing as the hour of departure approached, filled him with apprehension, all the worse for being unable to do anything to help.
Restless and unable to settle, Sajhë got up to stretch. He could feel the damp and chill seeping into his bones and his legs were stiff from sitting still for so long.
‘Assis,’growled a guard, tapping him on the shoulder with his pike. He was about to obey, when he noticed movement higher up the mountain. There was a search party making its way towards the rocky outcrop where Alaïs, Harif
and their guides were hidden. The flames from their torches flickered, throwing shadows against the bushes shivering in the wind.
Sajhë’s blood turned cold.
They had searched the castle earlier and found nothing. He had thought it was over. But it was clear they were intending to search the undergrowth and the labyrinth of paths that led around the base of the citadel. If they went much further in that direction, it would bring them to precisely the point where Alaïs would emerge. And it was almost dark.
Sajhë started to run towards the perimeter of the compound.
‘Hey!’ the guard shouted. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Arrête!’
Sajhë ignored him. Without thinking about the consequences, he vaulted the wooden fence and pounded up the slope, towards the search party. He could hear the guard calling for reinforcements. His only thought was to draw attention away from Alaïs.
The search party stopped and looked to see what was going on.
Sajhë shouted, needing to turn them from spectators to participants. One by one, they turned. He saw confusion in their faces turn to aggression. They were bored and cold, itching for a fight.
Sajhë had just enough time to realise his plan had worked as a fist was driven into his stomach. He gasped for breath and doubled over. Two of the soldiers held his arms behind him as the punches came at him from all directions. The hilts of their weapons, boots, fists, the onslaught was relentless. He felt the skin beneath his eye split. He could taste blood on his tongue and at the back of his throat as the blows continued to rain down.
Only now did he accept how seriously he’d misjudged the situation. He’d thought only of drawing attention away from Alaïs. An image of Bertrande’s pale face, waiting for him to come, slipped into his mind as a fist connected with his jaw and everything went black.
CHAPTER 76
Oriane had devoted her life to her quest to retrieve the Book of Words.
