by K. M. Grant
Unable to face anybody, Raimon sleeps in the kennels that night. Before he lies down, he removes Sir Roger’s ring. Yet in the morning, when his breath is calm and his bruises cold, he replaces it. He was a fool to fight with Laila. It has achieved nothing. He must just trust that whatever Laila does or says, Yolanda will get his message. For himself, there is nowhere to go but onward toward the Flame. He washes his face in the hounds’ water trough, stares hard but with no admiration at his reflection, and pulls straw from his hair. In the courtyard, he finds Cador with Galahad and Bors. Despite their lack of exercise, the horses’ coats shine. “They’re ready for anything,” Cador says as he hands over Unbent.
Raimon nods and straps the sword to his back. “And we are too?”
“Certainly are!” Cador grins. A journey is always exciting, and today, for the first time, he has managed to saddle Galahad without standing on a box. He must be at least two inches taller than he was when the snow first fell. He has saddled the pony from whom he will lead Bors but Raimon stops him from mounting. At first Cador thinks he is going to be forbidden from coming. His mouth is already open in protest. But Raimon has made a decision. “Leave the pony,” he says. “It’s time you rode a proper horse. Climb onto Bors.” The boy’s look of delight is a timely gift, and Raimon keeps it in his heart for a long time to come.
8
Into the Fortress
The sun is strong and the branches dripping by the time the procession begins to wind its way down from Castelneuf. Laila, her eyelids heavily shadowed with green and her brown shoulders almost bare, stares after them from an upper window. Aimery has tried to persuade her to come with them, but to his surprise and disappointment, she has refused, so now he is riding with Sir Roger at the head of the party, talking loudly. He dissembles shamelessly and unnecessarily, telling Sir Roger that even before the firing of Castelneuf by King Louis, Catharism was stealing up on him. “I’ve always been a seeker after the truth, haven’t I, Alain?” he says, molding his lips primly at his squire. “So if we’re to make a stand under the Flame, I want to be part of that.” Alain nods. It is best always to agree with his master. Sir Roger waits until Aimery has finished and then hangs back.
Cador, of whom Bors is taking good care, finds himself congratulated by Sir Roger on his elevation from the pony and then sent on a silly errand so that Sir Roger can settle his own horse next to Galahad. He sees, with approval, that Raimon is still wearing his ring, and also notices that Raimon seems surprisingly ill at ease in the saddle. “You usually ride bareback?” he asks. It seems a good way to crack through the awkwardness left by the previous evening.
“I prefer it.”
“I haven’t ridden bareback since I was a boy.”
Raimon gives the faint smile he feels is expected.
“The girl Laila is not with us?”
“No,” Raimon answers.
“She’s a strange one, and no mistake,” Sir Roger muses, “and I can’t say I’m sorry to leave her behind.”
“Laila does what she likes,” Raimon says shortly. “She says she’s going to go to Carcassonne, but she goes nowhere unless it suits her.”
“And nobody minds? Nobody forces her?”
Raimon fiddles with his reins. He does not want to speak of Laila.
Sir Roger presses closer. Though deeply concerned for his daughter, he feels, somewhat unaccountably, that the business of the ring was not well done. But this is not his only concern. “I was hesitant about bringing this up when the count has been so hospitable,” he says, his tone slightly overconfidential, “and I’ve no reason really to believe otherwise, but do you think he’s quite genuine in his conversion?” Raimon looks straight between Galahad’s ears. “I mean, perhaps it’s just the way he speaks, but he hardly seems a natural Cathar and he doesn’t listen to Metta as you do. I don’t want to arrive at Montségur with a fraud in our midst.”
Raimon concentrates hard on the rhythm of Galahad’s walk. “Aimery wouldn’t open his heart to me,” he says in the end.
“But you’ve known him a long time.”
“You must ask the count himself.”
Sir Roger rolls a little, and his raw-boned, skewbald horse shortens its stride. “I’ve a bad feeling,” he says.
Under the pretext of correcting how Cador holds his reins, Raimon moves away.
The journey settles into an uneven pattern, half noisy chattering as spirits lift, half nervous whispering at the prospect of what is to come. While at Castelneuf, when Sir Roger’s household spoke and sang of the Flame and Montségur, their hearts were full of romance. Now, as reality looms, the romance fades. The Flame may be at Montségur but under the fortress’s craggy prominence many of their bones will whiten. Though, when the sun is out, they speak with bravado, when the sun sets, they are fearful.
Sicart, who did not try to dissuade Adela when she declared her intention to go to Montségur too, listens as she exclaims as usual about God and the White Wolf, but now adds her open desire for martyrdom under the Flame. “I’m going home!” she cries, glittering without warmth. Sicart forces himself to sit with her though she scarcely feels like his child. He feels the same about Raimon. Though both his children are within an arm’s reach, he realizes with awful clarity that he has lost them.
The first evening beyond my boundaries, they set up camp on a plateau whose trees have been cleared for building. Beans and lovage grow in straggles, with a broken fence to keep out the pigs. Raimon leaves Unbent with Cador as he helps gather wood for fires. It is Metta who gets Adela momentarily to swap prayer for pottage. They eat and huddle together for warmth. Nobody sings or sleeps much.
The dawn hides the distant peaks in fog. The wagons get stuck, and all the men, whatever their rank, must put their shoulders to the wheels. When at last Raimon can swing back onto Galahad, he pushes forward, away from the main party. Today Sir Roger becomes a little overkeen on patriarchal confidences. The hours drag. Even with Unbent in his hand and the Flame burning in his heart, Raimon feels as lonely as his father. Much of the time he ignores Sir Roger and tries to pretend that Yolanda is riding alongside. Yet, without her ring, even she seems ghostly. Galahad, feeling his master’s inattention, picks his own way.
“Tired?” Aimery asks blithely.
Raimon jerks and picks up his reins. Sir Roger has gone and he did not hear Aimery approaching. “No.”
Aimery caresses his arm conspiratorially. “How we’ve fooled these poor cabbages, you and I,” he chortles. Raimon will not answer. Aimery coughs. “Well, now is the time to make a plan. When we reach Montségur, we should probably—” Sir Roger rides up again to the place he has begun to think of as his own. “Ah, Sir Roger!” Aimery exclaims. “Raimon has been singing Metta’s praises and berating me for daring to disagree that it was providence rather than just the weather that steered you to Castelneuf.”
He chatters on and on until Raimon feels his spurs and gallops away. Balls of snow from Galahad’s hooves smack Aimery’s horse smartly on the nose. “Really!” the count says, turning wide eyes on Sir Roger as Argos throws up his head, “Men in love behave very strangely.” And he goes on to tell Sir Roger, in a loud voice that carries clearly through the crisp air, how Raimon deserves to be a knight, because he prides himself on never telling an untruth. He paints the saintly picture so thick that he risks Sir Roger rumbling the joke. But Sir Roger is a simpler soul than Aimery. He believes him partly because it seems true, but mainly because, for Metta’s sake, he wants to.
9
Into the Night
By the time Yolanda and Brees reach Castelneuf and run, as best they can, up to the gates of the chateau, they are skin and bone. Few acknowledge them for there is almost nobody left. Aimery may have left men and orders, but the day after he rode away, the chateau began to empty. First to go were the upper servants, the steward, clerks and craftsmen. Next, the two knights he left in charge quarreled quickly, irrevocably, and perhaps purposefully so that they could leave too. And
who can blame them, for despite Aimery’s assurances that Castelneuf is of no interest, it is rumored that the inquisitors who are on their way south still have Castelneuf on their list of places to visit. No knight intends to burn for Aimery. Better to find another lord to serve.
So by the time Yolanda, speechless and steaming, and Brees stagger in, the only remaining inhabitants are Gui, Guerau, the huntsman, the dogboys, and Laila, of course. It is she who pulls open the postern gate and drags the exhausted travelers inside, hiding her happiness at seeing Yolanda again behind a nurse’s scolding. It is she who half carries Yolanda into the small hall and stokes up the fire, sending the troubadours for furs, food, and more logs. As Brees lies down gingerly, hampered by protruding ribs, it is she who strips Yolanda of everything she is wearing and rolls her up in blankets, and finally it is she who, as soon as a pot boils on the hearth, feeds Yolanda and Brees hot broth, a spoon for one and a bowl for the other. Clucking and fussing, though she would never say so, Laila is so happy that she could sing.
Brees recovers more quickly than Yolanda. Before an hour has passed, he shakes off his covers, wolfs down an entire loaf of bread, and seizes a leg of mutton from the table. Yolanda’s lips are too cracked to smile. Besides, the soup that she dreamed about in the blizzard hurts her mouth and very quickly her stomach can take no more. When she turns from the spoon, Laila rummages in her box of tricks and pulls out a salve that she pastes onto Yolanda’s whole face before beginning to tease out her hair. Even this is too exhausting. Yolanda’s head lolls, so Laila stops and files her own nails instead.
Yolanda dozes, then wakes, and only then notices that there are no footsteps, no voices, and no other people. She tries to free her arms from her woolen cocoon. Laila clicks her tongue. “Stay still, for goodness’ sake.”
The paste has eased some elasticity back into Yolanda’s skin, and though her lips sting, she forces out two words. “Where’s Raimon?”
At once Laila swipes up more salve with her forefinger. “Don’t speak,” she orders. Yolanda blinks and turns and is faintly reassured to see Gui and Guerau hovering.
Laila wipes the salve on Yolanda’s eyelids and resumes her work on her hair. Her fingers are slow and gentle, then faster and less gentle as her temper gets the better of her. “Oh, why not tell you straight?” she explodes. “He’s fallen for a simpering idiot of a girl named Metta, who set her cap at him after her father and his household sought shelter here from the snow. They’ve all gone to Montségur and Raimon’s gone with them—well, gone with her. It’s the last stand of the Cathars, don’t you know.” Her voice mimics Sir Roger’s gruff roll perfectly but with an added twist that loads it with ridicule. “Last stand of the crackbrains, more like.” Her fingers tug, eliciting a yelp.
“Raimon’s gone?” That is all Yolanda hears for the moment.
“That’s what I said.”
Yolanda has to find some way of not drowning from disappointment. “He’s gone for the Blue Flame,” she says mechanically. “That’s why he’s gone.”
“No, that’s not why,” Laila contradicts, and her fingers snap. “Weren’t you listening? He’s gone with a girl—and Aimery.”
“Aimery?” Yolanda says stupidly.
Laila grabs a comb. “That’s why the place is empty. Now listen more carefully to what I’m telling you.” She repeats what she said about Metta, with a few disobliging additions, until she is sure Yolanda understands.
Gui and Guerau join in. “Yes, Aimery’s turned Cathar as well. Dismissed Simon Crampcross—everything.”
Laila interrupts. “It’s the girl. It all boils down to her. I’m not saying she’s a witch, but she certainly cast her spell. You should have seen her, swinging those yellow braids. They weren’t even painted.”
Yolanda tries to focus. “I don’t believe you. A girl trap Raimon? Never.”
“Oh no? Where is he then?”
Yolanda makes her voice quite firm. “He wouldn’t abandon me. He’s gone for the Flame.”
Laila stands with her hands on her hips. If Yolanda’s heart is not to be broken, she needs to despise Raimon as much as Laila does, so her upset on Yolanda’s behalf makes her cruel. “You’re quite sure of that are you?”
“Quite sure. He loves me and I’ve come back. I should never have left him.”
“He’s left you.”
“I know him better than you do, Laila. He hasn’t.” Yolanda will no longer remain in the cocoon. She emerges and sits with the blankets around her shoulders. The pair to Raimon’s ring swings on its leather thong. Laila’s eyes narrow. She gives up detangling Yolanda’s hair and stands in front of her. Slowly she reaches into her bodice and draws out the ring’s pair. “It’s true that you did once know him better than I do, but I wonder if you know him at all anymore.” She holds the ring up to the light.
Gui and Guerau retreat. They do not want to see this. They close the door behind them.
Yolanda stares at the ring, but even now she is disbelieving. “How have you got that? Is this one of your tricks, because if so it’s a wicked one.” She swallows.
“It’s not a trick.”
“Then you must have stolen it. Admit it. You’ve taken it from him. You must have done. Raimon would never give it up.”
Laila tosses the ring from hand to hand. “I did steal it, in a way,” she says.
“There then.”
“I stole it after he swapped it for a jeweled ring given to him by Metta’s father.”
Yolanda clings on with desperate obstinacy. “No. That’s not true. You stole it from his finger because you’re jealous. You’ve never liked him.”
“You’re right,” says Laila, livid that Yolanda will not believe her, Laila Hajar Mais Bilqis Shehan, who has stood up for Yolanda all these months. “I have never liked him. He’s not good enough for you. You should marry a prince or a king, and he’s just a weaver.”
“How dare you!” Yolanda cannot leap up, but she struggles to her feet. “Get out of here and take all your tricks with you. You can leave Ugly though because she deserves a kinder mistress than you will ever be.” She looks about, suddenly realizing that Ugly is not here either. “Where is she?”
“Ugly’s dead,” Laila says quite casually, although her whole face tightens until it is nothing but points and angles. “Aimery threw a bone onto the river ice and she fell through and drowned.”
Yolanda stares. “Drowned? Oh, God! Under the ice? The poor little thing.” She gives a long shiver and draws the blankets close, suddenly freezing again. Her eyes fix on the ring but all she sees is the dog.
Laila sits beside her and strokes her back. She will not speak again of Ugly. “I’m not lying about Raimon,” she says. “It’s true that he didn’t want to give up the ring, but when Metta’s father offered him another, along with his daughter, well …,” she pauses. Yolanda’s shoulders are shaking. Some girls would have stopped now, but Laila is determined to drive her point home. “He sleighed with her, Yolanda. He ate food from her plate.” She pauses again. “He took her to visit his mother’s grave.”
An inarticulate sound bubbles up from somewhere.
Laila adopts a more practical tone. “And men accuse women of being fickle!”
The fire crackles. As though some frozen core is melting, hot, slow tears carve neat stripes down Yolanda’s dirty face. You might expect sobs, but there are none, for these are not childish tears from some momentary upset or easy tears from a lovers’ tiff. They are the kind of tears we rarely shed, because they spring from a well that, once emptied, we feel nothing will ever fill again.
Even Laila’s chin trembles as she passes Yolanda a rag for her nose. And suddenly she is crying, and her tears, too, are genuine. “Ugly didn’t deserve to die like that.” Then she dashes her weakness away with the back of her hand. “Her death’ll be paid for, never fear about that,” she whispers. “I only hope the inquisitors don’t get to Aimery first.” She sneezes and her eyes are bright as washed diamonds.
“Oh, the inquisitors too? Haven’t we had enough misery here?” Yolanda cries.
“There’s never enough misery, apparently,” says Laila, grimly gay. “Only in stories is misery rationed, and sadly we don’t live in a story.”
Yolanda wipes her cheeks. In her disarray, she looks much more like Yolanda of Amouroix than Lady des Arcis. When her chest has stilled, she looks about. “If everybody else has gone,” she asks, “why are you still here?”
Laila’s face closes. “Because I am,” she says. Then she pokes Yolanda in the ribs. “I was waiting for you, of course.”
“How did you know I’d come?”
“Did you ever think of not coming?”
Yolanda slowly shakes her head.
“Well then,” says Laila, pushing back her curls, and adding with foxy piety, “since there was no appropriate horse on which I might come and seek you, it was my duty to stay and wait where you would first seek me.”
If times had been different, Yolanda would have laughed. The idea of a dutiful Laila is highly comic. Instead, she wants to know something else. “Why did Gui and Guerau and the huntsman stay?”
“So many questions! How should I know? Too comfortable? Nowhere else to go? Lack of imagination? Actually, if you really want to know, the huntsman stayed because some of the bitches are about to pup, and the troubadours stayed because both are secretly in love with me.”
Yolanda still does not laugh, for her eyes are fixed again on the ring. When she puts her hand out, Laila places it in her palm, where it sits, cracked and misshapen, but still the closest to Raimon she can get. She folds it hard into her fist and tries to imagine Raimon with this other girl, talking to her, listening to her, looking at her. Does she smell of the sky, as Raimon once said Yolanda did? Is her skin milky white rather than Yolanda’s grubby tan? Does she wear pearls around a perfect neck? She tries to imagine the scene during which, in front of this new girl’s adoring eyes, Raimon took off the leather ring that she and he forged together in the white heat of the Flame and replaced it with another.
