by Kate Mosse
He looked at Sajhë, trying to read the truth written in his eyes.
‘I would that she had not chosen to die,’ he said simply. ‘For you, as the man she chose, and me, as the fool who had her love and lost it.’ He stumbled. ‘But most for the sake of your daughter. To know Alaïs — ’
‘Why are you helping us?’ Sajhë interrupted. Why did you come?’
‘To Montségur?’
Sajhë shook his head, impatient. ‘Not Montségur. Here. Now.’
‘Revenge,’ he said.
CHAPTER 79
Alaïs woke with a jolt, stiff and cold. A delicate purple light swept across the grey and green landscape at dawn. A gentle white mist tiptoed through the gulleys and crevices of the mountainside, silent and still.
She looked to Harif. He was sleeping peacefully, his fur-lined cloak drawn up to his ears. He’d found the day and night they had spent travelling hard.
The silence was heavy over the mountain. Despite the cold in her bones and her discomfort, Alaïs relished the solitude after the months of desperate overcrowding and confinement within Montségur. Careful not to disturb Harif, she stood up and stretched, then reached into one of the saddlebags to break off a piece of bread. It was as hard as wood. She poured herself a cup of thick red mountain wine, which was almost too cold to taste. She dipped the bread to soften it, then ate quickly, before preparing food for the others.
She hardly dared think about Bertrande and Sajhë and where they might be at this moment. Still in the camp? Together or apart?
The call of a screech owl returning from his night’s hunting split the air. She smiled, soothed by the familiar sounds. Animals rustled in the undergrowth, sudden flurries of claws and teeth. In the woodlands of the valleys lower down, wolves howled their presence. It served to remind her that the world went on the same, its cycles changing with the seasons, without her.
She roused the two guides and told them food was ready, then led the horses to the stream and broke the ice with the hilt of her sword so they could drink.
Then, when the light strengthened, she went to wake Harif. She whispered to him in his own language and put her hand gently on his arm. He often woke in distress these days.
Harif opened his hooded brown eyes, faded now with age.
‘Bertrande?’
‘It’s Alaïs,’ she said softly.
Harif blinked, confused to find himself on this grey mountainside. Alaïs imagined he had been dreaming of Jerusalem again, the curve and sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful, his travels across the endless sea of the desert.
In the years they had spent in one another’s company, Harif had told her of the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the food, the terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun. He had told her stories of how he had used the long years of his life. He had talked of the Prophet and the ancient city of Avaris, his first home. He had told her stories about her father in his youth, and the Noublesso.
As she looked down at him, his olive skin grey with age, his once black hair white, her heart ached. He was too old for this struggle. He had seen too much, witnessed too much, for it to finish so harshly.
Harif had left his last journey too late. And Alaïs knew, although he had never said so, that only thoughts of Los Seres and Bertrande gave him the strength to keep going.
‘Alaïs,’ he said quietly, adjusting to his surroundings. ‘Yes.’
‘It won’t be much longer,’ she said, helping him to his feet. We’re nearly home.’
Guilhem and Sajhë talked little as they sat huddled in the shelter of the mountain out of reach of the vicious claws of the wind.
Several times, Guilhem tried to initiate conversation, but Sajhë’s taciturn responses defeated him. In the end he gave up trying and withdrew into his own private world, as Sajhë had intended.
He was sick in conscience. He’d spent a lifetime first envying Guilhem, then hating him, and finally learning to forget about him. He had taken Guilhem’s place at Alaïs’ side, but never in her heart. She had remained constant to her first love. It had endured, despite absence and silence.
Sajhë knew of Guilhem’s courage, his fearless and long struggle to drive the Crusaders from the Pays d’Oc, but he did not want to find himself liking Guilhem, admiring him. Nor did he want to feel pity for him. He could see how he grieved for Alaïs. His face spoke of deep loss, regret. Sajhë could not bring himself to speak. But he hated himself for not doing so.
They waited all day, taking it in turns to sleep. Close to dusk a sudden flurry of crows took flight lower down the slopes, flying up into the air like ash from a dying fire. They wheeled and hovered and cawed, beating the chill air with their wings.
‘Someone’s coming,’ said Sajhë, immediately alert.
He peered out from behind the boulder, which was perched on the narrow ledge above the entrance to the cave, as if placed there by some giant hand.
He could see nothing, no movement lower down. Cautiously, Sajhë came out of his hiding place. Everything ached, everything was stiff, a combination of the after-effects of the beating and inactivity. His hands were numb, the raw knuckles red and cracked. His face was a mass of bruises and ragged skin.
Sajhë lowered himself over the rocky ledge and dropped to the ground. He landed badly. Pain shot up from his injured ankle.
‘Pass me my sword,’ he said, holding up his arm.
Guilhem handed him the weapon, then came down and joined him as he stood looking out over the valley.
There was a burst of distant voices. Then, faintly in the fading light, Sajhë saw a thin wraith of smoke winding up through the sparse cover of the trees.
He looked to the horizon, where the purple land and the darkening sky met.
‘They’re on the southeastern path,’ he said, ‘which means Oriane’s avoided the village altogether. From that direction, they won’t be able to come any further with the horses. The terrain is too rough. There are gulleys with sheer drops on both sides. They’ll have to continue on foot.’
The thought of Bertrande, so close by, was suddenly too much to bear.
‘I’m going down.’
‘No!’ Guilhem said quickly, then more quietly. ‘No. The risk is too great. If they see you, you’ll put Bertrande’s life in danger. We know Oriane will come to the cave. Here, we have the element of surprise. We must wait for her to come to us.’ He paused. ‘You must not blame yourself, friend. You could not have prevented this. You serve your daughter by holding fast to our plan.’
Sajhë shook Guilhem’s hand from his arm.
‘You don’t have any idea what I’m feeling,’ he said, his voice shaking with fury. ‘How dare you presume to know me?’
Guilhem put up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘She’s only a child.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Nine,’ he replied abruptly.
Guilhem frowned. ‘So old enough to understand,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘So even if Oriane did persuade her, rather than force her, to leave the camp, it’s likely by now Bertrande will realise something’s wrong. Did she know Oriane was in the camp? Does she even know she has an aunt?’
Sajhë nodded. ‘She knows Oriane is no friend to Alaïs. She would not have gone with her.’
‘Not if she knew who she was,’ agreed Guilhem. ‘But if she didn’t?’
Sajhë thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Even then, I can’t believe she would go with a stranger. We were clear that she had to wait for us — ’
He broke off, realising he had nearly given himself away, but Guilhem was following his own train of thought. Sajhë gave a sigh of relief.
‘I think we will be able to deal with the soldiers after we have rescued Bertrande,’ Guilhem said. ‘The more I think about it, the more likely I think it is that Oriane will leave her men in the camp and continue on alone with your daughter.’
Sajhë started to listen. ‘Go on.’
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br /> ‘Oriane has waited more than thirty years for this. Concealment is as natural to her as breathing. I don’t think she’ll risk anybody else knowing the precise location of the cave. She would not want to share the secret and since she believes no one, except her son, knows she is here, she will not be expecting any opposition.’
Guilhem paused. ‘Oriane is — ’ He broke off. ‘To gain possession of the Labyrinth Trilogy Oriane has lied, murdered, betrayed her father and her sister. She has damned herself for the Books.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Her first husband, Jehan Congost, certainly, although it was not her hand that wielded the knife.’
‘François,’ murmured Sajhë, too soft for Guilhem to hear. A shaft of memory, the screaming, the desperate thrashing of the horse’s hooves as man and beast were sucked down into the boggy marsh.
‘And I’ve always believed she was responsible for the death of a woman very dear to Alaïs,’ Guilhem continued.
‘Her name is lost to me this far after the event, but she was a wise woman who lived in the Ciutat. She taught Alaïs everything, about medicines, healing, how to use nature’s gifts for good.’ He paused. ‘Alaïs loved her.’
It was obstinacy that had stopped Sajhë revealing his identity. It was obstinacy and jealousy that prevented him confiding anything of his life with Alaïs.
‘Esclarmonde did not die,’ he said, no longer able to dissemble. Guilhem went very still.
‘What?’ he said. ‘Does Alaïs know this?’
Sajhë nodded. ‘When she fled from the Château Comtal, it was to Esclarmonde – and her grandson – that Alaïs turned for help. She left — ’
The sound of Oriane’s sharp voice, authoritative and cold, interrupted the conversation. The two men, mountain fighters both, dropped down to the ground. Without a sound, they drew their swords and took up their positions close to the entrance of the cave. Sajhë concealed himself behind a section of rock slightly below the entrance, Guilhem behind a ring of hawthorn bushes, their spiked branches sharp and menacing in the dusk.
The voices were getting nearer. They could hear the soldiers’ boots, armour and buckles, as they clambered over the flint and stone of the rocky path.
Sajhë felt as if he was taking every step with Bertrande. Every moment stretched an eternity. The sound of the footsteps, the echo of the voices, repeating over and over again yet never appearing to get any closer.
Finally, two figures emerged from the cover of the trees. Oriane and Bertrande. As Guilhem had thought, they were alone. He could see Guilhem staring at him, warning him not to move yet, to wait until Oriane was in striking distance and they could get Bertrande safely away.
As they got closer, Sajhë clenched his fists to stop himself roaring out in anger. There was a cut on her cheek, red against her white frozen face. Oriane had tied a rope around Bertrande’s neck, which ran down her back to her hands bound at the wrists behind her waist. The other end was in Oriane’s left hand. In her right, she had a dagger, which she used to jab Bertrande in the back to keep her moving.
Bertrande was walking awkwardly and stumbled often. He narrowed his eyes and saw that, beneath her skirts, her ankles were tied together. The loose measure of rope between them allowed no more than a stride.
Sajhë forced himself to remain still, waiting, watching until they reached the clearing that lay directly beneath the cave.
‘You said it was beyond the trees.’
Bertrande murmured something too quiet for Sajhë to hear.
‘For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth,’ Oriane said.
‘It’s in there,’ Bertrande said. Her voice was steady, but Sajhë could hear the terror behind it and his heart contracted.
The plan was to ambush Oriane at the mouth of the cave. He was to concentrate on getting Bertrande out of Oriane’s reach, Guilhem on disarming Oriane before she had the chance to use the knife.
Sajhë looked at Guilhem who nodded, to let him know he was ready.
‘But you mustn’t go in,’ Bertrande was saying. ‘It’s a sacred place. No one but the Guardians can enter.’
‘Is that so,’ she jeered. ‘And who is going to stop me? You?’ A look of bitterness came down over her face. ‘You are so like her, it disgusts me,’ she said, jerking the rope around her neck so Bertrande cried out in pain. ‘Alaïs was always telling everyone what to do. Always thought herself better than everyone else.’
‘That’s not true,’ shouted Bertrande, brave despite the hopelessness of her situation. Sajhë willed her to stop. At the same time, he knew Alaïs would be proud of her courage. He was proud of her courage. She was so much her parents’ child.
Bertrande had started to cry. ‘It’s wrong. You mustn’t go in. It will not allow you to enter. The labyrinth will protect its secret, from you or anyone who seeks it wrongly.’
Oriane gave a short laugh. ‘They are just stories to frighten stupid little children like you.’
Bertrande held her ground. ‘I will not take you any further.’
Oriane raised her hand and struck her, sending her flying back against the rock. A red mist filled Sajhë’s head. In three or four strides he threw himself down upon Oriane, a visceral roar issuing from deep inside his chest.
Oriane reacted too quickly, pulling Bertrande to her feet and holding the knife to her throat.
‘How disappointing. I thought my son might have coped with so simple a matter. You were already captive – or so I was told – but no matter.’
Sajhë smiled at Bertrande, trying to reassure her despite the hopelessness of their situation.
‘Drop your sword,’ Oriane said calmly, ‘or I will kill her.’
‘I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Sajhë,’ Bertrande cried, ‘but she had your ring. She told me you’d sent her to fetch me.’
‘Not my ring, brava,’ Sajhë said. He let his sword fall. It fell with a heavy clatter on the hard ground.
‘That’s better. Now come out here where I can see you. That will do. Stop.’ She smiled. ‘All on your own?’
Sajhë said nothing. Oriane flattened the blade against Bertrande’s throat, and then nicked her skin beneath her ear. Bertrande cried out as a trail of blood trickled down her neck, like a red ribbon against her pale skin.
‘Let her go, Oriane. It’s not her you want, but me.’
At the sound of Alaïs’ voice, the mountain itself seemed to draw breath.
A spirit? Guilhem couldn’t tell.
He felt his breath had been sucked from his body, leaving him hollow and weightless. He did not dare move from his hiding place for fear of setting the apparition to flight. He looked at Bertrande, so like her mother, then down the slope to where Alaïs, if it was she, was standing.
A fur hood framed her face and her riding cloak, dirty from the journey, skimmed the white, hoary ground. Her hands, warm within leather gloves, were folded in front of her.
‘Let her go, Oriane.’
Her words broke the spell.
‘Mamà,’ cried Bertrande, desperately reaching out her arms.
‘It cannot be . . .’ Oriane said, narrowing her eyes. ‘You died. I saw you die.’
Sajhë lunged towards Oriane and tried to grab Bertrande, but he wasn’t quick enough.
‘Don’t come closer,’ she shouted, recovering herself. She dragged Bertrande back towards the mouth of the cave. ‘I swear, I’ll kill her.’
‘Mamà!’
Alaïs took another step forward. ‘Let her go, Oriane. Your quarrel is with me.’
‘There is no quarrel, sister. You have the Book of Words. I want it. C’est pas difficile.’
‘And once you have it?’
Guilhem was transfixed. He still dared not believe the evidence of his eyes, that this was Alaïs, as he had dreamed her in his imagination so often, in his waking hours and when he lay down to sleep.
A movement caught his attention, the glint of steel, of helmets. Guilhem peered. Two soldiers were creeping up behind A
laïs through the heavy scrub. Guilhem glanced to his left at the sound of a boot against the rock.
‘Seize them!’
The soldier nearest to Sajhë grabbed his arms and held him fast, as the others broke cover. Quick as lightning, Alaïs drew her sword and spun round, slicing the blade into the closest soldier’s side. He fell. The other soldier lunged at her. Sparks flew as the blades clashed, right, left.
Alaïs had the advantage of the higher ground, but she was smaller and weaker.
Guilhem leaped from his hiding place and ran towards her, just as she stumbled and lost her footing. The soldier lunged, stabbing the inside of her arm. Alaïs screamed and dropped the sword, clutching at the wound with her glove to staunch the blood.
‘Mamà!’
Guilhem launched himself the last few steps and thrust his sword into the soldier’s stomach. Blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes bulged with shock, then he fell.
He did not have time to draw breath.
‘Guilhem!’ Alaïs shouted. ‘At the rear.’
He spun round to see two more soldiers running up the slopes. With a roar, he withdrew his sword and charged at them. The blade sliced down through the air as he drove them back, striking randomly, mercilessly, first one, then the other.
He was the better swordsman, but he was outnumbered.
Sajhë was now bound and on his knees. One of the soldiers stayed guard, the point of his knife at Sajhë’s neck, as the other came to help subdue Guilhem. He came within striking distance of Alaïs. Although she was losing blood fast, she managed to draw a knife from her belt and with her remaining strength, drove it with force between her assailant’s legs. He screamed as the blade sank itself into the top of his thigh.
Blindsided with pain, he lashed out. Guilhem saw Alaïs fly back and hit her head against the rock. She tried to stand, but she was disorientated, and staggering, and her legs gave out. She sank to the ground, blood flowing from the cut on her head.
The dagger still embedded in his leg, the soldier lumbered towards Guilhem, like a bear in a baiting pit. Guilhem stepped back to get out of his way and skidded on the slippery ground, sending stones skeetering down the hillside. It gave the two others the opportunity they needed to jump him and pin him, face down, on the ground.
