ALSO BY KATE MOSSE Becoming a Mother The House: Behind the Scenes at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden Eskimo Kissing Crucifix Lane Kate Mosse ORION Copyright © Mosse Associates Ltd 2005 9 10 The moral right of Kate Mosse to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Orion Books, an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane, London WC2H 9EA All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. isbn (hardback) o 75286 053 4 isbn (trade paperback) o 75286 054 2 Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd, Lymington, Hants Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic www.orionbooks.co.uk To my father, Richard Mosse, a man of integrity a modern day chevalier To Greg, as always, for all things past, present and yet to come AUTHORS NOTE Historical Note In March 1208, Pope Innocent III preached a Crusade against a sect of Christians in the Languedoc. They are now usually known as Cathars. They called themselves Bons Chretiens; Bernard of Clairvaux called them Albigensians and the Inquisitional Registers refer to them as 'heretici'. Pope Innocent aimed to drive the Cathars from the Midi and restore the religious authority of the Catholic Church. The northern French barons who joined his Crusade saw an opportunity to acquire land, wealth and trading advantage by subjugating the fiercely independent southern nobility. Although the principle of crusading had been an important fixture of medieval Christian life since the late eleventh century - and during the Fourth Crusade at the siege of Zara in 1204 Crusaders had turned on fellow Christians - this was the first time a Holy War had been preached against Christians and on European soil. The persecution of the Cathars led directly to the founding of the Inquisition in 1233 under the auspices of the Dominicans, the Black Friars. Whatever the religious motivations of the Catholic Church and some of the Crusade's temporal leaders - such as Simon de Montfort - the Albigensian Crusade was ultimately a war of occupation and marked a turning point in the history of what is now France. It signified the end of the independence of the South and the destruction of many of its traditions, ideals and way of life. Like the term 'Cathar', the word 'Crusade' was not used in medieval documents. The army was referred to as 'the Host' - or 7'Qs/ in Oc. However, since both terms are now in common usage, I've sometimes borrowed them for ease of reference. Vll Note on Language In the medieval period, the langue d'Oc - from which the region of Languedoc takes its name - was the language of the Midi from Provence to Aquitaine. It was also the language of Christian Jerusalem and the lands occupied by the Crusaders from 1099, and spoken in some parts of northern Spain and northern Italy. It is closely related to Provencal and Catalan. In the thirteenth century, the langue if oil -- the forerunner of modern day French - was spoken in the northern parts of what is now France. During the course of the invasions of the south by the north, which began in 1209, the French barons imposed their language on the region they conquered. From the middle of the twentieth century, there has been an Occitan language revival, led by authors, poets and historians such as Rene Nelli, Jean Duvernoy, Deodat Roche, Michel Roquebert, Anne Brenon, Claude Marti and others. At the time of writing, there is a bilingual Oc/French school in La Cite in the heart of the medieval citadel of Carcassonne and the Occitan spellings of towns and regions appear alongside the French spellings on road signs. In Labyrinth, to distinguish between the inhabitants of the Pays d'Oc and the French invaders, I have used Occitan or French accordingly. As a result, certain names and places appear in both French and Oc - for example, Carcassonne and Carcassona, Toulouse and Tolosa, Beziers and Besiers. Extracts of poetry and sayings are taken from Proverbes & Dictons de la langue d'Oc collected by Abbe Pierre Trinquier and from jj Chants Populaires du Languedoc. Inevitably there are differences between medieval Occitan spellings and contemporary usage. For the sake of consistency, I have for the most part used La Planqueta by Andre Lagarde - an Occitan-French dictionary - as my guide. For further reference a glossary is provided at the end of this book. vui CONTENTS Prologue i The Cite on the Hill 21 The Guardians of the Books 177 The Return to the Mountains 401 Epilogue 523 w And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Gospel According to St John, 8:32 L'histoire est un roman qui a ete, le roman est une histoire qui aurait pu etre History is a novel that has been lived, a novel is history that could have been E &J de Goncourt Ten perdu, jhamai se recbbro Time lost can never be regained Medieval Occitan proverb PROLOGUE sri I Pic de Soularac Sabarthes Mountains Southwest France MONDAY 4 JULY 2OO5 A single line of blood trickles down the pale underside of her arm, a red seam on a white sleeve. At first, Alice thinks it's just a fly and takes no notice. Insects are an occupational hazard at a dig, and for some reason there are more flies higher up the mountain where she is working than at the main excavation site lower down. Then a drop of blood splashes onto her bare leg, exploding like a firework in the sky on Guy Fawkes night. This time she does look and sees that the cut on the inside of her elbow has opened again. It's a deep wound, which doesn't want to heal. She sighs and pushes the plaster and lint dressing tighter against her skin. Then, since there's no one around to see, she licks the red smear from her wrist. Strands of hair, the colour of soft brown sugar, have come loose from under her cap. She tucks them behind her ears and wipes her forehead with her handkerchief, before twisting her ponytail back into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her concentration broken, Alice stands up and stretches her slim legs, lightly tanned by the sun. Dressed in cut-off denim shorts, a tight white sleeveless T-shirt and cap, she looks little more than a teenager. She used to mind. Now, as she gets older, she sees the advantage of looking younger than her years. The only touches of glamour are her delicate silver earrings, in the shape of stars, which glint like sequins. Alice unscrews the top of her water bottle. It's warm, but she's too thirsty to care and drinks it down in great gulps. Below, the heat haze shimmers above the dented tarmac of the road. Above her, the sky is an endless blue. The cicadas keep up their unrelenting chorus, hidden in the shade of the dry grass. It's her first time in the Pyrenees, although she feels very much at home. She's been told that in the winter the jagged peaks of the Sabarthes Mountains are covered with snow. In the spring, delicate flowers of pink and mauve and white peep out from their hiding places in the great expanses of rock. In early summer, the pastures are green and speckled with yellow buttercups. But now, the sun has flattened the land into submission, turning the greens to brown. It is a beautiful place, she thinks, yet somehow an inhospitable one. It's a place of secrets, one that has seen too much and concealed too much to be at peace with itself. In the main camp on the lower slopes, Alice can see her colleagues standing under the big canvas awning. She can just pick out Shelagh in her trademark black outfit. She's surprised they've stopped already. It's early in the day to be taking a break, but then the whole team is a bit demoralised. It's painstaking and monotonous work for the most part, the digging and scraping, the cataloguing and recording, and so far they've turned up little of significance to justify their efforts. They've come across a few fragments of early medieval pots and bowls, and a couple of late twelfth or early thirteenth century arrowheads, but certainly no evidence of the Palaeolithic settlement which is the focus of the excavation. Alice is tempted to go down and join her friends and colleagues and get her dressing sorted out. The cut smarts and her calves are already aching from squatting. The muscles in her shoulders are tense. But she knows that if she stops now, she'll lose her momentum. Hopefully, her luck's about to change. Earlier, she'd noticed something glinting beneath a large boulder, propped against the side of the mountain, neat and tidy, almost as if it had been placed there by a giant hand. Although she can't make out what the object is, even how big it is, she's been digging all morning and she doesn't think it will be much longer before she can reach it. She knows she should fetch someone. Or at least tell Shelagh, her best friend, who is the deputy on the dig. Alice is not a trained archaeologist, just a volunteer spending some of her summer holiday doing something worthwhile. But it's her last full day on site and she wants to prove herself. If she goes back down to the main camp now and admits she's on to something, everybody will want to be involved, and it will no longer be her discovery. In the days and weeks to come, Alice will look back to this moment. She will remember the quality of the light, the metallic taste of blood and dust in her mouth, and wonder at how different things might have been had she made the choice to go and not to stay. If she had played by the rules. She drains the last drop of water from the bottle and tosses it into her rucksack. For the next hour or so, as the sun climbs higher in the sky and ; the temperature rises, Alice carries on working. The only sounds are the I tcrape of metal on rock, the whine of insects and the occasional buzz of a ght aircraft in the distance. She can feel beads of sweat on her upper lip ad between her breasts, but she keeps going until, finally, the gap iderneath the boulder is big enough for her to slide in her hand. Alice kneels down on the ground and leans her cheek and shoulder > Ugainst the rock for support. Then, with a flutter of excitement, she lljlUshes her fingers deep into the dark, blind earth. Straight away, she licnows her instincts are right and that she's got something worth finding. Sit is smooth and slimy to the touch, metal not stone. Grasping it firmly and telling herself not to expect too much, slowly, slowly she eases the object out into the light. The earth seems to shudder, reluctant to give up ks treasure. The rich, cloying smell of wet soil fills her nose and throat, although || she barely notices. She is already lost in the past, captivated by the piece PUf history she cradles in the palms of her hands. It is a heavy, round Sflfockle, speckled black and green with age and from its long burial. Alice i at it with her fingers and smiles as the silver and copper detail starts > reveal itself underneath the dirt. At first glance, it looks to be medieval , the sort of buckle used to fasten a cloak or robe. She's seen something i it before. She knows the danger of jumping to conclusions or of being seduced by ; impressions, yet she can't resist imagining its owner, long dead now, i might have walked these paths. A stranger whose story she has yet to (*The connection is so strong and Alice is so absorbed that she doesn't : the boulder shifting on its base. Then something, some sixth sense, her look up. For a split second, the world seems to hang i, out of space, out of time. She is mesmerised by the ancient of stone as it sways and tilts, and then gracefully begins to fall i her. ^'At the very last moment, the light fractures. The spell is broken. Alice iArows herself out of the way, half tumbling, half slithering sideways, just in time to avoid being crushed. The boulder hits the ground with a dull thud, sending up a cloud of pale brown dust, then rolls over and over, as if in slow motion, until it comes to rest further down the mountain. Alice clutches desperately at the bushes and scrub to stop herself slipping any further. For a moment she lies sprawled in the dirt, dizzy and disorientated. As it sinks in how very close she came to being crushed, she turns cold. Too close for comfort, she thinks. She takes a deep breath. Waits for the world to stop spinning. Gradually, the pounding in her head dies away. The sickness in her stomach settles and everything starts to return to normal, enough for her to sit up and take stock. Her knees are grazed and streaked with blood and she's knocked her wrist where she landed awkwardly, still clutching the buckle in her hand to protect it, but basically she's escaped with no more than a few cuts and bruises. Tm not hurt. She gets to her feet and dusts herself down, feeling a total idiot. She can't believe she made such a basic mistake as not securing the boulder. Now Alice looks down to the main campsite below. She's amazed - and relieved - that nobody in the camp seems to have seen or heard anything. She raises her hand, is about to call out to attract someone's attention when she notices that there's a narrow opening visible in the side of the mountain where the boulder had been standing. Like a doorway cut into the rock. It's said these mountains are riddled with hidden passages and caves, so she's not surprised. And yet, Alice thinks, somehow, she knew the doorway was there, although there's no way of telling from the outside. She knew. Guessed, more like, she tells herself. She hesitates. Alice knows she should get somebody to come with her. It is stupid, possibly even dangerous, to go in on her own without any sort of back-up. She knows all the things that can go wrong. But she shouldn't have been up here working on her own anyway. Shelagh doesn't know. And besides, something is drawing her in. It feels personal. It's her discovery. Alice tells herself there's no sense disturbing them all, getting their hopes up, for no reason. If there is anything worth investigating, she'll tell someone then. She won't do anything. She just wants to look. Til only be a minute. She climbs back up. There is a deep depression in the ground at the mouth of the cave, where the stone had stood guard. The damp earth is alive with the frantic writhing of worms and beetles exposed suddenly to the light and heat after so long. Her cap lies on the ground where it fell. Her trowel is there too, just where she left it. Alice peers into the darkness. The opening is no more than five feet high and about three feet wide and the edges are irregular and rough. It seems to be natural rather than man-made, although when she runs her fingers up and down the rock, she finds curiously smooth patches where the boulder rested. Slowly, her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Velvet black gives ||; way to charcoal grey and she sees that she is looking into a long, narrow ^tunnel. She feels the short hairs rise on the back of her neck, as if to warn I her that there is something lurking in the darkness that would be better jjijeft undisturbed. But that's just a childish superstition and she brushes the ig away. Alice doesn't believe in ghosts or premonitions. Squeezing the buckle tightly in her hand, like a talisman, she takes a ep breath and steps forward into the passageway. Straight away, the |#mell of long-hidden, subterranean air envelops her, filling her mouth and at and lungs. It's cool and damp, not the dry, poisonous gases of a cave she's been warned about, so she guesses there must be some tiource of fresh air. But, just in case, she rummages in the pockets of her cut-offs until she finds her lighter. She flicks it open and holds it up to the ||, dark, double-checking that there is oxygen. The flame gutters in a breath si of wind, but it does not go out. Feeling nervous and slightly guilty, Alice wraps the buckle in a handlief and pushes it into her pocket, then cautiously steps forward. The it from the flame is weak, but it illuminates the path immediately in at of her, throwing shadows on the jagged grey walls. fi-As she moves further in, she feels the chill air curl around her bare i and arms like a cat. She is walking downhill. She can feel the ground away beneath her feet, uneven and gritty. The scrunch of the and gravel is loud in the confined, hushed space. She is aware of J daylight getting fainter and fainter at her back, the further and deeper i goes. l>ruptly, she does not want to go on. She does not want to be here at L; Vet there is something inevitable about it, something that is drawing l deeper into the belly of the mountain. another ten metres the tunnel comes to an end. Alice finds : standing at the threshold of a cavernous enclosed chamber. She is ling on a natural stone platform. A couple of shallow, wide steps ¦ in front of her lead to the main area where the ground has been cd flat and smooth. The cavern is about ten metres long and perhaps metres wide, clearly fashioned by the hands of men rather than by i alone. The roof is low and vaulted, like the ceiling of a crypt. Alice stares, holding the flickering single flame higher and bothered by a curious prickling familiarity that she cannot account for. She is about to descend the steps when she notices there are letters inscribed in the stone at the top. She bends down and tries to read what is written. Only the first three words and the last letter - N or H maybe - are legible. The others have been eroded or chipped away. Alice rubs at the dirt with her fingers and says the letters out loud. The echo of her voice sounds somehow hostile and threatening in the silence. 'P-A-SAP-A-S . . . Pas a pas.' Step by step? Step by step what? A faint memory ripples across the surface of her unconscious mind, like a song long forgotten. Then it is gone. 'Pas a pas,' she whispers this time, but it means nothing. A prayer? A warning? Without knowing what follows, it makes no sense. Nervous now, she straightens up and descends the steps, one by one. Curiosity fights with premonition and she feels the goosebumps on her slim bare arms, from unease or the chill of the cave, she cannot say. Alice holds the flame high to light her way, careful not to slip or dislodge anything. At the lower level, she pauses. She takes a deep breath and then takes a step into the ebony darkness. She can just make out the back wall of the chamber. It's hard to be sure at this distance that it isn't just a trick of the light or a shadow cast by the flame, but it looks as if there is a large circular pattern of lines and semi-circles painted or carved into the rock. On the floor in front of it there is a stone table, about four feet high, like an altar. Fixing her eyes on the symbol on the wall to keep her bearings, Alice edges forward. Now she can see the pattern more clearly. It looks like some sort of labyrinth, although memory tells her that there is something not quite right about it. It's not a true labyrinth. The lines do not lead to the centre, as they should. The pattern is wrong. Alice can't account for why she's so sure about this, only that she is right. Keeping her eyes trained on the labyrinth, she moves closer, closer. Her foot knocks something hard on the ground. There is a faint, hollow thump and the sound of something rolling, as if an object has shifted out of position. Alice looks down. Her legs start to tremble. The pale flame in her hand flickers. Shock steals her breath. She is standing at the edge of a shallow grave, a slight depression in the ground, no more than that. In it there are two skeletons, once human, the bones picked clean by time. The blind sockets of one 8 stare up at her. The other skull, kicked out of place by her foot, is feiying on its side as if turning its gaze away from her. The bodies have been laid out, side by side, to face the altar, like gs on a tomb. They are symmetrical and perfectly in line, but there nothing restful about the grave. No sense of peace. The cheekbones one skull are crushed, crumpled inwards like a mask of papier mache. ral of the ribs of the other skeleton are snapped and jut out awk[y, like the brittle branches of a dead tree. They cannot harm you. Determined not to give in to fear, Alice forces to crouch down, taking care not to disturb anything else. She runs eyes over the grave. There is a dagger lying between the bodies, the dulled with age, and a few fragments of cloth. Next to it, there is a iwstring leather bag, big enough to hold a small box or a book. Alice s. She's sure she's seen something like it before, but the memory to come. Whe round, white object wedged between the claw-like fingers of the ler skeleton is so small that Alice nearly misses it. Without stopping think if it's the right thing to do, quickly she takes her tweezers out of pocket. She stretches down and carefully eases it out, then holds it up the flame, softly blowing the dust away to see better. it's a small stone ring, plain and unremarkable, with a round, smooth It, too, is oddly familiar. Alice looks more closely. There's a pattern ied on the inside. At first, she thinks it's a seal of some kind. Then, a jolt, she realises. She raises her eyes to the markings on the back of the chamber, then back to the ring, patterns are identical. is not religious. She does not believe in heaven or hell, in God Devil, nor in the creatures that are believed to haunt these tains. But, for the first time in her life, she is overwhelmed by a of being in the presence of something supernatural, something ible, something bigger than her experience or comprehension, feel malevolence crawling over her skin, her scalp, the soles of courage falters. The cave is suddenly cold. Fear catches in her freezing the breath in her lungs. Alice scrambles to her feet. She [ not be here in this ancient place. Now, she's desperate to get out of uber, away from the evidence of violence and the smell of death, I to the safe, bright sunlight. : she's too late. |Above her or behind her, she cannot tell where, there are footsteps. The sound bounces around the confined space, ricochets off the rock and stone. Someone is coming. Alice spins around in alarm, dropping the lighter. The cave is plunged into darkness. She tries to run, but she is disorientated in the dark and cannot find the way out. She stumbles. Her legs go from under her. She falls. The ring is sent flying back into the pile of bones, where it belongs. II Los Seres Southwest France A few miles to the east as the crow flies, in a lost village in the Sabarthes Mountains, a tall, thin man in a pale suit sits alone at a table of dark, highly-polished wood. The ceiling of the room is low and there are large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth, keeping it cool despite the heat outside. The shutter of the single window is closed so it is dark, except for a pool of yellow light cast by a small oil lamp, which stands on the table. Next to the lamp is a glass tumbler filled almost to the brim with a red liquid. There are several sheets of heavy cream paper strewn across the table, I each covered with line after line of neat handwriting in black ink. The room is silent, except for the scratch and draw of the pen and the chink of ;JCC cubes against the side of the glass when he drinks. The subtle scent of ahol and cherries. The ticking of the clock marks the passage of time as i pauses, reflects, and then writes again. What we leave behind in this life is the memory of who we were and i what we did. An imprint, no more. I have learned much. I have become wise. But have I made a difference? I cannot tell. Pas a pas, se valuenh. I have watched the green of spring give way to the gold of summer, the \ii topper of autumn give way to the white of winter as I have sat and % waited for the fading of the light. Over and over again I have asked |> myself'why? IfIhadknown how it would feel to live with such loneliness, to stand, the sole witness to the endless cycle of birth and life and death, what would I have done? Alais, I am burdened by my solitude stretched too thin to bear. I have survived this long life with emptiness in my heart, II an emptiness that over the years has spread and spread until it became bigger than my heart itself. I have striven to keep my promises to you. The one is fulfilled, the other left undone. Until now, left undone. For some time now, I have felt you close. Our time is nearly come again. Everything points to this. Soon the cave will be opened. I feel the truth of this all around me. And the book, safe for so long, will be found also. The man pauses and reaches for his glass. His eyes are smudged with memory, but the Guignolet is strong and sweet and it revives him. I have found her. At last. And I wonder, if I place the book in her hands, will it feel familiar? Is the memory of it written in her blood and her bones? Will she remember how the cover shimmers and shifts its colour? If she undoes the ties and opens it, careful so as not to damage the dry and brittle vellum, will she remember the words echoing back down the centuries? I pray that at last, as my long days draw to a close, I will have the chance to put right what once I did ill, that I will at last learn the truth. The truth will set me free. The man sits back in his chair and puts his hands, speckled brown with age, flat on the table in front of him. The chance to know, after so very long, what happened at the end. It is all he wants. Ill Chartres Northern France Later that same day, six hundred miles to the north, another man stands in a dimly lit passageway under the streets of Chartres, waiting for the ceremony to begin. His palms are sweaty, his mouth is dry and he's aware of every nerve, every muscle in his body, even the pulse in the veins at his temples. He feels self-conscious and light-headed, although whether this is down to nerves and anticipation or the after-effects of the wine, he can't tell. The unfamiliar white cotton robes hang heavy on his shoulders and the ropes I made out of twisted hemp rest awkwardly on his bony hips. He steals a quick glance at the two figures standing in silence on either side of him, | but their hoods conceal their faces. He can't tell if they are as edgy as he Of if they have been through the ritual many times before. They're dressed the same, except their robes are gold rather than white and they have jjlilQes on their feet. His feet are bare and the flagstones are cold. High above the hidden network of tunnels, the bells of the great I^Qothic cathedral begin to chime. He feels the men beside him stiffen. Eft the signal they've been waiting for. Immediately, he drops his head JInkI tries to focus on the moment. 'Je suis pret,' he mumbles, more to reassure himself than as a statement ffact. Neither of his companions reacts in anyway. (; As the final reverberation of the bells fades to silence, the acolyte on his : steps forward and, with a stone partially concealed in the palm of his strikes five times on the massive door. From inside comes the 'Dintrar.' Enter. The man half-thinks he recognises the woman's voice, but he has no to guess from where or from when, because already the door is opening to reveal the chamber that he has waited so long to see. Keeping step with one another, the three figures walk slowly forward. He's rehearsed this and knows what to expect, knows what is required of him, although he feels a little unsteady on his feet. The room is hot after the chill of the corridor and it is dark. The only light comes from the candles arranged in the alcoves and on the altar itself, setting shadows dancing on the floor. Adrenalin is coursing through his body, although he feels strangely detached from the proceedings. When the door falls shut behind him, he jumps. The four senior attendants stand to the north, south, east and west of the chamber. He desperately wants to raise his eyes and take a better look, but he forces himself to keep his head down and his face hidden, as he has been instructed. He can sense the two rows of initiates lining the long sides of the rectangular chamber, six on each side. He can feel the heat of their bodies and hear the rise and fall of their breathing, even though nobody is moving and nobody speaks. He's memorised the layout from the papers he was given and as he walks towards the sepulchre in the middle of the chamber, he's aware of their eyes on his back. He wonders if he knows any of them. Business colleagues, other people's wives, anybody might be a member. He can't help a faint smile reaching his lips, as he allows himself for a moment to fantasise about the difference his acceptance into the society will make. He's brought sharply back to the present when he stumbles and nearly falls over the kneeling stone at the base of the sepulchre. The chamber is smaller than he imagined from the plan, more confined and claustrophobic. He had expected the distance between the door and the stone to be greater. As he kneels down on the stone there is a sharp intake of breath from someone close to him, and he wonders why. His heart starts to beat faster and when he glances down he sees that his knuckles are white. Embarrassed, he clasps his hands together, before remembering and letting his arms drop to his side, where they are supposed to be. There is a slight dip in the centre of the stone, which is hard and cold on his knees through the thin material of his robe. He shuffles slightly, trying to get into an easier position. The discomfort gives him something to focus on and he is grateful for that. He still feels dizzy and he's finding it difficult to concentrate or to recall the order in which things are supposed to happen, even though he's gone over it time and time again in his mind. A bell begins to ring inside the chamber, a high, thin note; a low chanting accompanies it, soft at first, but quickly growing louder as more voices join in. Fragments of words and phrases reverberate through his head: montanhas, mountains; Noblesa, nobility, libres, books; graal, grail ... The Priestess steps down from the high altar and walks through the chamber. He can just make out the soft shuffle of her feet and imagines how her golden robe will be shimmering and swaying in the flickering light of the candles. This is the moment he has been waiting for. 'Je suis pret,' he repeats under his breath. This time he means it. The Priestess comes to a standstill in front of him. He can smell her perfume, subtle and light under the heady aroma of the incense. He catches his breath as she leans down and takes his hand. Her fingers are cool and manicured and a shot of electricity, almost of desire, shoots up his arm as she presses something small and round into the palm of his hand, then closes his fingers over it. Now he wants - more than anything he's ever wanted in his life - to look at her face. But he keeps his eyes down on the ground, as he has been told to do. The four senior attendants leave their positions and move to join the Priestess. His head is tipped back, gently, and a thick, sweet liquid slides between his lips. It is what he is expecting and he makes no resistance. As the warmth sweeps through his body he holds up his arms and his companions slip a golden mantle over his shoulders. The ritual is familiar to the witnesses and yet he can sense their unease. Suddenly, he feels as if there is an iron band around his neck, crushing his windpipe. His hands fly up to his throat as he struggles for breath. He tries to call out, but the words won't come. The high thin note of the bell Starts to toll once more, steady and persistent, drowning him out. A wave !of nausea sweeps through him. He thinks he's going to pass out and '¦dutches the object in his hand for comfort, so hard that his nails split open the soft flesh of his palm. The sharp pain helps him not to fall. He -now understands that the hands on his shoulders are not comforting. jf'They are not supporting him, but holding him down. Another wave of ausea overwhelms him and the stone seems to shift and slide beneath Now his eyes are swimming and he cannot focus properly, but he can that the Priestess has a knife, though he has no idea how the silver i came to be in her hand. He tries to stand, but the drug is too strong has already taken his strength from him. He no longer has control 1 his arms or legs. 'Non!' he tries to shout, but it is too late. y At first, he thinks he's been punched between the shoulders, nothing more. Then a dull ache starts to seep through his body. Something warm and smooth is trickling slowly down his back. Without warning, the hands let him go and he falls forward, crumpling like a rag doll as the floor comes up to meet him. He feels no pain as his head hits the ground, which is somehow cool and soothing against his skin. Now, all noise and confusion and fear are fading away. His eyes nicker shut. He is no longer aware of anything other than her voice, which seems to be coming from a long way away. 'Une lefon. Pour tow,' she seems to be saying, although that makes no sense. In his last fractured moments of consciousness, the man accused of giving away secrets, condemned for talking when he should have kept silent, holds the coveted object tight in his hand until his grip on life slips away and the small grey disc, no bigger than a coin, rolls on to the floor. On one side of it are the letters NV. On the other is an engraving of a labyrinth. IV Pic de Soularac Sabarthes Mountains For a moment, everything is silent. Then the darkness melts. Alice is no longer in the cave. She is floating in a white, weightless world, transparent and peaceful and silent. She is free. Safe. Alice has the sensation of slipping out of time, as if she is falling from one dimension into another. The line between the past and present is fading now in this timeless, endless space. , Then, like a trap door beneath the gallows, Alice feels a sudden jerk, then a drop and she is plummeting down through the open sky, falling, .lolling down towards the wooded mountainside. The brisk air whistles in |'her ears as she plunges, faster, harder towards the ground. |), The moment of impact never comes. There's no splintering of bone st the slate grey flint and rock. Instead, Alice hits the ground ling, stumbling along a steep, rough woodland track between two i of high trees. They are dense and tall and tower above her so she a't see what lies beyond. Too fast. Alice grabs at the branches as if they will slow her, stop this headlong it towards this unknown place, but her hands go straight through as if |'s a ghost or a spirit. Clumps of tiny leaves come away in her hands, I hair from a brush. She cannot feel them, but the sap stains the tips of ', fingers green. She puts them up to her face, to breathe in their subtle, scent. She cannot smell them either. ice has a stitch in her side, but she cannot stop because there is ing behind her, getting steadily closer. The path is sloping sharply 1th her feet. She is aware that the crunch of dried root and stone has ed the soft earth, moss and twigs. Still, there is no sound. No birds 7 singing, no voices calling, nothing but her own ragged breathing. The path twists and coils back on itself, sending her scuttling this way and that, until she rounds the corner and sees the silent wall of flame which blocks the path ahead. A pillar of twisting fire, white and gold and red, folding in on itself, its shape ever shifting. Instinctively, Alice puts up her hands to shield her face from the fierce heat, although she cannot feel it. She can see faces trapped within the dancing flames, the mouths contorted in silent agony as the fire caresses and burns. Alice tries to stop. She must stop. Her feet are bleeding and torn, her long skirts wet, slowing her down, but her pursuer is hard at her heels and something beyond her control is driving her on into the fatal embrace of the fire. She has no choice but to jump, to avoid being consumed by the flames. She spirals up into the air like a wisp of smoke, floating high above the yellows and oranges. The wind seems to carry her up, releasing her from the earth. Someone is calling her name, a woman's voice, although she pronounces it strangely. Alais. She is safe. Free. Then, the familiar clutch of cold fingers on her ankles, shackling her to the ground. No, not fingers, chains. Now Alice realises she is holding something in her hands, a book, held together with leather ties. She understands that it is this what he wants. What they want. It is the loss of this book that makes them angry. If only she could speak she could perhaps strike a bargain. But her head is empty of words and her mouth incapable of speech. She lashes out, kicks to escape, but she is caught. The iron grip on her legs is too strong. She starts to scream as she is dragged back down into the fire, but there is only silence. She screams again, feeling her voice struggling deep inside her to be heard. This time, the sound comes rushing back. Alice feels the real world rushing back. Sound, light, smell, touch, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Until, for a fraction of a second, she pauses, enveloped suddenly by a translucent cold. It is not the familiar chill of the cave, but something different, intense and bright. Within it, Alice can just make out the fleeting outline of a face, beautiful, indistinct. The same voice is calling her name once more. Alais. I* Calling for the last time. It is the voice of a friend. Not someone who means her harm. Alice struggles to open her eyes, knowing that if she could see, she could understand. She cannot. Not quite. The dream is starting to fade, setting her free. It's time to wake up. I must wake up. Now there's another voice in her head, different from the first. The feeling is coming back to her arms and legs, her grazed knees that sting and her scuffed skin sore where she fell. She can feel the rough grip on her shoulder, shaking her back to life. 'Alice! Alice, wake up!' THE CITE ON THE HILL CHAPTER 1 Carcassona JULHET 1209 Alai's jolted awake, bolt upright, her eyes wide open. Fear fluttered in her chest, as a bird caught in a net struggles to be free. She pressed her hand (against her ribs to still her beating heart. For a moment, she was neither asleep nor awake, as if some part of her been left behind in the dream. She felt she was floating, looking on herself from a great height, like the stone gargoyles that ed at passers-by from the roof of the cathedral church of SantMasari. > The room came back into focus. She was safe in her own bed, in the iteau Comtal. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the dark, i was safe from the thin, dark-eyed people who haunted her at night, ' sharp fingers clawing and pulling at her. They cannot reach me now. language carved in the stones, more pictures than words, which nt nothing to her, all vanished like wisps of smoke in the autumn air. I fire too had faded, leaving only a memory in her mind. . A premonition? Or a nightmare only? bShe had no way of knowing. She was afraid of knowing. ftlAlais reached for the night-curtains, which were hung around the bed, 1 if by touching something substantial she would feel less transparent 1 insubstantial herself. The worn cloth, filled with the dust and familiar i of the castle, was reassuringly coarse between her fingers. Night after night, the same dream. All through her childhood, when I had woken in terror in the dark, her face white and wet with tears, her father had been at her bedside, watching over her as if she was a son. As each candle burned down and another was lit, he whispered of his adventures in the Holy Land. He told her of the endless seas of the desert, the curve and sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful. He described the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the food. The terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun as it set over Jerusalem. For many years, in those hollow hours between dusk and dawn, as her sister lay sleeping beside her, her father had talked and talked, setting her demons to flight. He had not allowed the black cowls or the Catholic priests to come near, with their superstitions and false symbols. His words had saved her. 'Guilhem?' she whispered. Her husband was deeply asleep, his arms flung out claiming ownership of most of the bed. His long dark hair, smelling of smoke and wine and the stables, was fanned across the pillow. Moonlight fell through the open window, the shutter pinned back to let the cool night air into the chamber. In the gathering light, Alais could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin. The chain Guilhem wore around his neck shimmered and glinted as he shifted position in his sleep. Alais wanted him to wake and tell her that everything was all right, that she didn't have to be afraid any more. But he did not stir and it did not occur to her to wake him. Fearless in all other things, she was inexperienced in the ways of marriage and cautious with him still, so she contented herself with running her fingers down his smooth, tanned arms and across his shoulders, firm and broad from the hours spent practising with sword and quintain for the Joust. Alais could feel the life moving beneath his skin even as he slept. And when she remembered how they had spent the early part of the night, she blushed, even though there was no one there to see. Alais was overwhelmed by the sensations Guilhem aroused in her. She delighted in the way her heart leapt when she caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted beneath her feet when he smiled at her. At the same time, she did not like the feeling of powerlessness. She feared love was making her weak, giddy. She did not doubt she loved Guilhem and yet she knew she was keeping a little of herself back. Alais sighed. All she could hope was that, with time, it would become easier. There was something in the quality of the light, black fading to grey, and the occasional hint of birdsong from the trees in the courtyard, which told her that dawn was not far away. She knew she wouldn't go back to sleep now. Alais slipped out between the curtains and tiptoed across to the wardrobe that stood in the far corner of the chamber. The flagstones were cold under her feet and the rush matting scratched her toes. She opened the lid, removed the lavender bag from the top of the pile, and took out a plain, dark green dress. Shivering a little, she stepped into it, threading her arms into the narrow sleeves. She pulled the material, slightly damp, ; over her undershift, then fastened the girdle tightly. Alais was seventeen and had been married for six months, but she had iikot yet acquired the softness and sway of a woman. The dress hung I thapelessly on her narrow frame, as if it didn't belong to her. Steadying I .herself with her hand on the table, she pushed her feet into soft leather Uppers and took her favourite red cloak from the back of the chair. Its edges and hem were embroidered with an intricate blue and green pattern of squares and diamonds, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers, which she I' had designed herself for her wedding day. It had taken her weeks and . weeks to sew. All through November and December she had worked at it, her fingers growing sore and stiff with cold as she hurried to have it finished in time. Alais turned her attention to her panier, which stood on the floor I beside the wardrobe. She checked her herb pouch and purse were there, together with the strips of cloth for wrapping plants and roots and her |4tools for digging and cutting. Finally, she fixed her cloak firmly at her |fteck with a ribbon, slipped her knife into its sheath at her waist, pulled Ifcer hood up over her head to cover her long, unbraided hair, then quietly across the chamber and out into the deserted corridor. The door [ with a thud behind her. : was not yet Prime, so there was nobody about in the living quarters, ai's walked quickly along the corridor, her cloak swishing softly against ; stone floor, heading for the steep and narrow stairs. She stepped over lil serving boy slumped asleep against a wall outside the door to the room Bber sister Oriane shared with her husband. As she descended lower, the sound of voices floated up to meet her 3m the kitchens in the basement. The servants were already hard at jtiwork. Alais heard a slap, closely followed by a yell, as an unlucky boy Started the day with the cook's heavy hand on the back of his head. A scullion came staggering towards her, struggling with a massive half barrel of water he had drawn from the well. *S Alais smiled. 'Bonjorn.' 'Bonjorn, Dame,' he answered cautiously. 'Here,' she said, going down the stairs before him to open the door. 'Merce, Dame,' he said, a little less timid now. 'Grand merce.' The kitchen was alive with hustle and bustle. Great billows of steam were already rising from the huge payrola, the cauldron, hanging on a hook over the open fire. An older servant took the water from the scullion, emptied it into the pot, and then shoved the barrel back at him without saying a word. The boy rolled his eyes at Alais as he headed out and back up to the well once more. Capons, lentils and cabbage in sealed earthenware jars stood waiting to be cooked on the big table in the centre of the room, together with pots containing salt mullet, eel and pike. At one end werefogafa puddings in cloth bags, goose pate and slabs of salted pork. At the other, trays of raisins, quinces, figs and cherries. A boy of nine or ten was standing with his elbows propped on the table, the scowl on his face making it clear how much he was looking forward to another hot and sweaty day at the turnspit, watching the meat roast. Next to the hearth, the brushwood was burning fiercely inside the dome-shaped bread oven. The first batch of pan de blat, wheat bread, was already standing on the table to cool. The smell made Alais hungry. 'May I have one of those?' The cook looked up, furious at the intrusion of a woman into his kitchen. Then he saw who it was and his bad-tempered face creased into a cock-eyed smile revealing a row of rotten teeth. 'Dame Alais,' he said with delight, wiping his hands on his apron. 'Benvenguda. What an honour! You've not come to visit us for quite some time. We've missed you.' 'Jacques,' she said warmly. 'I wouldn't want to get in your way.' 'In my way, you!' he laughed. 'How could you ever be in my way?' As a child, Alais had spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, watching and learning, the only girl Jacques had ever allowed across the threshold into his male domain. 'Now, Dame Alais, what can I get you?' 'Just a little bread, Jacques, some wine too, if you can spare it?' A frown appeared on his face. 'Forgive me, but you're not going down to the river? Not at this time of day, unaccompanied? A lady of your position . . . it's not even light. I hear things, stories of..." Alais laid a hand on his arm. 'You are kind to concern yourself, Jacques, and I know you have my best interests at heart, but I will be fine. I give you my word. It's nearly dawn. I know exactly where I'm going. I'll be there and back before anyone even notices I've gone, really.' 'Does your father know?' She put a conspiratorial finger to her lips. "You know what he does not, but please, keep it our secret. I will take great care.' Jacques looked far from convinced, but feeling he'd said as much as he dared, he did not argue. He walked slowly over to the table and wrapped a round loaf in a white linen cloth and ordered a scullion to fetch a jar of wine. Alai's watched, feeling a tug at her heart. He was moving more slowly these days and he was limping heavily on his left side. 'Is your leg still giving you difficulty?' 'Not much,' he lied. 'I can dress it for you later, if you like. It doesn't look as if that cut is healing as it should.' 'It's not so bad.' 'Did you use the ointment I made for you?' she asked, knowing from the expression on his face that he had not. Jacques spread his podgy hands in a gesture of surrender. 'There is so much to do, Dame - all these extra guests, hundreds once you count the servants, ecuyers, grooms, ladies-in-waiting, not to mention the Consuls and their families. And so many things are difficult to find these days. Why only yesterday, I sent--' That's all very well, Jacques,' said Alais, 'but your leg won't get better on its own. The cut's too deep.' She suddenly realised that the noise level had dropped. She glanced up to see the entire kitchen was eavesdropping on their conversation. The younger boys were propped on their elbows at the table, staring open * mouthed at the sight of their quick-tempered master being told off. And by a woman. Pretending not to notice, Alais dropped her voice. "Why don't I return later to do it, in return for this?' She patted the loaf. 'It can be our second secret, oc? A fair exchange?' For a moment, she thought she had been over-familiar and presumed llOO much. But, after a moment's hesitation, Jacques grinned. 'Ben,' she said. Good. 'I will come back when the sun is high and see to "it Dins d'abord.' Soon. As Alais left the kitchen and climbed back up the stairs, she heard f Jacques bellowing at everybody to stop gawping and get back to work, pretending the interruption had never happened. She smiled. Everything was as it should be. xj Alai's pulled open the heavy door that led into the main courtyard and stepped out into the newborn day. The leaves of the elm tree that stood in the centre of the enclosed courtyard, under which Viscount Trencavel dispensed justice, looked black against the fading night. Its branches were alive with larks and wrens, their voices warbling shrill and clear in the dawn. Raymond-Roger Trencavel's grandfather had built the Chateau Comtal, more than a hundred years ago, as the seat from which to rule his expanding territories. His lands stretched from Albi in the north and Narbonne in the south, to Beziers in the east and Carcassonne in the west. The Chateau was constructed around a large rectangular courtyard and incorporated, on the western side, the remains of an older castle. It was part of the reinforcement of the western section of the fortified walls that enclosed the Cite, a ring of solid stone that towered high above the river Aude and the northern marshlands beyond. The donjon, where the Consuls met and significant documents were signed, was in the southwest corner of the courtyard and well guarded. In the dim light, Alais could see something propped against the outside wall. She looked harder and realised it was a dog, curled asleep on the ground. A couple of boys, perched like crows on the edge of the goose pen, were trying to wake the animal up by flicking stones at it. In the stillness, she could hear the regular dull thud, thud of their heels banging against the wooden railings. There were two ways in and out of the Chateau Comtal. The wide arched West Gate gave directly on to the grassy slopes that led to the walls and was mostly kept closed. The Eastern Gate, small and narrow, was tucked between two high gate towers and led straight into the streets of the Ciutat, the Cite, itself. Communication between the upper and lower floors of the gatehouse towers was only possible by means of wooden ladders and a series of trap doors. As a girl, one of her favourite games was to scramble up and down between the levels with the boys from the kitchen, trying to evade the guards. Alais was fast. She always won. Pulling her cloak tightly about her, she walked briskly across the courtyard. Once the curfew bell had rung, the gates barred for the night and the guard set, nobody was supposed to pass without her father's authorisation. Although not a consul, Bertrand Pelletier occupied a unique and favoured position in the household. Few dared disobey him. He had always disliked her habit of slipping out of the Cite in the early morning. These days, he was even more adamant that she should stay within the walls of the Chateau at night. She assumed her husband felt the same, although Guilhem had never said so. But it was only in the stillness and anonymity of the dawn, free from the restrictions and limitations of the household, that Alais felt really herself. Nobody's daughter, nobody's sister, nobody's wife. Deep down, she had always believed her father understood. Much as she disliked disobeying him, she did not want to give up these moments of freedom. Most of the night-watch turned a blind eye to her comings and goings. Or, at least they had. Since rumours of war had started to circulate, the garrison had become more cautious. On the surface, life went on much the same and although refugees arrived in the Cite from time to time, their tales of attacks or religious persecution seemed to Alais nothing out I of the ordinary. Raiders who appeared from nowhere and struck like I summer lightning before passing on were facts of existence for any who > lived outside the safety of a fortified village or town. The reports seemed no different, neither more nor less, than usual. Guilhem didn't seem particularly perturbed by the whisperings of a conflict, at least not so far as she could tell. He never talked to her of such things. Oriane, however, claimed that a French army of Crusaders and ivchurchmen was making ready to attack the lands of the Pays d'Oc. iMoreover, she said the campaign was supported by the Pope and the ench King. Alais knew from experience that much of what Oriane said intended only to upset her. Nonetheless her sister often seemed to things before anybody else in the household and there was no aying the fact that the number of messengers coming in and out of the ateau was increasing by the day. It was also undeniable that the lines their father's face were deeper and darker, the hollows of his cheeks are pronounced. Is The sirjans d'arms on guard at the Eastern Gate were alert, although eyes were rimmed with red after a long night. Their square silver nets were pushed high on their heads and their chain-mail coats were , in the pale dawn light. With their shields slung wearily across their iers and their swords sheathed, they looked more ready for bed than | As she got closer, Alais was relieved to recognise Berenger. When he itified her, he grinned and he bowed his head. 'Bonjorn, Dame Alais. You're up and about early.' She smiled. 'I couldn't sleep.' 'Can't that husband of yours think of something to fill your nights?' said the other with a lewd wink. His face was pockmarked and the nails on his fingers were bitten and bleeding. His breath smelled of stale food and ale. Alais ignored him. 'How is your wife, Berenger?' 'Well, Dame. Quite back to her usual self.' 'And your son?' 'Bigger by the day. He'll eat us out of house and hearth if we don't watch out!' 'Clearly following in his father's footsteps!' she said, poking his ample belly. 'That's exactly what my wife says.' 'Send her my best wishes, Berenger, will you?' 'She will be grateful to be remembered, Dame.' He paused. 'I suppose you want me to let you through?' 'I'm only going out into the Ciutat, maybe the river. I won't be long.' We're not supposed to let anybody through,' growled his companion. 'Intendant Pelletier's orders.' 'Nobody asked you,' snapped Berenger. 'It's not that, Dame,' he said, dropping his voice. 'But you know how things are at present. What if something was to happen to you and it came out that it was I who let you pass, your father would--' Alais put her hand on his arm. 'I know, I know,' she said softly. 'But really there's no need to worry. I can take care of myself. Besides . . .' She let her eyes slide sideways to the other guard, who was now picking his nose and wiping his fingers on his sleeve - 'what trials I might face at the river could hardly be worse than those you endure here!' Berenger laughed. 'Promise me you will be careful, e? Alai's nodded, opening her cloak a fraction to show him the hunting knife at her waist. 'I will. I give you my word.' There were two doors to negotiate. Berenger unbolted them in turn, then lifted the heavy beam of oak securing the outer door and pulled it open just wide enough for Alai's to slip through. Smiling her thanks, she ducked under his arm and stepped out into the world. CHAPTER 2 Alais felt her heart lift as she emerged from the shadows between the gate towers. She was free. For a while at least. A moveable wooden walkway linked the gatehouse to the flat stone bridge that connected the Chateau Comtal to the streets of Carcassona. The grass in the dry moat way beneath the bridge was glistening with dew in the shimmering purple light. There was still a moon, although it was fading against the gathering dawn. Alais walked quickly, her cloak leaving swirling patterns in the dust, wanting to avoid questions from the guards on duty on the far side. She was lucky. They were slumbering at their posts and did not see her pass. She hurried over the open ground and ducked into a network of narrow alleyways, heading for a postern by the Tour du Moulin d'Avar, the oldest fpart of the walls. The gate gave straight on to the vegetable gardens and kjaratja/s, the pastures that occupied the land surrounding the Cite and the ^northern suburb of Sant-Vicens. At this time of day, it was the quickest ¦ down to the river without being seen. Holding up her skirts, Alais picked her way carefully through the ence of another riotous night in the taberna Santjoan dels Evangelis. Iruised apples, half-eaten pears, gnawed meat bones and shattered ale Jts lay discarded in the dirt. A little further along, a beggar was huddled ep in a doorway, his arm resting along the back of a huge, bedraggled , dog. Three men were slumped against the well, grunting and snoring 1 enough to drown out the birds. |'i took Jacques' jar of wine from the hollow. The stopper came loose with a f j|pntle pop. Alais shivered a little as the cool liquid trickled over her je and down her throat. Then she unwrapped the fresh bread and a large chunk out of it. It tasted of a strange combination of wheat, - jalt, river water and weed, but she was ravenous. It was as good a meal as ; had ever eaten. The sky was now a pale blue, the colour of forget-me-nots. Alais knew must have been gone for some time. But as she watched the golden light dancing on the surface of the water and felt the breath of the on her skin, she was reluctant to return to the busy, noisy streets of inne and the crowded spaces of the household. Telling herself a moments more couldn't hurt, Alais lay back on the grass and closed ¦ eyes. : sound of a bird screeching overhead woke her. Alais sat up with a start. As she looked up through the quilt of dappled s, she couldn't remember where she was. Then everything flooded She scrambled to her feet in a panic. The sun was now high in a sky npty of clouds. She'd been gone too long. By now, she was sure to have en missed. Rushing to pack her things away as quickly as possible, Alais gave her tools a cursory wash in the river and sprinkled water over the rips of linen to keep the cuttings moist. She was about to turn away len her eye was caught by something tangled in the reeds. It looked like a tree stump or a log. Alais shielded her eyes from the sun, wondering how she had missed it before. It was moving too fluidly, too languidly in the current to be something as solid as bark or wood. Alais edged closer. Now, she could see it was a piece of heavy, dark material, puffed up by the water. After a moment's hesitation, her curiosity got the better of her and she ventured back into the water, this time wading beyond the shallows into the deeper water that flowed fast and dark in the centre of the river. The further she went, the colder it got. Alais struggled to keep her balance. She dug her toes deep into the squelching mud as the water splashed up against her thin, white thighs and skirts. Just passed the halfway mark, she stopped, her heart pounding and her palms suddenly greasy with fear now she could see more clearly. 'Payre Sant.' Holy Father. The words leaped unbidden to her lips. The body of a man was floating face down in the water, his cloak billowing out around him. Alai's swallowed hard. He was wearing a high collared coat of brown velvet, trimmed with black silk ribbon and edged with gold thread. She could see the glint of a gold chain or bracelet under the water. The man's head was bare, so she could see his hair was curly and black, tinged with flecks of grey. He seemed to be wearing something around his neck, a crimson braid of some sort, a ribbon. She took a step closer. Her first thought was that he must have lost his footing in the dark, slipped into the river and drowned. She was about to reach out when something about the way his head was lolling in the water stayed her hand. She took a deep breath, transfixed by the bloated corpse. She'd seen a drowned man once before. Swollen and distorted, the sailor's blotched skin had been tinged with blue and purple, like a fading bruise. This was different, wrong. This man looked as if the life had already left him before he went into the water. His lifeless hands were stretched in front of him, as if he was trying to swim. The left arm drifted towards her, carried by the current. Something bright, something colourful just beneath the surface, caught her eye. There was a lesion, irregular and uneven, like a birthmark, red against the bloated white flesh around where his thumb should have been. She looked at his neck. Alais felt her knees buckle. Everything started to move in slow motion, lurching and undulating like the surface of a rough sea. The uneven crimson line she had taken for a collar or a ribbon was a savage, deep cut. It ran from behind the man's left ear under his chin, almost severing his head from his body. Tendrils of serrated skin, washed green under the water, trailed out around the gash. Tiny silverfish and leeches, black and swollen, were feasting all along the wound. For a moment, Alais thought her heart had stopped beating. Then thock and fear hit her in equal measure. She spun round and started to jfun back through the water, sliding, slipping in the mud, instinct telling .'iicr to put as much distance as possible between her and the body. Already pbe was soaking from the waist down. Her dress, swollen and heavy with Iter, tangled itself around her legs, nearly pulling her under. "The river seemed twice as wide as before, but she kept going, making it the safety of the bank before nausea overwhelmed her and she was ently sick. Wine, undigested bread, river water. ' Half-crawling, half-dragging herself on all fours, she managed to pull ' higher up, before collapsing on the ground in the shadows of the s. Her head was spinning, her mouth was dry and sour, but she had to away. Alais tried to stand, but her legs felt hollow and wouldn't hold r. Trying not to cry, she wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking i, then tried to stand again, using the trunk of the tree to support her. This time, she stayed on her feet. Pulling her cloak from the branch ith desperate fingers, Alais managed to push her filthy feet into her ippers. Then, abandoning everything else, she started to run back 3Ugh the woods, as if the Devil himself was at her heels. : heat hit Alais the moment she emerged from the trees into the open and. The sun pinched at her cheeks and neck, taunting her. The at had brought out the biting insects and mosquitoes in swarms above ; stagnant pools which flanked the path, as Alais stumbled forwards, on ough the inhospitable landscape. Her exhausted legs screamed in protest and her breath burned ragged her throat and chest, but she kept running, running. All she was cious of was the need to get as far away from the body as possible i to tell her father. . Rather than going back the way she'd come, which might be locked, ais instinctively headed for Sant-Vicens and the Porte de Rodez, which netted the suburb to Carcassonne. i The streets were busy and Alai's had to push her way through. The and buzz of the world coming to life got louder and louder, more ntrusive, the closer she came to the entrance into the Cite. Alais tried to jp her ears and think only of getting to the gate. Praying her weak legs Iwould not give way, Alais pushed her way to the front. A woman tapped her shoulder. Your head, Dame,' she said quietly. Her voice was kind, but it seemed to be coming from a long way away. Realising that her hair was hanging loose and dishevelled, Alais quickly threw her cloak over her shoulders and pulled up her hood, with hands that trembled as much from exhaustion as shock. She edged forward, wrapping the material across the front of her dress, hoping to conceal the stains of mud, vomit and green river weed. Everybody was jostling, barging, shouting. Alais thought she was going to faint. She put out her hand and steadied herself against the wall. The guards on duty at the Porte de Rodez were nodding most local people through without question, but stopping vagabonds and beggars, gypsies, Saracens and Jews, demanding to know their business in Carcassonne, and searching their belongings more roughly than necessary until small jugs of ale or coins changed hands and they moved on to the next victim. They let Alais through with barely a glance. The narrow streets of the Cite were now flooded with hawkers, merchants, livestock, soldiers, farriers, jongleurs, wives of the consuls and their servants and preachers. Alais kept her head bowed as if she was walking into a biting north wind, not wishing to be recognised. At last, she saw the familiar outline of the Tour du Major, followed by the Tour des Casernes, then the double towers of the Eastern Gate as the Chateau Comtal came into full view. Relief caught in her throat. Fierce tears welled up in her eyes. Furious at her weakness, Alais bit down on her lip hard, drawing blood. She was ashamed to be so distressed and determined not to humiliate herself further by crying where her lack of courage might be witnessed. All she wanted was her father. CHAPTER 3 j«Intendant Pelletier was in one of the storerooms in the basements next to Itiie kitchen, having just finished his weekly check of the grain and flour supplies. He was relieved to discover that none of the stock was mouldy. Bertrand Pelletier had served Viscount Trencavel for more than eightfeen years. It was early in the cold new year of 1191 that he had been summoned to return to his native Carcassonne, to take up the position I of Intendant - steward - to the nine-year-old Raymond-Roger, heir to jp'the Trencavel dominions. It was a message he had been waiting for and he had come willingly, bringing his pregnant French wife and two-year old daughter with him. The cold and wet of Chartres had never been to iihis liking. What he had found was a boy old beyond his years, grieving for lie loss of his parents and struggling to cope with the responsibility thrust i his young shoulders. Bertrand had been with Viscount Trencavel ever since, first within the ehold of Raymond-Roger's guardian, Bertrand of Saissac, then under : protection of the Count of Foix. When Raymond-Roger reached his arity and returned to the Chateau Comtal to take up his rightful place Viscount of Carcassonne, Beziers and Albi, Pelletier had been at his As steward, Pelletier was responsible for the smooth running of the ehold. He concerned himself also with administration, justice and levying of taxes carried out on the Viscount's behalf by the Consuls > ran the affairs of Carcassonne between them. More significantly, he the Viscount's acknowledged confidant, advisor and friend. His nence was second to none. ?The Chateau Comtal was full of distinguished guests and more were each day. The seigneurs of the most important chateaux within Trencavel lands and their wives, as well as the most valiant, most ebrated chevaliers of the Midi. The finest minstrels and troubadours been invited to the traditional Summer Joust to celebrate the Feast ay of Sant-Nasari at the end of July. Given the shadow of war that had been hanging over them for a year or more, the Viscount was determined that his guests should enjoy themselves and that it would be the most memorable tournament of his rule. In his turn, Pelletier was determined nothing should be left to chance. He locked the door to the grain store with one of the many heavy keys he carried on a metal hoop around his waist and set off down the corridor. 'The wine store next,' he said to his manservant, Francois. 'The last barrel was sour.' Pelletier strode down the corridor, pausing to look on other rooms as they passed. The linen store smelled of lavender and thyme and was empty, as if it was waiting for someone to come and bring it back to life. 'Are those tablecloths washed and ready for table?' 'Oc, Messire.' In the cellar opposite the wine store at the foot of the stairs, men were rolling sides of meat in the salting box. Some cuts were being strung up on the metal hooks that dangled from the ceiling. Others were stored in barrels for another day. In a corner, a man was threading mushrooms, garlic and onions on to strings and hanging them up to dry. Everybody stopped what they were doing and fell silent when Pelletier walked in. A few of the younger servants got awkwardly to their feet. He said nothing, just gazed around, taking in the whole room with his sharp eyes, before nodding his approval and moving on. Pelletier was unlocking the door to the wine store when he heard shouting and the sound of running footsteps on the floor above. 'Find out what the matter is,' he said irritably. 1 can't work with such a disturbance.' 'Messire.' Francois turned and ran quickly up the stairs to investigate. Pelletier pushed open the heavy door and walked into the cool, dark cellars, breathing in the familiar smell of damp wood and the sour tang of spilt wine and ale. He walked slowly down the aisles until he had located the casks he was looking for. He took an earthenware cup from the tray that stood ready on the table, then loosened the bung. He was careful and slow, so as not to disturb the balance inside the cask. A sound in the corridor outside made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He put the cup down. Someone was calling his name. Alai's. Something had happened. Pelletier crossed the room and threw open the door. |;Alais came hurtling down the stairs as if a pack of dogs was at her heels, I with Francois hurrying behind. At the sight of her father's grizzled presence among the casks of wine |tnd ale, she cried out with relief. She threw herself into his arms and ried her tear-stained face in his chest. The familiar, comforting smell of made her want to cry again. j "What in the name of Sant Foy is going on? What's happened to you? i you hurt? Tell me.' She could hear the alarm in his voice. She pulled back a little and tried ripeak, but the words were trapped in her throat and would not come, ler, I--' lis eyes were alive with questions as he took in at a glance her dish appearance and stained clothes. He looked over her head to H901S for an explanation. ', found Dame Alais like this, Messire.' l^And she said nothing about the cause of this . . . the reason for her ss?' K^No, Messire. Only that she must be taken to you without delay.' 'Very well. Leave us now. I'll call if I need you.' Is heard the door shut. Then she felt the heavy touch of her father's 1 around her shoulder. He steered her over to the bench that ran along i side of the cellar and sat her down. sme, Filha,' he said in a softer voice. He reached down and pushed a of hair off her face. This isn't like you. Tell me what has hap made another attempt to get herself under control, hating the ' and concern she was causing him. She rubbed her smeared cheeks t the handkerchief he held out and dabbed her red eyes. ik this,' he said, putting a cup of wine into her hands, before ; down beside her. The ancient wood bowed and creaked under his irt. 'Francois has gone. There's nobody here but us. You must stop 1 and tell me what has happened to distress you so. Is it Guilhem? Has something to upset you? Because if he has, then I give you my I that I will--' E*8 nothing to with Guilhem, Paire,' Alais said quickly. 'It's nothing to With anybody . . .' glanced up at him, then dropped her eyes again, embarrassed, lated to sit before him in such a state. den what?' he persisted. 'How can I help if you will not tell me what 1 happened?' She swallowed hard, feeling guilty and shocked. She didn't know how to start. Pelletier took her hands in his. You're trembling, Alais.' She could hear the concern and affection in his voice, the effort he was making to keep his fear in check. 'And look at your clothes,' he said, lifting the hem of her dress between his fingers. Wet. Covered with mud.' Alais could see how tired he was, how worried. He was bewildered by her collapse, however hard he tried to hide it. The lines on his forehead were like furrows. How had she failed to notice before that his hair was now flecked with grey at the temples? 'I have not known you be lost for words,' he said, trying to coax her out of her silence. You must tell me what this is about, e.' His expression was so full of love and faith that it pierced her heart. 'I fear you will be angry, Paire. Indeed, you have every right to be.' His expression sharpened, but he kept his smile in place. 'I promise I will not scold you, Alai's. Now, come. Speak.' 'Even if I tell you I went to the river?' He hesitated, but his voice did not waver. 'Not even then.'. The soonest spoken, the quickest mended. Alais folded her hands in her lap. 'This morning, just before dawn, I went down to the river, to a place I often go to gather plants.' 'Alone?' 'Alone, yes,' she said, meeting his gaze. 'I know I gave you my word, Paire, and I ask your forgiveness for my disobedience.' 'On foot?' She nodded and waited until he waved her to continue. 'I was there for some time. I saw no one. As I was packing up my things to leave, I noticed what I thought was a bundle of clothes in the water, good quality cloth. In fact--' Alais broke off again, feeling the colour drain from her face. 'In point of fact it was a body. A man, quite old. With dark, curly hair. At first, I thought he had drowned. I couldn't see much. Then I saw his throat had been cut.' His shoulders stiffened. *You didn't touch the body?' Alais shook her head. 'No, but--' She dropped her eyes, embarrassed. The shock of finding him, I'm afraid I lost my head and ran, leaving everything behind. My only thought was that I had to get away and tell you of what I had seen.' He was frowning again. 'And you saw no one?' 'Not a soul. It was completely deserted. But once I saw the body, then I started to fear the men who had killed him might still be somewhere I dose.' Her voice wavered. 'I imagined I could feel their eyes on me, Watching me. Or so I thought.' 'So you are not harmed in any way,' he said carefully, choosing his iTiOrds with deliberation. 'No one has interfered with you in any way? f fiurt you?' she understood his meaning was clear from the way her colour : quickly in her cheeks. i ill has come to me other than my pride being damaged and . . . the t of your goodwill.' Bhe watched the relief wash over her father's face. He smiled and, for Ifirst time since the conversation had started, it reached his eyes. 1,' he said, breathing out slowly. 'Overlooking, for the time being, ¦ recklessness, Alais, the fact you disobeyed me . . . leaving that aside, i did the right thing by telling me of this.' He reached out and took her s, his giant clasp encompassing her small, thin fingers. His skin felt i tanned leather. Is smiled, grateful for the reprieve. 'I am sorry, Paire. I meant to i my promise, it's just that--' : waved the apology away. We will say no more about it. As for the ate man, there's nothing to be done. The thieves will be long c. They're hardly likely to stay around and risk discovery.' frowned. Her father's comments had stirred something that had lurking beneath the surface of her mind. She closed her eyes. 1 herself standing in the chill water, transfixed by the body, t's the odd thing, father,' she said slowly. 'I don't think they can s been bandits. They didn't take his surcoat, which was beautiful and valuable. And he was still wearing his jewellery. Gold chains id his wrists, rings. Thieves would have stripped the body bare.' fou told me you did not touch the body,' he said sharply. for did I. But I could see his hands under the water, that's all. Jewels. IfJKiany rings, father. A gold bracelet made from interlinking chains. ler around his neck. Why would they leave such things?' broke off, as she remembered the man's bloated, ghostly hands ing out to touch her and, where his thumb should have been, blood [thards of white bone. Her head started to spin. Leaning back against ip, cold wall, Alai's made herself concentrate on the hard wood of |bench beneath her and the sour smell of the casks in her nose, until (dizziness faded. lere was no blood,' she added. 'An open wound, red like a piece of t' She swallowed hard. 'His thumb was missing, it was--' 'Missing?' he said sharply. "What do you mean, missing?' Alais glanced up in surprise at the shift of tone. 'His thumb had been cut off. Sliced from the bone.' 'Which hand, Alais?' he said. Now there was no hiding the urgency in his voice. Think. It's important.' 'I'm not--' He hardly seemed to hear. Which hand?' he insisted. 'His left hand, the left, I'm sure of it. It was the side closest to me. He was facing upstream.' Pelletier strode across the room, bellowing for Francois, and threw open the door. Alais hurled herself to her feet too, shaken by her father's desperate mood and bewildered as to what was going on. What is it? Tell me, I beseech you. Why does it matter if it was his left or his right hand?' 'Prepare horses straight away, Francois. My bay gelding, Dame Alais' grey mare and a mount for you.' Francois' expression was as impassive as ever. 'Very good, Messire. Are we going far?' 'Only to the river.' He gestured him to be gone. 'Quick, man. And fetch my sword and a clean cloak for Dame Alais. We'll meet you at the well.' As soon as Francois was out of earshot, Alais rushed to her father. He refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he walked back to the casks and, with a shaking hand, poured himself some wine. The thick, red liquid slopped over the side of the earthenware bowl and splashed all over the table, staining the wood. 'Paired she pleaded. Tell me what this is about. Why do you have to go to the river? Surely, it cannot be a matter for you. Let Francois go. I can tell him where.' 'You don't understand.' Then tell me, so I can understand. You can trust me.' 'I must see the body for myself. Find out if--' 'Find out what?' Alais said quickly. 'No, no,' he was saying, shaking his grizzled head from side to side. This is not for you to . . .' Pelletier's voice trailed off. 'But--' Pelletier held up his hand, suddenly in control of his emotions again. 'No more, Alais. You must be guided by me. I would that I could spare you this, but I cannot. I have no choice.' He thrust the cup towards her. 'Drink this. It will fortify you, give you courage.' 'I'm not afraid,' she protested, offended he thought her reluctance cowardice. 'I do not fear to look on the dead. It was shock that affected me so before.' She hesitated. 'But, I beseech you, Messire, to tell me why--' Pelletier turned on her. 'Enough, no more,' he shouted. v, Alais stepped back as if he had struck her. i "Forgive me,' he said immediately. 'I am not myself.' He reached out touched her cheek. 'No man could ask for a more loyal, a more fast daughter.' pThen why will you not confide in me?' |€He hesitated and, for a moment, Alais thought she had persuaded him p speak. Then the same, shuttered look fell down over his face again. 8*A11 you have to do is show me,' he said in a hollow voice. 'The rest is in ' hands.' bells of Sant-Nasari were ringing for Tierce as they rode out of the Ifest Gate of the Chateau Comtal. Her father rode in front, with Alais following behind with Francois, felt wretched, both guilty that her actions had precipitated this age change in her father and frustrated that she did not understand. |lThcy picked their way along the narrow, dry dirt track that zigzagged ply down the hill below the Cite walls, doubling back on itself over I again. When they reached the flat, they broke into a canter. aey followed the course of the river upstream. An unforgiving sun down upon their backs as they rode into the marshes. Swarms of es and black swamp flies hovered above the rivulets and puddles of 1 water. The horses stamped their hooves and switched their tails, in trying to stop their thin summer coats being pierced by the myriad ; insects. I Alais could see a group of women washing clothes in the shaded on the other bank of the river Aude, standing half in and half f of the water as they beat the material on flat grey stones. There was a atonous rumble of wheels over the single wooden bridge that linked marshes and villages of the north to Carcassonne and its suburbs, ers waded across the river at its lowest point, a steady stream of its, farmers and merchants. Some were carrying children on their iders, some driving herds of goats or mules, all heading for the rket in the main square. '"They rode in silence. Once they moved from open ground into the dow of the marsh willows, she found herself drifting away into her own thoughts. Calmed by the familiar motion of her horse beneath her, the singing of the birds and the endless chattering of the cicadas in the reeds, for a while Alais almost forgot the purpose of their expedition. Her apprehension returned when they reached the outskirts of the woods. Falling into single file, they threaded their way through the trees. Her father turned, briefly, and smiled at her. Alais was grateful for it. She was nervous now, alert, listening for the slightest sign of trouble. The marsh willows seemed to tower with malice over her head and she imagined eyes in the dark shadows, watching them pass, waiting. Every rustle in the undergrowth, every beat of a bird's wing made her heart race. Alais hardly knew what she had expected, but when they arrived at the glade, everything was quiet and peaceful. Her panier was standing under the trees where she'd left it, the tips of the plants poking out of the strips of linen. She dismounted and handed her reins to Francois, then walked towards the water. Her tools lay undisturbed, where she'd left them. Alais jumped at the touch of her father's hand on her elbow. 'Show me,' he said. Without a word, she led her father along the bank until she reached the spot. At first, she could see nothing and, for a brief moment, she wondered if it had been a bad dream. But there, floating in the water among the reeds a little further upstream than before, was the body. She pointed. 'There. By the knitbone.' To her astonishment, rather than summoning Francois, her father threw off his cloak and waded into the river. 'Stay there,' he called over this shoulder. Alais sat down on the bank and drew her knees up to her chin and watched as her father ploughed into the shallows, paying no attention to the water splashing up over the tops of his boots. When he reached the body, he stopped and drew his sword. He hesitated for a moment, as if preparing himself for the worst, then, with the tip of the blade, Pelletier carefully lifted the man's left arm up out of the water. The mutilated hand, bloated and blue, lay balanced for a moment, then slithered down the silver flat of the blade towards the hilt, as if alive. Then it slipped back into the river with a dull splash. He sheathed his sword, bent forward and rolled the corpse over. The body bobbed violently in the water, the head lolling heavily as if it was trying to detach itself from the neck. Alais quickly turned away. She did not want to see the imprint of death on the unknown man's face. Her father's mood was very different as they rode back towards Carcassona. He was evidently relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He exchanged light-hearted remarks with Francois and, whenever she caught his eye, he smiled affectionately. Despite her exhaustion and frustration at not understanding the sigicance of what had taken place, Alais was filled with a sense of welleing too. It felt like old times, riding out with her father, when there had en time enough to enjoy one another's company. i As they turned away from the river and headed back up towards the Jteau, her curiosity finally got the better of her. Alais plucked up the to ask her father the question that had been on the tip of her : ever since they set out. *Did you discover what you needed to know, Paire}' si did.' 1 Alai's waited, until it was clear that she would have to draw an explana i out of him word by word. "It wasn't him, though, was it?' Her father glanced sharply at her. She pressed on. You believed, from my description, that you might this man? Which is why you wanted to see the body for yourself is could tell from the gleam in his eyes that she was right. ti thought he might be known to me,' he said in the end. 'From my days I Chartres. A man dear to me.' i*But he was a Jew.' ' Pelletier raised his eyebrows. "Yes, indeed.' HA Jew,' she repeated. Yet a friend?' ^Silence. Alais persisted. 'But it wasn't him, this friend?' ^This time, Pelletier smiled. 'It was not.' l-iThen who?' i;*l don't know.' pAlais was silent for a moment. She was sure her father had never itioned such a friend. He was a good man, a tolerant man, but even so, had talked of such a friend in Chartres, a Jew, she would have embered. Knowing well enough there was no point pursuing a subject st her father's wishes, she tried a different approach. lit wasn't robbery? I was right about that.' "Her father seemed happy to answer this. 'No. They intended to kill 1. The wound was too deep, too deliberate. Besides, they left almost ling of value on the body.' ''Almost everything?' But Pelletier said nothing. 'They could have been interrupted?' she suggested, risking pushing a little further. 'I think not.' 'Or perhaps they were seeking something particular?' 'No more, Alais. This is neither the time nor the place.' She opened her mouth, unwilling to let the matter drop, then shut it again. The discussion was clearly over. She would learn nothing more. Far better to wait until he was minded to talk. They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they were back in sight of the Western Gate, Francois went on ahead. 'It would be advisable not to mention our expedition this morning to anyone,' he said quickly. 'Not even Guilhem?' 'I cannot think your husband would be pleased to learn you had gone unaccompanied to the river,' he said dryly. 'Rumours spread so quickly. You should rest and try to put the whole unpleasant incident out of your mind.' Alais met his gaze with innocent eyes. 'Of course. As you wish. I give you my word, Paire. I will speak of this to no one but you.' Pelletier hesitated, as if he suspected she was playing a trick on him, then smiled. "You are an obedient daughter, Alais. I can trust you, I know.' Despite herself, Alais blushed. F CHAPTER 4 I From his vantage point on the tavern roof, the boy with the amber eyes and dark blond hair turned to see where the noise was coming from. A messenger was galloping up through the crowded streets of the Cite ; from the Porte Narbonnaise, with complete disregard for anybody who got in his way. Men were yelling at him to dismount. Women snatched ||faeir children from under the thundering hooves. A couple of unchained Idogs jumped up at the horse, barking and snarling and snapping at its |bind legs. The rider took no notice. The horse was sweating badly. Even from this distance, Sajhe could see §the lines of white foam on its withers and round its mouth. He veered ply towards the bridge that led to the Chateau Comtal. Sajhe stood up to get a better view, balanced precariously on the sharp of the uneven tiles, in time to see Intendant Pelletier on a powerful appear between the gate towers, followed by Alais, also on horse She looked upset, he thought, and wondered what had happened 1 where they were going. They were not dressed for hunting. ajhe liked Alais. When she came to visit his grandmother, Esclarshe talked to him, unlike many ladies of the household, who tided he wasn't there. They were too anxious about the potions and cines they wanted Menina, his grandmother, to prepare for them ce a fever, ease a swelling, to bring on childbirth or for affairs of in all the years he'd worshipped Ala'is, Sajhe had never seen her I quite like she had just then. The boy slithered down the tawny tiles edge of the roof and lowered himself down, landing with a soft ap and only just avoiding a goat tethered to a lopsided cart. p! Watch what you're doing,' a woman yelled. Hfiever touched it,' he shouted, darting out of reach of her broom. Cite was buzzing with the sights, smells and sounds of market Wooden shutters banged against stone in every thoroughfare and y, as servants and householders opened their windows to the air before the sun became too hot. Coopers watched their apprentices rolling barrels over the cobbles, clattering and bumping and jolting, racing each other to get to the taverns before their rivals. Carts jerked awkwardly over the uneven ground, their wheels creaking and sticking from time to time as they rumbled towards the main square. Sajhe knew every shortcut in the Cite and he scampered in and out of the jostling arms and legs, dodging between the tapping hooves of sheep and goats, the donkeys and mules laden with goods and baskets, the pigs, lazy and slow, as they plodded their way through the streets. An older boy with an angry expression on his face was herding an unruly gaggle of geese, which honked and pecked at each other and at the bare legs of two little girls standing close by. Sajhe winked at them and tried to make them laugh. He went right up behind the ugliest bird and flapped his arms. "What do you think you're doing?' shouted the boy. 'Get away!' The girls laughed. Sajhe honked, just as the old, grey goose spun round, stuck its neck out and hissed viciously in his face. 'Serves you right, pec,' said the boy. 'Idiot.' Sajhe jumped back from the snapping orange beaks. You should control them better.' 'Only babies are scared of geese,' the boy sneered, squaring up to Sajhe. 'Is the baby frightened of a harmless little goose? Nenon.' 'I'm not scared,' boasted Sajhe, pointing at the girls who were now hiding behind their mother's legs. 'But they are. You should watch what you're doing.' 'And what's it got to do with you, /You're being too harsh on him, Rogier,' she hissed. 'He's just a boy.' 'And it only takes one person with a loose tongue and we'll be rounded J>Hp with the others. We can't afford to take risks. If people think we |*wociate with heretics--' >';¦ 'Heretic, indeed,' she snapped back. 'He's only a child!' v 'Not the boy. Esdarmonde. It's common knowledge she's one of them. [¦ And if it gets out that we go to pray in her house, they'll accuse us of following the Bons Homes too and we'll be persecuted.' 'So we abandon our friends? Just because of a few scare stories you've heard.' Senher Marti dropped his voice. 'I'm just saying we should be careful. pounds You know what people are saying. That an army is coming to drive the heretics out.' They've been saying that for years. You are making too much of it. As for the legates, these "men of God" have been strolling around the -Countryside for years now, drinking themselves into the grave and f nothing's ever come of it. Let the bishops argue it out amongst them iielves and leave the rest of us to get on with our lives.' She turned away from her husband. 'Take no notice,' she said, putting Ifcer hand on Sajhe's shoulder. "You've done nothing wrong.' Sajhe looked at his feet, not wanting her to see him cry. Na Marti continued in an unnaturally bright voice. 'Now then, weren't i saying the other day that you wanted to buy a present for Alais? Why 1't we see what we can find?' Sajhe nodded. He knew she was trying to reassure him, but he felt ied and embarrassed. | 1 don't have any means to pay,' he said. "Well, don't you worry about that. I'm sure we can overlook that just lis once. Now, why don't you take a look.' Na Marti ran her fingers over s colourful rows of thread. "What about this? Do you think she'd like it? t*s a perfect match for her eyes.' Sajhe fingered the delicate copper-brown thread. 'I'm not sure.' Well, I think she will. Shall I wrap it for you?' She turned away to look for a square of cloth to protect the thread. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Sajhe tried to think of something safe to say. 'I saw her earlier.' 'Alais, yes? How was she? With that sister of hers?' He pulled a face. 'No. But she didn't look very happy all the same.' Well,' said Na Marti, 'if she was upset before, then this is just the right time to give her a present. It will cheer her up. Alais usually comes to market in the morning, doesn't she? If you keep your eyes open and your wits about you, I'm sure you'll find her.' Glad to be excused from the strained company, Sajhe tucked the package under his tunic and said his goodbyes. After a couple of steps, he turned to wave. The Martis were standing side by side, looking after him, but saying nothing. The sun was now high in the sky. Sajhe wandered around, asking after Alais. No one had seen her. He was hungry now and had decided he might as well go home, when he suddenly caught sight of Alais standing at a stall offering goat's cheese for sale. He broke into a run and crept up on her, throwing his arms around her waist. 'Bonjorn.' Alais spun round, rewarding him with a wide smile when she saw who it was. 'Sajhe,' she said, ruffling his hair. "You gave me a surprise!' 'I've been looking for you everywhere,' he grinned. 'Are you all right? I saw you earlier. You looked upset.' 'Earlier?' You were riding into the Chateau with your father. Just after the messenger.' 'Ah, oc,' she said. 'Don't worry, I'm fine. I'd just had a tiring morning. How lovely to see your lively face, though.' She gave him a kiss on the top of his head, making Sajhe scarlet. He stared furiously at his feet, not wanting her to see. 'Anyway, since you're here, help me choose a good cheese.' The smooth round tablets of fresh goat's cheese were laid out in a perfect pattern on a bed of straw pressed tight inside wooden trays. Some looked dry with a yellowish skin. These were stronger flavoured and might be a fortnight old. Others, made more recently, glistened wet and soft. Alais asked the prices, pointing at this portion and that, asking Sajhe's advice, until at last they had chosen the piece she wanted. She gave him a coin from her purse to hand to the seller, while she pulled out ft small polished wooden board on which to carry the cheese. Sajhe's eyes flared wide with surprise when he glimpsed the pattern on the reverse. Why did Alais have it? How? In his confusion, he dropped ; coins on the ground. Embarrassed, he dived under the table, playing ' time. When he stood up again, to his relief Alais appeared not to have ed anything amiss, so Sajhe put the matter out of his mind. Instead, the transaction was complete, he plucked up the courage to give us her present. ':*I have something for you,' he said shyly, thrusting the package abruptly i her hands. 'How kind,' she said. 'Is it from Esclarmonde?' 'No, from me.' *What a lovely surprise. May I open it now?' He nodded, face serious, but eyes sparkling with anticipation as Alais efully unwrapped the parcel. 'Oh, Sajhe, it's beautiful,' she said, holding up the shiny, brown thread. t% absolutely beautiful.' 1 didn't steal it,' he said quickly. 'Na Marti gave it to me. I think she i trying to make it up to me.' The moment the words were out of his mouth, Sajhe regretted them. I^Make up to you for what?' said Alais quickly. |fju8t then, a shout went up. A man close by was pointing up at the sky. : of large, black birds was flying low across the Cite, from west to t, in the shape of an arrow. The sun seemed to glance off their sleek, ; feathers, like sparks from an anvil. Somebody close by said it was an en, although nobody could agree if it was a good one or a bad one. ajhe did not believe in such superstitions, but today it made him Alais seemed to feel something too, because she put her arm ad his shoulder and pulled him close. lat's wrong?' he asked. )tfRes,' she said, too quickly. Nothing. ligh above them, unconcerned with the human world, the birds inued on their way, until they were no more than a smudge in the CHAPTER 5 By the time Alais had shaken off her faithful shadow and made her way back to the Chateau Comtal, the midday bells were ringing out from SantNasari. She was exhausted and tripped several times going up the stairs, which seemed steeper than usual. All she wanted was to lie down in the privacy of her own chamber and rest. Alais was surprised to find her door closed. By now, the servants should have been in and finished their tasks. The curtains around the bed were still drawn. In the half-light, Alais saw Francois had put her panier on the low table beside the hearth as she'd asked him. She put the cheese board down on the nightstand, then walked to the window to pin back the shutter. It should have been opened well before now to air the chamber. Daylight flooded in, revealing a layer of dust on the furniture and the patches on the bed curtains where the material had grown thin. Alais walked over to the bed and pulled back the curtains. To her astonishment Guilhem was still lying there, sleeping just as she'd left him before dawn. She gaped in surprise. He looked so perfectly at ease, so fine. Even Oriane, who had little good to say about anyone, admitted Guilhem was one of the finest looking of Viscount Trencavel's chevaliers. Alais sat down on the bed next to him and ran her hand over his golden skin. Then, feeling unaccountably bold, she dipped a finger into the soft wet goat's cheese and spread a tiny amount on her husband's lips. Guilhem murmured and stirred beneath the bedclothes. He did not open his eyes, but he smiled languidly and reached out his hand. Alais caught her breath. The air around her seemed to vibrate with expectation and promise as she allowed him to pull her down towards him. The intimacy of the moment was shattered by the sound of heavy feet in the corridor. Somebody was bellowing Guilhem's name, a familiar voice, distorted by anger. Alais sprang up, mortified at the thought of her father witnessing so private a scene between them. Guilhem's eyes snapped open, just as the door was flung open and Pelletier strode into the room, Francois at his heels. You're late, du Mas,' he roared, snatching a cloak from the nearest chair and hurling it at his son-in-law's head. 'Get up. Everybody else is frjdready in the Great Hall, waiting.' Guilhem scrambled upright. 'The Hall?' fc*'Viscount Trencavel summons his chevaliers, yet here you lie in bed. you think that you can just please yourself?' He was standing over tiem. 'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?' letier suddenly noticed his daughter standing at the far side of die His face softened. 'Excuse me, Filha. I did not see you. Are you ; better?' i bowed her head. 'Pleasing you, Messire, I am quite well.' Feeling better?' asked Guilhem with confusion. 'Are you unwell? Is ething wrong?' : up!' Pelletier yelled, switching his attention back to the bed. You as much time as it takes me to walk down the stairs and cross the i, du Mas. If you are not in the Great Hall by then, it will be arse for you!' Without another word, Pelletier spun on his heel and I out of the chamber. the painful silence that followed his departure, Alais felt rooted to ispot with embarrassment, although whether for herself or her hus, she could not tell. fiem exploded. 'How dare he burst in here as if he owns me? Who ' he think he is?' With a savage kick, he launched the covers to the ' and hurled himself out of bed. 'Duty calls,' he said sarcastically. 'It 1't do to keep the great Intendant Pelletier waiting.' suspected that anything she said would make Guilhem's temper B. She wanted to tell him what had happened at the river, at least to mind off his own anger, but she had given her father her word I speak to no one. lem had already crossed the room and was getting dressed with . to her. His shoulders were tense as he pulled on his tabard and 1 his belt. : may be news . . .' she started to say. c's no excuse,' he snapped. 'I received no word.' 1. .' Alais let her words tail off. What to say? : picked up his cloak from the bed and offered it to him. Will you ?' she said softly. 'Since I do not know why I am summoned to Council in the first place, how can I say?' he said, still angry. All at once, his temper seemed to leave him. His shoulders relaxed and he turned to face her, no longer scowling. 'Forgive me, Alais. You cannot answer for your father's behaviour.' He traced the outline of her chin with his hand. 'Come. Help me with this.' Guilhem bent forward so Alais could reach the fastening more easily. Even so, she had to stand on tiptoe to fasten the round silver and copper brooch at his shoulder. 'Merce, mon cor,' he said when she was done. 'Right. Let's find out what this is all about. It's probably nothing of importance.' 'As we were riding back into the Cite this morning, a messenger arrived,' she said without thinking about it. Immediately, Alais castigated herself. Now he was sure to ask where she'd been so early, and with her father, but his attention was on retrieving his sword from under the bed and he didn't pick up on her words. Alais winced at the harsh sound of the metal as he pushed the blade back into its scabbard. It was a sound that, more than any other, symbolised his departure from her world to the world of men. As Guilhem turned, his cloak fell against the wooden cheese board that was still balanced precariously on the edge of the table. It fell, tumbling with a clatter to the stone floor. 'It doesn't matter,' Alai's said quickly, not wanting to risk her father's anger by delaying Guilhem any longer. 'The servants will do this. You go. Return when you can.' Guilhem smiled and was gone. When she could no longer hear his tread, Alais turned back to the room and looked at the mess. Lumps of white cheese, wet and viscous, were stuck in the straw matting covering the floor. She sighed and bent down to retrieve the board. It had come to rest on its side propped against the wooden bolster. As she picked it up, her fingers brushed against something on the underside. Alais turned it over to look. A labyrinth had been carved into the polished surface of the dark wood. 'Meravelhos. So beautiful,' she murmured. Captivated by the perfect lines of the circles, curving around in ever decreasing circles, Alais traced the pattern with her fingers. It was smooth, flawless, a labour of love created with care and precision. She felt a memory shift at the back of her mind. Alais held the board up, sure now that she had seen something like once before, but the memory was elusive and refused to come out of the dark. She couldn't even remember where the board had come from in the first place. In the end she gave up trying to chase down the thought. Alais summoned her servant, Severine, to clear the room. After that, to j j«ep her mind from what was happening in the Great Hall, she turned 1 attention to the plants she had harvested from the river at dawn. fThe crop already had been left too long. The linen cloths had dried , the roots were brittle and the leaves had lost most of their moisture, ent she could salvage something, Alais sprinkled water over the ¦ and set to work. at all the time she was grinding the roots and sewing the flowers into for air sweeteners, all the time she was preparing the lotion for lies' leg, her eyes kept drifting back to the wooden board where it lay i on the table in front of her, refusing to give up its secrets. lem ran across the courtyard, his cloak flapping uncomfortably . his knees, cursing his bad luck that today of all days he should be it out. I1 was unusual for chevaliers to be included in the Council. The fact if they'd been summoned to the Great Hall, rather than the donjon, ed something serious. Pelletier speaking the truth when he said he'd sent a personal to Guilhem's chamber earlier? He couldn't be sure. What if had come and found him absent? What would Pelletier have to at that? ¦ way, the end result was the same. He was in trouble. heavy door leading to the Great Hall stood open. Guilhem huri the steps, taking them two at a time. lis eyes adjusted to the gloom of the corridor, he saw the distinctive of his father-in-law standing outside the entrance to the Hall Guilhem took a deep breath and carried on walking, his head Pelletier put out his arm, blocking his path, i were you?' he said. me, Messire. I did not receive the summons--' ier's face was a deep, thunderous red. 'How dare you be late?' he I ft voice of steel. 'Do you think that orders do not apply to you? i are so celebrated a chevalier that you can choose to come and go 1 please rather than as your Seigneur bids you?' tire, I swear on my honour that if I had known--' Pelletier gave a bitter laugh. "Your honour,' he said fiercely, jabbing Guilhem in the chest. 'Don't play me for a fool, du Mas. I sent my own servant to your rooms to give you the message in person. You had more than enough time to make yourself ready. Yet I have to come and fetch you myself. And, when I do, I find you in bed!' Guilhem opened his mouth, then shut it again. He could see pools of spittle forming in the corners of Pelletier's mouth and in the grey bristles of his beard. 'Not so full of yourself now, then! What, nothing to say? I am warning you, du Mas, the fact that you are married to my daughter will not prevent me from making an example of you.' 'Sire, I did--' Without warning, Pelletier's fist slammed into his stomach. It was not a hard punch, but it was forceful enough to catch him off balance. Taken by surprise, Guilhem stumbled back against the wall. Straight away, Pelletier's massive hand was around his throat, pushing his head back against the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, Guilhem could see the sirjan at the door leaning forward to get a better view of what was going on. 'Have I made myself clear?' he spat in Guilhem's face, increasing the pressure again. Guilhem couldn't speak. 'I can't hear you, gojat,' Pelletier said. 'Have I made myself clear?' This time, he managed to choke out the words. 'Oc, Messire.' He could feel himself turning puce. The blood was hammering in his head. 'I am warning you, du Mas. I'm watching. I'm waiting. And if you make one wrong step, I will see that you live to regret it. Do we understand one another?' Guilhem gulped for air. He just managed to nod, scraping his cheek against the rough surface of the wall, when Pelletier gave a last, vicious shove, crunching his ribs against the hard stone, and released him. Rather than go back into the Great Hall, Pelletier stormed out in the opposite direction into the courtyard. The moment he'd gone, Guilhem doubled over, coughing and rubbing his throat, taking in great gulps of air like a drowning man. He massaged his neck and wiped the smear of blood from his lip. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Guilhem straightened his clothes. Already his head was filled with the ways in which he would bring Pelletier to account for humiliating him like this. Twice in the space of one day. The insult was too great to be ignored. Suddenly aware of the steady murmur of voices spilling out of the Great Hall, Guilhem realised he should join his comrades before Pelletier came back and found him still standing outside. The guard made no attempt to hide his amusement. *What are you staring at?' Guilhem demanded. 'You keep your tongue in your head, do you hear, or it will be the worse for you.' It wasn't an idle threat. The guard immediately dropped his eyes and tstood aside to let Guilhem enter. That's more like it.' With Pelletier's threats still ringing in his ears, Guilhem slipped into Ike Chamber as unobtrusively as he could. Only his high colour and the pid beating of his heart betrayed anything of what had taken place. CHAPTER 6 Viscount Raymond-Roger Trencavel stood on a platform at the far end of the Great Hall. He noticed Guilhem du Mas slipping in late at the back, but it was Pelletier he was waiting for. Trencavel was dressed for diplomacy, not war. His red, long-sleeved tunic, with gold trim around the neck and cuffs, reached to his knees. His blue cloak was held at the neck by a large, round gold buckle that caught the light from the sun shining in through the high windows that ran along the top of the southern wall of the chamber. Above his head was a huge shield bearing the Trencavel coat of arms, with two heavy metal pikes forming a diagonal cross behind it. The same ensign appeared on banners, ceremonial clothes and armour. It hung above the portcullis of the moated gateway of the Porte Narbonnaise, both to welcome friends and to remind them of the historic bond between the Trencavel dynasty and its subjects. To the left of the shield was a tapestry of a dancing unicorn, which had hung on the same wall for generations. On the far side of the platform, set deep into the wall, was a small door that led to the Viscount's private living quarters in the Tour Pinte, the watchtower and oldest part of the Chateau Comtal. The door was shielded by long blue curtains, also embroidered with the three strips of ermine that made up the Trencavel arms. They gave some protection from the bitter draughts that whistled through the Great Hall in winter. Today they were held back with a single, heavy gold twist. Raymond-Roger Trencavel had spent his early childhood in these rooms, then returned to live within these ancient walls with his wife, Agnes de Montpellier, and his two year-old son and heir. He knelt in the same tiny chapel as his parents had knelt; he slept in their oak bed, in which he had been born. On summer days like these, he looked out of the same arched windows at dusk and watched the setting sun paint the sky red over the Pays d'Oc. From a distance, Trencavel appeared calm and untroubled, with his brown hair resting lightly on his shoulders and his hands clasped behind his back. But his face was anxious and his eyes kept darting to the main door. Pelletier was sweating heavily. His clothes were stiff and uncomfortable beneath his arms, clinging to the small of his back. He felt old and ||iunequal to the task ahead of him. He'd hoped the fresh air would clear his head. It hadn't. He was still with himself for losing his temper and allowing his animosity rds his son-in-law to deflect him from the task in hand. He couldn't ' himself the luxury of thinking about it now. He would deal with du i later if need be. Now, his place was at the Viscount's side. Hi Simeon was not far from his mind either. Pelletier could still feel the erising fear that had gripped his heart as he rolled the body over in I water. And the relief when the bloated face of a stranger stared, deadi, up at him. : heat inside the Great Hall was overwhelming. More than a ed men, of church and state, were packed into the hot, airless nber, which reeked of sweat, anxiety and wine. There was a steady le of restless and uneasy conversation. ?Thc servants standing closest to the door bowed as Pelletier appeared brushed to bring him wine. Immediately opposite, across the chamber, a row of high-backed chairs of dark, polished wood, similar to the stalls of the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari. In them sat the Hty of the Midi, the seigneurs of Mirepoix and Fanjeaux, Coursan ITermenes, Albi and Mazamet. Each had been invited to Carcassonne brate the feast day of Sant-Nasari, yet now found himself instead loned to Council. Pelletier could see the tension in their faces. : picked his way through the groups of men, the consuls of Carcasand leading citizens from the market suburbs of Sant-Vicens and -Miquel, his experienced gaze taking in the room without appearing so. Churchmen and a few monks were skulking in the shadows the northern wall, their faces half-hidden by their robes and their I folded out of sight inside the capacious sleeves of their black habits. chevaliers of Carcassonne, Guilhem du Mas now among them, standing in front of the huge stone fireplace that stretched from to ceiling on the opposite side of the chamber. The escrivan Jehan t, Trencavel's scribe - and the husband of Pelletier's eldest daughriane - was sitting at his high desk at the front of the hall. Btier came to a halt in front of the dais and bowed. A look of relief i across Viscount Trencavel's face. 'Forgive me, Messire.' 'No matter, Bertrand,' he said, gesturing that Pelletier should join him. 'You're here now.' They exchanged a few words, their heads close together so that nobody could overhear them. Then, on Trencavel's word, Pelletier stepped forward. 'My lords,' he bellowed. 'My lords, pray silence for your Seigneur, Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Viscount of Carcassona, Besiers and Albi.' Trencavel stepped into the light, his hands spread wide in a gesture of greeting. The Hall fell silent. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. 'Benvenguda, my lords, loyal friends,' he said. Welcome. His voice was as true as a bell and as steady, giving the lie to his youth. 'Benvenguda a Carcassona. Thank you for your patience and for your presence. I am grateful to you all.' Pelletier cast his eye over the sea of faces, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. He could see curiosity, excitement, self-interest and trepidation, and understood each emotion. Until they knew why they had been summoned and, more significantly, what Trencavel wanted of them, none of them knew how to behave. 'It is my fervent hope,' Trencavel continued, 'that the Tournament and Feast will go ahead at the end of this month as planned. However, today we have received information that is so serious and with such far-reaching consequences that I believe it right to share it with you. For it affects us all. 'For the benefit of those not present at our last Council, let me remind you all of how the situation stands. Frustrated by the failure of his legates and preachers to convert the free people of this land to show obedience to the Church of Rome, at Easter one year ago, His Holiness Pope Innocent III preached a Crusade to rid Christendom of what he called the "cancer of heresy" spreading unchecked through the lands of the Pays d'Oc. 'The so-called heretics, the Bons Homes, were, he claimed, worse than the very Saracens. However, his words, for all their passion and rhetoric, fell on deaf ears. The King of France was unmoved. Support was slow to come. 'The target of his venom was my uncle, Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse. Indeed, it was the intemperate actions of my uncle's men who were implicated in the murder of the Papal Legate, Peter de Castelnau - that caused His Holiness to turn his eye on the Pays d'Oc in the first instance. My uncle was indicted on a charge of tolerating the spread of heresy in his lands and - by implication - ours.' Trencavel hesitated, then corrected himself. 'No, not of tolerating heresy, but of mcouraging the Bons Homes to seek a home within his domains.' A fiercely ascetic-looking monk standing near the front raised his I, seeking permission to speak. Ifc'Holy brother,' said Trencavel swiftly, 'if I may beg your patience a I longer. When I have finished what I have to say, then all will have ¦ chance. The time for debate will come.' vling, the monk let his arm fall back. line between tolerance and encouragement, my friends, is a fine , pounds he continued softly. Pelletier nodded to himself, silently applauding ite handling of the situation. 'So, whilst I freely acknowledged that [desteemed uncle's reputation for piety is not what it might be--' . paused, drawing them into the implied criticism, 'and whilst I UbCcept that his behaviour is hardly above reproach, it is not for us to the rights and wrongs of the matter.' He smiled. 'Let the priests i theology and leave the rest of us in peace.' i paused. A shadow fell across his face. Now, there was no light left t voice. was not the first time the independence and sovereignty of our I had been threatened by invaders from the North. I did not think : would come of it. I could not believe that Christian blood would . on Christian soil with the blessing of the Catholic Church. uncle Toulouse did not share my optimism. From the start, the threat of invasion was real. To protect his lands and ity, he offered us an alliance. What I said to him, you will ren that we, the people of the Pays d'Oc, live in peace with our be they Bons Homes, Jews, even Saracens. If they uphold s, if they respect our ways and our traditions, then they are of our That was my answer then.' He paused. 'And it would be my still.' tier nodded his approval at these words, watching as a wave of it spread through the Great Hall, sweeping up even the Bishops priests. Only the same solitary monk, a Dominican from the ' of his habit, was unmoved. We have a different interpretation of t,' he muttered in his strong, Spanish accent. i further back, another voice rang out. e, forgive me, but all this we know. This is old news. What of 'Why are we called to Council?' Pelletier recognised the arrogant, lazy tones of the most troublesome of Berenger de Massabrac's five sons, and would have intervened had he not felt the Viscount's hand on his arm. 'Thierry de Massabrac,' said Trencavel, his voice deceptively benign, 'we are grateful for your question. However, some of us here are less familiar with the complicated path of diplomacy than you.' Several men laughed and Thierry flushed. 'But you are right to ask. I have called you here today because the situation has changed.' Although nobody spoke, the atmosphere within the Hall shifted. If the Viscount was aware of the tightening of tension, he gave no indication of it, Pelletier was pleased to note, but continued to speak with the same easy confidence and authority. 'This morning we received news that the threat from the northern army is both more significant - and more immediate - than we previously thought. L'Ost - as this unholy army is calling itself- mustered in Lyon on the feast day of John the Baptist. Our estimate is that as many as 20,000 chevaliers swamped the city, accompanied by who knows how many thousand more sappers, priests, ostlers, carpenters, clerics, farriers. The Host departed Lyon with that white wolf, Arnald-Amalric, the Abbot of Citeaux, at its head.' He paused and looked around the Hall. 'I know it is a name that will strike like iron in the hearts of many of you.' Pelletier saw older statesmen nodding. With him are the Catholic Archbishops of Reims, Sens and Rouen, as well as the Bishops of Autun, Clermont, Nevers, Bayeux, Chartres and Lisieux. As for the temporal leadership, although King Philip of France has not heeded the call to arms, nor allowed his son to go in his stead, many of the most powerful barons and principalities of the North have done so. Congost, if you please.' At the sound of his name, the escrivan ostentatiously put down his quill. His lank hair fell across his face. His skin, white and spongy, was almost translucent from a lifetime spent inside. Congost made great play of reaching down into his large leather bag and pulling out a roll of parchment. It seemed to have a life of its own in his sweaty hands. 'Get on with it, man,' Pelletier muttered under his breath. Congost puffed out his chest and cleared his throat several times, before finally beginning to read. 'Eudes, Duke of Burgundy; Herve, Count of Nevers; the Count of Saint-Pol; the Count of Auvergne; Pierre d'Auxerre; Herve de Geneve; Guy d'Evreux; Gaucher de Chatillon; Simon de Montfort . . .' Congost's voice was shrill and expressionless, yet each name seemed to fall like a stone into a dry well, reverberating through the Hall. These were powerful enemies, influential barons of the north and east with resources, money and men at their disposal. They were opponents to be feared, not dismissed. Little by little, the size and nature of the army massing against the South took shape. Even Pelletier, who had read the list for himself, felt dread shiver down his spine. There was a low, steady rumble in the Hall now: surprise, disbelief and anger. Pelletier picked out the Cathar Bishop of Carcassonne. He was listening intently, his face expressionless, with several leading Cathar priests - parfaits - by his side. Next, his sharp eyes found the pinched, hooded features of Berenger de Rochefort, the Catholic Bishop of Carcassonne, standing on the opposite side of the Great Hall with his *rms folded, flanked by priests from the cathedral church of SantNasari tnd others from SantCernin. Pelletier was confident that, for the time being at least, de Rochefort would maintain allegiance to Viscount Trencavel rather than to the Pope. But how long would that last? A man with divided loyalties was not to be trusted. He would change sides as surely as the sun rose in the east and set I in the west. Not for the first time, Pelletier wondered if it would be wise ittO dismiss the churchmen now, so that they could hear nothing they 'might feel obliged to report to their masters. "We can stand against them, however many,' came a shout from the 'Carcassona is impregnable!' Others started to call out too. 'So is 3urs!' Soon there were voices coming from every corner of the Great echoing off every surface like thunder caught in the gulleys and of the Montagne Noire. 'Let them come to the hills,' shouted ler. "We'll show them what it means to fight.' {Raising his hand, Raymond-Roger acknowledged the display of sup : with a smile. if.£My lords, my friends,' he said, almost shouting to make himself heard. ; for your courage, for your steadfast loyalty.' He paused, waiting e noise level to fall back. 'These men of the North owe no allegiance nor do we owe allegiance to them, except for that which binds all i on this earth under God. However, I did not expect betrayal by one is bound by all ties of obligation, family and duty to protect our i and people. I speak of my uncle and liege lord, Raymond, Count of Duse. A hushed silence descended over the assembled company. 'Some weeks ago, I received reports that my uncle had submitted himself to a ritual of such humiliation that it shames me to speak of it. I sought verification of these rumours. They were true. At the great cathedral church of Sant-Gilles, in the presence of the papal legate, the Count of Toulouse was received back into the arms of the Catholic Church. He was stripped to the waist and, wearing the cord of a penitent around his neck, he was scourged by the priests as he crawled on his knees to beg forgiveness.' Trencavel paused a moment, to allow his words to sink in. Through this vile abasement, he was received back into the arms of the Holy Mother Church.' A murmur of contempt spread through the Council. *Yet there is more, my friends. I have no doubt that his ignominious display was intended to prove the strength of his faith and his opposition to the heresy. However, it seems even this was not enough to avert the danger he knew was coming. He has surrendered control of his dominions to the legates of His Holiness the Pope. What I learned today--' He paused. Today I learned that Raymond, Count of Toulouse, is in Valence, less than a week's march away, with several hundred of his men. He waits only for word to lead the northern invaders across the river at Beaucaire and into our lands.' He paused. 'He has taken the Crusaders' cross. My lords, he intends to march against us.' Finally, the Hall erupted in howls of outrage. 'Silenci,' Pelletier bellowed until his throat was hoarse, vainly trying to restore order to chaos. 'Silence. Pray silence!' It was an unequal battle, one voice against so many. The Viscount stepped forward to the edge of the dais, positioning himself directly beneath the Trencavel coat of arms. His cheeks were flushed, but the battle light shone in his eyes and defiance and courage radiated from his face. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the Chamber and all those within it. The gesture hushed all. 'So I stand here before you now, my friends and allies, in the ancient spirit of honour and allegiance that binds each of us to our brothers, to seek your good counsel. We, the men of the Midi, have only two paths left open to us and very little time to choose which to take. The question is this. Per Carcassona!' For Carcassonne. Per lo Mieg/'orn.' For the lands of the Midi. 'Must we submit? Or shall we fight?' As Trencavel sat back in his chair, exhausted by his efforts, the noise levels in the Great Hall billowed around him. Pelletier could not help himself. He bent forward and put his hand on the young man's shoulder. 'Well spoken, Messire,' he said quietly. 'Most nobly done, my lord.' ,1 CHAPTER 7 For hour upon hour, the debate raged. Servants scuttled to and fro, fetching baskets of bread and grapes, platters of meat and white cheese, endlessly filling and refilling the great jugs of wine. Nobody ate much, but they did drink, which fired their anger and dimmed their judgement. The world outside the Chateau Comtal went on just the same. The bells of the churches marked the devotional hours of the day. The monks sang and the nuns prayed, cocooned within Sant-Nasari. In the streets of Carcassonne, the townspeople went about their business. In the suburbs and dwellings beyond the fortified walls, children played, women worked, merchants and peasants and guildsmen ate and talked and played dice. Inside the Great Hall, reasoned argument started to give way to insults, recriminations. One faction wanted to stand firm. The other argued in favour of an alliance with the Count of Toulouse, arguing that if estimates of the size of the army mustered at Lyon were accurate, then even their combined strength was not sufficient to withstand such an enemy. Every man could hear the drums of war beating in his head. Some imagined honour and glory on the battlefield, the clash of steel on steel. Others saw blood covering the hills and the plains, an endless stream of the dispossessed and wounded stumbling defeated across the burning land. Pelletier tirelessly wandered up and down the chamber, looking for signs of dissent or opposition or challenges to the Viscount's authority. Nothing he observed gave him real cause for concern. He was confident that his Seigneur had done enough to bind all to him and that, regardless of individual interests, the lords of the Pays d'Oc would unite behind Viscount Trencavel, whatever decision he reached. The battle lines were drawn on geographical rather than ideological grounds. Those whose lands were on the more vulnerable plains wanted to put their faith in the power of talk. Those whose dominions lay in the 7° highlands of the Montagne Noire to the north or the mountains of the Sabarthes and the Pyrenees to the south and west were determined to stand firm against the Host and fight. Pelletier knew that it was with them that Viscount Trencavel's heart lay. He was cast from the same metal as the mountain lords and shared their fierce independence of spirit. But Pelletier knew too that Trencavel's head told him that the only chance of keeping his lands intact and protecting his people was to swallow his pride and negotiate. By late afternoon, the chamber smelled of frustration and arguments gone i"».ftale. Pelletier was weary. He was worn out by picking over the bones, by '"all the fine phrases that turned round and round upon themselves without tver reaching an end. Now, his head was hurting too. He felt stiff and old, too old for this, he thought, as he turned the ring he wore always on '¦ his thumb, reddening the calloused skin underneath. It was time to bring matters to a conclusion. Summoning a servant to bring water, he dipped a square of linen into the pitcher and handed it to the Viscount. -' 'Here, Messire,' he said. Trencavel took the wet cloth gratefully and wiped his forehead and neck. 'Do you think we have allowed them long enough?' 1 believe so, Messire,' Pelletier replied. fe' Trencavel nodded. He was sitting with his hands resting firmly on the 1 wooden arms of his chair, looking as calm as he had when he had taken to his feet and addressed the Council. Many older, more exrienced men would have struggled to keep control of such a gathering, etier thought. It was his strength of character that gave him the age to carry it through. j. 'It is as we discussed before, Messire}' 'It is,' Trencavel replied. 'Although they are not all of one mind, I think the minority will follow the wishes of the majority in this . . .' He and for the first time a note of indecision, of regret, coloured his s. 'But, Bertrand, I wish there was another way.' jf-1 know, Messire,' he said quietly. 'I feel the same. But, however much it us, there is no alternative. Your only hope of protecting your pie lies in negotiating a truce with your uncle.' !><*He might refuse to receive me, Bertrand,' he said quietly. 'When last : met, I said things I ought not to have said. We parted on bad terms.' Pelletier put his hand on Trencavel's arm. That's a risk we have to take/ he said, although he shared the same concern. 'Time has moved on since then. The facts of the matter speak for themselves. If the Host is indeed as great as they say - even if it is half that size - then we have no choice. Within the Cite we will be safe, but your people outside the walls . . . Who will protect them? The Count's decision to take the Cross has left us - left you, Messire - as the only possible target. The Host will not be disbanded now. It needs an enemy to fight.' Pelletier looked down into Raymond-Roger's troubled face and saw regret and sorrow. He wanted to offer some comfort, say something, anything, but he could not. Any lack of resolve now would be fatal. There could be no weakening, no doubt. More hung on Viscount Trencavel's decision than the young man would ever know. ^You have done everything you can, Messire. You must hold firm. You must finish this. The men grow restless.' Trencavel glanced at the coat of arms above him, then back to Pelletier. For a moment, they held one another's gaze. 'Inform Congost,' he said. With a deep sigh of relief, Pelletier walked quickly to where the escrivan was sitting at his desk, massaging his stiff fingers. Congost's head shot up, but he said nothing as he picked up his feather and sat poised to record the final decision of the Council. For the last time, Raymond-Roger Trencavel rose to his feet. 'Before I announce my decision, I must thank you all. Lords of Carcasses, Razes, Albigeois and the dominions beyond, I salute your strength, your fortitude and your loyalty. We have talked for many hours and you have shown great patience and spirit. We have nothing to reproach ourselves with. We are the innocent victims of a war not of our making. Some of you will be disappointed at what I am about to say, others pleased. I pray that we will all find the courage, with God's help and mercy, to stand together.' He drew himself up. 'For the good of us all - and for the safety of our people - I will seek an audience with my uncle and liege lord, Raymond, Count of Toulouse. We have no way of knowing what will come of this. It is not even certain my uncle will receive me and time is not on our side. It is therefore important that we keep our intentions hidden. Rumour spreads fast and if something of our purpose reaches the ears of my uncle, it might weaken our bargaining position. Accordingly, preparations for the Tournament will continue as planned. My aim is to return well before the Feast Day, I hope with good news.' He paused. 'It is my intention to leave tomorrow, at first light, taking with me only a small contingent of chevaliers and representatives, with your leave, from the great house of Cabaret, as well as Minerve, Foix, Quillan . . .' You have my sword, Messire,' called one chevalier. 'And mine,' cried another. One by one, men fell to their knees around the Hall. Smiling, Trencavel held up his hand. "Your courage, your valour, honours us all,' he said. 'My steward will inform those of you whose services are required. For now, my friends, I , you grant me leave. I suggest you all return to your quarters to rest. 5 will meet at dinner.' the commotion that accompanied Viscount Trencavel's departure i the Great Hall, nobody noticed a single figure in a long blue hooded : slide out of the shadows and slip away through the door. Itf' CHAPTER 8 The bell for Vespers had long since fallen silent by the time Pelletier finally emerged from the Tour Pinte. Feeling every one of his fifty-two years, Pelletier lifted aside the curtain and walked back into the Great Hall. He rubbed his temples with tired hands, trying to ease the persistent, hammering ache in his head. Viscount Trencavel had spent the time since the end of Council with the strongest of his allies, talking about how best to approach the Count of Toulouse. Talking for hour upon hour. One by one, decisions had been taken and messengers had galloped out from the Chateau Comtal bearing letters not only to Raymond VI, but also to the Papal Legates, to the Abbot of Citeaux and Trencavel's consuls and viguiers in Beziers. The chevaliers who were to accompany the Viscount had been informed. In the stables and the smithy, preparations were already in hand and would continue most of the night. The chamber was filled with a hushed but expectant silence. Because of tomorrow's early departure, instead of the planned banquet there was to be a more informal meal instead. Long trestle tables had been set out, unclothed, in rows running from north to south across the room. Candles flickered dimly in the centre of each table. In the high wall sconces, the torches were already burning fiercely, setting the shadows dancing and flickering. At the far end of the room, servants came in and out, carrying dishes that were more plentiful than ceremonial. Hart, venison, chicken drumsticks with capsicum, earthenware bowls filled with beans and sausage and freshly-baked white bread, purple plums stewed in honey, rose-coloured wine from the vineyards of the Corbieres and pitchers of ale for those with weaker heads. Pelletier nodded his approval. He was pleased. In his absence, Francois had deputised well. Everything looked as it should and of a level of courtesy and hospitality Viscount Trencavel's guests had the right to expect. Francois was a good servant, despite his unfortunate start in life. His mother had been in the service of Pelletier's French wife, Marguerite, and was hanged for a thief when Francois was no more than a boy. His father was unknown. When his wife had died nine years ago, Pelletier had taken Francois on, trained him and given him a position. From time to time, he allowed himself to feel satisfaction at how well Francois had turned out. Pelletier walked out into the Cour d'Honneur. The air was cool here nd he lingered a while in the doorway. Children were playing around the earning a slap on the legs from their nurses when the boisterous got too rowdy. Older girls strolled arm in arm in the twilight, 5, whispering their secrets to one another. first he didn't notice the small, dark-haired boy sitting crossedi on the wall by the chapel. fessire! Messiref cried the boy, scrambling to his feet. 'I got something tier took no notice. 'Messire,' The boy persisted, tugging at his : to attract his attention. 'Intendant Pelletier, please. Important.' I felt something being pushed into his hand. He looked down to see 1 a letter written on heavy, cream parchment. His heart lurched. On lltside was his own name, inscribed in a familiar, distinctive hand. 1 had persuaded himself he'd never see it again. 1 grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck. 'Where did you get ft he demanded, shaking him roughly. 'Speak.' The boy wriggled like jfeWl- a line, trying to get free. 'Tell me. Quick, now.' ; gave it to me at the gate,' the boy whimpered. 'Don't hurt me. i nothing.' shook him harder. What sort of man?' :aman.' have to do better than that,' he said harshly, his voice rising. it a Win it for you if you can tell me what I want to know. Was the 5? Old? Was he a soldier?' He paused. 'A Jew?' : fired question after question until he'd dragged the facts out of They didn't amount to much. Pons told him he'd been playing ends in the moat of the Chateau Comtal, trying to get across from I of the bridge to the other without the guards catching them. At JfHrhen the light was just beginning to fade, a man had approached 1 asked if anybody knew Intendant Pelletier by sight. When Pons I did, the man had given him a sol to deliver the letter. He said it f important and very urgent. i was nothing special about the man that marked him out. He was of middle years, neither old nor young. He was not especially dark, nor fair either. His face was unmarked, unblemished by either pox or fight. He hadn't noticed if the man wore a ring, because his hands were concealed underneath his cloak. Finally satisfied he had learned all he could, Pelletier reached into his purse and gave the boy a coin. 'Here. This is for your trouble. Now, go.' Pons didn't wait to be told a second time. He wriggled out of Pelletier's grasp and ran, as fast as his legs would carry him. Pelletier headed back inside, holding the letter tight to his chest. He registered no one as he swept through the corridor leading to his chamber. The door was locked. Cursing his own caution, Pelletier fumbled with the keys, his haste making him clumsy. Francois had lit the calelhs, the oil lamps, and set his night tray with a jug of wine and two earthenware goblets on the table in the centre of the room, as he did every night. The highly polished brass surface of the tray gleamed in the flickering, golden light. Pelletier poured himself a drink to steady his nerves, his head full of dusty images, memories of the Holy Land and the long, red shadows of the desert. Of the three books and the ancient secret contained within their pages. The coarse wine was sour on his tongue and hit the back of this throat with a sting. He downed it in one, then refilled the goblet. Many times he'd tried to visualise how he would feel at this moment. Yet now it had finally come, he felt numb. Pelletier sat down, placing the letter on the table between his outstretched hands. He knew what it said. It was the message he'd been both anticipating and dreading for many years, ever since he'd arrived in Carcassonne. In those days, the prosperous and tolerant lands of the Midi had seemed a safe hiding place. As the seasons rolled one into the next, over time Pelletier's expectations of being called upon diminished. Day-to-day life took over. Thoughts of the books faded from his mind. In the end, he had almost forgotten that he was waiting at all. More than twenty years had passed since he'd last set eyes upon the author of the letter. Until this moment, he realised, he'd not even known if his teacher and mentor was still alive. It was Harif who had taught him to read in the shade of the olive groves on the hills outside Jerusalem. It was Harif who'd opened his senses to a world more glorious, more magnificent than anything Pelletier had ever known. It was Harif who'd taught him to see that Saracens, Jews and Christians were following but different paths to the one God. And it was Harif who'd revealed to him that beyond all that was known lay a truth far older, more ancient, more absolute than anything the modern world had to offer. The night of Pelletier's initiation into the Noublesso de los Seres was as sharp and clear in his mind as if it was yesterday. The shimmering robes of gold and the bleached white altar cloth, as dazzling as the forts that glinted high on the hills above Aleppo among the cypress trees and orange groves. The smell of the incense, the rise and fall of the voices whispering in the darkness. Illumination. That night, another lifetime ago, or so it seemed to Pelletier now, was ' when he had looked into the heart of the labyrinth and made a vow to iprotect the secret with his life. He pulled the candle closer. Even without the authenticity of the seal, ¦¦Acre could be no doubt that the letter was from Harif. He would j fecognise his hand anywhere, the distinctive elegance of his letters and .the exact proportions of his script. Pelletier shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories threatening i overwhelm him. He took a deep breath, then slipped his knife under « seal. The wax split open with a soft crack. He smoothed the par it flat. The letter was brief. Across the top of the sheet were the symbols ier remembered from the yellow walls of the labyrinth cave in the outside the Holy City. Written in the ancient language of Harif s estors, they meant nothing except to those initiated into the Noublesso. D i i i J7 2fJ Jnf> s=Jx C=C7<: _> Pelletier read the words aloud, the familiar sounds reassuring him, before turning to Harif s letter. Fraire It is time. Darkness is coming to these lands. There is malice in the air, an evil that will destroy and corrupt all that is good. The texts are no longer safe in the plains of the Pays d'Oc. It is time for the Trilogy to be reunited. Your brother awaits you in Besiers, your sister in Carcassona. It falls to you to carry the books to a place of greater safety. Make haste. The summer passes to Navarre will be closed by Toussaint, perhaps sooner if the snows come early. I shall expect you by the Feast Day of SantMiquel. Pas a pas, se va luenh. The chair creaked as Pelletier leaned sharply back. It was no more than he expected. Harif s instructions were clear. He asked no more than Pelletier had once sworn to give. But yet, he felt as if his soul had been sucked out of his body leaving only a hollow space. The pledge he had given to guard the books had been made willingly, but in the simplicity of youth. Now, at the end of his middle years, it was more complicated. He had fashioned a different life for himself in Carcassonne. He had other allegiances, others he loved and served. Only now did he realise how completely he'd persuaded himself that the moment of reckoning would not come in his lifetime. That he would never be forced to choose between his loyalty and responsibility to Viscount Trencavel and his obligation to the Noublesso. No man could serve two masters with honour. If he did as Harif commanded, it would mean abandoning the Viscount at the hour of his greatest need. Yet every moment he stayed at Raymond-Roger's side, he would be failing in his duty to the Noublesso. Pelletier read the letter again, praying for a solution to present itself. This time, certain words, certain phrases stood out: 'your brother awaits you in Besiers.' Harif could only mean Simeon. But in Beziers? Pelletier lifted the goblet to his lips and drank, tasting nothing. How strange that Simeon had come so forcefully into his mind today, after many years of absence. A twist of fate? Coincidence? Pelletier believed in neither. Yet how to account for the dread that had swept through him when Alais had described the body of the man lying murdered in the waters of the Aude? There was no reason to imagine it would be Simeon, yet he'd been so certain. And this: 'your sister in Carcassona.' Puzzled, Pelletier traced a pattern in the light surface of dust on the wooden table with his finger. A labyrinth. i Could Harif have appointed a woman as a guardian? Had she been here in Carcassonne, under his nose, all this time? He shook his head. It Icould not be. CHAPTER 9 Alais stood at her window, waiting for Guilhem to return. The sky over Carcassonne was a deep, velvet blue, casting a soft mantle over the land. The dry, evening wind from the north, the Cers, was blowing gently down from the mountains, rustling the leaves on the trees and the reeds on the banks of the Aude, bringing the promise of fresher air along with it. There were pinpricks of light shining in Sant-Miquel and SantVicens. The cobbled streets of the Cite itself were alive with people eating and drinking, telling stories and singing songs of love and valour and loss. Around the corner from the main square, the fires of the blacksmith's forge still burned. Waiting. Always waiting. Alais had rubbed her teeth with herbs to make them whiter and sewn a small sachet of forget-me-nots into the neck of her dress for perfume. The chamber was filled with a sweet aroma of burning lavender. The Council had ended some time ago and Alais had expected Guilhem to come or at least to send word to her. Fragments of conversation drifted up from the courtyard below like wisps of smoke. She caught a glimpse of her sister Oriane's husband, Jehan Congost, as he scuttled across the courtyard. She counted seven or eight chevaliers of the household and their ecuyers, rushing purposefully to the forge. Earlier, she'd noticed her father reprintanding a young boy who had been hanging around the chapel. Of Guilhem there was no sign. Alais sighed, frustrated at having confined herself to her chamber for nothing. She turned back to face the room, wandering randomly from table to chair and back again, her restless fingers looking for something to do. She stopped in front of her loom and stared at the small tapestry she was working on for Dame Agnes, a complicated bestiary of wild creatures and birds with sweeping tails that slithered and clawed their way up a castle wall. Usually, when the weather or her responsibilities in the household kept her confined indoors, Alais found solace in such delicate work. Tonight she couldn't settle to anything. Her needles sat untouched at her frame, the thread Sajhe had given her unopened beside it. The potions she'd prepared earlier from the angelica and comfrey were neatly labelled and stored in rows on a wooden shelf in the coolest and darkest put of the room. She'd picked up and examined the wooden board until i' «he was sick of the sight of it and her fingers sore with tracing the pattern Fthe labyrinth over and over. Waiting, waiting. :*Ms totjorn lo meteis,' she murmured. Always the same song. walked over to the glass and peered at her reflection. A small, heart-shaped face with intelligent brown eyes and pale cheeks [ back at her, neither plain nor beautiful. Alais adjusted the neckline r*dress, as she'd seen other girls do, trying to make it more fashion, Perhaps if she sewed a piece of lace to ... L sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. ». At last. 'I'm here,' she called out. i door opened. The smile slid from her face. ifois. What is it?' endant Pelletier requests your presence, Dame.' : this hour?' sis shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. is waiting on you in his chamber. I think there is some need of iAlais.' glanced at him, surprised by his use of her name. She had never t him to make such a mistake before. 'Is something the matter?' she I quickly. 'Is my father unwell?' ois hesitated. 'He is much . . . preoccupied, Dame. He would be Fyour company presently.' i sighed. 'I seem to have been out of step all day.' I looked puzzled. 'Dame?' mind, Francois. I'm just out of sorts tonight. Of course I will , if my father wishes it. Shall we go?' f room at the opposite end of the living quarters, Oriane was sitting itre of her bed with her long, shapely legs curled under her. 'green eyes were hah0closed, like a cat's. There was a self-satisfied her face as she allowed the comb to be pulled through her j, black curls. From time to time, she felt the lightest touch of its i on her skin, delicate and suggestive. t is very . . . soothing,' she said, i was standing behind her. He was naked to the waist and there was the faintest sheen of sweat between his broad, strong shoulders. 'Soothing, Dame?' he said lightly. 'That was not quite my intention.' She could feel his warm breath on her neck as he leaned forward to gather the hair from her face, and then laid it in a twist against her back. 'You are very beautiful,' he whispered. He began to massage her shoulders and neck, gently at first, then more firmly. Oriane bowed her head, as his skilful hands traced the outline of her cheekbones, her nose, her chin, as if he was committing her features to memory. From time to time, they slid lower, to the soft, white skin at her throat. Oriane raised one of his hands to her mouth and licked the ends of his fingers with her tongue. He drew her back against him. She could feel the heat and weight of his body, could feel the proof of how much he wanted her pressing against her back. He turned her round to face him and parted her lips with his fingers, then slowly began to kiss her. She paid no attention to the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, until somebody started to bang on the door. 'Oriane!' called a shrill, peevish voice. 'Are you there?' 'It's Jehan!' she muttered under her breath, more annoyed than alarmed by the interruption. She opened her eyes. 'I thought you said he wouldn't be back yet.' He looked towards the door. 'I didn't think he would be. When I left them, it looked as if he would be occupied with the Viscount for some time. Is it locked?' 'Of course,' she said. Won't he think that strange?' Oriane shrugged. 'He knows better than to enter without invitation. Nevertheless, you had better conceal yourself.' She gestured to a small alcove behind a tapestry that hung on the far side of the bed. 'Don't worry,' she smiled, seeing the expression on his face. 'I'll get rid of him as quickly as I can.' 'And how are you going to do that?' She put her hands around his neck and pulled him down to her, close enough for him to feel her eyelashes brush against his skin. He stirred against her. 'Oriane?' whined Congost, his voice rising higher every time he spoke. 'Open the door this instant!' 'You'll have to wait and see,' she murmured, bending to kiss the man's chest and his firm stomach, a little lower. 'Now, you must disappear. Even he won't remain outside forever.' Once she was sure her lover was safely hidden, Oriane tiptoed over to the door, turned the key in the lock without making a sound, then ran back to the bed and arranged the curtains around her. She was ready to enjoy herself. 'Oriane!' 'Husband,' she replied petulantly. 'There's no need for all this noise. It « open.' ; Oriane heard fumbling, then the door open and bang shut. Her husband bustled into the room. She heard the clip of metal on wood as : put his candle down on the table. "Where are you?' he said irritably. 'And why is it so dark in here? I am i no mood for games.' Oriane smiled. She stretched back against the pillows, her legs slightly and her smooth, bare arms draped above her head. She wanted ling left to his imagination. I'm here, Husband.' The door was not open when first I tried it,' he was saying irritably, as I pulled back the curtains, then fell speechless. < *Well, you can't have been . . . pushing . . . hard enough,' she said. Oriane watched his face turn white, then red as puce. His eyes bulged ihis head and his mouth hung open as he gaped at her high, full breasts her dark nipples, her unbound hair fanned out around her on the r like a mass of writhing snakes, the curve of her small waist and soft 1 of her stomach, the triangle of wiry, black hair between her thighs. at do you think you are doing?' he screeched. 'Cover yourself up liately.' [was asleep, husband,' she replied. 'You woke me.' \ woke you? I woke you,' he spluttered. "You were sleeping like . . . like f ; is a hot night, Jehan. Can I not be allowed to sleep as I wish, in the ' of my own chamber?' fiyone could have come in and seen you like this. Your sister, your ; woman, Guirande. Anyone!' le slowly sat up and looked defiantly at him, winding a strand of phair between her fingers. 'Anyone?' she said sarcastically. 'I dismissed ie,' she said coolly. 'I had no further need of her services.' could see he desperately wanted to turn away, but could not. and disgust were running in equal measure through his dried-up lyone could have come in,' he said again, although less confidently. Yes, I suppose that's true. Although nobody has. Except for you, husband, of course.' She smiled. It was the look of an animal about to strike. 'And now, since you are here, perhaps you can tell me where you have been?' 'You know where I've been,' he snapped. In Council.' She smiled. 'In Council? All this time? The Council broke up well before it was dark.' Congost flushed. 'It is not your place to challenge me.' Oriane narrowed her eyes. 'By Sant Foy, you're a pompous man, Jehan. "It's not your place . . .".' The mimicry was perfect and both men winced at the cruelty of it. 'Come on, Jehan, tell me where you've been? Discussing affairs of state, maybe? Or have you been with a lover perhaps, e Jehan? Do you have a lover hidden away in the Chateau somewhere?' 'How dare you speak to me like that. I--' 'Other husbands tell their wives where they have been. Why not you? Unless, as I say, there is a good reason not to.' Congost was shouting now. 'Other husbands should learn to hold their tongues. It's not women's business.' Oriane moved slowly across the bed towards him. 'Not women's business,' she said. 'Is that so?' Her voice was low and full of spite. Congost knew she was making sport with him, but did not understand the rules of engagement. He never had. Oriane shot out her hand and pressed the telltale bulge beneath his tunic. With satisfaction, she saw the panic and surprise in his eyes as she began to move her hand up and down. 'So, husband,' she said contemptuously. 'Tell me what you do consider to be the business of women? Love?' She pushed harder. This? What would you call it, appetite?' Congost sensed a trap, but he was mesmerised by her and didn't know what to say or do. He couldn't stop himself leaning towards her. His wet lips were flapping like a fish's mouth and his eyes screwed tight. He might despise her, but she could still make him want her, just like every other man, ruled by what hung between his legs, for all his reading and writing. She despised him. Abruptly, she withdrew her hand, having got the reaction she wanted. Well, Jehan,' she said coldly. 'If you have nothing you are prepared to tell me, then you might as well go. You are of no use to me here.' Oriane saw something in him snap, as if all the disappointments and frustrations he'd ever suffered in his life were flashing through his mind. Before she knew what was happening, he had hit her, hard enough to send her sprawling back on the bed. She gasped in surprise. Congost was motionless, staring down at his hand as if it had nothing to do with him. 'Oriane, I--' "You are pathetic,' she screamed at him. She could taste blood in her mouth. 'I told you to go. So go. Get out of my sight!' . For a moment, Oriane thought he was going to try to apologise. But lilrhcn he raised his eyes, she saw hate, not shame, in them. She breathed a |figh of relief. Things would play out as she had planned. *You disgust me,' he was shouting, backing away from the bed. "You're i better than an animal. No, worse than a beast, for you know what you ; doing.' He snatched up her blue cloak, which was lying wantonly on i floor, and threw it at her face. 'And cover yourself up. I don't want to I you like this when I get back, flaunting yourself like a whore.' I When she was sure he had gone, Oriane lay back on the bed and pulled ' cloak up over her, a little shaken but exhilarated. For the first time in years of marriage, the stupid, feeble, weak old man her father had her to take as a husband had actually succeeded in surprising her. : had intended to provoke him, certainly, but she'd not expected him litlike her. And so hard. She ran her fingers over her skin, which was smarting from the blow. He had meant to hurt her. Perhaps there 1 be a mark? That might be worth something. Then she could show \ father what his decision had brought her to. ne brought herself up short with a bitter laugh. She wasn't Alais. Alais mattered to their father, for all his attempts to conceal it. s was too like their mother, in looks and character, for his liking. As would care in the slightest if Jehan beat her half to death. He'd i she deserved it. a moment, she allowed the jealousy she kept hidden, from all but to leak out from behind the perfect mask of her beautiful, unreadce. Her resentment at her lack of power, her lack of influence, her aintment. What value had her youth and beauty when she was tied i with no ambition and no prospects, a man who had never even , sword? It wasn't fair that Alais, the younger sister, should have all i that she wanted and yet was denied. Things that should be hers It. ; twisted the material between her fingers, as if it was Alais' pale 'arm she was pinching. Plain, spoiled, indulged Alais. She squeezed tighter, seeing in her mind's eye a purple bruise spreading across her skin. "You shouldn't taunt him.' Her lover's voice cut through the silence. She had almost forgotten that he was there. 'Why not?' she said. 'It's the only enjoyment I have from him.' He slipped through the curtain and touched her cheek with his fingers. 'Did he hurt you? He's left a mark.' She smiled at the concern in his voice. How little he really knew her. He saw only what he wanted to see, an image of the woman he thought she was. 'It's nothing,' she replied. The silver chain at his neck brushed her skin as he bent down to kiss her. She could smell his need to possess her. Oriane shifted position, allowing the blue material to fall away from her like water. She ran her hands over his thighs, the skin pale and soft compared to the golden brown of his back and arms and chest, then raised her eyes higher. She smiled. He had waited long enough. Oriane leaned forward to take him in her mouth, but he pushed her back on the bed and knelt down beside her. 'So what enjoyment do you wish for from me, my lady?' he said, gently parting her legs. This?' She murmured as he bent forward and kissed her. 'Or this?' His mouth crept lower, to her hidden, private space. Oriane held her breath as his tongue played across her skin, biting, licking, teasing. 'Or this, maybe?' She felt his hands, strong and tight around her waist as he pulled her to him. Oriane wrapped her legs around his back. 'Or maybe this is what you really want?' he said, his voice straining with desire as he plunged deep inside her. She groaned with satisfaction, scratching her nails down his back, claiming him. 'So your husband thinks you're a whore, does he,' he said. 'Let us see if we can prove him right.' CHAPTER 10 Pelletier paced the floor of his chamber, waiting for Alais. It was cooler now, but there was sweat on his broad forehead and his face was flushed. He should be down in the kitchens supervising the Servants, making sure everything was in hand. But he was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. He felt he was standing at a cross, roads, paths stretching out in every direction, leading to an uncertain future. Everything that had gone before in his life, and everything that -Was yet to come, depended on what he decided to do now. What was taking her so long? Pelletier tightened his fist around the letter. Already he knew the ^JWords off by heart. He turned away from the window and his eye was caught by something ght, glinting in the dust and shadows behind the door frame. Pelletier it down and picked it up. It was a heavy silver buckle with copper , large enough to be the fastening for a cloak or a robe. He frowned. It wasn't his. He held it to a candle to get a better look. There was nothing disive about it. He'd seen a hundred just like it for sale in the market, i turned it over in his hands. It was of good enough quality, suggesting eone of comfortable rather than wealthy circumstances. tilt couldn't have been here long. Francois tidied the room each morning I would have noticed if it had been there then. No other servants were I in and the room had been locked all day. etier glanced around, looking for other signs of an intruder. He felt y. Was it his imagination or were the objects on his desk slightly out s? Had his bed coverings been disarranged? Everything alarmed i tonight. tire?' is spoke softly, but she startled him all the same. Hastily, he pushed (buckle into his pouch. 'Father,' she repeated. You sent for me?' letier collected himself. Yes, yes, I did. Come.' Will there be anything else, Messire? asked Francis from the doorway. 'No. But wait outside in case I have need of you.' He waited until the door was shut, then beckoned Alais to take a seat at the table. He poured her a cup of wine and refilled his own, but did not settle. You look tired.' 'I am a little.' What are people saying of the Council, Alais?' 'No one knows what to think, Messire. There are so many stories. Everyone prays that things are not as bad as they seem. Everyone knows that the Viscount rides for Montpelhier tomorrow, accompanied by a small entourage, to seek audience withhis uncle, the Count of Toulouse.' She raised her head. 'Is it true?' He nodded. Yet it is also claimed that the Tournament will go ahead.' 'Also true. It is the Viscount's intention to complete his mission and return home within two weeks. Before the end of July certainly.' 'Is the Viscount's mission likely to succeed?' Pelletier did not answer but just continued to pace up and down. His anxiety was spreading to her. She took a gulp of wine for courage. 'Is Guilhem one of the party?' 'Has he not informed you himself?' he said sharply. 'I've not seen him since the Council adjourned,' she admitted. Where in the name of Sant-Foy is he?' Pelletier demanded. 'Please just tell me yes or no.' 'Guilhem du Mas has been chosen, although I have to say that it is against my wishes. The Viscount favours him.' With reason, Paire,' she said quietly. 'He is a skilled chevalier.' Pelletier leaned across and poured more wine into her goblet. 'Tell me, Alais, do you trust him?' The question caught her off guard, but she answered without hesitation. 'Should not all wives trust their husbands?' Yes, yes. I would not expect you to answer otherwise,' he said dismissively, waving his hand. 'But did he ask you what had happened this morning at the river?' You commanded me to speak of it to no one,' she said. 'Naturally, I obeyed you.' 'As I trusted you to keep your word,' he said. 'But, still, you have not quite answered my question. Did Guilhem ask where you'd been?' j3[u There has not been the opportunity,' she said defiantly. 'As I told you, I have not seen him.' Pelletier walked over to the window. 'Are you scared that war will come?' he said, his back to her. Alais was disconcerted by the abrupt change of subject, but replied without skipping a beat. 'At the thought of it, yes, Messire,' she replied cautiously. 'But surely it won't come to that?' 'No, it might not.' He placed his hands on the window ledge, seemingly lost in his own lights and oblivious to her presence. 'I know you think my question apertinent, but I asked it for a reason. Look deep into your heart. Weigh answer carefully. Then, tell me the truth. Do you trust your hus' Do you trust him to protect you, to do right by you?' ; Alais understood the words that mattered lay unsaid and hidden some beneath the surface, but she feared to answer. She did not want i be disloyal to Guilhem. At the same time, she could not bring herself lie to her father. 'I know he does not please you, Messire,' she said steadily, 'although I not know what he has done to offend you--' ;*Ybu know perfectly well what he does to offend me,' Pelletier said iently. I've told you often enough. However, my personal opinion f du Mas, for good or ill, is neither here nor there. One can dislike a man , yet see his worth. Please, Alai's. Answer my question. A very great , depends on it.' es of Guilhem sleeping. Of his eyes, dark as lodestone, the curve lips as he kissed the intimate inside of her wrist. Memories so . they made her dizzy. I cannot answer,' she said eventually, i,' he sighed. 'Good. Good. I see.' fith respect, Paire, you see nothing,' Alai's flared up. 'I have said ing.' i turned round. 'Did you tell Guilhem I had sent for you?' I said, I have not seen him and . . . and it is not right that you I question me in this manner. To make me choose between loyalty and to him.' Alais moved to rise. 'So unless there is some reason f require my presence, Messire, at this late hour, I beg you give me leave lidraw.' etier made to calm the situation. 'Sit down, sit down. I see I have ed you. Forgive me. It was not my intention.' He held out his hand. After a moment, Alais took it. 'I do not mean to speak in riddles. My hesitation is ... I need to make things clear in my own mind. Tonight I received a message of great significance, Alai's. I have spent the past few hours trying to decide what to do, weighing the alternatives. Even though I thought I had resolved on one course of action and sent for you, nonetheless doubts remained.' Alai's met his gaze. 'And now?' 'Now my path lies clear before me. Yes. I believe I know what I must do.' The colour drained from her face. 'So war is coming,' she said, her voice suddenly soft. 'I think it inevitable, yes. The signs are not good.' He sat down. We are caught up in events far bigger than we have the power to control, for all our attempts to persuade ourselves otherwise.' He hesitated. 'But there is something more important than this, Alais. And if things go ill for us in Montpelhier, then it is possible I might never have an opportunity to ... to tell you the truth.' 'What can be more important than the threat of war?' 'Before I speak further, you must give me your word that everything I tell you tonight will remain between us.' 'Is this why you asked about Guilhem?' 'In part, yes,' he admitted, 'although that was not the whole reason. But, first, give me your assurance that nothing I tell you will go outside of these four walls.' *You have my word,' she said, without hesitation. Again, Pelletier sighed, but this time she heard relief not anxiety in his voice. The die was cast. He had made his choice. What remained was determination to see things through whatever the consequences. She drew closer. The light from the candles danced and flickered in her brown eyes. 'This is a story,' he said, 'that begins in the ancient lands of Egypt several thousand years ago. This is the true story of the Grail.' Pelletier talked until the oil in the lamps had burned out. The courtyard below had fallen silent, as the revellers had taken themselves off to sleep. Alais was exhausted. Her fingers were white and there were purple shadows, like bruises, beneath her eyes. Pelletier too had grown old and tired as he talked. 'In answer to your question, you do not have to do anything. Not yet, perhaps not ever. If our petitions tomorrow are successful, it will give me the time and opportunity I need to take the books to safety myself as I am bound to do.' 'But if they are not, Messire} What if something happens to you?' Alais broke off, fear catching in her throat. 'All may yet be well,' he said, but his voice was dead. 'But if it is not?' she insisted, refusing to be soothed. 'What if you do not return? How will I know when to act?' He held her gaze for a moment. Then he searched in his pouch until i nc'd found a small package of cream-coloured cloth. If something happens to me, you will receive a token like this.' He laid the package on the table and pushed it towards her. 'Open it.' W Alais did as she was told, unfolding the material section by section until had revealed a small disc of pale stone with two letters carved on it. tie held it up to the light and read the letters aloud. wsr Tor Noublesso de los Seres.' r 'What is it?' 'A mere/, a secret token, which is passed between thumb and forefinger. t has another, more important purpose also, although you need not know \ it. It will indicate to you if the bearer is to be trusted.' Alais nodded. ' turn it over.' Engraved on the other side was a labyrinth, identical to the pattern ed on the back of the wooden board. Alais caught her breath. 'I've seen this before.' PeUetier twisted the ring from his thumb and held it out. 'It is engraved |,thc inside,' he said. 'All guardians wear such a ring.' Jo, here, in the Chateau. I bought cheese in the market today and : a board from my room to carry it on. This pattern is engraved on the side.' IpBut that's impossible. It cannot be the same.' I swear it is.' here did the board come from?' he demanded. Think, Alais. Did 3ne give it to you? Was it a gift?' : shook her head. 'I don't know, I don't know,' she said desperately. [ day I've tried to remember, but I can't. The strangest thing was that I |>»ure I'd seen the pattern somewhere else, even though the board itself mot familiar to me.' here is it now?' 9i 'I left it on the table in my chambers,' she said. Why? Do you think it matters?' 'So anyone could have seen it,' he said with frustration. 'I suppose so,' she replied nervously. 'Guilhem, any of the servants, I cannot say.' Alais looked down at the ring in her hand and suddenly the pieces fell into place. "You thought the man in the river was Simeon?' she said slowly. 'He is another guardian?' Pelletier nodded. There was no reason to think it was him, but yet I felt so sure.' 'And the other guardians? Do you know where they are?' He leaned over and closed her fingers over the merel. 'No more questions, Alais. Take good care of this. Keep it safe. And hide the board with the labyrinth where no prying eyes can see it. I will deal with it when I return.' Alais rose to her feet. What of the board?' Pelletier smiled at her persistence. 'I will give it some thought, Filha.' 'But does its presence here mean someone in the Chateau knows of the existence of the books?' 'No one can know,' he said firmly. 'If I thought there was any question of it, I would tell you. On my word.' They were brave words, fighting words, but his expression gave them the lie. 'But if--' lBasta,' he said softly, raising his arms. 'No more.' Alais let herself be enveloped in his giant embrace. The familiar smell of him brought tears to her eyes. 'All will be well,' he said firmly. You must be brave. Do only what I have asked of you, no more.' He kissed the top of her head. 'Come bid us farewell at dawn.' Alais nodded, not daring to speak. 'Ben, ben. Now, make haste. And may God keep you.' Alais ran down the dark corridor and out into the courtyard without drawing breath, seeing ghosts and demons in every shadow. Her head was spinning. The old familiar world seemed suddenly a mirror image of its former self, both recognisable and utterly different. The package concealed beneath her dress seemed to be burning a hole in her skin. Outside the air was cool. Most people had retired for the night, although there were still a few lights shining in the rooms overlooking the Cour d'Honneur. A burst of laughter from the guards at the gate house made her jump. For a moment, she imagined she saw a person silhouetted in one of the upper rooms. But then a bat swooped in front of her, drawing her gaze, and when she looked again the window was dark. She walked faster. Her father's words were spinning around in her head, all the questions she should have asked and had not. A few more steps and she started to feel a prickling at the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder. Who's there?' Nobody answered. She called out again. There was malice in the darkness, she could smell it, feel it. Alais walked faster, certain now she I was being followed. She could hear the soft shuffle of feet and the sound I of heavy breathing. "Who's there?' she called again. Without warning, a rough and calloused hand, reeking of ale, clamped I itself over her mouth. She cried out as she felt a sudden, sharp blow on the back of her head and she fell. < It seemed to take a long time for her to reach the ground. Then there .were hands crawling all over her, like rats in a cellar, until they found ; what they wanted. 'Aqui es.' Here it is. It was the last thing Alais heard before the blackness closed over her. CHAPTER 11 Pic de Soularac Sabarthes Mountains Southwest France MONDAY 4 JULY 2OO5 'Alice! Alice, can you hear me?' Her eyes flickered and opened. The air was chill and damp, like an unheated church. Not floating, but lying on the hard, cold ground. Where the hell am J? She could feel the dank earth rough and uneven beneath her arms and legs. Alice shifted position. Sharp stones and grit rubbed abrasively against her skin. No, not a church. A glimmer of memory came back. Walking down a long, dark tunnel into a cave, a stone chamber. Then what? Everything was blurred, frayed around the edges. Alice tried to raise her head. A mistake. Pain exploded at the base of her skull. Nausea sloshed in her stomach, like bilge water at the bottom of a rotting boat. 'Alice? Can you hear me?' Someone was talking to her. Worried, anxious, a voice she knew. 'Alice? Wake up.' She tried to lift her head. This time, the pain wasn't so bad. Slowly, carefully, she raised herself a little. 'Christ,' muttered Shelagh, sounding relieved. She was aware of hands beneath her arms helping her into a sitting position. Everything was gloomy and dark, except for the darting circles of light from the torches. Two torches. Alice narrowed her eyes and recognised Stephen, one of the older members of the team, hovering behind Shelagh, his wire-framed glasses catching in the light. 'Alice, talk to me. Can you hear me?' said Shelagh. Tm not sure. Maybe. Alice tried to speak, but her mouth was crooked and no words came out. She tried to nod. The exertion made her head spin. She dropped her head between her knees to stop herself passing out. With Shelagh on one side and Stephen on the other, she edged herself back until she was sitting on the top of the stone steps, hands on her knees. Everything seemed to be shifting backwards and forwards, in and out, like a film out of focus. Shelagh crouched down in front of her, talking, but Alice couldn't make out what she was saying. The sound was distorted, like a record played at the wrong speed. Another wave of nausea hit her as more, disconnected memories came flooding back: the noise of the skull as it fell away into the dark; her hand reaching out for the ring; the knowledge that she had disturbed something that slumbered in the deepest recesses of the mountain, something malevolent. r Then nothing. She was so cold. She could feel goosebumps on her bare arms and legs. Alice knew she couldn't have been unconscious for very long, no more than a few minutes at most. Such an inconsequential measure of time. But it had seemed long enough for her to slip from one world into another. Alice shivered. Then another memory. Of dreaming the same, familiar pdream. First, the sensation of peace and lightness, everything white and jj»dear. Then plummeting down and down through the empty sky and the sund rushing up to meet her. There was no collision, no impact, only dark green columns of trees looming over her. Then the fire, the Jaring wall of red and gold and yellow flames. She wrapped her bare arms tight around herself. Why had the dream le back? Throughout her childhood, the same dream had haunted her, the same, never leading anywhere. While her parents slept unaes in their bedroom across the landing, Alice had spent night after ght awake in the dark, hands gripping the covers tightly, determined to iquer her demons alone. But not for years now. It had left her alone for years. 'How about we try to get you on your feet?' Shelagh was saying. It doesn't mean anything. Once doesn't mean it's going to start all over tin. *'Alice,' said Shelagh, her voice a little sharper. Impatient. 'Do you : you can manage to stand? We need to get you back to camp. Have eone take a look at you.' Is1 think so,' she said at last. Her voice didn't sound like her at all. 'My 1's not so good.' 'You can do it, Alice. Come on, try now.' Alice looked down at her red, swollen wrist. Shit. She couldn't quite remember, didn't want to remember. 'I'm not sure what happened. This--' She held up her hand. This happened outside.' Shelagh put her arms around Alice to take her weight. 'OK?' Alice braced herself and allowed Shelagh to lever her to her feet. Stephen took the other arm. She swayed a little from side to side, trying to get her balance, but after a couple of seconds, the giddiness passed and feeling started to come back to her numb limbs. Carefully Alice started to flex and unflex her fingers, feeling the pull of the raw skin over her knuckles. 'I'm all right. Just give me a minute.' 'What possessed you to come in here on your own anyway?' 'I was . . .' Alice broke off, not knowing what to say. It was typical of her to break the rules and end up in trouble. 'There's something you need to see. Down there. On the lower level.' Shelagh followed the line of Alice's gaze with her torch. Shadows scuttled up the walls and over the roof of the cave. 'No, not here,' said Alice. 'Down there.' Shelagh lowered the beam. 'In front of the altar.' 'Altar?' The strong white light cut through the inky blackness of the chamber like a searchlight. For a fraction of a second, the shadow of the altar was silhouetted on the rock wall behind, like the Greek letter pi superimposed on the carved labyrinth. Then Shelagh moved her hand, the image vanished and the torch found the grave. The pale bones leaped out at them from the dark. Straight away, the atmosphere changed. Shelagh gave a sharp intake of breath. Like an automaton, she walked down one, then two, then three steps. She seemed to have forgotten Alice was there. Stephen made a move to follow. 'No,' she snapped. 'Stay there.' 'I was only--' 'In fact, go find Dr Brayling. Tell him what we've found. Now,' she shouted, when he didn't move. Stephen thrust his torch into Alice's hand and disappeared into the tunnel without a word. She could hear the scrunch of his boots on the gravel, getting fainter and fainter until the sound was eaten up by the darkness. You didn't have to shout at him,' Alice started to say. Shelagh cut across her. 'Did you touch anything?' 'Not exactly, though--' Though what?' Again, the same aggression. There were a few things in the grave,' Alice added. 'I can show you.' 'No,' Shelagh shouted. 'No,' a little calmer. We don't want people tramping around down there.' Alice was about to point out it was too late for that, then stopped. She'd no desire to get close to the skeletons again. The blind sockets, the collapsed bones were imprinted too clearly on her mind. Shelagh stood over the shallow grave. There was something challenging in the way she swept the beam of light over the bodies, up and down as if she was examining them. It was disrespectful almost. The light caught the dull blade of the knife as Shelagh squatted down beside the fkcletons, her back to Alice. *You say you touched nothing?' she said abruptly, turning to glare over her shoulder. 'So how come your tweezers are here?' Alice flushed. 'You interrupted me before I'd had the chance to finish. I What I was about to say was I picked up a ring - with the tweezers, before |*ou ask - which I dropped when I heard you guys in the tunnel.' 'A ring?' Shelagh repeated. "Maybe it's rolled under something else?' Well, I can't see it,' she said, suddenly standing up. She strode back to , 'Let's get out of here. Your injuries need seeing to.' Alice looked at her in astonishment. The face of a stranger, not a good i, was looking back at her. Angry, hard, judgemental. | 'But don't you want--' Jesus, Alice,' she said, grabbing her arm. 'Haven't you done enough? ft've got to go!' fswas very bright after the velvet dark of the cave as they emerged from shadow of the rock. The sun seemed to explode in Alice's face like a ark in a black November sky. ae shielded her eyes with her hands. She felt utterly disorientated, ble to fix herself in time or space. It was as if the world had stopped i she'd been in the chamber. It was the same familiar landscape, yet it 1 transformed into something different. IfOr am I just seeing it through different eyes? |jThe shimmering peaks of the Pyrenees in the distance had lost their definition. The trees, the sky, even the mountain itself, were less substantial, less real. Alice felt that if she touched anything it would fall down, like scenery on a film set, revealing the true world concealed behind. Shelagh said nothing. She was already striding down the mountain, mobile phone clamped to her ear, without bothering to check if Alice was managing all right. Alice hurried to catch her up. 'Shelagh, hang on a minute. Wait.' She touched Shelagh's arm. 'Look, I'm really sorry. I know I shouldn't have gone in there on my own. I wasn't thinking.' Shelagh didn't acknowledge she was speaking. She didn't even look round, although she snapped her phone shut. 'Slow down. I can't keep up.' 'OK,' Shelagh said, spinning round to face her. 'I've stopped.' What's going on here?' "You tell me. I mean, what precisely do you want me to say? That it's OK? You want me to make you feel better that you fucked up?' 'No, I--' 'Because, you know what, actually it's not OK. It was totally and unbelievably fucking stupid to go in there alone. You've contaminated the site and Jesus knows what else. What the fuck were you playing at?' Alice held up her hands. 'I know, I know. And I really am sorry,' she repeated, aware of how inadequate it sounded. 'Do you have any idea of the position you've put me in? I vouched for you. /persuaded Brayling to let you come. Thanks to you playing Indiana Jones, the police will probably suspend the entire excavation. Brayling will blame me. Everything I've done to get here, to get a place on this dig. The time I've spent . . .' Shelagh broke off and ran her fingers through her cropped, bleached hair. This isn't fair. 'Look, hang on a minute.' Even though she knew Shelagh was well within her rights to be angry, she was way over the top. "You're being unfair. I accept it was stupid to go in - I didn't think it through, and I admit that - but don't you think you're overreacting? Shit, I didn't do it on purpose. Brayling's hardly going to call the police. I didn't really touch anything. No one's hurt.' Shelagh twisted her arm out of Alice's grasp with such force she nearly lost her footing. 'Brayling will call the authorities,' Shelagh seethed, 'because - as you would know if you bothered to listen to a fucking word I said - permis ¥ sion for the excavation was granted, against the advice of the police, on the understanding that any discovery of human remains would be immediately reported to the Police Judiciare.' Alice's stomach hit the floor. 'I thought it was just red tape. Nobody seemed to take it seriously. Everyone was always joking about it.' 'Clearly you didn't take it seriously,' Shelagh shouted. 'The rest of us did, being professionals and having some respect for what we do!' This makes no sense. * 'But why would the police be interested in an archaeological dig?' Shelagh blew up. 'Jesus, Alice, you still don't get it, do you? Even now. |lt doesn't fucking matter why. It's just how it is. It's not up to you to pfedde which rules matter and which you're going to ignore.' 1 never said--' "Why do you always have to challenge everything? You always think |fou know better, always want to break the rules, be different.' ,'.<< Alice was shouting now too. 'That's completely unfair. I'm not like that f «nd you know it. I just didn't think--' That's the point. You never do think, except about yourself. And Igetting what you want.' ||. This is crazy, Shelagh. Why would I deliberately try to make things for you? Just listen to yourself Alice took a deep breath, trying to her temper under control. 'Look, I'll own up to Brayling it was my It but, well it's just that . . . you know I wouldn't go charging in there, i my own, in normal circumstances, except . . .' She paused again. $ 'Except what?' iv This is going to sound stupid, but it sort of drew me in. I knew the aber was there. I can't explain it, I just knew. A feeling. Deja vu. Like I been there before.' S*You think this makes it better?' Shelagh said sarcastically. 'Jesus, give \ a break. You had a feeling. That's pathetic' lice shook her head. 'It was more than that--' !"In any case, what the hell were you doing digging up there in the first B? And on your own? That's just it. Break the rules just for the hell of |?No/ she said. 'It wasn't like that. My partner's not here. I saw some; underneath the boulder and, since it's my last day, I just thought I'd i a little more.' Her voice tailed off. 'I only wanted to find out if it was investigating,' she said, realising her mistake too late. 'I wasn't iding--' "You are telling me, on top of everything else, that you actually found something? You fucking found something and didn't bother to share this information with anyone else?' 'I--' Shelagh held out her hand. 'Give it to me.' Alice held her gaze for a moment, then fished in the pocket of her denim cut-offs, pulled out the handkerchief and handed it over. She didn't trust herself to speak. She watched as Shelagh folded back the white folds of cotton to reveal the brooch inside. Alice couldn't help herself reaching out. 'It is beautiful, isn't it? The way the copper round the edges, here and here, catches the light.' She hesitated. 'I think it might belong to one of the people inside the cave.' Shelagh looked up. Her mood had undergone another transformation. The anger had gone out of her. "You have no idea what you have done, Alice. No idea at all.' She folded the handkerchief. 'I'll take this down.' Til--' 'Leave it, Alice. I don't want to talk to you right now. Everything you say just makes it worse.' What the hell was that all about? Alice stood bewildered as Shelagh walked away. The row had come out of nowhere, extreme even for Shelagh, who was capable of blowing up over the smallest things, then had blown out just as quickly. Alice lowered herself down on to the nearest rock and rested her throbbing wrist on her knee. Everything ached and she felt utterly drained, but also sick at heart. She knew the excavation was funded privately - rather than attached to a university or institution - so was not subject to the restrictive regulations that hampered many expeditions. As a result, competition to get on the team had been fierce. Shelagh had been working at Mas d'Azil, a few kilometres northwest of Foix, when she'd first heard about the excavation in the Sabarthes Mountains. The way she told it, she'd bombarded the director, Dr Brayling, with letters, emails and testimonials until finally, eighteen months ago, she'd worn him down. Even then, Alice had wondered why Shelagh was so obsessed. Alice looked down the mountain. Shelagh was so far ahead now that she was almost out of sight, her long, lean figure shielded by the scrub and broom on the lower slopes. There was no hope of catching her up even if she wanted to. too Alice sighed. She was running on empty. Like always. Doing it alone. It's better that way. She was fiercely self-sufficient, preferring not to rely on anybody else. But right now, she wasn't sure she had enough energy left to make it back to camp. The sun was too fierce and her legs too weak. She looked down at the cut on her arm. It had started to bleed again, worse than ever. Alice looked out over the scorched summer landscape of the Sabarthes l^dountains, still in their timeless peace. For a moment, she felt fine. Then at once she was aware of another sensation, a pricking at the base of ¦ spine. Anticipation, a sense of expectation. Recognition. // all ends here. $ Alice caught her breath. Her heart started to beat faster. l;. It ends here where it started. Her head was suddenly filled with whispering, disjointed sounds, like i in time. Now the words carved in the stone at the top of the steps ae back to her. Pas a pas. They went round and round in her head, like r remembered nursery rhyme. f That's impossible. You're being stupid. I Shaken, Alice put her hands on her knees and forced herself to stand She had to get back to the camp. Heatstroke, dehydration, she had to ; out of the sun, get some water inside her. ^Taking it slowly, she started to descend, feeling every bump and jolt of mountain in her legs. She had to get away from the echoing stone, , the spirits that lived there. She didn't know what was happening to r, only that she had to escape. f She walked faster, faster, until she was almost running, stumbling on stones and jagged flints that stuck up out of the dry earth. But the ; were rooted in her mind, repeating loud and clear, like a mantra. fStep by step we make our way. Step by step. IOI CHAPTER 12 The thermometer was nudging thirty-three degrees in the shade. It was nearly three o'clock. Alice was sitting under the canvas awning obediently sipping an Orangina that had been pushed into her hands. The warm bubbles fizzed in her throat as the sugar rushed into her bloodstream. There was a strong smell of gabardine, tents and TCP. The cut on the inside of her elbow had been sterilised and the dressing reapplied. A clean white bandage had been wrapped around her wrist, which had swollen to the size of a tennis ball. Her knees and shins were covered in tiny grazes and cuts, dabbed clean with disinfectant. You brought this on yourself. She peered at herself in the small mirror that hung from the tent post. A small, heart-shaped face with intelligent brown eyes stared back at her. Beneath the freckles and tanned skin, she was pale. She looked a mess. Her hair was full of dust and there were smears of dried blood down the front of her top. All she wanted was to go back to her hotel in Foix, toss her filthy clothes in the wash and take a long, cool shower. Then, she'd go down to the square, order a bottle of wine and not move for the rest of the day. And not think about what happened. There didn't seem much chance of that. The police had arrived half an hour ago. In the car park below a line of white and blue official vehicles was lined up next to the more battered Citroens and Renaults of the archaeologists. It was like an invasion. Alice had assumed they would deal with her first, but apart from confirming that it was she who'd found the skeletons and saying they'd need to interview her in due course, the police had left her alone. No one else had come near. Alice sympathised. All this noise and mess and disruption was down to her. There wasn't much anyone could say. Of Shelagh there'd been no sign. The presence of the police had changed the character of the camp. There seemed to be dozens of them, all in pale blue shirts and knee length black boots, with guns at their hips, swarming all over the mountainside like wasps, kicking up the dust and shouting instructions to each other in heavily-accented French, too quick for her to follow. They cordoned off the cave immediately, stretching a strip of plastic tape across the entrance. The noise of their activity carried in the still mountain air. Alice could hear the whir of the auto-winding cameras 1 i competing with the cicadas. I,,, Voices, carried on the breeze, floated up to her from the car park. Alice iyturned to see Dr Brayling walking up the steps, accompanied by Shelagh 1 the heavily-built police officer who appeared to be in charge. 'It's obvious these skeletons cannot possibly be the two people you are sking for,' Dr Brayling was insisting. 'These bones are clearly hundreds years old. When I notified the authorities, I never for a moment atertained the notion this would be the result.' He waved his hands id. 'Have you any idea of the damage your people are doing? I can re you, I am far from happy.' ¦,... Alice scrutinised the inspector, a short, dark, overweight middle-aged , with more stomach than hair. He was breathless and clearly suffer in the heat. He was clutching a limp handkerchief, with which he his face and neck with little effect. Even from this distance, Alice Id see the circles of sweat under his armpits and on the cuffs of his 1 apologise for the inconvenience, Monsieur le Directeur,' he said in v, courteous English. 'But since this is a private excavation, I'm sure i can explain the situation to your sponsors.' I The fact we are fortunate enough to be funded by a private individual ler than an institution is neither here nor there. It's the unwarranted ension of work which is so aggravating, not to mention inconvenient. : work here is highly important.' fcfiDr Brayling,' said Noubel, as if they had been having the same aversation for some time, 'my hands are tied. We are in the middle of aurder enquiry. You have seen the posters of the two missing persons, 1 So, inconvenient or no, until we have proved to our satisfaction that ibones you have found are not those of our missing persons, work will ended.' an't be a fool, Inspector. There can be no doubt the skeletons are eds of years old!' fou have examined them?' fell, no,' he blustered. 'Not properly, of course not. But it's obvious. 1 forensic people will bear me out.' 'I'm sure they will, Dr Brayling, but until then . . .' Noubel shrugged. 'There is nothing more I can say.' Shelagh stepped in. "We appreciate the position you're in, Inspector, but can you at least give us any idea of when you might be through here?' 'Bientot. Soon. I don't make the rules.' Dr Brayling threw his hands in the air in frustration. 'In which case, I shall be forced to go over your head to someone with authority! This is utterly ridiculous.' 'As you wish,' replied Noubel. 'In the meantime, as well as the lady who found the bodies, I need a list of anyone else who went inside the cave. Once we have concluded our preliminary investigations, we will remove the bodies from the cave, then you and your staff will be free to go.' Alice watched as the scene played itself out. Brayling stalked off, Shelagh put her hand on the Inspector's arm, then immediately withdrew it. They appeared to be talking. At one point, they turned and looked back towards the car park. Alice followed the line of their gaze, but saw nothing of interest. Half an hour passed and still no one came near her. Alice reached into her rucksack - brought down from the mountain by Stephen or Shelagh, she presumed - and pulled out a pencil and her drawing pad. She opened it at the first empty page. Imagine yourself standing at the entrance, staring into the tunnel. Alice closed her eyes and saw herself, fingers on either side of the narrow entrance. Smooth. The rock had been surprisingly smooth, as if it had been polished or worn away. A step forward, into the dark. The ground sloped down. Alice started to draw, working quickly now she'd fixed the dimensions of the space in her head. Tunnel, opening, chamber. On a second sheet, she drew the lower area, from the steps to the altar and the skeletons halfway between the two. Beside the sketch of the grave, she wrote a list of the objects: the knife, the leather pouch, the fragment of cloth, the ring. The face of the ring had been entirely smooth and flat, surprisingly thick, with a thin groove around the middle. Odd that the engraving was on the underside, where no one could see it. Only the person wearing it would know it was there. A replica in miniature of the labyrinth carved into the wall behind the altar. Alice leaned back in her chair, somehow reluctant to commit the image to paper. How big? The diameter was six feet maybe? More? How many circuits? She drew a circle that filled most of the page, then stopped. How many lines? Alice knew she'd recognise the pattern again if she saw it, but since she'd only held the ring for a couple of seconds and seen the carving through the distant darkness it was hard to recall it precisely. Somewhere in the rambling attic of her mind was the knowledge she needed. History and Latin lessons at school, curled up on the sofa with parents watching documentaries on the BBC. In her bedroom, a little ien bookcase with her favourite book on the bottom shelf. An istrated encyclopaedia of ancient myths, its glossy, garish pages grown j-eared at the edges where she had read it so often. "There was a picture of a labyrinth. j^In her mind's eye, Alice turned to the right page. But it was different. She placed the remembered images side by side, a spot-the-difference game in a newspaper. (he picked up the pencil and tried again, determined to make some ess. She drew another circle inside the first, trying to connect them Ether. No good. Her next attempt was no better, nor the one after. She Ssed it wasn't only a question of how many rings there should be in towards the centre, but more that there was something lentally wrong with her design. Ice kept going, her initial excitement giving way to a dull frustration, i collection of screwed-up balls of paper around her feet grew larger. iadame Tanner?' ice jumped, sending the pencil skeetering across the surface of the 'eur,' she corrected automatically, getting to her feet. vous demande pardon, Docteur. Je mappelle Noubel. Police Judiciare, lenient de I'Ariege.' oubel flashed his identification card at her. Alice pretended to read it, same time as shovelling everything into her rucksack. She didn't the inspector to see her failed sketches. Tous preferez parler en anglais?' would be sensible, yes, thank you.' ctor Noubel was accompanied by a uniformed officer with alert, eyes. He looked barely old enough to be out of school. He was not ced. ibel squeezed himself into another one of the spindly camping It was a tight fit. His thighs bulged over the canvas seat. (dors, Madame. Your full name, if you please.' ice Grace Tanner.' 'Date of birth.' 'Seventh January, 1974.' You are married?' Is that relevant?' she snapped. 'For information, Dr Tanner,' he said mildly. 'No,' she said. 'Not married.' Your address.' Alice gave him details of the hotel in Foix where she was staying and her home address, spelling out the unfamiliar English names letter by letter. 'It's a long way to come every day from Foix?' 'There wasn't room in the site house, so . . .' 'Bien. You are a volunteer, I understand, yes?' That's right. Shelagh - Dr O'Donnell - is one of my oldest friends. We were at university together, before . . .' Just answer the question. He doesn't need your life story. 'I'm just visiting. Dr O'Donnell knows this part of France well. When it turned out I'd got business to sort out in Carcassonne, Shelagh suggested I detoured via here for a few days so we could spend some time together. A working holiday.' Noubel scribbled in his pad. You are not an archaeologist?' Alice shook her head. 'But it's common practice to use volunteers, interested amateurs, or archaeology students to do some of the basic work apparently.' 'How many other volunteers are there?' She flushed, as if she'd been caught out in a lie. 'None actually, not right now. They're all archaeologists or students.' Noubel peered at her. 'And you're here until?' 'This is my last day. It was anyway . . . even before this.' 'And Carcassonne?' 1 have a meeting there on Wednesday morning, then a few days to look around. I fly back to England on Sunday.' 'A beautiful city,' said Noubel. 'I've never been.' Noubel sighed and wiped his red forehead again with his handkerchief. 'And what is the nature of this meeting?' I'm not sure exactly. A relative, who's been living in France, left me something in her will.' She paused, reluctant to go into it. 'I'll know more after I've met with the solicitor on Wednesday.' Noubel made another note. Alice tried to see what he was writing, but couldn't decipher his handwriting upside down. To her relief, he left the subject and moved on. 'So you are a doctor . . .' Noubel left the comment hanging. 'I'm not a medical doctor,' she replied, relieved to be on safer ground. I'm a teacher, I have a PhD. Middle English literature.' Noubel looked blank. 'Pas medecin. Pas generaliste,' she said. 'Je suis universitaire.' Noubel sighed and made another note. IH». 'Bien. Aux affaires.' His tone was no longer conversational. "You were Drking alone up there. Is that usual practice?' Immediately, Alice's guard went up. 'No,' she sard slowly, 'but since it my last day, I wanted to keep going, even though my partner wasn't 6.1 was sure we'd found something.' !».1Beneath the boulder shielding the entrance? Just for clarity, how is it I who will dig where?' |i'Dr Brayling and Shelagh - Dr O'Donnell - have a plan of what they to accomplish within the time available. They divide the site up iingly.' f,%> Dr Brayling sent you to that area? Or Dr O'Donnell?' Instinct. I just knew there was something there. I "Well, no. I moved higher up the mountain because I was certain there i something--' She hesitated. 'I couldn't find Dr O'Donnell to ask her ion ... so I made an ... an executive decision.' iNoubel frowned. 'I see. So, you were working. The boulder came free. 1. Then what?' Here were genuine gaps in her memory, but Alice did her best. si's English, although formal, was good and he asked straightforI questions. at's when I heard something in the tunnel behind me, and I--' ienly the words dried in her throat. Something she'd suppressed in t mind came back to her with a thud, the piercing sensation in her as if... r if what? provided the answer herself. As if Id been stabbed. That's what it lit like. A blade slicing into her, precise and clean. There had been , just a rush of cold air and a dim horror. Uhen? luminous light, chill and insubstantial. And hidden within it, a §A woman's face. :l's voice broke through her surfacing memories, sending them 'Dr Tanner?' Was I hallucinating? 'Dr Tanner? Shall I fetch someone?' Alice stared blankly at him for a moment. 'No, no thanks. I'm fine. It's just the heat.' "You were saying how you were startled by the noise--' She forced herself to concentrate. 'Yes. The dark was disorientating. I couldn't work out where the sound was coming from, which frightened me. Now, I realise it was only Shelagh and Stephen--' 'Stephen?' 'Stephen Kirkland. K-i-r-k-1-a-nd.' Noubel turned his notebook round to face her to verify the spelling. Alice nodded. 'Shelagh noticed the boulder and came to find out what was going on. Stephen followed, I suppose.' She hesitated again. 'I'm not sure quite what happened after that.' This time the lie came easily to her lips. 'I must have tripped on the steps or something. The next thing I remember is Shelagh calling my name.' 'Dr O'Donnell says that you were unconscious when they found you.' 'Only briefly. I don't think I can have been out for more than a minute or two. It didn't feel very long anyhow.' 'Do you have a history of blackouts, Dr Tanner?' Alice jolted as the terrifying memory of the first time it happened swooped into her mind. 'No,' she lied. Noubel didn't notice how pale she'd gone. You say it was dark,' he said, 'and that's why you fell. But before you had a light?' 'I had a lighter but I dropped it when I heard the noise. And the ring too.' His reaction was immediate. 'A ring?' he said sharply. You've said nothing about a ring.' There was a small stone ring lying between the skeletons,' she said, alarmed by the look on his face. 'I picked it up with my tweezers, to get a better look, but before--' What sort of ring?' he interrupted. What was it made of?' 'I don't know. Some sort of stone, not silver or gold or anything. I didn't really get a proper look.' Was there anything engraved on it? Letters, a seal, a pattern?' Alice opened her mouth to answer, then shut it. Suddenly, she didn't want to tell him anything more. 'I'm sorry. It all happened too quickly.' Noubel glared at her for a moment, then clicked his fingers and summoned the young officer standing behind him. Alice thought the boy seemed agitated too. 'Biau. On a trouve quelque-chose comme pa?' 'Je ne sais pas, Monsieur I'lnspecteur.' 'Depechez-vous, alors. II faut le chercher. . . Et informez-en Monsieur Authi'e. Allez! Vite!' There was a stubborn band of pain behind Alice's eyes now the painkillers were starting to wear off. 'Did you touch anything else, Dr Tanner?' She rubbed her temples with her fingers. 'I accidentally knocked one of ('the skulls out of position with my foot. But apart from that and the ring, ^nothing. As I've already said.' m *What about the piece you found beneath the boulder?' The brooch? I gave it to Dr O'Donnell after we came out of the cave,' ; slightly at the memory. 'I've got no idea what she did with it.' Noubel was no longer listening. He kept glancing over his shoulder, lally, he gave up the pretence and flipped his notebook shut. If you would be so kind as to wait, Dr Tanner. There may be more stions I need to ask you.' 'But there's nothing more I can tell you--' she started to protest. 'Can't 1 at least join the others?' «'Later. For now, if you could stay here.' slumped back in her chair, annoyed and exhausted, as Noubel out of the tent and headed up the mountain to where a group rmed officers were examining the boulder. I Noubel approached, the circle parted, just enough for Alice to catch apse of a tall man in civilian clothes standing in the middle. 5he caught her breath. ssed in a well-cut pale green summer suit and a crisp white shirt, he i clearly in charge. His authority was obvious, a man used to giving i and having them obeyed. Noubel looked crumpled and unkempt in rison. Alice felt a prickling of unease. \ wasn't only the man's clothes and bearing that marked him out. Even this distance, Alice could feel the force of his personality and la. His face was pale and gaunt, accentuated by the way his dark swept back off his high forehead. There was something of the 1 about him. Something familiar. iV be stupid. How can you know him? stood up and walked to the entrance, watching intently as the two men moved away from the group. They were talking. Or rather Noubel was talking, while the other man listened. After another couple of seconds, he turned and climbed up to the entrance to the cave. The officer on duty lifted the tape, he ducked underneath and was gone. For no reason she could fathom, her palms were wet with apprehension. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end, just as they had when she'd heard the sound in the chamber. She could barely breathe. This is all your fault You led him here. Alice pulled herself up short. What are you talking about? But the voice in her head would not be quietened. You led him here. Her eyes returned again to the entrance to the cave, drawn like a magnet. She couldn't help it. The thought of him in there, after all that had been done to keep the labyrinth hidden. He'll find it. 'Find what?' she muttered to herself. She wasn't sure. But she wished she'd taken the ring when she had the chance. no CHAPTER 13 Noubel didn't go into the cave. Instead, he waited outside in the grey hade of the rocky overhang, red-faced. He knows something's not right, thought Alice. He tossed an occasional %omment to the officer on duty and smoked cigarette after cigarette, light them from the butt of the last. Alice listened to music to help pass the . Nickelback blasted into her head, obliterating all other sounds. After fifteen minutes, the man in the suit reappeared. Noubel and the officer seemed to gain a couple of inches in height. Alice took off her 'headphones and put the chair back in its original position, before taking her position at the entrance to the tent. She watched the two men come down from the cave together. 1 was beginning to think you'd forgotten me, Inspector,' she said, they came within earshot. Noubel mumbled an apology, but avoided her eye. *Dr Tanner, je vous pr'esente Monsieur Authie! 'Close up, Alice's first impressions of a man of presence and charisma reinforced. But his grey eyes were cold and clinical. She felt innately on guard. Fighting her antipathy, she held out her hand. After iment's hesitation, Authie took it. His fingers were cool and his touch insubstantial. It made her flesh creep. ie let go as quickly as she could. we go inside?' he said. you also with the Police Judhiare, Monsieur Authie?' lost of a reaction flickered in his eyes, but he said nothing. Alice wondering if it was possible he'd not heard her. Noubel shuffled, "d in the silence. 'Monsieur Authie is from the mairie, the town Carcassonne.' ily?' She found it surprising Carcassonne was under the same ion as Foix. ie took possession of Alice's chair, leaving her with no choice but It with her back to the entrance. She felt wary, cautious of him. m He had the practised smile of a politician, expedient, watchful and non-committal. It did not reach his eyes. 'I have one or two questions, Dr Tanner.' I'm not sure there's anything else I can tell you. I went through everything I could remember with the Inspector.' Inspector Noubel has given me a thorough summary of your statement, however I need you to go through it once more. There are discrepancies, certain points in your story that need clarification. There might be details you forgot before, things that seemed insignificant at the time.' Alice bit her tongue. 'I told the Inspector everything,' she repeated stubbornly. Authie pressed the tips of his fingers together, ignoring her objections. He didn't smile. 'Let us start from the moment you first entered the chamber, Dr Tanner. Step by step.' Alice jolted at his choice of words. Step by step? Was he testing her? His face revealed nothing. Her eyes fell to a gold crucifix he wore around his neck, then back to his grey eyes, still staring at her. Since she felt she had no choice, she began once more. To start with, Authie listened in an intense, concentrated silence. Then the interrogation started. He's trying to catch me out. Were the words inscribed at the top of the steps legible, Dr Tanner? Did you take the time to read them?' 'Most of the letters were rubbed away,' she said defiantly, challenging him to contradict her. When he did not, Alice felt a burst of satisfaction. 'I walked down the steps to the lower level, towards the altar. Then I saw the bodies.' 'Did you touch them?' 'No.' He made a slight sound, as if he didn't believe her, then reached into his jacket. 'This is yours?' he said, opening his hand to reveal her blue plastic lighter. Alice went to take it, but he drew his arm back. 'May I have it please?' 'Is it yours, Dr Tanner?' "Yes.' He nodded, then slipped it back into his pocket. You say you did not touch the bodies, however, before, you told Inspector Noubel you had.' Alice flushed. It was an accident. I knocked one of the skulls with my foot, but I didn't touch them, as such.' 'Dr Tanner, this will go more easily if you just answer my questions.' The same cold, hard voice. 'I can't see what--' What did they look like?' he said sharply. Alice felt Noubel flinch at the bullying tone, but he didn't do anything to check it. Her stomach twisting with nerves, she did her best. 'And what did you see between the bodies?' 'A dagger, a knife of some sort. Also a small bag, leather I think.' Don't jet him intimidate you. 'I don't know, since I didn't touch it.' Authie narrowed his eyes. 'Did you look inside the bag?' I've told you, I didn't touch anything;--' 'Except for the ring, yes.' He suddenly leaned forward, like a snake out to strike. 'And this I find mysterious, Dr Tanner. What I'm ask myself is why you should be interested enough in the ring to : it up, yet leave everything else undisturbed. You understand my con don?' Alice met his gaze. 'It caught my eye. That's all.' He gave a sardonic smile. 'In the almost pitch black of the cave, you iced this one, tiny object? How big is it? The size of a, say, oneeuro e? A little larger, smaller?' Don't tell him anything. '. would have thought you were capable of assessing its dimensions for f,' she said coldly. He smiled. With a sinking feeling, Alice realised she'd somehow . into his hands. If only I could, Dr Tanner,' he said mildly. 'But now we come to the : of the matter. There is no ring.' : Alice turned cold. What do you mean?' f'Exactly what I say. The ring is not there. Everything else is, more or , as you describe it. But no ring.' |AUce recoiled as Authie placed his hands of her chair and brought his pale face close to hers. What have you done with it, Alice?' he ed. On't let him bully you. You've done nothing wrong. have told you precisely what happened,' she said, struggling to keep |fcar from her voice. The ring slipped out of my hand when I dropped ^lighter. If it's not there now, someone else must have taken it. Not She darted a glance at Noubel. 'If I had taken it, why would I jn it at all in the first place?' fo one other than you claims to have seen this mysterious ring,' he said, ignoring her comments, 'which leaves us with one of two options. Either you are mistaken in what you saw. Or else you took it?' Inspector Noubel finally intervened. 'Monsieur Authie, really I don't think . . .' "You are not paid to think,' he snapped, without even looking at the inspector. Noubel coloured. Authie continued to stare at Alice. I'm only stating the facts.' Alice felt she was engaged in a battle, except no one had told her the rules. She was telling the truth, but she could see no way of persuading him. 'Lots of people went into the cave after me,' she said doggedly. 'The forensic people, police officers, Inspector Noubel, you.' She stared defiantly at him. *You were in there a long time.' Noubel sucked in his breath. 'Shelagh O'Donnell can back me up about the ring. Why don't you ask her?' He gave the same half-smile. 'But I have. She says she knows nothing about the ring.' 'But I told her all about it,' she cried. 'She looked for herself.' 'Are you saying Dr O'Donnell examined the grave?' he said sharply. Fear was stopping her thinking straight. Her brain had given up. She could no longer remember what she'd said to Noubel and what she'd kept back. Was it Dr O'Donnell who gave you permission to work there in the first place?' 'It wasn't like that,' she said, her panic growing. Well, did she do anything to prevent yon from working that part of the mountain?' 'It's not as simple as that.' He sat back in his chair. 'In which case, I'm afraid I have no choice.' 'No choice but to do what?' He darted his gaze to her rucksack. Alice dived for it, but she was too slow. Authie got there first and thrust it at Inspector Noubel. "You've got absolutely no right,' she shouted. She turned on the Inspector. 'He can't do this, can he? Why don't you do something?' Why object if you have nothing to hide?' said Authie. 'It's a matter of principle! You can't just go through my things.' 'Monsieur Authie, je ne suis pas certain--' 'Just do what you're told, Noubel.' Alice tried to grab the bag. Authie's arm shot up and took hold of her wrist. She was so shocked at the physical contact that she froze. Her legs started to shake, whether out of anger or fear she couldn't tell. She jerked her arm free of Authie's grip and sat back, breathing heavily as Noubel searched through the pockets. 'Continuez. Depechezvous.' Alice watched as he moved on to the main section of the bag, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before he found her sketchpad. The Inspector caught her eye. He hates this too. Unfortunately, Authie had also noticed Noubel's slight hesitation. "What is it, Inspector?' 'Pas de bague.' *What have you found?' said Authie, holding out his hand. Noubel reluctantly handed him the pad. Authie flicked the pages with a patronising look on his face. Then his look narrowed and, fleetingly, Alice saw \ genuine surprise in his eyes, before the hooded lids came down again. He snapped the sketchbook shut. 'Merci de votre . . . collaboration, Dr Tanner,' he said. Alice also stood up. 'My drawings, please,' she said, trying to keep her sice steady. They will be returned to you in due course,' he said, slipping it inside pocket. The bag also. Inspector Noubel will give you a receipt for it [ have your statement typed up for you to sign.' |l« Alice was taken by surprise by the sudden and abrupt end to the iew. By the time she'd gathered her wits, Authie had already left : tent taking her belongings with him. *Why don't you stop him?' she said, turning on Noubel. 'Don't think i going to let him get away with that.' His expression hardened. 'I'll get your bag back, Dr Tanner. My advice i to get on with your holiday. Forget all about this.' There's no way I'm going to let this go,' she shouted, but Noubel had eady gone, leaving her alone in the middle of the tent, wondering what i hell had just happened. For a moment, didn't know what to do. She was furious, as much with ' as Authie, at being so easily intimidated. But he's different. She'd reacted so strongly against someone in her life. | The shock gradually wore off. She was tempted to report Authie straight ' to Dr Brayling, or even to Shelagh, she wanted to do something. She ed the idea. Given her status as persona non grata right now, no one I going to be sympathetic. lice was forced to satisfy herself by composing a letter of complaint in head, as she turned over what had happened and tried to make sense Jit. A little later, a different police officer brought the statement for her to sign. Alice read it through thoroughly, but it was an accurate record so far as it went, and she scrawled her signature across the bottom of the page without hesitation. The Pyrenees were bathed in a soft red light by the time the bones were finally brought out from the cave. Everybody fell silent as the sombre procession made its way down the slopes towards the car park, where the line of white and blue police vehicles stood waiting. One woman crossed herself as they passed by. Alice joined everybody else on the brow, of the hill to watch the police load the mortuary van. No one spoke. The doors were secured, then the vehicle accelerated out of the car park in a shower of gravel and dust. Most of her colleagues went back up to gather their belongings straight away, supervised by two officers who were to secure the site once everyone was ready to leave. Alice lingered a while, unwilling to face anybody, knowing that sympathy would be even harder to deal with than hostility. From her vantage point on the hill, Alice watched as the solemn convoy zigzagged away down the valley, getting smaller and smaller until it was no more than a smudge on the horizon. The camp had grown quiet around her. Realising she couldn't delay any longer, Alice was about to go back up too when she noticed Authie hadn't yet gone. She edged a little closer, watching with interest as he laid his jacket carefully on the back seat of his expensive-looking silver car. He slammed the door, and then took a phone from his pocket. Alice could hear the gentle drumming of his fingers on the roof as he waited for a connection. When he spoke, the message was brief and to the point. 'Ce nest plus la,' was all he said. It's gone. CHAPTER 14 Chartres ; The great Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres towered high j|!above the patchwork of pepper-tiled rooftops and gables, and half I timbered and limestone houses which make up the historic city centre. | Below the crowded labyrinth of narrow, curving streets, in the shadows of jthe buildings, the river Eure was still in the dappled light of the late lafternoon sun. Tourists jostled one another at the West Door of the cathedral. Men |wielded their video cameras like weapons, recording rather than experiencing the brilliant kaleidoscope of colour spilling from the three lancet prindows above the Royal Portal. Until the eighteenth century, the nine entrances leading into the athedral close could be sealed at times of danger. The gates were long >ne now, but the attitude of mind persisted. Chartres was still a city of i halves, the old and the new. The most exclusive streets were those to bte north of the Cloister, where the Bishop's Palace once stood. The pale 3ne edifices looked out imperiously towards the cathedral, shrouded an air of centuries-old Catholic influence and power. 0 The house of the de l'Oradore family dominated the rue du Cheval ic. It had survived the Revolution and the Occupation and stood now i. a testimony to old money. Its brass knocker and letterbox gleamed and shrubs in the planters on either side of the steps leading up to its ble doors were perfectly clipped. 1 The front door led into an imposing hall. The floor was dark, polished . and a heavy glass vase of freshly-cut white lilies sat on an oval table I its centre. Display cases set around the edges - each discreetly alarmed ^contained a priceless selection of Egyptian artefacts acquired by the de ore family after Napoleon's triumphant return from his North ican campaigns in the early nineteenth century. It was one of the Egyptian collections in private hands. The current head of the family, Marie-Cecile de l'Oradore, traded in antiques of all periods, although she shared her late grandfather's preference for the medieval past. Two substantial French tapestries hung on the panelled wall opposite the front door, both of which she had acquired since coming into her inheritance five years ago. The family's most valuable pieces -- pictures, jewellery, manuscripts -- were locked away in the safe, out of sight. In the master bedroom on the first floor of the house, overlooking the rue du Cheval Blanc, Will Franklin, Marie-Cecile's current lover, lay on his back on the four-poster bed with the sheet pulled up to his waist. His tanned arms were folded behind his head and his light brown hair, streaked blond by childhood summers spent at Martha's Vineyard, framed an engaging face and little-boy-lost smile. Marie-Cecile herself was sitting in an ornate Louis XIV armchair beside the fireplace, her long, smooth legs crossed at the knees. The ivory sheen of her silk camisole shimmered against the deep blue velvet upholstery. She had the distinctive profile of the de l'Oradore family, a pale, aquiline beauty, although her lips were both sensuous and full and her cat-like green eyes were fringed with generous dark lashes. Her perfectly cut black curls skimmed the top of chiselled shoulders. 'This is such a great room,' said Will. The perfect setting for you. Cool, expensive, subtle.' The tiny diamond studs in her ears glinted as she leaned forward to stub out her cigarette. 'It was my grandfather's room originally.' Her English was flawless, with just a shimmer of a French accent that still turned him on. She stood up and walked across the room towards him, her feet making no sound on the thick, pale blue carpet. Will smiled expectantly as he breathed in the unique smell of her: sex, Chanel and a hint of Gauloise. 'Over,' she said, making a twisting movement with her finger in the air. 'Turn over.' Will did as he was told. Marie-Cecile began to massage his neck and broad shoulders. He could feel his body stretch and relax under her touch. Neither of them paid any attention to the sound of the front door opening and closing below. He didn't even register the voices in the hall, the footsteps taking the stairs two by two and striding along the corridor. There were a couple of sharp raps on the bedroom door. 'Matnan!' Will tensed. 'It's only my son,' she said. 'Out? Qu'est-ce que c'est?' 'Matnan! Je veux te parler.' Will lifted his head. 'I thought he wasn't due back until tomorrow.' 'He isn't.' 'Matnanl' Francois-Baptiste repeated. 'C'est important.' 'If I'm in the way . . .' he said awkwardly. Marie-Cecile continued to massage his shoulders. 'He knows not to | -disturb me. I will talk to him later.' She raised her voice. 'Pas maintenant, pFrancois-Baptiste.' Then she added in English for Will's benefit, as she ¦"ran her hands down his back: 'Now is not . . . convenient.' Will rolled on to his back and sat up, feeling embarrassed. In the three jnths he'd known Marie-Cecile, he'd never met her son. FrancoisJaptiste had been away at university, then on holiday with friends. Only ¦ did it occur to him that Marie-Cecile had engineered it. 'Aren't you going to talk to him?' 'If it makes you happy,' she said, slipping off the bed. She opened the sr a fraction. There was a muffled exchange that Will couldn't hear, en the sound of feet stomping off down the hall. She turned the key in I lock and turned back to face him. 'Better?' she said softly. Slowly, she moved back towards him, looking at him from the fringe of long, dark eyelashes. There was something deliberate about her ements, like a performance, but Will felt his body respond all the le. She pushed him back on to the bed and straddled him, draping her egant arms over his shoulders. Her sharp nails left faint scratch marks jss his skin. He could feel her knees pressing into his sides. He led up and ran his fingers down her smooth, toned arms and brushed breasts with the back of his hands through the silk. The thin silk i slipped easily from her sculptured shoulders. |?The mobile phone lying on the bedside table rang. Will ignored it. He , the delicate camisole down her lean body to her waist. iTThey'll call back if it's important.' iMarie-Cecile glanced at the number on the screen. Immediately, her .changed. I must take this,' she said. fill tried to stop her, but she pushed him away impatiently. 'Not now.' iCovering herself, she walked away to the window. 'Oui. fecoute.' He heard the crackle of a bad line. Trouve-le, alors!' she said and disconnected. Her face flushed with anger, Marie-Cecile reached for a cigarette and lit it. Her hands were shaking. 'Is there a problem?' To start with, Will thought she hadn't heard him. She looked as if she'd forgotten he was even in the room. Then, she glanced over. 'Something has come up,' she said. Will waited, until he realised it was all the explanation he was going to get and she was expecting him to go. Tm sorry,' she said, in a conciliatory tone. I'd much rather stay with you, mats . . .' Annoyed, Will got up and pulled on his jeans. Will I see you for dinner?' She pulled a face. 'I have an engagement. Business, if you remember.' She shrugged. 'Later, out ?' 'How late is later? Ten o'clock? Midnight?' She came over and threaded her fingers through his. 'I am sorry.' Will tried to pull away, although she wouldn't let him. 'You're always doing this. I never know what's going on.' She moved closer so he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest through the thin silk. Despite his bad temper, he felt his body react. 'It's just business,' she murmured. 'Nothing to be jealous about.' 'I'm not jealous.' He'd lost count of the times they'd had this conversation. 'It's more that--' 'Ce soir,' she said, releasing him. 'Now, I must get ready.' Before he had a chance to object, she had disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. When Marie-Cecile emerged from her shower she was relieved to find Will had gone. She wouldn't have been surprised to find him still sprawled across the bed with that little-boy-lost expression on his face. His demands were starting to get on her nerves. Increasingly, he wanted more of her time and attention than she was prepared to give. He seemed to be misunderstanding the nature of the relationship. She would have to deal with it. Marie-Cecile put Will from her mind. She looked around. Her maid had been in and tidied the room. Her things were laid out ready on the bed. Her gold, hand-made slippers were on the floor beside it. She lit another cigarette from her case. She was smoking too much, but she was nervous tonight. She tapped the end of the filter against the lid before lighting it. It was another mannerism she'd inherited from her grandfather, like so much else. Marie-Cecile walked over to the mirror and allowed the white silk bathrobe to slide from her shoulders. It pooled around her feet on the floor. She tilted her head to one side and stared in the mirror with a critical eye. The long lean body, unfashionably pale; the full high breasts, the flawless skin. She ran her hand over her dark nipples then lower, .tracing the outline of her hip bones, her flat stomach. There were a few ignore lines around her eyes and mouth perhaps, but otherwise she was le marked by time. The ormolu clock on the mantle above the fireplace began to chime the r, reminding her she should begin her preparations. She reached and jk the full length, diaphanous shift from the hanger. Cut high at the , with a sharp V-neck at the front, it had been tailored for her. Marie-Cecile hooked the straps, narrow ribbons of gold, over her shoulders, and then sat down at the dressing table. She brushed ' hair, twisting the curls around her fingers, until it shone like polished She loved this moment of metamorphosis, when she ceased to be : and became the Navigataire. The process connected back through ; to all those who had filled this same role before her. t Marie-Cecile smiled. Only her grandfather would understand how she t now. Euphoric, exhilarated, invincible. Not tonight, but the next time : did this, it would be in the place where her ancestors once had stood. not him. It was painful how close the cave was to the site of her ather's excavations fifty years ago. He'd been right all along. Just a of a few kilometres to the east and it would have been him, and : her who stood poised to change history. le'd inherited the de l'Oradore family business on his death five years , It was a role he had been grooming her for, for as long as she could ember. Her father - his only son - was a disappointment to him. e-Cecile had been aware of this from a very early age. At six, her father had taken her education in hand - social, academic and sphical. He had a passion for the finer things of life and an amazing ar colour and craftsmanship. Furniture, tapestries, couture, paintings, s, his taste was immaculate. Everything she valued about herself, she Ikarned from him. i- had also taught her about power, how to use it and how to keep it. she was eighteen and he believed her ready, her grandfather had ily disinherited his own son and named her instead as his heir, iiere had only been one stumble in their relationship, her unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. Despite his dedication to the Quest for the ancient secret of the Grail, her grandfather's Catholicism was strong and orthodox and he did not approve of children born outside marriage. Abortion was out of the question. Adoption was out of the question. It was only when he saw that motherhood made no difference to her determination - that, if anything, it sharpened her ambition and ruthlessness -- that he allowed her back into his life. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, welcoming the burning smoke as it curled down her throat and into her lungs, resenting the power of her memories. Even more than twenty years later, the memory of her exile filled her with a cold desperation. Her excommunication, he'd called it. It was a good description. It had felt like being dead. Marie-Cecile shook her head to shake the maudlin thoughts away. She wanted nothing to disturb her mood tonight. She couldn't allow anything to cast a shadow over tonight. She wanted no mistakes. She turned back to the mirror. First, she applied a pale foundation and dusted her skin with a gold face powder that reflected the light. Next, she outlined her lids and brows with heavy kohl pencil that accentuated her dark lashes and black pupils, then a green eye shadow, iridescent like a peacock's tail. For her lips, she chose a metallic copper gloss flecked with gold, kissing a tissue to seal the colour. Finally, she sprayed a haze of perfume into the air and let it fall, like mist, onto the surface of her skin. Three boxes were lined up on the dressing table, the red leather and brass clasps, polished and gleaming. Each piece of ceremonial jewellery was several hundred years old, but modelled on pieces thousands of years older. In the first, there was a gold headdress, like a tiara, rising to a point in the centre; in the second, two gold amulets, shaped like snakes, their glittering eyes made of cut emerald; the third contained a necklace, a solid band of gold with the symbol suspended from the middle. The gleaming surfaces echoed with an imagined memory of the dust, the heat of Ancient Egypt. When she was ready, Marie-Cecile moved over to the window. Below her, the streets of Chartres lay spread out like a picture postcard, the everyday shops and cars and restaurants nestling in the shadows of the great Gothic Cathedral. Soon, from these same houses, would come the men and women chosen to take part in tonight's ritual. She closed her eyes to the familiar skyline and darkening horizon. Now, she no longer saw the spire and the grey cloisters. Instead, in her mind's eye, she saw the whole world, like a glittering map, stretched out before her. Within her reach at last. CHAPTER 15 Foix lice was jolted awake by a persistent ringing in her ear. Where the hell am I? The beige phone on the shelf above the bed rang Of course. Her hotel room in Foix. She'd come back from the site, done le packing, then had a shower. The last thing she remembered was ; down on her bed for five minutes. Alice fumbled for the receiver. 'Out. 'AlloT The owner of the hotel, Monsieur Annaud, had a strong local accent, 1 flat vowels and nasal consonants. Alice had trouble understanding him to face. On the phone, without the benefit of eyebrows and hand Stures, it was impossible. He sounded like a cartoon character. /Plus lentements, s'il vous plait,' she said, trying to slow him down. 'Vous ; trop vite. Je ne comprends pas.' |;!There was a pause. She heard rapid muttering in the background. Then dame Annaud came on and explained there was someone waiting for : in reception. t'Unefemme?' she said hopefully. lice had left a note for Shelagh at the site house, as well as a couple of es on her voicemail, but she'd heard nothing. n, c'est un homme,' replied Madame Annaud. *OK,' she sighed, disappointed, 'f arrive. Deux minutes.' She ran a comb through her hair, which was still damp, then pulled on : and T-shirt, pushed her feet into a pair of espadrilles, then headed stairs, wondering who the hell it could be. ; main team were all staying in a small auberge close to the excavai site. In any case, she'd already said her goodbyes to those who wanted them. Nobody else knew she was here. Since she'd broken up with er, there was no one to tell anyway. le reception area was deserted. She peered into the gloom, expecting to see Madame Annaud sitting behind the high wooden desk, but there was no one there. Alice took a quick look round the corner at the waiting room. The old wicker chairs, dusty on the underside, were unoccupied, as were the two large leather sofas that stood at right angles to the fireplace, draped with horse brasses and testimonials from grateful past guests. A lopsided spinner of postcards, offering dog-eared views of everything Foix and the Ariege had to offer, was still. Alice went back to the desk and rang the bell. There was a rattle of beads in the doorway as Monsieur Annaud appeared from the family's private quarters. 'IIy a quelqu'unpour mot?' 'La,' he said, leaning out over the counter to point. Alice shook her head. 'Personne.' He came round to look, then shrugged, surprised to find the lounge was deserted. 'Dehorst Outside?' He mimed a man smoking. The hotel was on a small side street, which ran between the main thoroughfare - filled with administrative buildings, fast-food restaurants as well as the extraordinary 1930s Art Deco post office - and the more picturesque medieval centre of Foix with its cafes and antique shops. Alice looked to the left, then to the right, but nobody appeared to be waiting. The shops were all closed at this time of day and the road was pretty much empty. Puzzled, she turned to go back inside, when a man appeared out of a doorway. In his early twenties, he was wearing a pale summer suit that was a little too big for him. His thick black hair was neatly short and his eyes were obscured behind dark glasses. He had a cigarette in his hand. 'Dr Tanner.' 'Out,' she said cautiously. 'Vous me cherchez?' He reached into his top pocket. 'Pour vous. Tenez,' he said, thrusting an envelope at her. He kept darting his eyes about, clearly nervous that someone would see them. Alice suddenly recognised him as the young uniformed officer who'd been with Inspector Noubel. Je vous ai deja rencontre, non?Au Pic de Soularac' He switched to English. 'Please,' he said urgently. 'Take.' 'Vous etiez avec Inspecteur Noubel?' she insisted. He had tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He took Alice by surprise by grabbing her hand and forcing the envelope into it. 'Hey!' she objected. 'What is this?' But he'd already disappeared, swallowed up into one of the many alleyways that led up to the castle. For a moment, Alice stood staring at the empty space in the street, half minded to follow him. Then she reconsidered. The truth was, he'd scared her. She looked down at the letter in her hand as if it was a bomb about to go off, then took a deep breath and slid her finger under the flap. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of cheap writing paper with appelez scrawled across it in childish capitals. Below that was a telephone number: 02 68 72 31 26. Alice frowned. It wasn't local. The code for the Ariege was 05. - She turned it over in case there was something on the other side, but it was blank. She was about to throw the note in the bin, then thought I* better of it. Might as well keep it for now. Putting it in her pocket, she I dumped the envelope on top of the ice-cream wrappers, then went back in, feeling mystified. Alice didn't notice the man step out from the doorway of the cafe I opposite. By the time he reached into the bin to retrieve the envelope, she I was already back in her room. ' Adrenalin pumping through his veins, Yves Biau finally stopped running. He bent over, hands on his knees, to get his breath back. High above him, the great Chateau of Foix towered over the town as |,& had done for more than a thousand years. It was the symbol of the j independence of the region, the only significant fortress never to be taken F:in the crusade against the Languedoc. A refuge for the Cathars and Ifreedom fighters driven from the cities and plains. Biau knew he was being followed. They - whoever they were - had : no attempt to hide. His hand went to his gun beneath his jacket. At ast he'd done what Shelagh asked him. Now, if he could get over the rder into Andorra before they realised he'd gone, he might be all right. . understood now that it was too late to halt the events he'd helped set motion. He'd done everything they told him, but she kept coming , Whatever he did would never be enough. The package had gone by the last post to his grandmother. She would ow what to do with it. It was the only thing he could think of to make 1 for what he'd done. Biau looked up and down the street. No one. I'He stepped out and started to walk, heading home by a circuitous, ;ical route, in case they were waiting for him there. Coming from this tion, he'd have a chance of spotting them before they saw him. ,As he crossed through the covered market, his subconscious mind jistered the silver Mercedes in the Place Saint-Volusien, but he paid little attention. He didn't hear the soft cough of the engine ticking over, nor the shift of gears as the car started to glide forward, rumbling softly over the cobbled stones of the medieval old town. As Biau stepped off the pavement to cross the road, the car accelerated violently, catapulting forward like a plane on a runway. He spun round, shock frozen on his face. A dull thud and his legs were taken out from under him as his suddenly weightless body was thrown into and over the windscreen. Biau seemed to float for a fraction of a second before being hurled violently against one of the cast-iron stanchions that supported the sloped roof of the covered market. He hung there, suspended in mid-air, like a child in a centrifuge at a fairground. Then gravity claimed him and he dropped straight to the ground, leaving a trail of red blood on the black metal pillar. The Mercedes did not stop. The noise brought people in the local bars out on to the streets. A couple of women looked out from windows overlooking the square. The owner of the Cafe PMU took one look and ran back inside to call the police. A woman started screaming and was quickly hushed as a crowd formed around the body. At first, Alice took no notice of the noise. But as the wailing of the sirens grew closer, she moved to her hotel window like everyone else and looked out. It's nothing to do with you. There was no reason to get involved. And yet, for some reason she couldn't account for, Alice found herself leaving her room and heading for the square. There was a police car blocking the small road that led from the corner of the square, its lights flashing silently. Just the other side, a group of people had formed a semi-circle around something or someone lying on the ground. 'You're not safe anywhere,' an American woman was muttering to her husband, 'not even in Europe.' Alice's sense of foreboding got stronger the closer she got. She couldn't bear the thought of what she might see, but somehow couldn't stop herself. A second police car emerged from a side street and screeched to a halt beside the first. Faces turned, the thicket of arms and legs and bodies thinning just long enough for Alice to see the body on the ground. A pale suit, black hair; sunglasses with brown lenses and gold arms, lying close by. // can't be him. Alice pushed her way through, barging people out of the way until she reached the front. The boy was lying motionless on the ground. Her hand went automatically to the paper in her pocket. This can't be a coincidence. Struck dumb with shock, Alice blundered back. A car door slammed. She jumped and spun round, in time to see Inspector Noubel levering himself out of the driver's seat. She shrank back into the mass of people. Don't let him see you. Instinct sent her across the square, away from Noubel, her head down. As soon as she rounded the corner, she broke into a run. 'S'il vous plait,' shouted Noubel, clearing a path through the onlookers. 'Police. S'il vous plait' Yves Biau was spreadeagled on the unforgiving ground, his arms flung out at right angles. One leg was doubled under him, clearly broken, a white ankle bone protruding from his trousers. The other leg lay unnaturally flat, flopped sideways. One of his tan loafers had come off. Noubel crouched down and tried to find a pulse. The boy was still breathing, in short, shallow gasps, but his skin was clammy to the touch and his eyes were closed. In the distance, Noubel heard the welcome wail of an ambulance. 'S'il vous plait,' he shouted again, hauling himself to his feet. 'Poussez ftivous.' Stand back. Two more police cars arrived. Word had gone out over the radio that an Isofificer was down, so there were more police than bystanders. They cordloned off the street and separated witnesses from onlookers. They were icient and methodical, but the tension showed in their faces. 'It wasn't an accident, Inspector,' said the American woman. 'The car : right at him, real fast. He didn't stand a chance.' Noubel looked at her intently. You saw the incident, Madame?' 'Sure I did.' 'Did you see what type of car it was? The make?' She shook her head. 'Silver, that's as much I can say.' She turned to her sand. I "Mercedes,' he said immediately. 'Didn't get a good look myself. Only ed around when I heard the noise.' ./Registration number?' f"fl think the last number was eleven. It happened too quick.' pi The street was quite empty, officer,' the wife repeated, as if she feared I wasn't taking her seriously. 'Did you see how many people were in the car?' 'One for sure in the front. Couldn't say if there were folks in the rear.' Noubel handed her over to an officer to take down her details, then walked round to the back of the ambulance where Biau was being lifted in on a stretcher. His neck and head were supported by a brace, but a steady stream of blood was flowing from beneath the bandage wrapped around the wound, staining his shirt red. His skin was unnaturally white, the colour of wax. There was a tube taped to the corner of his mouth and a mobile drip attached to his hand. 77pourra s'en tirerV Will he make it? The paramedic pulled a face. 'If I were you,' he said, slamming the doors shut, 'I'd be calling the next of kin.' Noubel banged on the side of the ambulance as it pulled away, then satisfied his men were doing their job, he wandered back to his car, cursing himself. He lowered himself into the front seat, feeling every one of his fifty years, reflecting on all the wrong decisions he'd taken today that had led to this. He slid a finger under the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie. He knew he should have talked to the boy earlier. Biau hadn't been himself from the moment he'd arrived at the Pic de Soularac. He was normally enthusiastic, the first to volunteer. Today, he'd been nervous and on edge, then he'd vanished for half the afternoon. Noubel tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Authie claimed Biau had never given him the message about the ring. And why would he lie about something like that? At the thought of Paul Authie, Noubel felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. He popped a peppermint in his mouth to relieve the burning. That was another mistake. He shouldn't have let Authie near Dr Tanner although, when he thought about it, he wasn't sure what he could have done to prevent it. When reports of the skeletons at Soularac had come through, orders that Paul Authie should be given access to the site and assistance had accompanied them. So far, Noubel hadn't been able to find out how Authie had heard about the discovery so fast, let alone worm his way onto the site. Noubel had never met Authie in person before, although he knew him by reputation. Most police officers did. A lawyer, known for his hardline religious views, Authie was said to have half the Judiciare and gendarmerie of the Midi in his pockets. More specifically, a colleague of Noubel's had been called to give evidence in a case Authie was defending. Two members of a far-right group were accused of the murder of an Algerian taxi driver in Carcassonne. There'd been rumours of intimidation. In the end, both defendants were acquitted and several police officers forced to retire. Noubel looked down at Biau's sunglasses which he'd picked up from the ground. He'd been unhappy earlier. Now he liked the situation even less. The radio crackled into life, belching out the information Noubel needed about Biau's next of kin. He sat for a moment longer, putting off the moment. Then he started to make the calls. CHAPTER 16 It was eleven o'clock when Alice reached the outskirts of Toulouse. She was too tired to carry on to Carcassonne, so she decided to head for the city centre and find somewhere to stay the night. The journey had passed in a flash. Her head was full of jumbled images of the skeletons and the knife beside them; the white face looming out at her in the dead grey light; the body lying in front of the church in Foix. Was he dead? And the labyrinth. Always, in the end, she came back to the labyrinth. Alice told herself she was being paranoid, that it was nothing to do with her. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But no matter how many times Alice said it, she did not believe it. She kicked off her shoes and lay down fully clothed on the bed. Everything about the room was cheap. Featureless plastic and hardboard, grey tiles and fake wood. The sheets were over-starched and scratched like paper against her skin. She took the Bushmills single malt from her rucksack. There were a couple of fingers left in the bottle. Unexpectedly a lump came to her throat. She'd been saving the last couple of inches for her last night at the dig. She tried again, but Shelagh's phone was still on divert. Fighting back her irritation, she left yet another message. She wished Shelagh would quit playing games. Alice washed down a couple of painkillers with the whisky, then got into bed and turned the light off. She was totally exhausted, but she couldn't get comfortable. Her head was throbbing, her wrist felt hot and swollen and the cut on her arm was hurting like hell. Worse than ever. The room was stuffy and hot. After tossing and turning, listening to bells strike midnight, then one o'clock, Alice got up to open the window and let some air in. It didn't help. Her mind wouldn't stay still. She tried to think of white sands and clear blue water, Caribbean beaches and Hawaiian sunsets, but her brain kept coming back to the grey rock and chill subterranean air of the mountain. She was scared to sleep. What if the dream came back again? The hours crawled by. Her mouth was dry and her heart staggered under the influence of the whisky. Not until the pale white dawn crept under the worn edges of the curtains did her mind finally give in. This time, a different dream. She was riding a chestnut horse through the snow. Its winter coat was jtlhick. and glossy, and its white mane and tail were plaited with red ans. She was dressed for hunting in her best cloak with the squirrel 'pelisse and hood, and long leather gloves lined with marten fur that at up as high as her elbows. jpA man was riding beside her on a grey gelding, a bigger, more powerful . with a black mane and tail. He pulled repeatedly on the reins to it steady. His brown hair was long for a man, skimming his shoulHis blue velvet cloak streamed behind him as he drove his mount i Alice saw he wore a dagger at his waist. Around his neck was a silver in with a single green stone hanging from it, which banged up and against his chest to the rhythm of the horse. le kept glancing over at her with a mixture of pride and ownership, connection between them was strong, intimate. In her sleep, Alice '¦. position and smiled. way off, a horn was blowing sharp and shrill in the crisp air, proclaiming that the hounds were on the trail of a wolf. ¦ it was December, a special month. She knew she was happy. l, the light changed. she was alone in a part of the forest she did not recognise. The were taller and more dense, their bare branches black and twisted the white, snow-laden sky, like dead men's fingers. Somewhere I her, unseen and threatening, the dogs were gaining on her, excited i promise of blood. I was no longer the hunter, but the quarry. forest reverberated with a thousand thundering hooves, getting ' and closer. She could hear the baying of the huntsmen now. They frlhouting to one another in a language she did not understand, but ¦ they were looking for her. horse stumbled. Alice was thrown, falling forward out of the i and down to the hard, wintry ground. She heard the bone in her ' crack, then searing pain. She looked down in horror. A piece of i, frozen solid like the head of an arrow, had pierced her sleeve fipaled itself in her arm. With numb and desperate fingers, Alice pulled at the fragment until it came loose, closing her eyes against the aching pain. Straight away, the blood started to flow, but she couldn't let that stop her. Staunching the bleeding with the hem of her cloak, Alice scrambled to her feet and forced herself on through the naked branches and petrified undergrowth. The brittle twigs snapped under her feet and the ice-cold air pinched her cheeks and made her eyes water. The ringing in her ears was louder now, more insistent, and she felt faint. As insubstantial as a ghost. Suddenly, the forest was gone and Alice found herself standing on the edge of a cliff. There was nowhere left to go. At her feet was a sheer drop to a wooded precipice below. In front of her were the mountains, capped with snow, stretching as far as the eye could see. They were so close she felt she could almost reach out and touch them. In her sleep, Alice shifted uneasily. Let me wake up. Please. She struggled to wake up, but she couldn't. The dream held her too tightly in its coils. The dogs burst out of the cover of the trees behind her, barking, snarling. Their breath clouded the air as their jaws snapped, drools of spit and blood hanging from their teeth. In the gathering dusk, the tips of the huntsmen's spears glinted brightly. Their eyes were filled with hate, with excitement. She could hear them whispering, jeering, taunting her. 'Heretique, heretique.' In that split second, the decision was made. If it was her time to die, it would not be at the hands of such men. Alice lifted her arms wide and jumped, commending her body to the air. Straight away, the world fell silent. Time ceased to have any meaning as she fell, slowly and gently, her green skirts billowing out around her. Now she realised there was something pinned to her back, a piece of material in the shape of a star. No, not a star but a cross. A yellow cross. Rouelle. As the unfamiliar word drifted in and then out of her mind, the cross came loose and floated away from her, like a leaf dropping from a tree in autumn. The ground came no nearer. Alice was no longer afraid. For even as the dream images started to splinter and break apart, her subconscious mind understood what her conscious mind could not. That it was not her Alice - who fell, but another. And this was not a dream, but a memory. A fragment from a life lived a long, long time ago. Carcassona | JULHET I2O9 Twigs and leaves cracked as Alai's shifted position. There was a rich smell of moss, lichen and earth in her nose, her mouth. Something sharp pierced the back of her hand, the tiniest jab that immediately began to sting. A mosquito or an ant. She could feel the poison seeping into her blood. Alais moved to brush the insect away. The movement made her retch. Where am I? The answer, like an echo. Defira. Outside. She was lying face down on the ground. Her skin was clammy, slightly chill from the dew. Daybreak or dusk? Her clothes, tangled around her, were damp. Taking it slowly, Alais managed to lever herself into a sitting \.position, leaning against the trunk of a beech tree to keep herself steady. Dofament. Softly, carefully. Through the trees at the top of the slope she could see the sky was lite, strengthening to pink on the horizon. Flat clouds floated like ships led. She could make out the black outlines of weeping willows. id her were pear and cherry trees, drab and naked of colour this late i the season. |Dawn, then. Alai's tried to focus on her surroundings. It seemed very it, blinding, even though there was no sun. She could hear water not off, shallow and moving lazily over the stones. In the distance, the ictive kveck-kveck of an eagle owl coming back from his night's iting. Alais glanced down at her arms, which were marked with small, angry red bites. She examined the scratches and cuts on her legs too. As well as insect bites, her ankles were ringed with dried blood. She held her hands up close to her face. Her knuckles were bruised and sore. Lines of rust red streaks between the fingers. A memory. Of being dragged, arms trailing along the ground. No, before that. Walking across the courtyard. Lights in the upper windows. Fear pricked the back of her neck. Footsteps in the dark, the calloused hand across her mouth, then the blow. Perilhos. Danger. She raised her hand to her head and then winced as her fingers connected with the sticky mass of blood and hair behind her ear. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of the hands crawling over her like rats. Two men. A commonplace smell, of horses, ale and straw. Did they find the merel? Alais struggled to stand. She had to tell her father what had happened. He was going to Montpellier, that much she could remember. She had to speak with him first. She tried to get up, but her legs would not hold her. Her head was spinning again and she was falling, falling, slipping back into a weightless sleep. She tried to fight it and stay conscious, but it was no use. Past and present and future were part of an infinite time now, stretching out white before her. Colour and sound and light ceased to have any meaning. With a final, anxious glance back over his shoulder, Bertrand Pelletier rode out of the Eastern Gate at Viscount Trencavel's side. He could not understand why Alais had not come to see them off. Pelletier rode in silence, lost in his own thoughts, hearing little of the inconsequential chatter going on around him. His spirits were troubled at her absence from the Cour d'Honneur to see them off and wish the expedition well. Surprised, disappointed too, if he could bring himself to . admit it. He wished now he had sent Francois to wake her. Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets were lined with people waving and cheering. Only the finest horses had been chosen. Palfreys whose resilience and stamina could be relied upon, as well as the strongest geldings and mares from the stables of the Chateau Comtal picked for , speed and endurance. Raymond-Roger Trencavel rode his favourite bay Stallion, a horse he'd trained himself from a colt. Its coat was the colour of a fox in winter and on its muzzle was a distinctive white blaze, the exact shape, or so it was said, of the Trencavel lands. Every shield displayed the Trencavel ensign. The crest was embroiditred on every flag and the vest each chevalier wore over his travelling \ armour. The rising sun glanced off the shining helmets, swords and Jbridles. Even the saddlebags of the pack horses had been polished until : grooms could see their faces reflected in the leather. It had taken some time to decide how large the envoi should be. Too and Trencavel would seem an unworthy and unimpressive ally and ' would be easy pickings on the road. Too large and it would look like laration of war. I'Finally, sixteen chevaliers had been chosen, Guilhem du Mas among i, despite Pelletier's objections. With their ecuyers, a handful of serits and churchmen, Jehan Congost and a smith for working repairs to i horses' shoes en route, the party numbered some thirty in total. Their destination was Montpellier, the principal city within the domains ' the Viscount of Nimes and the birthplace of Raymond-Roger's wife, Dame Agnes. Like Trencavel, Nimes was a vassal of the King of Aragon, Pedro II, so even though Montpellier was a Catholic city - and Pedro himself a staunch and energetic persecutor of heresy - there was reason to expect they would have safe passage. They had allowed three days to ride from Carcassonne. It was anybody's guess as to which of them, Trencavel or the Count of Toulouse, would arrive in the city first. At first they headed east, following the course of the Aude towards the rising sun. At Trebes, they turned northwest into the lands of the Minervois, following the old Roman road that ran through La Redorte, the fortified hill town of Azille, and on to Olonzac. The best land was given over to the canabieres, the hemp fields, which stretched as far as the eye could see. To their right were vines, some pruned, others growing wild and untended at the side of the track behind vigorous hedgerows. To their left was a sea of emerald-green stalks of the barley fields, which would turn to gold by harvest time. Peasants, their wide-brimmed straw hats obscuring their faces, were already hard at work, reaping the last of the season's wheat, the iron curve of their scythes catching the rising sun from time to time. Beyond the river bank, lined with oak trees and marsh willow, were the deep and silent forests where the wild eagles flew. Stag, lynx and bear were plentiful, wolves and foxes too in the winter. Towering above the lowland woods and coppice were the dark forests of the Montagne Noire where the wild boar was king. With the resilience and optimism of youth, Viscount Trencavel was in good spirits, exchanging light-hearted anecdotes and listening to tales of past exploits. He argued with his men about the best hunting dogs, greyhounds or mastiffs, about the price of a good brood bitch these days, gossiped about who had wagered what at darts or dice. Nobody talked of the purpose of the expedition, nor of what would happen if the Viscount failed in his petitions to his uncle. A raucous shout from the back of the line drew Pelletier's attention. He glanced over his shoulder. Guilhem du Mas was riding three abreast with Alzeu de Preixan and Thierry Cazanon, chevaliers who'd also trained in Carcassonne and been dubbed the same Passiontide. Aware of the older man's critical scrutiny, Guilhem raised his head and met his gaze with an insolent stare. For a moment they held one another fixed. Then, the younger man inclined his head slightly, an insincere acknowledgement, and turned away. PeUetier felt his blood grow hot, all the worse for knowing there was nothing he could do. For hour after hour they rode across the plains. The conversation faltered, then petered out as the excitement that had accompanied their departure from the Cite gave way to apprehension. The sun climbed ever higher in the sky. The churchmen suffered the most in their black worsted habits. Rivulets of sweat were dripping down the Bishop's forehead and Jehan Congost's spongy face had turned an unpleasant blotchy red, the colour of foxgloves. Bees, crickets and cicadas >( tattled and hummed in the brown grass. Mosquitoes pricked at their JL'^nists and hands, and flies tormented the horses, causing them to switch llfeeir manes and tails in irritation. Only when the sun was full overheard did Viscount Trencavel lead off the road to rest a while. They settled on a glade beside a slowijSowing stream, having established the grazing was safe. The ecuyers idled the horses and cooled their coats with willow leaves dipped ||b the water. Cuts and bites were treated with dock leaves or mustard ltices. The chevaliers removed their travelling armour and boots, washing the St and sweat from their hands and necks. A small contingent of serIts was dispatched to the nearest farm, returning some time later with cad and sausage, white goat's cheese, olives and strong, local wine. As the news spread that Viscount Trencavel was camped nearby, a iy stream of farmers and peasants, old men and young women, Bavers and brewers started to make their way to their humble camp the trees, carrying gifts for their Seigneur, baskets of cherries and vly-fallen plums, a goose, salt and fish. sPelletier was uneasy. It would delay them and use up precious time, had a great deal of ground to cover before the evening shadows lened and they pitched camp for the night. But, like his father and ler before him, Raymond-Roger enjoyed meeting his subjects and . have none turned away. It is for this that we swallow our pride and go to make peace with my E,' he said quietly. 'To protect all that is good and innocent and true 1 way of life, ei And, if necessary, we shall fight for it.' an ancient warrior king, Viscount Trencavel held court in the of the holm oak trees. He accepted all the tributes offered to him i grace and charm and dignity. He knew that this day would become a ' to be treasured, woven into the life of the village. One of the last to approach was a pretty, dark-skinned girl of five or six, with bright eyes the colour of blackberries. She gave a brief curtsey and offered a posy of wild orchids, white sneezewort and meadow honeysuckle. Her hands were shaking. Bending down to the girl's level, Viscount Trencavel pulled a linen handkerchief from his belt and offered it to her. Even Pelletier smiled as the tiny fingers reached out timidly and took the crisp, white square of cloth. 'And what is your name, MadomaiselaJ he asked. 'Ernestine, Messire,' she whispered. Trencavel nodded. Well, Madomaisela Ernestine,' he said, plucking a pink bloom from the bunch of flowers and fixing it to his tunic, 'I shall wear this for good luck. And to remind me of the kindness of the people of Puicheric' Only when the last of the visitors had left the camp, did Raymond Roger Trencavel unbuckle his sword and sit down to eat. When hunger was satisfied, one by one, man and boy stretched out on the soft grass or leaned back against the trunk of a tree and dozed, their bellies full of wine and their heads thick with the afternoon heat. Pelletier alone did not settle. Once he was certain Viscount Trencavel had no need of him for the time being, he set off to walk by the stream, desiring solitude. Waterboatmen skated over the water and brightly coloured dragonflies skimmed the surface, shimmering, darting and slipping through the heavy air. As soon as he was out of sight of the camp, Pelletier sat down on a blackened trunk of a fallen tree and took Harif s letter from his pocket. He didn't read it. He didn't even open it, just held it tight between his forefinger and thumb, like a talisman. He could not stop thinking of Alai's. His thoughts rocked backwards and forwards like a balance. At one moment he regretted confiding in her at all. But if not Alai's, then who? There was no one else he could trust. The next moment, he feared he had told her too little. God willing, all would be well. If their petition to the Count of Toulouse was favourably received, before the month was out, they would be returning to Carcassonne in triumph without a drop of blood being spilled. For Pelletier's own part, he would find Simeon in Beziers and learn the identity of the 'sister' of whom Harif had written. If destiny willed it so. Pelletier sighed. He looked out over the tranquil scene spread out before him and saw in his imagination the opposite. Instead of the old world, unchanged and unchanging, he saw chaos and devastation and destruction. The end of all things. He bowed his head. He could not have done other than he had. If he did not return to Carcassonne, then at least he would die in the knowledge that he had done his best to protect the Trilogy. Alais would fulfil his obligations. His vows would become her vows. The secret would not be lost in the pandemonium of battle or left to rot in a French gaol. The sounds of the camp stirring brought Pelletier back to the present. It was time to move on. There were many more hours of riding before unset. !«. Pelletier returned Harif s letter to his pouch and walked quickly back to Idle camp, aware that such moments of peace and quiet contemplation |0light be in short supply in the days ahead. CHAPTER 19 When Alais woke again, she was lying between linen sheets, not on grass. There was a low, dull whistling in her ears, like an autumn wind echoing through the trees. Her body felt curiously heavy and weighted down, as if it didn't belong to her. She had been dreaming that Esclarmonde was there with her, putting her cool hand on her brow to draw the fever out. Her eyes fluttered open. Above her head was the familiar wooden canopy of her own bed, the dark blue night-curtains tied back. The chamber was suffused with the soft, golden light of dusk. The air, although still hot and heavy, carried in it the promise of night. She caught the faint aroma of freshly burned herbs. Rosemary and the scent of lavender. She could hear women's voices too, coarse and low, somewhere close by. They were whispering as if trying not to disturb her. Their words hissed like fat dripping from a spit on to a fire. Slowly, Alais turned her head on her pillow towards the noise. Alziette, the unpopular wife of the head groom, and Ranier, a sly and spiteful gossip with an uncouth, boorish husband, both troublemakers, were sitting by the empty fireplace like a pair of old crows. Her sister Oriane used them often for errands, but Alais mistrusted them and could not account for how they came to be in her room. Her father would never have allowed it. Then she remembered. He was not here. He had gone to Saint-Gilles or Montpellier, she couldn't quite remember. Guilhem too. 'So where were they?' Ranier hissed, her voice greedy for scandal. 'In the orchard, right down by the brook by the willow trees,' replied Alziette. 'Mazelle's oldest girl saw them go down there. Bitch that she is, she rushed straight back to her mother. Then Mazelle herself came flying into the courtyard, wringing her hands at the shame of it and how she didn't want to be the one to tell me.' 'She's always been jealous of your girl, e. Her daughters are all fat as hogs and pockmarked. The whole lot of them, as plain as pikes.' Ranier bent her head closer. 'So what did you do?' What could I do but go and see for myself? I spotted them the moment I got down there. It's not as if they'd made much effort to conceal themselves. I got hold of Raoul by his hair - nasty coarse brown hair he's got - and boxed his ears. All the while he was pulling at his belt with one hand, his face red from the shame of being caught. When I turned on Jeanette, he wriggled out of my grasp and ran off without even so much as a backward glance.' Ranier tutted. 'All the while Jeannette was wailing, carrying on, saying how Raoul loved her and wants to marry her. To hear her talk, you'd think no girl had ever had her head turned by pretty words before.' 'Perhaps his intentions are honest?' Alziette snorted. 'He's in no position to marry,' she complained. 'Five older brothers and only two of them wed. His father's in the tavern day and night. Every last sol they've got goes straight into Gaston's pocket.' Alais tried to close her ears to the women's mundane gossip. They were like vultures picking over carrion. 'But then again,' Ranier said slyly, 'it was fortunate, as it turned out. If circumstances had not taken you down there, then you wouldn't have found her.' Alais tensed, sensing the two heads turn towards the bed. That's so,' agreed Alziette. 'And I dare say I'll be well rewarded when |;Jbcr father returns.' Is listened, but learned nothing more. The shadows lengthened. She . in and out of sleep. By and by, a night nurse came to replace Alziette and Ranier, another her sister's favoured servants. The noise of the woman dragging the ed wooden pallet out from under the bed woke Alais. She heard a : whump as the nurse lowered herself down on to the lumpy mattress, i weight of her body pushing the air out from between the dry straw ng. Within moments, the grunts and laboured snoring, wheezing 1 snuffing from the foot of the bed announced she was asleep. 'Alais was suddenly wide awake. Her head was full of her father's last ion to her. To keep safe the labyrinth board. She eased herself up a sitting position and looked among the fragments of material and les. jfciFhe board was no longer there. iCareful not to wake the nurse, Alais tugged open the door of the side table. Its hinge was stiff from lack of use and it creaked as she eased it open. Alais ran her fingers around the edge of the bed, in case the board had slipped between the mattress and wooden frame of her bed. It was not there either. Res. Nothing. She didn't like the way her thoughts were tending. Her father had dismissed her suggestion that his identity had been discovered, but was he right? Both the merel and the board had gone. Alais swung her legs over the bed and tiptoed across the room to her sewing chair. She needed to be sure. Her cloak was draped over the back. Someone had tried to clean it, but the red embroidered hem was caked with mud, obscuring the stitching in places. It smelled of the yard or the stables, acrid and sour. Her hands came up empty, as she knew they would. Her purse was gone, the merel'with it. Events were moving too fast. Suddenly, the old familiar shadows seemed full of menace. She felt threats all around, even in the grunts coming from the foot of the bed. What if my attackers are still in the Chateau1? What if they come back for me? Alais quickly got dressed, picked up the calelh and adjusted the flame. The thought of crossing the dark courtyard alone frightened her, but she couldn't sit in her chamber, just waiting for something to happen. Coratge. Courage. Alais ran across the Cour d'Honneur to the Tour Pinte, shielding the guttering flame with her hand. She had to find Francois. She opened the door a fraction and called his name into the darkness. There was no answer. She slipped inside. 'Francois,' she whispered again. The lamp cast a pale yellow glow, enough to see that there was someone lying on the pallet at the foot of her father's bed. Putting the lamp on the ground, Alai's bent down and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Straight away she snapped her arm back as if her fingers had been burned. It felt wrong. 'Francois?' Still no reply. Alais grasped the rough edge of the blanket, counted to three, then ripped it back. Underneath was a pile of old clothes and furs, carefully arranged to look like a sleeping figure. She felt dizzy with relief, although puzzled. In the corridor outside a noise caught her attention. Alais snatched up the lamp and extinguished the flame, then tucked herself in the shadows behind the bed. She heard the door creak open. The intruder hesitated, perhaps smelling the oil from the lamp, perhaps noticing the disarranged blankets. He drew his knife from its sheath. "Who's there?' he said. 'Show yourself.' 'Francois,' said Alais with relief, stepping out from behind the curtains. 'It's me. You can put your weapon away.' He looked more startled than she felt. 'Dame, forgive me. I didn't realise.' She looked at him with interest. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd been running. 'The fault is mine, but where have you been at this hour?' she asked. 'I--' A woman, she supposed, although why he should be so embarrassed about it, she could not fathom. She took pity on him. 'In fact, Francois, it is of no matter. I'm here because you are the only person I trust to tell me what happened to me.' The colour drained from his face. 'I know nothing, Dame,' he said quickly in a strangled voice. 'Come, you must have heard rumours, kitchen gossip, surely?' 'Very little.' *Well, let us try to construct the story together,' she said, mystified by attitude. 'I remember walking back from my father's chamber, after . had summoned me to him. Then two men came upon me. I woke to ad myself in the orchard, near a stream. It was early in the day. When : I woke, it was to find myself in my own chambers.' Would you know the men again, Dame?' Alais looked sharply at him. 'No. It was dark and it all happened too ¦iy: ' "Was anything taken?' jesShe hesitated. 'Nothing of value,' she said, uneasy in the lie. 'Then I ¦ that Alziette Baichere raised the alarm. I heard her boasting about flier, although I cannot for the life of me understand how she came to fitting with me. Why not Rixende? Or any other of my women?' fit was on Dame Oriane's orders, Dame. She has taken personal charge fyour care.' I 'Did not people remark upon her concern?' she said. It was entirely out ^character. 'My sister is not known for such . . . skills.' Francois nodded. 'But she was most insistent, Dame.' Alai's shook her head. The faintest recollection sparked in her mind. A fleeting memory of being enclosed within a small space, stone not wood, the acrid stench of urine and animals and neglect. The more she tried to chase the memory down, the further it slipped away from her. She brought herself back to the matter in hand. 'I presume my father has departed for Montpelhier, Francois.' He nodded. 'Two days past, Dame.' 'It is Wednesday,' she murmured, aghast. She had lost two days. She frowned. When they left, Francois, did my father not question why I was not there to bid him farewell?' 'He did, Dame, but ... he forbade me wake you.' This makes no sense. 'But what of my husband? Did Guilhem not say I never returned to our chamber that night?' 'I believe Chevalier du Mas spent the early part of the night at the forge, Dame, then attended the service of blessing with Viscount Trencavel in the chapel. He seemed as surprised by your absence as Intendant Pelletier, and besides . . .' He broke off. 'Go on. Say what is in your mind, Francois. I will not blame you.' With your leave, Dame, I think Chevalier du Mas would not wish to appear ignorant of your whereabouts before your father.' The moment the words were out of his mouth, Alais knew he was right. At present the ill-feeling between her husband and father was worse than ever. Alais tightened her lips, not wishing to betray her agreement. 'But they were taking such a risk,' she said, returning to the attack. 'To carry out such an assault on me in the heart of the Chateau Comtal was madness enough. To compound their felony by taking me captive . . . How could they have hoped to get away with it?' She pulled herself up short, realising what she had said. 'Everybody was much occupied, Dame. The curfew was not set. So although the Western Gate was closed, the Eastern Gate stood open all night. It would have been easy for two men to transport you between them, provided your face, your clothing, were hidden. There were many ladies . . . women, I mean, of the sort . . .' Ala'is stifled a grin. Thank you, Francois. I quite understand your point.' The smile faded from her face. She needed to think, decide what she should do next. She was more confused than ever. And her ignorance of why things had happened, in the manner they had, compounded her fear. It is hard to act against a faceless enemy. 'It would be well to circulate it that I can remember nothing of the attack, Francois,' she said after a while. 'That way if my assailants remain within the Chateau, they will have no need to feel threatened.' The thought of making the same journey back across the courtyard chilled her soul. Besides, she would not sleep under the eyes of Oriane's nurse. Alai's had no doubt she was set to spy on her and report to her sister. 'I will rest here for what remains of the night,' she added. To her surprise, Francois looked horrified. 'But, Dame, it is not seemly for you--' 'I'm sorry to put you from your bed,' she said, softening her command | with a smile, 'but my sleeping companion in my chamber is not to my [; liking.' An impassive, shuttered look descended over his face. 'But if you [Could stay close by, Francois, in case I have further need of you, I would Ibc grateful.' i\ He did not return her smile. 'As you wish, Dame.' Alais stared at him for a moment, then decided she was reading too |(nuch into his manner. She asked him to light the lamp, then she dissed him. As soon as Francois had gone, Alais curled up in the centre of her er's bed. Alone again, the pain of Guilhem's absence returned like a i ache. She tried to summon his face to her mind, his eyes, the line of I jaw, but his features blurred and would not stay fixed. Alais knew this lity to find his image in her mind was borne of anger. Over and over, i reminded herself Guilhem had been only fulfilling his responsibilities l a chevalier. He had not acted wrongly or falsely. In fact, he had acted jpriately. On the eve of so important a mission, his duty was to his I lord and to those making the journey with him, not to his wife. Yet, er many times Alais told herself this, she could not quieten the i in her head. Whatever she said made no difference to what she felt. it when she'd had need of Guilhem's protection, he had failed her. ist as it was, she blamed Guilhem. 'her absence had been discovered at first light, then the men might s been caught. yind my father would not have left thinking ill of me. CHAPTER 20 In a deserted farm outside Aniane, in the flat, fertile lands to the west of Montpellier, an elderly Cathar parfait and his eight credentes, believers, crouched in the corner of a barn, behind a collection of old harnesses for oxen and mules. One of the men was badly wounded. Grey and pink flesh flopped open around the white splintered bones that had been his face. His eye had been dislodged from its socket by the force of the kick that had shattered his cheek. Blood congealed around the gaping hole. His friends had refused to leave him when the house in which they had gathered to pray had been attacked by a small, renegade group of soldiers that had broken away from the French army. But he had slowed them down and lost them the advantage of knowing the land. All day the Crusaders had hunted them. Night had not saved them and now they were trapped. The Cathars could hear them shouting in the courtyard, the sound of dry wood catching light. They were preparing a pyre. The parfait knew they were facing the end. There would be no mercy from men such as this, driven by hatred and ignorance and bigotry. There had never been an army the like of it on Christian soil. The parfait would not have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes. He'd been travelling south, on a parallel course with the Host. He had seen the huge and unwieldy barges floating down the River Rhone, carrying equipment and supplies, as well as wooden chests ringed with bands of steel that contained precious holy relics to bless the expedition. The hooves of thousands of animals and men riding alongside created a giant cloud of dust, which floated above the Host. From the start, townspeople and villagers had shut their gates, watching from behind their walls and praying that the army would pass them by. Stories of increasing violence and horror circulated. There were reports of farms being burned, reprisals for farmers who had refused to allow the soldiers to pillage their land. Cathar believers, denounced as heretics, had been burned at the stake in Puylaroque. The entire Jewish community of Montelimar, men, women and children, had been put to the sword and their bleeding heads mounted on spikes outside the city walls, carrion for the crows. In Saint-Paul de Trois Chateaux, a parfait was crucified by a small band of Gascon routiers. They tied him to a makeshift cross made from two pieces of wood lashed together with rope and hammered nails through his hands. The weight of his body dragged him down, but he still would not recant or apostatise his faith. In the end, bored with the slow death, the soldiers disembowelled him and left him to rot. These and other acts of barbarism were either denied by the Abbott of Citeaux and the French barons or else disclaimed as the work of a few renegades. But as he crouched in the dark, the parfait knew that the .words of lords, priests and papal legates counted for nothing out here. He .could smell the bloodlust on the breath of the men who had hunted them :' down to this small corner of the Devil's Earthly creation. He recognised Evil. All he could do now was try to save the souls of his believers so they f«ould look upon the face of God. Their passing from this world into the ||iext would not be gentle. The wounded man was still conscious. He whimpered softly, but a final mess had come over him and his skin was tinged with the greyness of ath. The parfait laid his hands upon the man's head as he administered i last rites of their religion and spoke the words of the consolament. The remaining believers joined hands in a circle and began to pray. , pounds 'Holy Father, just God of good spirits, Thou who are never deceived, > dost never lie or doubt, grant us to know . . .' j-The soldiers were kicking against the door now, laughing, jeering. It not be long now before they found them. The youngest of the »en, no more than fourteen years old, began to cry. The tears ran clessly, silently, down her cheeks. sJ. . . grant us to know what Thou knowest, to love what Thou dost ; for we are not of this world, and this world is not of us, and we fear t we meet death in this realm of an alien god.' tie parfait raised his voice as the horizontal beam holding the door E fractured in two. Splinters of wood, as sharp as arrowheads, exploded the barn as the men burst in. Lit by the orange glow of the fire in the courtyard, he could see their eyes were glazed and inhuHe counted ten of them, each with a sword. lis eyes went to the commander who followed them in. A tall man, with a pale thin face and expressionless eyes, as calm and controlled as his men were hot and ill-disciplined. He had an air of cruel authority about him, a man used to being obeyed. On his orders, the fugitives were dragged from their hiding place. He lifted his arm and thrust his blade into the parfait's chest. For an instant, he held his gaze. The Frenchman's flint grey eyes were stiff with contempt. He raised his arm a second time and plunged his sword into the top of the old man's skull, splattering red pulp and grey brains into the straw. With their priest murdered, panic broke out. The others tried to run, but the ground was already slippery with blood. A soldier grabbed a woman by her hair and thrust his sword into her back. Her father tried to pull him off, but the soldier swung round and sliced him across the belly. His eyes opened wide in shock as the soldier twisted the knife, then pushed the skewered body off the blade with his foot. The youngest soldier turned away and vomited into the straw. Within minutes all the men lay dead, their bodies strewn about the barn. The captain ordered his men to take the two older women outside. The girl he kept behind, the puking boy too. He needed to harden up. She backed away from him, her eyes alive with fear. He smiled. He was in no hurry and there was nowhere for her to run. He paced around her, like a wolf watching its prey, then, without warning, he struck. In a single movement he grabbed her around the throat and smashed her head back against the wall and ripped her dress open. She was screaming louder now, hitting and kicking out wildly. He drove his fist into her face, relishing the splinter of bone beneath his touch. Her legs buckled. She sank to her knees, leaving a trail of blood down the wood. He bent over and ripped her shift from her body, splitting the material from top to bottom in a single tear. She whimpered as he pulled her skirts up to her waist. 'They must not be allowed to breed and bring others like themselves into the world,' he said in a cold voice, drawing his knife from its sheath. He did not intend to pollute his flesh by touching the heretic. Grasping the blade, he plunged the hilt deep inside the girl's stomach. With all the hate he felt for her kind, he drove the knife into her again and again, until her body lay motionless before him. As a final act of desecration, he rolled her over on to her front and, with two deep sweeps of his knife, carved the sign of the cross on her naked back. Pearls of blood, like rubies, sprang up on her white skin. 'That should serve as a lesson for any others who pass this way,' he said calmly. 'Now, get rid of it.' Wiping his blade on her torn dress, he straightened up. The boy was sobbing. His clothes were stained with vomit and blood. He tried to do what his captain commanded, but he was too slow. He grabbed the boy by the throat. 'I said, get rid of it. Quick. If you don't want to join them.' He kicked the boy in the small of his back, leaving a footprint of blood, dust and dirt on his tunic. A soldier with a i weak stomach was no use to him. makeshift pyre in the middle of the farmyard was burning fiercely, ined by the hot night winds that swept up from the Mediterranean Sea. The soldiers were standing well back, their hands at their faces to lield themselves from the heat. Their horses, tethered by the gate, were iping with agitated hooves. The stench of death was in their nostrils, sing them nervous. The women had been stripped and made to kneel on the ground in fit of their captors, their feet tied and their hands bound tightly behind back. Their faces, scratched breasts and bare shoulders showed rks of their ill use, but they were silent. Somebody gasped, as the d's corpse was thrown down in front of them. The captain walked towards the fire. He was bored now, restless to be e. Killing heretics was not the reason he had taken the Cross. This ital expedition was a gift to his men. They needed to be kept occupied, ? keep their skills sharp and to stop them turning on each other. feThe night sky was filled with white stars around a full moon. He ed it must be past midnight, perhaps later. He'd intended to be back ; before now, in case word came. lall we give them to the fire, my lord?' /ith a sudden, single stroke, he drew his sword and severed the head nearest woman. Blood pumped from a vein in her neck, splashing I'legs and feet. The skull fell to the ground with a soft thud. He kicked if Mill twitching body until it fell forward into the dirt. the rest of these heretic bitches, then burn the bodies, the barn p We've delayed long enough.' CHAPTER 21 Alais woke as dawn slipped into the room. For a moment, she couldn't remember how she came to be in her father's chamber. She sat up and stretched the sleep from her bones, waiting until the memory of the day before came back vivid and strong. Some time during the long hours between midnight and daybreak she had reached a decision. Despite her broken night, her mind was as clear as a mountain stream. She could not sit by, passively waiting for her father to return. She had no way of judging the consequences of each day's delay. When he had spoken of his sacred duty to the Noublesso de los Seres and the secret they guarded, he had left her in no doubt that his honour and pride lay in his ability to fulfil his vows. Her duty was to seek him out, tell him all that had happened, put the matter back in his hands. Far better to act than do nothing. Alais walked over to the window and opened the shutters to let in the morning air. In the distance the Montagne Noire shimmered purple in the gathering dawn, enduring and timeless. The sight of the mountains strengthened her resolve. The world was calling her to join it. She was taking a risk, a woman travelling alone. Wilful, her father would call it. But she was an excellent rider, quick and instinctive, and she had faith in her ability to outride any group of routiers or bandits. Besides, to her knowledge, there had been no attacks on Viscount Trencavel's lands. Alai's raised her hand to the bruise at the back of her head, evidence that someone meant her harm. If it was her time to die, then far better to face death with her sword in her hand than sit waiting for her enemies to strike again. Alais picked up her cold lamp from the table, catching her reflection in the black-streaked glass. She was pale, her skin the colour of buttermilk, and her eyes glinted with fatigue. But there was a sense of purpose that had not been there before. Alais wished she did not have to return to her chamber, but she had no choice. Carefully stepping over Francois, she made her way across the courtyard and back into the living quarters. There was no one about. Oriane's sly shadow, Guirande, was sleeping on the floor outside her sister's chamber as Ala'is tiptoed past, her pretty, pouting face slack in sleep. The silence that met her as she entered her room told her that the nurse was no longer there. She had presumably woken to find her gone and taken herself off. Alais set to work, wasting no time. The success of her plan depended on her ability to deceive everyone into believing she was too weak to &,.; venture far from home. No one within the household could know that her destination was Montpellier. She took from her wardrobe her lightest hunting dress, the tawny red (of a squirrel's pelt, with pale, stone-coloured fitted sleeves, generous nder the arm, which tapered to a diamond-shaped point. She tied a in leather belt around her waist, to which she attached her eating knife id her borsa, winter hunting purse. Alais pulled up her hunting boots to just below her knees, tightened \ leather laces around the top, to hold a second knife, then adjusted the le, and put on a plain brown hooded cloak with no trim. When she was dressed, Alais took a few precious gemstones and llery from her casket, including her sunstone necklace and turquoise ; and choker. They might be useful in exchange or to buy safe passage f shelter, particularly once she was beyond the borders of Viscount avel's lands. IfrFinally, satisfied she had forgotten nothing, she retrieved her sword its hiding place behind the bed where it had lain, untouched, since ' marriage. Alais held the sword firmly in her right hand and raised it jnt of her face, measuring the blade against the flat of her hand. It I still straight and true, despite lack of use. She carved a figure of eight air, reminding herself of its weight and character. She smiled. It bright in her hand. crept into the kitchen and begged barley bread, figs, salted fish, a t, of cheese and a flagon of wine from Jacques. He gave her much I than she needed, as he always did. For once, she was grateful for his >sity. roused her servant, Rixende, and whispered a message for her to deliver to Dame Agnes that Alais was feeling better and would join the ladies of the household in the Solar after Tierce. Rixende looked surprised, but made no comment. Alais disliked this part of her duties and usually begged to be excused whenever possible. She felt caged in the company of women and was bored by the inconsequential tapestry talk. However, today it would serve as perfect proof that she was intending to return to the Chateau. Alais hoped she would not be missed until later. If her luck held, only when the chapel bell tolled for Vespers would they realise she had not come home and raise the alarm. And by then I will be long gone. 'Do not go to Dame Agnes until after she has broken fast, Rixende,' she said. 'Not until the first rays of the sun strike the west wall of the courtyard, is that clear? Oc? Before that, if anyone comes searching for me - even my father's manservant - you may tell them that I have gone to ride in the fields beyond SantMiquel.' The stables were in the north-eastern corner of the courtyard between the Tour des Casernes and the Tour du Major. Horses stamped the ground and pricked up their ears at her approach, whinnying gently, hoping for hay. Alais stopped at the first stall and ran her hand over the broad nose of her old grey mare. Her forelock and withers were flecked with coarse white hairs. 'Not today, my old friend,' she said. 'I couldn't ask so much of you.' Her other horse was in the stall next door. The six-year-old Arab mare, Tatou, had been a surprise wedding gift from her father. A chestnut, the colour of winter acorns, with a white tail and mane, flaxen fetlocks and white spots on all four feet. Standing as high as Alais' shoulders, Tatou had the distinctive flat face of her breed, dense bones, a firm back and an easy temperament. More important, she had stamina and was very fast. To her relief, the only person in the stables was Amiel, the eldest of the farrier's sons, dozing in the hay in the far corner of the stalls. He scrambled to his feet when he saw her, embarrassed to be caught sleeping. Alai's cut short his apologies. Amiel checked the mare's hooves and shoes, to be sure she was fit to ride, then lifted down an undercloth and, at Alais' request, a riding rather than hunting saddle, then a bridle. Alais could feel the tightness in her chest. She jumped at the slightest sound from the courtyard, spinning round when she heard a voice. Only when he was done did Alais produce the sword from beneath her cloak. 'The blade is dull,' she said. Their eyes met. Without a word, Amiel took the sword and carried it to the anvil in the forge. The fire was burning, stoked all night and all day by a succession of boys barely big enough to transport the heavy, spiky bundles of brushwood from one side of the smithy to the other. Alais watched as sparks flew from the stone, seeing the tension in Amiel's shoulders as he brought the hammer down on to the blade, I sharpening, flattening and rebalancing. 'It's a good sword, Dame Alais,' he said levelly. 'It will serve you well, I although ... I pray God you will not have need of it.' She smiled. 'leu tanben.' Me too. He helped her mount and led her across the courtyard. Alais' heart was |ln her mouth that she would be seen at this last moment and her plan Id ruined. But there was no one and soon they reached the Eastern Gate. 'God speed, Dame. Alais,' whispered Amiel, as Alais pressed a sol into hand. The guards opened the gates and Alais urged Tatou forward jss the bridge and out into the early morning streets of Carcassonne, ¦ heart thudding. The first challenge was over. soon she was clear of the Porte Narbonnaise, Alais gave Tatou her »d. J5'Libertat. Freedom. As she rode towards the sun rising in the east, Alais felt in harmony . the world. Her hair brushed back off her face and the wind brought colour back to her cheeks. As Tatou galloped over the plains, she ered if this was how the soul felt as it left the body on its four-day ley to heaven. This sense of God's Grace, this transcendence, of all i creation stripping away everything physical, until nothing but spirit ined? us smiled. The parfaits preached that the time would come when all i would be saved and all questions answered in heaven. But for now I was prepared to wait. There was too much to accomplish yet on earth er to think of leaving it. /ith her shadow streaming out behind her, all thoughts of Oriane, of (household, all fear faded. She was free. At her back, the sanded walls and towers of the Cite grew smaller and smaller, until ' disappeared altogether. m Toulouse TUESDAY 5 JULY 2OO5 At Blagnac airport in Toulouse, the security official paid more attention to Marie-Cecile de l'Oradore's legs than the passports of the other passengers. She turned heads as she walked across the expanse of austere grey and white tiles. Her symmetrical black curls, her tailored red jacket and skirt, her crisp white shirt. Everything marked her out as someone important, someone who did not expect to stand in line or be kept waiting. Her usual driver was waiting at the arrivals gate, conspicuous in his dark suit among the crowd of relatives and holidaymakers in T-shirts and shorts. She smiled and enquired after his family as they walked to the car, although her mind was on other things. When she turned on her mobile, there was a message from Will, which she deleted. As the car moved smoothly into the stream of traffic on the rocade that ringed Toulouse, Marie-Cecile allowed herself to relax. Last night's ceremony had been exhilarating as never before. Armed with the knowledge that the cave had been found, she had felt transformed, fulfilled by the ritual and seduced by the power inherited from her grandfather. When she had lifted her hands and spoken the incantation she had felt pure energy flowing through her veins. Even the business of silencing Tavernier, an initiate who'd proved unreliable, had been accomplished without difficulty. Provided no one else talked - and she was sure now they would not - there was nothing to worry about. Marie-Cecile hadn't wasted time giving him the chance to defend himself. The transcripts provided of the interviews between him and a journalist were evidence enough, so far as she was concerned. Even so. Marie-Cecile opened her eyes. There were things about the business that concerned her. The way Tavernier's indiscretion had come to light; the fact that the journalist's notes were surprisingly concise and consistent; the fact that the journalist, herself, was missing. Most of all she disliked the coincidence of the timing. There was no reason to connect the discovery of the cave at the Pic de Soularac with an execution already planned - and subsequently carried out - in Chartres, yet in her mind they had become linked. The car slowed. She opened her eyes to see the driver had stopped to take a ticket for the autoroute. She tapped on the glass. 'Pour /afieage,' she said, handing him a fifty-euro note rolled between manicured fingers. She | Wanted no paper trail. Marie-Cecile had business to attend to in Avignonet, about thirty | kilometres southeast of Toulouse. She'd go on to Carcassonne from ithere. Her meeting was scheduled for nine o'clock, although she intended |to arrive earlier. How long she stayed in Carcassonne depended on the . she was going to meet. She crossed her long legs and smiled. She was looking forward to eing if he lived up to his reputation. 1' Carcassonne Just after ten o'clock, the man known as Audric Baillard walked out of the SNCF station in Carcassonne and headed towards the town. He was slight and cut a distinguished, if old-fashioned, figure in his pale suit. He walked fast, holding a tall wooden walking stick like a staff between his thin fingers. His Panama hat shielded his eyes from the glare. Baillard crossed the Canal du Midi and passed the magnificent Hotel du Terminus, with its ostentatious art deco mirrors and swirling decorative iron doors. Carcassonne had changed a great deal. There was evidence of it all around him as he made his way down the pedestrian street that cut through the heart of the Basse Ville. New clothing shops, patisseries, bookshops and jewellers. There was an air of prosperity. Once more, it was a destination. A city at the centre of things. The white paved tiles of Place Carnot shone in the sun. That was new. The magnificent nineteenth-century fountain had been restored, its water sparklingly clean. The square was dotted with brightly-coloured cafe chairs and tables. Baillard glanced towards Bar Felix and smiled at its familiar, shabby awnings under the lime trees. Some things, at least, remained unchanged. He walked up a narrow, bustling side street that led to the Pont Vieux. The brown heritage signs for the fortified medieval Cite were another indication of how the place had transformed itself from Michelin guide 'vaut le detour to international tourist destination and UNESCO world heritage site. Then he was out into the open and there it was. Lo Ciutat. Baillard felt, as he always did, the sharp pang of homecoming, even though it was no longer the place he had known. A decorative railing had been set across the entrance to the Pont Vieux to keep out the traffic. Time was that a man had to squash himself against the wall to avoid the stream of camper vans, caravans, trucks and motor bikes that had chugged their way across the narrow bridge. Then, the stonework had borne the scars of decades of pollution. Now, the parapet was clean. Perhaps a little too clean. But the battered stone Jesus was still hanging on his cross like a rag doll, halfway across the bridge, marking the boundary between the Bastide Sant-Louis and the fortified old town. He pulled a yellow handkerchief from his top pocket and carefully wiped his face and forehead, beneath the rim of his hat. The edges of the river far below him were lush and tended, with sand-coloured paths winding through the trees and bushes. On the north bank, set among sweeping lawns, there were well-tended flowerbeds, filled with huge, exotic flowers. Well-dressed ladies sat on the metal benches in the shade of the trees, looking down over the water and talking, while their small dogs panted patiently beside them, or snapped at the heels of the occasional jogger. The Pont Vieux led straight into the Quartier de la Trivalle, which had been transformed from a drab suburb into the gateway to the medieval Cite. Black wrought-iron railings had been set at intervals along the pavements to stop cars from parking. Fiery orange, purple and crimson msies trailed out of their containers like hair tumbling down a young rl's back. Chrome tables and chairs glittered outside the cafes and risted copper-topped lamps had elbowed aside the old, workaday street its. Even the old iron and plastic guttering, which leaked and cracked the heavy rain and heat, had been replaced by sleek, brushed-metal npipes with ends shaped like the mouths of angry fish. The boulangerie and alimentation generate had survived, as had the Stel du Pont Vieux, but the boucherie now sold antiques and the mercerie a new age emporium, dispensing crystals, tarot cards and books on ritual enlightenment. How many years had it been since last he was here? He'd lost count. Baillard turned right into rue de la Gaffe and saw the signs of creeping jtrification here too. The street was only just wide enough for a single t, more an alleyway than a road. There was an art gallery on the corner I Maison du Chevalier - with two large arched windows protected by . bars, like a Hollywood portcullis. There were six painted wooden on the wall and a metal ring by the door for people to tie their i where once they tethered horses. eral of the doors were newly painted. He saw white ceramic house nbers with blue and yellow borders and twists of tiny flowers. The sional backpacker, clutching maps and water bottles, stopped to ask W in halting French for directions to the Cite, but there was little other movement. Jeanne Giraud lived in a small house backing on to the grassy slopes that led steeply up to the medieval ramparts. At her end of the street, fewer of the dwellings had been refurbished. Some were derelict or boarded up. An old woman and a man sat outside on chairs brought out from their kitchen. Baillard raised his hat and wished them good day as he passed. He knew some of Jeanne's neighbours by sight, having built up a nodding acquaintance over the years. Jeanne was sitting outside her front door in the shade, anticipating his arrival. She looked neat and efficient as always, in a plain long-sleeved shirt and a straight dark skirt. Her hair was drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like the schoolteacher she had been, until her retirement twenty years ago. In the years they'd known each other, he'd never seen her anything less than perfectly and formally turned out. Audric smiled, remembering how curious she had been in the early days, always asking questions. Where did he live? What did he do in the long months they did not see one another? Where did he go? Travelling, he'd told her. Researching and gathering material for his books, visiting friends. Who, she had asked? Companions, those with whom he'd studied and shared experiences. He had told her of his friendship with Grace. A while later, he admitted his home was in a village in the Pyrenees, not far from Montsegur. But he shared very little else about himself and, as the decades slipped by, she had given up asking. Jeanne was an intuitive and methodical researcher, diligent, conscientious and unsentimental, all invaluable qualities. For the past thirty years or so, she had worked with him on every one of his books, most particularly his last, unfinished work, a biography of a Cathar family in thirteenth-century Carcassonne. For Jeanne, it had been a piece of detective work. For Audric, it was a labour of love. Jeanne raised her hand when she saw him coming. 'Audric,' she smiled. 'It's been a long time.' Her took her hands between his. 'Bonjorn.' She stood back to look him up and down. "You look well.' 'Te tanben,' he answered. You too. 'You've made good time.' He nodded. The train was punctual.' Jeanne looked scandalised. "You didn't walk from the station?' 'It's not so far,' he smiled. 'I admit, I wanted to see how Carcassona had changed since last I was here.' Baillard followed her into the cool little house. The brown and beige tiles on the floor and walls gave everything a sombre, old-fashioned look. A small oval table stood in the centre of the room, its battered legs sticking out from underneath a yellow and blue oilskin cloth. There was a bureau in the corner with an old-fashioned typewriter sitting on it, next to French windows that gave on to a small terrace. Jeanne came out of the pantry with a tray with a jug of water, a bowl of ice, a plate of crisp, peppered biscuits, a bowl of sour green olives and a saucer for the pits. She put the tray carefully down on the table and then reached up to the narrow wooden ledge that ran, at shoulder height, the length of the room. Her hand found a bottle of Guignolet, a bitter cherry liqueur he knew she kept only for his rare visits. The ice cracked and chinked against the sides as the bright red alcohol trickled over the cubes. For a while they sat in companionable silence, as they had done many times before. An occasional fragment of guide book commentary, belched out in several languages, filtered down from the Cite as the tourist train completed one of its regular circuits of the Walls. Audric carefully put his glass on the table. 'So,' he said. 'Tell me what happened.' Jeanne pulled her chair closer to the table. 'My grandson Yves, as fcyou know, is with the Police Judiciare, d'epartement de I'Ariege, stationed Foix itself. Yesterday, he was called to an archaeological dig in the aarthes Mountains, close to the Pic de Soularac, where two skeletons been found. Yves was surprised his superiors seemed to be treating as a potential murder scene, even though he said it was clear the iletons had been there for some considerable time.' She paused. 'Of se, Yves did not interview the woman who found the bodies him f, but he was present. Yves knows a little of the work I've been doing ¦ you, enough certainly to know the discovery of this cave would be of Brest.' ^udric drew in his breath. For so many years he had tried to imagine 1 he would feel at this moment. He had never lost faith that, at last, I time would come when he would learn the truth of those final hours. le decades rolled one into the other. He watched the seasons follow 1 endless cycle; the green of spring slipping into the gold of summer; the burnished palette of autumn vanishing beneath the austere whiteness of the winter, the first thaw of the mountain streams in spring. Still, no word had come. E ara? And now? "Yves went inside the cave himself?' he asked. Jeanne nodded. What did he see?' There was an altar. Behind it, carved into the rock itself, was the symbol of the labyrinth.' 'And the bodies? Where were they?' 'In a grave, no more than a dip in the ground in truth, in front of the altar. There were objects lying between the bodies, although there were too many people for him to get close enough to see properly.' 'How many were there?' 'Two. Two skeletons.' 'But that--' He stopped. 'No matter, Jeanne. Please, go on.' 'Underneath the . . . them, he picked up this.' Jeanne pushed a small object across the table. Audric did not move. After so long, he feared to touch it. Ifves telephoned from the post office in Foix late yesterday afternoon. The line was bad and it was hard to hear, but he said he took the ring because he didn't trust the people looking for it. He sounded worried.' Jeanne paused. 'No, he sounded frightened, Audric. Things weren't being done right. Usual procedures were not being followed, there were all sorts of people on site who should not have been there. He was whispering, as if he was frightened of being overheard.' 'Who knows he went into the cave?' 'I don't know. The officers on duty? His commanding officer? Probably others.' Baillard looked at the ring on the table, then stretched out and picked it up. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted it towards the light. The delicate pattern of the labyrinth carved on the underside was clearly visible. 'Is it his ring?' Jeanne asked. Audric couldn't trust himself to answer. He was wondering at the chance that had delivered the ring into his hands. Wondering if it was chance. 'Did Yves say where the bodies had been taken?' She shook her head. 'Could you ask him? And, if he could, a list of all those who were at the site yesterday when the cave was opened.' 'I'll ask. I'm sure he'll help if he can.' Baillard slipped the ring on to his thumb. 'Please convey my gratitude to Yves. It must have cost him dear to take this. He has no idea how important his quick thinking may turn out to be.' He smiled. 'Did he say what else was discovered with the bodies?' 'A dagger, a small leather bag with nothing inside, a lamp on--' 'Vueg?' he said in disbelief. Empty? 'But that cannot be.' 'Inspector Noubel, the senior officer, apparently pressed the woman on this point. Yves said she was adamant. She claimed she'd touched nothing but the ring.' 'And did your grandson think her truthful?' 'He didn't say.' 'If... someone else must have taken it,' he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in thought. "What did Yves tell you about this \ woman?' 'Very little. She is English, in her twenties, a volunteer not an archaeologist. She was staying in Foix at the invitation of a friend, who is the |«econd in charge at the excavation.' 'Did he tell you her name?' Taylor, I think he said.' She frowned. 'No, not Taylor. Perhaps it was Tanner. Yes, that's it. Alice Tanner.' Time stood still. Es vertatf Can it be true? The name echoed inside ; head. 'Es vertat?' he repeated in a whisper. |4 Had she taken the book? Recognised it? No, no. He stopped himself. »t made no sense. If the book, then why not the ring also? V Baillard placed his hands flat on the table to stop them trembling, then t Jeanne's gaze. 0 you think you could ask Yves if he has an address? If he knows e, Madomaisela--?' He broke off, unable to continue. '. cansask,' she replied, then added: 'Are you all right, Audric?' fired.' He tried to smile. 'Nothing more.' had expected you to be more . . . pleased. It is - at least, could be | culmination of your years of work.' : is so much to take in.' fou seem to be shocked by the news rather than excited.' rd imagined how he must look: eyes too bright, face too pale, 1 shaking. i excited,' he said. 'And most grateful to Yves and, of course, to you jt . . .' He took a deep breath. 'If perhaps you could telephone Yves 1 If I could speak with him in person? Perhaps even meet?' Jeanne got up from the table and walked into the hall where the telephone stood on a small table at the foot of the stairs. Baillard looked out of the window to the slopes that led up to the walls of the Cite. An image of her singing while she worked came into his mind, a vision of the light falling in bright slats between the branches of the trees, casting a dappled light on the water. All around her were the sounds and smells of spring; pinpricks of colour in the undergrowth, blues, pinks and yellows, the rich deep earth and the heady scent of the box trees either side of the rocky path. The promise of warmth and summer days to come. He jumped as Jeanne's voice called him back from the gentle colours of the past. 'There's no answer,' she said. CHAPTER 24 Chartres In the kitchen of the house in rue du Cheval Blanc in Chartres, Will Franklin drank the milk straight from the plastic bottle, trying to kill the taste of stale brandy on his breath. The housekeeper had laid the breakfast table early that morning before going off duty. The Italian coffee percolator was on the stove. Will ¦assumed it was for Francois-Baptiste's benefit, since the housekeeper t didn't usually go to such trouble for him when Marie-Cecile was away. JjjHe guessed Francois-Baptiste was also sleeping late since everything was laculate, not a spoon or knife out of place. Two bowls, two plates, two as and saucers. Four different types of jams as well as honey stood next i a large bowl. Will lifted the white linen cloth. Beneath it were peaches, rines and melon, as well as apples. Will had no appetite. The previous night, to pass the time until Marie le appeared, he'd had first one drink, then a second and a third. i;, was well after midnight when she put in an appearance, by which he had drunk himself into an alcoholic haze. She'd been in a wild i, keen to make up for their argument. They hadn't gone to sleep i dawn. /ill's fingers tightened around the piece of paper in his hand. Marie; hadn't even bothered to write the note herself. Once again, it had to the housekeeper to inform him she'd gone out of town on ; and hoped to be back before the weekend. /ill and Marie-Cecile had met at a party to launch a new art gallery in es back in the spring, through friends of friends of his parents. Will : the beginning of a six-month sabbatical travelling around Europe; -Cecile was one of the backers of the gallery. She'd hit on him 1 than the other way round. Attracted and flattered by the attention, found himself pouring out his life story over a bottle of ic They'd left the gallery together and been together ever since. Technically together, Will thought sourly. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. He called her this morning, not sure what he wanted to say, but her phone was switched off. He'd had enough of this constant state of flux, never knowing where he stood. Will stared out of the window at the little courtyard at the back of the house. Like everything else in the house, it was perfectly designed, and precise. Nothing as nature intended. Light grey pebbles, high terracotta planters with lemon trees and orange trees along the back, south-facing wall. In the window box, rows of red geraniums, their petals already swollen by the sun, stood tall. Covering the small wrought-iron gate in the wall was ivy, centuries old. Everything spoke of permanence. It would all be here long after Will was gone. He felt like a man waking from a dream to discover the real world was not as he'd imagined. The smart thing would be to cut his losses, no hard feelings, and move on. However disillusioned he felt about their relationship, Marie-Cecile had been both generous and kind to him and, if he was honest, had kept to her side of the bargain. It was his unrealistic expectations that had let him down. It wasn't her fault. She'd broken no promises. Only now could Will see how ironic it was he'd chosen to spend the last three months in precisely the same sort of house he'd grown up in and had fled to Europe to escape. Cultural differences apart, the atmosphere in the house reminded him of his parents' place back home, elegant and stylish, somewhere designed for entertaining and display rather than a home. Then, as now, Will had spent much of his time alone, rattling from one immaculate room to another. The trip was Will's opportunity to work out what it was he wanted to do with his life. His original plan had been to work his way down through France to Spain, gathering ideas for his writing, getting inspired, but since he'd been in Chartres, he'd barely written a single sentence. His subjects were rebellion, anger and anxiety, the unholy trinity of American life. Back home, he'd found plenty to rage against. Here, he'd been left with nothing to say. The only subject that occupied his mind was Marie Cecile and it was the one subject off limits. He finished the last of the milk and threw the plastic bottle into the rubbish bin. He took another look at the table and decided to go out for breakfast. The thought of making polite conversation with FrancoisBaptiste turned his stomach. Will emerged out of the pass corridor. The high-ceilinged entrance hall was silent except for the precise ticking of the ornate grandmother clock. To the right of the stairs, a narrow door led down to the extensive wine cellars beneath the house. Will grabbed his denim jacket from the newel post and was about to cross the hall when he noticed one of the tapestries was crooked. It was only a little out of line, but in the perfect symmetry of the rest of the panelled hall, it stuck out. Will reached out to straighten it, then hesitated. There was a thin sliver of light running down the wall behind the polished wood. He looked up at the window above the door and stairs, even though he knew the sun ; wasn't in the hall at this time of day. The light seemed to be coming from behind the dark wooden paneljfiiing. Puzzled, he lifted the tapestry away from the wall. Concealed deep Iwithin the pattern of the wood was a small door, cut flush with the IjKuielling. There was a small brass bolt sunk into the dark wood holding it pthut and a flat circular pull, like the handle of a door of a squash court. All cry discreet. Will tried the bolt. It was well oiled and slid open easily. A gentle eak, then the door sprang open away from him, releasing a subtle smell subterranean spaces and hidden basement rooms. His hands on the of the door, he peered in and straight away found the source of light, a single frosted bulb set at the top of a steep flight of stairs ending into the gloom. le found two switches just inside the door. One operated the single above the door; the other, a line of dim, yellow candle bulbs which from metal spikes drilled into the stone wall all the way down the id side of the stairs. On both sides blue braided cord had been ied through black metal hoops to make handrails. All stepped down on to the first step. The ceiling was low, a mixture [ brick, flint and stone, only a couple of inches above Will's head. It confined but the air was clean and fresh. It didn't have the feel of a s forgotten. deeper he went, the colder it got. Twenty steps and counting. It damp, though, and although he couldn't see any fans or form of ation, there seemed to be a flow of fresh air coming from some lie bottom, Will found he was standing in a small lobby. There was on the walls, no signs, just the stairs behind him and a door in I which filled the width and height of the corridor. The electric light ftickly yellow glow over everything. Adrenalin kicked in as Will walked towards the door. The cumbersome, old-fashioned key in the lock turned easily. Once he was through, the atmosphere changed immediately. Gone was the concrete floor. Instead, there was a thick burgundy carpet that swallowed the sound of his feet. The functional lighting had given way to ornate metal sconces. The walls were made of the same mixture of brick and stone as before, except now they were decorated by tapestries, images of medieval knights, porcelain-skinned women and hooded priests in white robes, their heads bowed and their arms outstretched. There was the trace of something else in the air too, now. Incense, a sweet heavy scent that reminded him of the long forgotten Christmases and Easters of his childhood. Will looked back over his shoulder. The sight of the stairs beyond the open door, leading back up to the house, reassured him. The short corridor came to a dead end, with a heavy velvet curtain hanging from a black iron rail. It was covered with embroidered gold symbols, a mixture of Egyptian hieroglyphs, astrological markings and signs of the zodiac. He reached out and pulled back the curtain. Behind it was another door, this one clearly much older. Fashioned from the same dark panelling as the hall upstairs, the edges were decorated with wooden scrolls and motifs. The central panels were entirely plain, punctuated only by woodworm holes no bigger than pinheads. There was no handle he could see, no lock, no way of opening it at all. The lintel was crowned by ornate carvings, stone rather than wood. Will ran his fingers over the top looking for some sort of catch. There had to be a way through. He worked his way up from the bottom on one side, across the top of the door, and then back down the other until, finally, he found it. A small depression just above floor level. Crouching down, Will pressed down hard. There was a sharp, hollow click, like a marble bouncing on a tiled floor. The mechanism released and the door sprang open. Will straightened up, his breathing a little crazy and his palms damp. The short hairs on the back of his neck and the backs of his arms were standing on end. No more than a couple of minutes, he told himself, and he'd be out of here. He just wanted to take a quick look. No big deal. Firmly, he put his hand on the door and pushed. It was totally black inside, although straight away he could sense he was in a bigger space, perhaps a cellar. The smell of burned incense was much stronger. Will groped at the wall for a light switch, but he could find nothing. Realising if he hooked back the curtain it would let in a little light from the corridor, he tied the cumbersome velvet into a huge figure-of-eight knot, then turned back to face whatever lay ahead. The first thing Will saw was his own shadow, elongated and lanky, silhouetted over the threshold. Then, as his eyes got accustomed to the brown-black gloom, finally he saw what lay beyond in the dark. He was standing at the end of a long, rectangular chamber. The ceiling was low and vaulted. Ecclesiastical-style wooden benches, like at a refectory table, lined the two longest walls, disappearing further than his eye could see. Around the top, where the walls met the roof, was a frieze, a ,¦ repeating pattern of words and symbols. They looked like the same ^Egyptian symbols he'd seen on the curtain outside. Will wiped his hands on his jeans. Directly ahead, in the centre of the fechamber, was an imposing stone chest, like a tomb. He walked all the way ound it, running his hand across the surface. It seemed smooth, except ¦ a large circular motif in the middle. He leaned forward to get a better |look and followed the lines with his fingers. Some sort of pattern of reasing circles, like the rings around Saturn. i his eyes further adjusted, he could pick out that on each of the four a letter was carved into the stone: E at the head, N and S on the longest sides opposite one another, O at the foot. The points of the apass? fhen he noticed the small block of stone, about thirty centimetres set at the base of the chest, aligned with the letter E. It had a [low curve in the middle, like an executioner's block, i The ground around it was darker that the rest of the floor. It looked dp, as if it had recently been scrubbed. Will crouched down and the mark with his fingers. Disinfectant and something else, a ¦ smell, like rust. There was something caught beneath the corner of I stone. Will scraped it out with his nails. : was a fragment of cloth, cotton or linen, frayed at the edges as if it caught on a nail and been ripped. In the corner, there were small i spots. Like dried blood. dropped the material and ran, slamming the door and unhooking am before he knew what he was doing. He charged along the ar, through both doors and powered his way up the narrow, steep i two at a time, until he was back in the hall. |fill doubled over, hands on his knees, and tried to get his breath back, realising that whatever else happened, he couldn't risk anyone in and realising he'd been down there, he reached in and killed the lights. With shaking fingers he bolted the door and pulled the tapestry back into place, until nothing was visible from the outside. For a moment, he just stood there. The grandmother clock told him that no more than twenty minutes had passed. Will looked down at his hands, turning them over and back as if they didn't belong to him. He rubbed the tips of his forefinger and thumb together, then sniffed. It smelled like blood. CHAPTER 25 Toulouse lice woke with a splitting headache. For a moment, she had no idea lere she was. She squinted out of the corner of her eye at the empty le standing on the bedside table. Serves you right. ' She rolled on to her side and grabbled at her watch. !*Ten forty-five. »Alice groaned and fell back on the pillow. Her mouth was as stale as a ashtray and her tongue was coated with the sour remains of the fef need aspirin. Water. lice staggered to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She ed as bad as she felt. Her forehead was a mottled kaleidoscope of purple and yellow bruises. She had dark rings under her eyes, was a faint recollection of dreaming of woods, winter branches : with frost. The labyrinth reproduced on a piece of yellow material? I Couldn't remember. journey from Foix last night was something of a blur too. She 1't even quite remember what had made her head for Toulouse than Carcassonne, which would have been the more obvious E. Alice groaned. Foix, Carcassonne, Toulouse. There was no way i going anywhere until she felt better. She lay back on her bed and . for the painkillers to kick in. ftnty minutes later, she was still delicate but the thudding behind cs had diminished to a dull ache. She stood under the steaming 1 until the water ran cold. Her thoughts went back to Shelagh and : of the team. She wondered what they were all doing right now. y, the team went up to the site at eight o'clock and stayed up there l|jot dark. They lived and breathed the excavation. She couldn't i how any of them were going to cope without their routine. [ in the hotel's tiny, threadbare towel, Alice checked her phone for messages. Still nothing. Last night, she'd felt depressed about it, now she was pissed off. More than once during their ten-year friendship, Shelagh had withdrawn into resentful silences that had lasted weeks. Each time, it had been down to Alice to sort things out and she realised she resented it. Let her make the running this time. Alice riffled through her make-up bag until she found an old tube of concealer, rarely used, with which she covered up the worst of the bruising. Then she added eyeliner and a touch of lipstick. She finger dried her hair. Finally, she chose her most comfortable skirt and new blue halter neck, packed everything else, then went down to check out before she headed off to explore Toulouse. She still felt bad, but it was nothing that fresh air and a serious shot of caffeine wouldn't fix. Having put her bags in the car, Alice decided she would simply walk and see where she ended up. The air conditioning in her hire car wasn't great, so her plan was to wait until the temperature dropped before setting off for Carcassonne. As she passed beneath the dappled shade of the plane trees and looked at the clothes and perfumes displayed in the shop windows, she started to feel more herself. She was embarrassed by the way she'd behaved last night. Totally paranoid, total over-reaction. This morning, the idea that someone was after her seemed absurd. Her fingers went to the telephone number in her pocket. You didn't imagine him, though. Alice pushed the thought away. She was going to be positive, look forward. Make the most of being in Toulouse. She meandered through the alleys and passages of the old town, letting her feet guide her. The ornate pink stone and brick facades of the buildings were elegant and discreet. The names on the street signs and fountains and monuments proclaimed Toulouse's long and glorious history. Military leaders, medieval saints, 18th century poets, 20' century freedom fighters, the city's noble past from Roman times to the present. Alice went into the cathedral of Saint-Etienne, partly to get out of the sun. She enjoyed the tranquillity and peace of cathedrals and churches, a legacy of sightseeing with her parents when she was a child, and she spent a pleasant half-hour wandering around, half reading the signs on the walls and looking at the stained glass. Realising she was starting to feel hungry, Alice decided to finish with the cloisters, then go and find somewhere to have lunch. She hadn't taken more than a few steps when she heard a child crying. She turned to look, but there was no one there. Feeling vaguely uneasy, she carried on walking. The sobbing seemed to be growing louder. Now she could hear someone whispering. A man's voice, close by, hissing in her ears. 'Heretique, heretique . . .' Alice spun round. 'Hello? 'AIM IIy a quelqu'unf There was nobody there. Like a malicious whisper, the word repeated itself over and over inside her head. 'Heretique, heretique.' She clasped her hands over her ears. On the pillars and grey stone I walls, faces seemed to be appearing. Tortured mouths, twisted hands caching out for help, oozing from every hidden corner. Then Alice caught a glimpse of someone ahead, nearly out of sight. A woman in a long green dress and a red cloak, moving in and out of the ladows. In her hand, she carried a wicker basket. Alice called out to ract her attention just as three men, monks, stepped out from behind pillar. The woman shouted as they grabbed hold of her. The woman struggling as the monks started to drag her away. I Alice tried to attract their attention, but no sound came from her outh. Only the woman herself seemed to hear, for she turned round and ed straight into Alice's eyes. Now the monks had encircled the ian. They stretched their voluminous arms out wide above her like : wings. IflLeave her alone,' Alice cried, starting to run towards them. But the ler she went, the more distant the figures became, until finally they seared altogether. It was as if they had melted into the walls of the ¦ itself. ldered, Alice ran her hands over the stone. She turned to the left t right, seeking an explanation, but the space was completely empty. At i panic took over. She ran towards the exit to the street, expecting to ,le black-robed men behind her, chasing her, swooping down on her. iitside, everything was as it had been before. t OK. You're OK. Breathing heavily, Alice slumped back against the i As she got herself under control, she realised the emotion she was ; was not terror any more, but grief. She had no need of a history I to tell her something terrible had happened in this place. There was losphere of suffering, scars that could not be hidden by concrete or The ghosts told their own story. When she put a hand up to her lie found she was crying. as her legs were strong enough to carry her, she headed back towards the centre of town. She was determined to put as much space between herself and Saint-Etienne as she could. She couldn't account for what was happening to her, but she wasn't going to give in. Reassured by the normal, everyday life going on all around her, Alice found herself in a small, pedestrianised square. In the top right-hand corner there was a brasserie with a cyclamen-pink awning and rows of gleaming silver chairs and round tables laid out on the pavement. Alice got the only remaining table and ordered straight away, making a concerted effort to relax. She knocked back a couple of glasses of water, then leaned back in her chair and tried to enjoy the touch of the sun on her face. She poured herself a glass of rose, added a few ice cubes, and took a mouthful. It wasn't like her to be so easily freaked out. But then you're not in such great emotional shape. All year she'd been living flat out. She'd split up with her long-term boyfriend. The relationship had been dying on its feet for years and it was a relief to be on her own, but it was no less painful for that. Her pride was battered and her heart was bruised. To forget about him, she'd worked too hard and played too hard, anything to not brood about where things had gone wrong. Two weeks in the south of France was supposed to recharge her batteries. Get her back on an even keel. Alice pulled a face. Some holiday. The arrival of the waiter put paid to any further self-analysis. The omelette was perfect, yellow and runny on the inside, with generous chunks of mushroom and plenty of parsley. Alice ate with a fierce concentration. Only when she was mopping up the last threads of olive oil with her bread, did she start to turn her mind to how she was going to spend the rest of the afternoon. By the time the coffee came, Alice knew. The Bibliotheque de Toulouse was a large, square stone building. Alice flashed her British Library Readers' Room pass at a bored and inattentive assistant at the desk, which got her in. After getting lost on the stairs a few times, she found herself in the extensive general history section. On either side of the central aisle were long, polished wooden desks with a spine of reading lamps running along the centre of the tables. Few of the seats were occupied at this time on a hot, July afternoon. At the far end, spanning the width of the room, was what Alice was looking for: a row of computer terminals. Alice registered at the reception desk, was given a password and allocated a workstation. As soon as she was connected, Alice typed the word 'labyrinth' in the box on the search engine. The green loading bar at the bottom of the screen filled up quickly. Rather than relying on her own memory, she was confident she'd find a match for her labyrinth somewhere among all the hundreds of sites. It was so obvious she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it earlier. Straight away, the differences between a traditional labyrinth and her memory of the image carved on the cave wall and ring were obvious. A classical labyrinth was made up of intricately connected concentric circles leading in ever decreasing circles to the centre, whereas she was pretty sure the one in the Pic de Soularac had been a combination of dead ends and straight lines which doubled back on themselves, leading nowhere. It was more like a maze. The true ancient origins of the labyrinth symbol and mythologies associated with it were complex and difficult to trace. The earliest designs were thought to be more than 3000 years old. Labyrinth symbols had been discovered carved in wood, rock, tile or stone, as well as in woven designs or constructed into the natural environment as turf or garden labyrinths. The first labyrinths in Europe dated from the late Bronze Age and early Iron Age, from 1200 to 500 bc, and were discovered around the early trading centres of the Mediterranean. Carvings dated between 900 and 500 bc had been found at Val Camonica in northern Italy and Pontevedra in Galicia, and in the top northwestern corner of Spain at Cabo Fisterra Fmisterre. Alice looked hard at the illustration. It was more reminiscent of what she'd seen in the cave than anything else so far. She tilted her head to one side. Close, but not a match. It made sense that the symbol would have travelled from the east with the merchants and traders from Egypt and the outer reaches of the Roman Empire, adapted and changed by its interaction with other ^Cultures. It also made sense that the labyrinth, evidently a pre-Christian liymbol, should have been hijacked by the Christian church. Both the Jyzantine and the Roman Church were guilty of absorbing much older abols and myths into their religious orthodoxy. Several sites were dedicated to the most famous labyrinth of them all: 3S, on the island of Crete where, according to legend, the mythical lotaur, half-man, half-bull, had been imprisoned. Alice skipped them, let telling her that line of research would take her nowhere. The only it worth noting was that Minoan labyrinthine designs had been avated at the site of the ancient city of Avaris in Egypt, dating back i 1550 bc, as well as found in temples at Kom Ombo in Egypt and le. Alice filed the information at the back of her mind. From the twelfth and thirteenth centuries onwards, the labyrinth symbol was appearing regularly in hand-copied medieval manuscripts that circulated around the monasteries and courts of Europe, with scribes embellishing and developing illustrations, creating their own trademark designs. By the early medieval period, a mathematically perfect eleven-circuit, twelve-wall, four-axis labyrinth had become the most popular form of all. She looked at a reproduction of the carving of a labyrinth on the wall of the thirteenth-century church of St Pantaleon in Arcera, northern Spain and another, slightly earlier, from the cathedral of Lucca in Tuscany. She clicked on a map showing the occurrence of labyrinths in European churches, chapels and cathedrals. That's extraordinary. Alice could hardly believe her eyes. There were more labyrinths in France than in the whole of Italy, Belgium, Germany, Spain, England and Ireland put together: Amiens, St Quentin, Arras, St Omer, Caen and Bayeux in northern France; Poitiers, Orleans, Sens and Auxerre in the centre; Toulouse and Mirepoix in the southwest; the list went on and on. The most famous pavement labyrinth of all was in northern France, set in the centre of the nave of the first - and most impressive - of the gothic medieval cathedrals, Chartres. Alice smacked her hand on the table, causing several disapproving heads to pop up around her. Of course. How stupid could she be? Chartres was twinned with her home town of Chichester, on the English south coast. In fact, her first visit abroad had been on a school trip to Chartres when she was eleven. She had vague memories of it raining all the time and standing huddled in a raincoat, cold and damp, beneath imposing stone pillars and vaults. But she had no recollection of the labyrinth. There was no labyrinth in Chichester Cathedral, but the city was also twinned with Ravenna in Italy. Alice ran her finger across the screen until she'd found what she was looking for. Laid into the marble floor of the church of San Vitale in Ravenna was a labyrinth. According to the caption it was only a quarter of the size of the labyrinth in Chartres and dated to a much earlier period in history, perhaps as far back as the fifth century ad, but was there all the same. Alice finished cutting and pasting the text she wanted into a word document and hit Print. Once it was going, she typed 'Cathedral Chartres France' into the search box. Although there had been some sort of structure on the site as far back as the eighth century, she discovered the current cathedral in Chartres dated from the thirteenth century. Ever since then, esoteric beliefs and theories had attached themselves to the building. There were rumours that within its vaulting roof and elaborate stone pillars was concealed a secret of great significance. Despite the strenuous efforts of the Catholic Church, these legends and myths endured. No one knew on whose orders the labyrinth had been built or for what purpose. Alice selected the paragraphs she needed, and then exited. The last page finished printing and the machine fell silent. All around people were beginning to pack up. The sour-faced receptionist caught her eye and tapped her watch. Alice nodded and gathered her papers, then joined the line at the counter waiting to pay. The queue moved slowly. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight fell through the high windows in Jacob's ladders, making the particles of dust dance in the beams. The woman in front of Alice had an armful of books to check out and seemed to have a query about each one. She let her mind focus on the worry that had been bugging her all afternoon. Was it likely that in all the hundreds of images she'd looked at, in all the hundreds and thousands of words, there hadn't been a single exact match for the stone labyrinth at the Pic de Soularac? Possible, but not likely. The man behind her was standing too close, like someone on a tube train trying to read the newspaper over her shoulder. Alice turned and glared at him. He took a step back. His face was vaguely familiar. 'Oui, merci,' she said, as she got to the desk and paid for the printing jr (Bhe'd done. Nearly thirty sheets in all. As she emerged on to the steps of the library the bells of SaintEtienne striking seven. She'd been in there longer than she realised. Keen to be on her way now, Alice hurried back to where she'd parked i car on the far side of the river. She was so caught up in her thoughts hat she didn't notice the man from the queue following her along the er walkway, keeping a safe distance. And she didn't notice him take a jne from his pocket and make a call as she pulled out into the slowig traffic. THE GUARDIANS OF THE BOOKS CHAPTER 26 Besiers JULHET I2O9 Dusk was falling as Alais reached the plains outside the town of Coursan. She had made good speed, following the old Roman road through the Minervois towards Capestang, across the sweeping hemp fields, the canabieres, and the emerald seas of barley. Each day since setting out from Carcassonne, Alais had ridden until the sun became too fierce. Then she and Tatou took shelter and rested, before travelling on until dusk when the air was filled with biting insects and the cries of night jays, owls and bats. The first night she'd found lodgings in the fortified town of Azille with 'friends of Esclarmonde. As she travelled further east, she saw fewer I jpeople in the fields and villages and those that she did see were suspicious, pHrariness showing in their dark eyes. She heard rumours of atrocities |jOommitted by renegade bands of French soldiers or by routiers, mercenries, bandits. Each tale was more bloody, more wicked than the last. Alais pulled Tatou to a walk, not sure if she should press on to Coursan look for shelter close by. The clouds were marching fast across an easingly angry grey sky and the air was very still. In the distance, there 1 the occasional rumble of thunder, growling like a bear waking from a ater sleep. Alai's did not want to risk being caught in the open when the arm hit. I'Tatou was nervous. Alai's could feel her tendons bristling beneath her and twice she shied away from sudden movements of hare or fox in ows at the roadside. Ahead Ala'is could see there was a small copse of oak and ash. It wasn't dense enough to be the natural summer habitat of larger animals, such as wild boar or lynx. But the trees were tall and generous and the tops of their branches looked to be woven tightly together, like entwined fingers, which would provide good cover. The fact there was a clear path, a winding ribbon of dry earth worn away by countless feet, suggested the wood was a popular local shortcut to the town. Tatou shifted uneasily beneath her as a flicker of lightning momentarily lit the darkening sky. It helped her make up her mind. She would wait until the storm had passed over. Whispering encouragement, Alais persuaded the mare forward into the dark green embrace of the wood. The men had lost their quarry some time earlier. Only the threat of a storm prevented them doubling back and returning to camp. After several weeks of riding, their pale French skin was tanned dark by the fierce southern sun. Their travelling armour and surcoats, bearing the arms of their master, lay hidden in the thicket. They hoped yet to retrieve something from their abortive mission. A sound. The crack of a dried branch, the rolling gait of a bridled horse, the iron of its hooves striking occasional pieces of stone. A man with a mouthful of jagged, blackened teeth crawled forward to get a better look. Some way off he could see a figure on a small, chestnut Arab threading its way through the woods. He leered. Perhaps their sortie was not going to be a waste of time after all. The rider's clothes were plain and worth little, but a horse of that calibre would fetch a good price. He threw a stone at his companion hidden on the other side of the track. 'Leve-toi!' he said, jerking his head towards Alai's. 'Regarde.' Would you look at that,' he muttered. 'Unefemme. Et seule.' 'Are you certain she's alone?' 'I can't hear any others.' The two men picked up the ends of the rope that lay across the path, concealed under the leaves, and waited for her to come to them. Alai's' courage ebbed as she rode deeper into the wood. The topsoil was damp, although the ground beneath was still hard. The leaves at the side of the path rustled beneath Tatou's feet. Alais tried to concentrate on the reassuring sounds of the birds in the trees, but the hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck were standing on end. There was threat in the silence, not peace. It is but your imagination only. Tatou sensed it too. Without warning, something flew up out of the ground, with the sound of an arrow from a bow. A woodcock? A snake? Tatou reared up on her hind legs, slashing wildly at the air with her hooves and whinnying in terror. Alai's had no time to react. Her hood flew back off her face and her arms came away from the reins as she was thrown backwards out of her saddle. Pain exploded in her shoulder as she hit the ground hard, knocking the breath clean out of her. Panting, she rolled on to her side and tried to stand. She had to try to hold Tatou before she bolted. Tatou, dofament,' she cried, staggering to her feet. 'Tatou!' Alais staggered forward, then stopped. There was a man standing in front of her on the path, blocking her way. He was smiling through blackened teeth. In his hand was a knife, its dull blade discoloured brown at the tip. There was a movement to her right. Alais' eyes darted sideways. A second man, his face disfigured by a jagged scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, was holding Tatou's bridle and waving a stick. '¦¦'¦, 'No,' she heard herself cry out. 'Leave her.' Despite the pain in her shoulder, her hand found the hilt of her sword. s&ive them what they want and they may yet not harm you. He took a step ^towards her. Alais drew her blade, slicing through the air in an arc. eping her eyes on his face, she fumbled in her purse and threw a adful of coins down on the path. Take it. I have nothing else of value.' He looked at the scattering of silver on the ground, then spat con aptuously. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took ler step closer. I Alais raised her sword. 'I warn you. Do not approach,' she shouted, ing a figure of eight in the air with the blade so he couldn't get near. ('Ligote-/a,' he ordered to the other. Alais turned cold. For an instant, her courage faltered. They were ich soldiers, not bandits. The stories she'd heard on her journey led into her mind. pjfThen she gathered herself and swung the sword again. 'Come no closer,' she shouted, her voice stiff with fear. 'I will kill you before I--' Alais spun round and hurled herself at the second man, who had come round behind her. Screaming, Alais sent the stick flying from his hand. Pulling a knife from his belt, he roared and dived towards her. Grasping her sword with both hands, Alais plunged it down on his hand, stabbing at him like a bear at a baiting. Blood spurted from his arm. She pulled her arms back for a second strike when stars suddenly exploded in her head, purple and white. She staggered forward at the force of the blow, then pain brought tears to her eyes as she was jerked back to her feet by her hair. She felt the cold point of a blade at her throat. 'Putain,' he hissed, striking her across the face with his bleeding hand. 'Laisse-tomber.' Drop it. Cornered, Alais let the sword fall from her hand. The second man kicked it away, before producing a coarse linen hood from his belt and forcing it over her head. Alais struggled to get free, but the sour smell of the dusty material caught in her mouth and made her cough. Still, she fought it, until a fist hit her in the stomach and she doubled over on the path. She had no strength left to resist as they wrenched her arms behind her back and bound her wrists. 'Restela.' They moved away. Alais could hear them going through her saddlebags, lifting the leather flaps and throwing things out on to the ground. They were talking, arguing perhaps. She found it hard to tell in their harsh language. Why have they not killed me? Straight away, the answer crept like an unwelcome ghost into her mind. They would have some sport first. Alais struggled desperately to loosen her ties, even though she knew that if she did get her hands free, she wouldn't get far. They'd hunt her down. They were laughing now. Drinking. They were in no hurry. Tears of desperation sprang into her eyes. Her head fell back, exhausted, on the hard ground. At first, Alais couldn't work out where the rumbling was coming from. Then she realised. Horses. The sound of their iron hooves galloping over the plains. She pressed her ear closer to the ground. Five, maybe six horses, heading towards the wood. In the distance, there was a growl of thunder. The storm was also getting closer. At last, there was something she could do. If she could get far enough away, then maybe she had a chance. Slowly, as quietly as possible, she started to edge her way off the path until she felt the sharp brambles against her legs. Struggling to her knees, she moved her head up and down until she managed to work the hood loose. Are they looking? No one shouted. Bending her neck, she shook her head from side to side, gently at first, then more vigorously, until finally the material slid off. Alais took a couple of deep gulps of air, then tried to get her bearings. She was just out of their line of vision, although if they turned round and saw her gone, it would take them no time to find her. Alais pressed her ear to the ground once more. The riders were coming from Coursan. A party of hunters? Scouts? A crack of thunder echoed through the wood, setting birds to flight from the highest nests. Their panicked wings beat the air, swooped and fell, before falling back into the protection of the trees. Tatou whinnied and pawed at the ground. Praying that the gathering storm would continue to mask the sound of the riders until they were close enough, Alais pushed herself back into the undergrowth, crawling over the stones and twigs. 'Ohef Alais froze. They'd seen her. She swallowed a scream as the men came running back to where she'd been lying. A clap of thunder overhead drew their eyes up, a look of fear in their faces. They are not accustomed to the violence of our southern storms. Even from here, she could smell the fear. ITieir skin was rank with it. Taking advantage of their hesitation, Alais pressed on. She was on her feet now, starting to run. j«ft She was not quick enough. The one with the scar launched himself at i'her, punching her in the side of the head as he brought her down. lH'eretiquel he yelled as he scrambled on top of her, pinioning her to le ground. Alais tried to shake him off, but he was too heavy and her i were caught in the thorns of the undergrowth. She could smell the 1 from his injured hand as he thrust her face down into the twigs and aves on the ground. 'I warned you to stay still, putain? He unbuckled his belt, breathing heavily as he tossed it aside. Pray he not yet heard the riders. She tried to shake him off her, but he was heavy. She let loose a roar from her throat, anything to mask the proach of the horses. He hit her again, splitting her lip. She could taste the blood in her mouth. 'Putain.' Suddenly, different voices. 'Ara, ara!' Now. Alais heard the twang of a bow and the flight of a single arrow through the air, then again and again as a storm of darts flew out of the evergreen shadows, splintering bark and wood where they made contact. 'Avanfa! Ara, avanfaV The Frenchman sprang up just as an arrow thudded into his chest, thick and heavy, spinning him round like a top. For a moment, he seemed to be held in the air, then he started to sway, his eyes frozen like the stone gaze of a statue. A single drop of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, and then rolled down his chin. His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, as if in prayer, then very slowly tipped forward like a tree felled in the wood. Alai's came to her senses just in time, scrambling out of his way as the body crashed heavily to the ground. 'Aval! On!' The riders rode the other Frenchman down. He had run into the woods for cover, but more arrows flew. One hit his shoulder and he stumbled. The next hit the back of his thigh. The third, in the small of his back, brought him down. His body fell forward to the ground, spasmed, then was still. The same voice called the halt. 'Arest. Hold fire.' At last, the hunters broke cover and came into view. 'Hold your fire.' Alais got to her feet. Friends or men also to be feared? The leader was wearing a cobalt-blue hunting tunic under his cloak, both of good quality. His leather boots, belt and quiver were fashioned from pale leather in the local style and his boots heavy, unmarked. He looked a man of moderate means and substance, a man of the Midi. Her arms were still bound behind her back. She was aware that she had little advantage on her side. Her lip was swollen and bleeding and her clothes were stained. 'Seigneur, my gratitude for this service,' she said, stiffening her voice with confidence. 'Raise your visor and identify yourself, so I may know the face of my liberator.' 'Is that all the gratitude I get, Dame?' he said, doing as she asked. Alais was relieved to see he was smiling. He dismounted and drew a knife from his belt. Alais stepped back. To cut your ties,' he said lightly. Alais flushed and offered her wrists. 'Of course. Merce! He gave a brief bow. 'Amiel de Coursan. These are my father's woods.' Alai's gave a sigh of relief. 'Forgive me my discourtesy, but I had to be sure you were not . . .' Your caution is both wise and understandable in the circumstances. And you are, Dame?' 'Alais of Carcassona, daughter to Intendant Pelletier, steward to Viscount Trencavel, and wife to Guilhem du Mas.' 'I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Dame Alais.' He kissed her hand. 'Are you much hurt?' 'A few cuts and scratches only, although my shoulder pains me a little where I was thrown.' Where is your escort?' Alai's hesitated a moment. 'I am travelling alone.' He looked at her with surprise. 'These are strange times to venture out without protection, Dame. These plains are overrun with French soldiers.' 'I did not intend to ride so late. I was seeking shelter from the storm.' Alais glanced up, suddenly realising that no rain had yet fallen. 'It's just the heavens making complaint,' he said, reading her look. 'A false tempest, no more.' While Alais calmed Tatou, de Coursan's men ordered the corpses to be stripped of weapons and clothing. They found their armour and ensigns hidden deeper in the wood where they had tethered their horses. De Coursan picked up the corner of material with the tip of his sword revealing, beneath a coating of mud, a flash of silver on a green background. 'Chartres,' said de Coursan with contempt. 'They're the worst. Jackals, the lot of them. We've had more reports of acts--' He broke off abruptly. Alais looked at him. 'Reports of what?' 'It is of no matter,' he said quickly. 'Shall we return to the town?' They rode in single file to the far side of the woods and out on to the ^plains. 'Yon have some purpose in these parts, Dame Alais?' 'I go in search of my father, who is in Montpelhier with Viscount frencavel. I have news of great importance that could not wait for his to Carcassona.' A frown fell across de Coursan's face. What? What have you heard?' You will stay with us the night, Dame Alais. Once your injuries have been tended, my father will tell you what news we have heard. At dawn I will escort you myself to Besiers.' Alais turned to look at him. 'To Besiers, Messire}' 'If the rumours are true, it is in Besiers you will find your father and Viscount Trencavel.' CHAPTER 27 Sweat dripped from his stallion's coat as Viscount Trencavel led his men towards Beziers, thunder rolling at their heels. Sweat foamed on the horses' bridles and spittle flecked in the corners of their mouths. Their flanks and withers were streaked with blood where the spurs and whip drove them relentlessly on through the night. The silver moon came out from behind the torn, black clouds scudding low on the horizon, lighting up the white blaze on his horse's nose. Pelletier rode at the Viscount's side, his lips pursed shut. It had gone badly at Montpellier. Given the bad blood that existed between the Viscount and his uncle, he had not expected the Count to be easily persuaded into an alliance, despite the ties of family and seigneurial obligation that bound the two men. He had hoped, however, that the Count might intercede on his nephew's account. In the event, he had refused even to receive him. It was a deliberate and unequivocal insult. Trencavel had been left to kick his heels outside the French camp until word came today that an audience was to be granted. Permitted to take only Pelletier and two of his chevaliers, Viscount Trencavel had been shown to the tent of the Abbot of Citeaux, where they were asked to disarm. This they had done. Once inside, rather than the Abbott, the Viscount was received instead by two of the papal legates. Raymond-Roger had barely been allowed to open his mouth while the ; legates castigated him for allowing heresy to spread unchecked through fhis dominions. They criticised his policy of appointing Jews to senior tpositions in his leading cities. They cited several examples of his turning a blind eye to the perfidious and pernicious behaviour of Cathar bishops Iwithin his territories. Finally, when they had finished, the legates had dismissed Viscount frencavel as if he was some insignificant minor landowner rather than lord of one of the most powerful dynasties of the Midi. Pelletier's [Wood boiled even now when he thought of it. The Abbot's spies had briefed the legates well. Each of the charges, whilst inaccurate and misrepresented in intention, was accurate in fact and supported by testimony and eyewitness account. That, even more than the calculated insult to his honour, left Pelletier in no doubt that Viscount Trencavel was to be the new enemy. The Host needed someone to fight. With the capitulation of the Count of Toulouse, there was no other candidate. They had left the Crusaders' camp outside Montpellier immediately. Glancing up at the moon, Pelletier calculated that if they held their pace they should reach Beziers by dawn. Viscount Trencavel wished to warn the Biterois in person that the French army was no more than fifteen leagues away and intent on war. The Roman road that ran from Montpellier to Beziers lay wide open and there was no way of blocking it. He would bid the city fathers prepare for a siege, at the same time as seeking reinforcements to support the garrison at Carcassonne. The longer the Host could be delayed in Beziers, the longer he would have to prepare the fortifications. He also intended to offer refuge in Carcassonne to those who were most at risk from the French - Jews, the few Saracen traders from Spain, as well as the Bons Homes. It was not only seigneurial duty that motivated him. Much of the administration and organisation of Beziers was in the hands of Jewish diplomats and merchants. Under threat of war or no, he wasn't prepared to be deprived of the services of so many valued and skilled servants. Trencavel's decision made Pelletier's task easier. He touched his hand against Harif s letter concealed in his pouch. Once they were in Beziers, all he had to do was excuse himself for long enough to find Simeon. A pale sun was rising over the river Orb as the exhausted men rode across the great arched stone bridge. Beziers stood proud and high above them, grand and seemingly impregnable behind its ancient stone walls. The spires of the cathedral and the great churches dedicated to Santa-Magdalena, Sant Jude and Santa Maria glittered in the dawn light. Despite his fatigue, Raymond-Roger Trencavel had lost nothing of his natural authority and bearing as he urged his horse up through the network of alleyways and steep winding streets that led to the main gates. The fall of the horses' shoes against the cobbles roused people from their sleep in the quiet suburbs that surrounded the fortified walls. Pelletier dismounted and called to the Watch to open the gates and let them enter. They made slow progress, news having spread that Viscount Trencavel was in the city, but eventually they reached the Suzerain's residence. Raymond-Roger greeted the Suzerain with genuine affection. He was an old friend and ally, a gifted diplomat and administrator and loyal to the Trencavel dynasty. Pelletier waited while the two men greeted each other in the custom of the Midi and exchanged tokens of esteem. Having completed the formalities with unusual haste, Trencavel moved straight to business. The Suzerain listened with deepening concern. As soon as the Viscount had finished speaking, he sent messengers to summon the city's consuls to council. While they were talking, a table had been set in the centre of the hall covered with bread, meats, cheese, fruit and wine. 'Messire,' said the Suzerain. 'I would be honoured if you would avail yourself of my hospitality while we wait.' Pelletier saw his chance. He slipped forward and spoke quietly into Viscount Trencavel's ear. 'Messire, could you spare me? I would check on our men myself. See that they have all they need. Make sure that their tongues are still and their spirits steady.' Trencavel looked up at him with astonishment. 'Now, Bertrand?' 'If you please, Messire.' 'I have no doubt our men are being well cared for,' he said, smiling at his host. You should eat, rest a while.' With my humble apologies, I would still ask to be excused.' Raymond-Roger scanned Pelletier's face for an explanation but found none. 'Very well,' he said in the end, still puzzled. "You have one hour.' The streets were noisy and growing ever more crowded as rumours spread. A mass of people was gathering in the main square in front of the Cathedral. Pelletier knew Beziers well, having visited many times with Viscount Trencavel in the past, but he was going against the flow and only his size and authority stopped him from being knocked down in the crush. Holding Harif s letter tight in his fist, as soon as he reached the Jewish quarter he asked passers-by if they knew of Simeon. He felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see a pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed child. 'I know where he lives,' she said. 'Follow me.' The girl led him into the commercial quarter where the moneylenders had their businesses and through a warren of seemingly identical side streets crammed with shops and houses. She came to a halt outside an unremarkable door. He cast his eyes around until he'd found what he was looking for: the sign of a bookbinder carved above Simeon's initials. Pelletier smiled with relief. It was the right house. Thanking her, he pressed a coin into the girl's hand and sent her away. Then he lifted the heavy brass knocker and struck the door three times. It had been a long time, more than fifteen years. Would there still be the easy affection between them? The door opened a fraction, enough to reveal a woman staring suspiciously at him. Her black eyes were hostile. She was wearing a green veil that covered her hair and the lower part of her face, and the traditional wide, pale trousers gathered at the ankle worn by Jewish women in the Holy Land. Her long, yellow jacket reached down to her knees. 'I wish to speak with Simeon,' he said. She shook her head and tried to shut the door, but he wedged it open with his foot. 'Give him this,' he said, easing the ring from his thumb and forcing it into the woman's hands. Tell him Bertrand Pelletier is here.' He heard her gasp. Straight away, she stood back to let him enter. Pelletier followed her through a heavy red curtain, decorated with golden coins stitched top and bottom. 'Attendez,' she said, gesturing he should stay where he was. The bracelets around her wrist and ankles chinked as she scuttled down the long corridor and disappeared. From the outside, the building looked tall and narrow, but now he was inside, Pelletier could see it was deceptive. Rooms led off the central corridor to both left and right. Despite the urgency of his mission, Pelletier gazed around with delight. The floor was laid with blue and white tiles rather than wood, and beautiful rugs hung from the walls. It reminded him of the elegant, exotic houses of Jerusalem. It had been many years, but the colours, textures and smells of that alien land still spoke to him. 'Bertrand Pelletier, by all that's sacred in this tired old world!' Pelletier turned towards the sound to see a small figure in a long purple surcoat rushing towards him, his arms outstretched. His heart leaped at the sight of his old friend. His black eyes twinkled as bright as ever. Pelletier was nearly knocked over by the force of Simeon's embrace, even though he was a good head taller. 'Bertrand, Bertrand,' Simeon said affectionately, his deep voice booming through the silent corridor. "What took you so long, eh?' 'Simeon, my old friend,' he laughed, clasping Simeon's shoulder as he got his breath back. 'How it does my spirit good to see you, and so well. Look at you,' he said, tugging his friend's long black beard, always Simeon's greatest vanity. 'A little grey here and there, but still as fine as ever! Life has treated you well?' Simeon raised his shoulders. 'Could be better, it could be worse,' he said, standing back. 'And what of you, Bertrand? A few more lines on your face, maybe, but still the same fierce eyes and broad shoulders.' He patted him on the chest with the flat of his hand. 'Still as strong as an ox.' His arm around Simeon's shoulder, Pelletier was taken to a small room at the rear of the house overlooking a small courtyard. There were two large sofas, covered with silk cushions of red, purple and blue. Several ebony tables were set around the room decorated with delicate vases and large flat bowls filled with sweet almond biscuits. 'Come, take off your boots. Esther will bring us tea.' He stood back and looked Pelletier up and down again. 'Bertrand Pelletier,' he said again, shaking his head. 'Can I trust these old eyes? After so many years are you really here? Or are you a ghost? A figment of an old man's imagination?' Pelletier did not smile. 'I wish I was here under more auspicious circumstances, Simeon.' He nodded. 'Of course. Come, Bertrand, come. Sit.' 'I've come with our Lord Trencavel, Simeon, to warn Besiers of the army approaching from the north. Listen to the bells calling the city fathers to council.' It's hard to ignore your Christian bells,' Simeon replied, raising his eyebrows, 'although they do not usually ring for our benefit!' This will affect the Jews as much - if not more - than those they call heretics, you know that.' 'As it ever does,' he said mildly. 'Is the Host as large as they are saying?' Twenty thousand strong, maybe more. We cannot fight them in open combat, Simeon, the numbers against us are too great. If Besiers can hold the invaders here for some time, then at least it will give us the chance to raise a fighting force in the west and prepare the defences of Carcassona. |> All who wish it will be offered refuge there.' 'I have been happy here. This city has treated me -us- well.' 'Besiers is no longer safe. Not for you, not for the books.' 'I know it. Still,' he sighed, 'I will be sorry to go.' 'God willing, it will not be for long.' Pelletier paused, confused by his i's unflinching acceptance of the situation. This is an unjust war, icon, preached out of lies and deceit. How can you accept it so easily?' Simeon spread his hands wide. 'Accept it, Bertrand? What would you have me do? What would you have me say? One of your Christian saints, Francis, prayed that God should grant him the strength to accept those things he could not change. What will happen will happen, whether I wish it or no. So, yes, I accept. It does not mean that I like it or wish it were not otherwise.' Pelletier shook his head. 'Anger serves no purpose. You must have faith. To trust in a greater meaning, beyond our lives or knowledge, requires a leap of faith. The great religions each have their own stories - Holy Scripture, the Qur'an, the Torah - to make sense of these insignificant lives of ours.' He paused, his eyes sparkling in mischief. 'The Bons Homes, now they do not seek to make sense of the evil men do. Their faith teaches them that this is not God's earth, a perfect creation, but instead an imperfect and corrupt realm. They do not expect goodness and love to triumph over adversity. They know that in our temporal lives they will not.' He smiled. 'And yet here you are, Bertrand, surprised when Evil meets you face to face. It is strange that, no?' Pelletier's head shot up as if he'd been found out. Did Simeon know? How could he? Simeon caught his expression, although he made no further reference to it. 'Conversely, my faith tells me the world was made by God, that it is perfect in every particular. But whenever men turn away from the words of the prophets, the balance between God and man is disturbed and retribution will follow as sure as night follows the day.' Pelletier opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. 'This war is not our affair, Bertrand, despite your duty to Viscount Trencavel. You and I have a wider purpose. We are joined by our vows. It is that which must now guide our steps and inform our decisions.' He reached out and clasped Pelletier's shoulder. 'So, my friend, keep your anger and your sword in readiness for those battles you can win.' 'How did you know?' he said. 'Have you heard something?' Simeon chuckled. 'That you were a follower of the new church? No, no, I have heard nothing to that effect. It is a discussion we will have some time in the future, God willing, not now. Much as I would dearly love to talk theology with you, Bertrand, we have pressing matters to attend to.' The arrival of the servant with a tray of hot mint tea and sweet biscuits stopped the conversation. She placed it on the table in front of them, before removing herself to a bench in the corner of the room. 'Do not concern yourself,' Simeon said, seeing Pelletier's worry that their conversation was to be overheard. 'Esther came with me from Chartres. She speaks Hebrew and a few words of French only. She does not understand your tongue at all.' 'Very well.' Pelletier pulled out Harif s letter and handed it to Simeon. 'I received one such at Shauvot, a month past,' he said when he'd finished reading. 'It warned me to expect you although, I confess, you have been slower than I expected.' Pelletier folded the letter and returned it to his pouch. 'So the books are still in your possession, Simeon? Here within this house? We must take them--' A violent hammering at the door shattered the tranquillity of the room. Immediately, Esther was on her feet, her almond eyes alert. At a sign from Simeon, she hurried out into the corridor. "You do still have the books?' repeated Pelletier, urgent now, the expression on Simeon's face making him suddenly anxious. They are not lost?' 'Not lost, my friend,' he started to say when they were interrupted by Esther. 'Master, there is a lady asking to be admitted.' The words in Hebrew rattled off her tongue, too fast for Pelletier's rusty ears to follow. "What manner of lady?' Esther shook her head. 'I know not, master. She says she must see your guest Intendant Pelletier.' They all turned at the sound of feet in the corridor behind them. "You left her alone?' Simeon said with concern, struggling to get up. Pelletier also rose to his feet as the women burst into the room. He blinked, unwilling to trust the evidence of his eyes. Even thoughts of his mission disappeared from his mind as he looked at Alais, who had come to a halt in the doorway. Her face was flushed and her quick brown eyes were flashing with apology and determination. 'Forgive me for this intrusion,' she said, looking from her father to , Simeon, then back, 'but I did not think your servant would admit me.' In I two strides, Pelletier had crossed the room and thrown his arms around Bier. 'Do not be angry that I disobeyed you,' she said, more timidly. 'I had to ame.' 'And this charming lady is . . .' said Simeon. Pelletier took Alais's hand and led her into the centre of the room. of course. I am forgetting myself. Simeon, may I present to you my daughter, Alai's, although how or by what means she comes to be here in Besiers, I cannot tell you!' Alai's bowed her head. 'And this is my dearest, my oldest friend, Simeon of Chartres, formerly of the Holy City of Jerusalem.' Simeon's face was wreathed in smiles. 'Bertrand's daughter. Alai's.' He took her hands. "You are most welcome.' CHAPTER 28 Will you tell me of your friendship?' Alais said, as soon as she was seated on the sofa beside her father. She turned to Simeon. 'I asked him once before, but he was not minded to confide in me then.' Simeon was older than she had imagined. His shoulders were stooped and his face criss-crossed with lines, a map of a life that had seen grief and loss as well as great happiness and laughter. His eyebrows were thick and bushy and his eyes bright, revealing a sparkling intelligence. His curly hair was mostly grey, but his long beard, perfumed and oiled, was still as black as a raven's wing. She could see why her father might have mistaken the man in the river for his friend. Discreetly, Alais dropped her eyes to his hands and felt a flash of satisfaction. She had supposed right. On his left thumb he wore a ring identical to her father's. 'Come, Bertrand,' Simeon was saying. 'She has earned the story. After all, she has ridden far enough to hear it!' Alais felt her father grow still beside her. She glanced at him. His mouth was set in a tight line. He is angry now he realises what Fve done. *You did not ride from Carcassona without an escort?' he said. 'You would not be so foolish to make such a journey alone? You would not take such a risk?' 'Answer me.' 'It seemed the wisest--' Wisest,' he erupted. 'Of all the--' Simeon chuckled. 'Still the same old temper, Bertrand.' Alais swallowed a smile as she put her hand on her father's arm. 'Paire,' she said patiently. *You can see I am safe. Nothing happened.' He glanced down at her scratched hands. Alais quickly pulled the cloak 1 them. 'Nothing much happened. It's nothing. A slight cut.' You were armed?' She nodded. 'Of course.' 'Then where--?' 'I thought it unwise to walk through the streets of Besiers so attired.' Alais looked at him with innocent eyes. 'Quite,' he muttered under his breath. 'And no ill befell you? You are not hurt?' Aware of her bruised shoulder, Alai's met his gaze. 'Nothing,' she lied. He frowned, although he looked slightly mollified. 'How did you know we were here?' 'I learned of it from Amiel de Coursan, the son of the seigneur, who most generously gave me escort.' Simeon was nodding. 'He's much admired in these parts.' "You have been very fortunate,' Pelletier said, still reluctant to let the matter drop. 'Fortunate and very, very foolish. You could have been killed. I still cannot believe you--' "You were going to tell her how we met, Bertrand,' said Simeon lightly. 'The bells are no longer ringing, so the Council must now have started. We have a little time.' For a moment, her father continued to scowl. Then his shoulders dropped and resignation filled his features. 'Very well, very well. Since you both wish it.' Alais exchanged a glance with Simeon. 'He wears the ring like yours, Paire.' Pelletier smiled. 'Simeon was recruited by Harif in the Holy Land, as I was, although some time earlier and our paths did not cross. As the threat from Saladin and his armies increased, Harif sent Simeon back to his native city of Chartres. I followed a few months later, taking the three parchments with me. The journey took more than a year, but when I finally reached Chartres, Simeon was waiting for me as Harif had promised.' His memories made him smile. 'How much I hated the cold and wet after the heat, the light of Jerusalem. It was so bleak, so forsaken a place. But Simeon and I, we understood one another from the start. His task was to bind the parchments into three separate volumes. While he toiled over the books, I came to admire his learning, his wisdom and his good humour.' 'Bertrand, really,' murmured Simeon, although Alais could see he liked the compliments well enough. 'As for Simeon,' Pelletier continued, 'you will have to ask him yourself what he saw in an uncultured, unlettered soldier. It is not for me to judge.' 'You were willing to learn, my friend, to listen,' said Simeon softly. 'That marked you out from most of your faith.' 'I always knew the books were to be separated,' Pelletier resumed. 'As soon as Simeon's work was completed, I received word from Harif that I was to return to my birthplace, where a position awaited as Intendant to the new Viscount Trencavel. Looking back with the hindsight of years, I find it extraordinary that I never asked what was to become of the other two books. I assumed Simeon was to keep one, although I never actually knew that for certain. The other? I didn't even ask. My lack of curiosity shames me now. But, I simply took the book entrusted to me and travelled south.' 'It should not shame you,' said Simeon softly. 'You did what was asked of you in good faith and with a strong heart.' 'Before your appearance put all other thoughts from my mind, we were talking of the books, Ala'is.' Simeon cleared his throat. 'Book,' he said. 'I have but one.' 'What?' he said sharply. 'But Harif s letter ... I took it to mean that both were still in your possession? Or that, at the very least, you knew where each was to be found?' Simeon shook his head. 'Once, yes, but not for many years now. The Book of Numbers is here. As for the other, I confess I was hoping that you might have news to share with me! 'If you do not have it, then who does?' Pelletier said urgently. 'I assumed you had taken both with you when you left Chartres.' 'I did.' 'But--' Alais put her hand on her father's arm. 'Let Simeon explain.' For a moment, it looked as if Pelletier might lose his temper, then he nodded. 'Very well,' he said gruffly. 'Tell your story.' >. 'How like you she is, my friend,' Simeon chuckled. 'Shortly after your aarture from Chartres, I received word from the Navigataire that a iian would come and take the second book, the Book of Potions, ithough nothing to indicate who that person might be. I held myself y, waiting always. Time passed, I grew older, but still no one came. en, in the year of your Lord, 1194 - shortly before the terrible fire that oyed the cathedral and much of the city of Chartres - a man did tie, a Christian, a knight, calling himself Philippe de SaintMaure.' jp'His name is familiar. He was in the Holy Land at the same time as I B, although we did not meet.' He frowned. 'Why had he waited so long?' F-That, my friend, is the question I asked myself. Saint-Maure passed me a merel, in the appropriate manner. He wore the ring that you and I both are honoured to wear. I had no reason to doubt him . . . and yet--' Simeon shrugged. There was something false about him. His eyes were sharp, like a fox. I did not trust him. He did not seem to me the sort of man Harif would have chosen. There was no honour in him. So I decided, despite the tokens of good faith he carried, that I should test him.' 'How so?' The words had slipped out before she could stop them. 'Alais,' her father warned. 'It is all right, Bertrand. I pretended not to understand. I wrung my hands, humble, apologetic, begging his pardon but he must have confused me with someone else. He drew his sword.' Which confirmed your suspicion he was not who or what he claimed to be.' 'He threatened and railed against me, but my servants came and he was outnumbered, so he had no choice but to withdraw.' Simeon leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'As soon as I was sure he had gone, I wrapped the two books inside a bundle of old clothes and took shelter with a Christian family nearby who I trusted not to betray me. I could not decide what to do for the best. I was not certain of what I knew. Was he an impostor? Or was he indeed a guardian, but one whose heart had been blackened by greed or the promise of power and wealth? Had he betrayed us? If the former, then there was yet a chance that the real guardian would come to Chartres and find me gone. If the latter, I felt it my duty to find out what I could. Even now, I do not know if I chose wisely.' *You did what you thought was right,' said Alais, ignoring the warning look from her father telling her to keep silent. 'No man can do more.' 'Right or wrong, the fact is I did not go for two days more. Then the mutilated body of a man was found floating in the river Eure. His eyes and tongue had been put out. The rumour spread he was a knight in the service of the eldest son of Charles d'Evreux, whose lands are not far from Chartres.' 'Philippe de SaintMaure.' Simeon nodded. 'The Jews were blamed for the murder. Straight away the reprisals started. I was a convenient scapegoat. Word spread that they were coming for me. There were witnesses, they claimed, who'd seen Saint-Maure at my door, witnesses who would swear that we argued and blows were exchanged. This decided me. Maybe this Saint-Maure was who he said he was. Maybe he was an honest man, maybe not. It no longer mattered. He was dead -- I believed -- because of what he had discovered about the Labyrinth Trilogy. His death and the manner of it persuaded me that there were others involved. That the secret of the Grail had indeed been betrayed.' 'How did you escape?' asked Alais. 'My servants were already gone, and safe I hoped. I hid until the following morning. As soon as the gates of the city were opened, having shaved my beard, I slipped out in the guise of an elderly woman. Esther came with me.' 'So you were not there as they were building the stone labyrinth in the new cathedral?' said Pelletier. Alais was mystified to see he was smiling, as if at some private joke. You have not seen it.' 'What is it?' she demanded. Simeon chuckled, addressing himself only to Pelletier. 'No, although I hear it has served its purpose well. Many are drawn there to that ring of dead stone. They look, they search, not understanding that only a false secret lies beneath their feet.' 'What is this labyrinth?' repeated Alais. Still they paid her no attention. 'I would have given you shelter in Carcassona. A roof over your head, protection. Why did you not come to me?' 'Believe me, Bertrand, I wanted nothing more. But you forget how different the north was from these more tolerant lands of the Pays d'Oc. I Could not travel freely, my friend. Life was hard for Jews at that time. We were under curfew, our businesses were regularly attacked and looted.' He paused for breath. 'Besides, I never would have forgiven myself if I had led them - whoever they might be - to you. When I fled Chartres that night, I had no thought of where I was heading. The safest course of ^'action seemed to be to disappear until the fuss had died down. In the i»0Vent, the fire drove all other matters out of my mind.' 'How did you find yourself in Besiers?' said Alais, determined to rejoin ; the conversation. 'Did Harif send you here?' |v Simeon shook his head. 'It was chance and good fortune, Alais, not sign. I journeyed first to Champagne, where I passed the winter. The llowing spring, as soon as the snows had melted, I headed south. I was ¦ enough to fall in with a group of English Jews, fleeing persecution their own land. They were heading for Besiers. It seemed as good a Itination as any. The city had a reputation for tolerance - Jews were in itions of trust and authority, our learning, our skills were respected. Its imity to Carcassona meant that I would be on hand if Harif needed me.' He turned to Bertrand. 'God, in his wisdom, knows how hard it has been knowing that you were but a few days' ride away, but caution and wisdom dictated it had to be thus.' He sat forward, his black eyes alive. 'Even then there were verses, lays, circulating in the courts of the North. In Champagne, the troubadours and minstrels were singing of a magical cup, a life-giving elixir, too close to the truth to be ignored.' Pelletier nodded. He too had heard such songs. 'So weighing all things in the balance, it was safer to keep myself apart. I would never have forgiven myself if I had led them to your door, my friend.' Pelletier gave a long sigh. 'I fear, Simeon, that despite our best efforts we have been betrayed, although I have no hard and fast proof of it. There are those who know of the connection between us, I am convinced of it. Whether they also know the nature of our bond, I cannot say.' 'Something has happened to make you think this?' 'A week ago or more, Alais came across a man floating in the river Aude, a Jew. His throat had been cut and his left thumb severed from his hand. Nothing else was taken. There was no reason to think so, but I thought of you. I thought he had been mistaken for you.' He paused. 'Before this there have been other indications. I confided something of my responsibility to Alais, in the event that something happened to me and I was unable to return to Carcassona.' This is the moment to tell him why you are come. 'Father, since you--' He held up a hand to stop her interrupting. 'Have there been any indications your whereabouts have been discovered, Simeon? Either by those who sought you in Chartres or others?' Simeon was shaking his head. 'Of late, no. More than fifteen years have passed since I came south and I can tell you that, in all that time, there has not been a single day when I've not expected to feel a knife at my throat. But, as to anything out of the ordinary, no.' Alais could keep silent no longer. 'Father, what I have to say has bearing on this matter. I must tell you of what has happened since you left Carcassona. Please.' By the time Alais had finished, her father's face was scarlet. She feared he would lose his temper. He would allow neither Alai's nor Simeon to calm him. 'The Trilogy is discovered,' he ranted. 'There can be no doubt about it.' 'Be still, Bertrand,' said Simeon firmly. "Your anger serves only to cloud your judgement.' Alais turned to the windows, aware of the growing levels of noise in the street. Pelletier, too, after a moment's hesitation, raised his head. The bells have started again,' he said. 'I must return to the Suzerain's residence. Viscount Trencavel expects me.' He stood up. 'I must think further on what you have told me, Alais, and consider what should be done. For now, we must concentrate our efforts on departure.' He turned to his friend. 'You will come with us, Simeon.' While Pelletier had been talking, Simeon had opened an ornately carved wooden chest that stood on the far side of the room. Alais edged closer. The lid was lined with deep crimson velvet, gathered in deep folds like the curtains around a bed. Simeon shook his head. 'I will not ride with you. I will follow with my people. So, for safety's sake, you should take this.' Alais watched Simeon slide his hand along the bottom of the chest. > There was a click, then a small drawer sprung open at the base. When he traightened up, Alais saw he was holding an object enclosed in a sheepskin chemise. The two men exchanged glances, then Pelletier took the book from ^Simeon's outstretched hand and concealed it beneath his cloak. In his letter, Harif mentions a sister in Carcassona,' said Simeon. Pelletier nodded. 'A friend to the Noublesso is my interpretation of his ords. I cannot believe he means more.' 'It was a woman who came to take the second book from me, Bertrand,' jn said mildly. 'Like you, at the time I confess I assumed she was no i than a courier, but in the light of your letter . . .' Pelletier dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. 'I cannot Harif would appoint a woman guardian, whatever the circumes. He would not take the risk.' lais almost spoke, but bit her tongue. neon shrugged. We should consider the possibility.' fell, what manner of woman was she?' Pelletier said impatiently. 3ne who could reasonably be expected to take custody of so prei an object?' leon shook his head. Truthfully, she was not. She was neither highl nor in the lowest station of life. She was past the age of childbearing, ilgh she had a child with her. She was travelling to Carcassona via i, her home town.' i sat up straight. That is a meagre amount of information,' complained Bertrand. 'She did not give you her name?' 'No and nor did I ask it, since she bore a letter from Harif. I gave her bread, cheese, fruit for the journey, then she left.' They were now arrived at the door to the street. 'I do not like to leave you,' Alais said abruptly, suddenly fearful for him. Simeon smiled. 'I shall be fine, child. Esther will pack those things I wish to take with me to Carcassona. I will travel anonymously in the crowd. It will be safer for us all if I do so.' Pelletier nodded. 'The Jewish quarter lies on the river, to the east of Carcassona, not far from the suburb of Sant-Vicens. Send word when you arrive.' 'I will.' The two men embraced, then Pelletier stepped out into the now crowded street. Alais went to follow, but Simeon put his hand on her arm to hold her back. *You have great courage, Alais. You have been steadfast in your duty to your father. To the Noublesso too. But watch over him. His temper can lead him astray and there will be difficult times, difficult choices ahead.' Glancing over her shoulder, Alais dropped her voice so her father couldn't hear. What was the nature of the second book taken by this woman to Carcassona? The book that yet is unfound?' 'The Book of Potions,' he replied. 'A list of herbs and plants. To your father was entrusted the Book of Words, to me the Book of Numbers? To each their own skill. 'I think that tells you what you wanted to know?' Simeon said, looking knowingly at her from under his bushy eyebrows. 'Or perhaps confirm a thought?' She smiled. 'Benleu.' Perhaps. Alai's kissed him, and then ran to catch her father up. Food for the journey. A board too, perhaps. Alais resolved to keep her idea to herself for now, until she was sure, even though she was now all but certain she knew where the book would be found. All the myriad connections that ran through their lives like a spider's web were suddenly clear to her. All the tiny hints and clues missed, because not looked for. CHAPTER 29 As they hurried back through the town, it was clear that already the Orodus had begun. Jews and Saracens were moving towards the main gates, some on foot, jme with carts laden down with belongings, books, maps, furniture; nciers with horses saddled and carrying baskets, chests and scales for ighing, rolls of parchment. Alais noticed a few Christian families in the . too. The courtyard of the Suzerain's palace was bleached white in the arning sun. As they passed through the gates, Alais saw the look of ef on her father's face as he realised the Council was not yet concluded. 'Does anyone else know you are here?' iSsAlals stopped dead in her tracks, horrified to realise she'd not thought IGuilhem at all. 'No. I came straight to find you.' : was irritated by the look of pleasure that flashed across her father's Ie nodded. Wait here. I will inform Viscount Trencavel of your and ask his permission for you to ride with us. Your husband, should be told.' is watched as he disappeared into the shadows of the house. Disi, she turned and looked around. Animals stretched out in the e, their fur flattened against the cool, pale walls, unconcerned by the i of men. Despite her experiences and the stories Amiel de Coursan Id her, here, in the tranquillity of the palace, Alais found it hard to I the threat was as imminent as they claimed, id her, the doors were flung open and a tide of men flooded down i and across the courtyard. Alais pressed herself against a pillar to eing caught up in the rush. i courtyard erupted with the sound of shouting, commands, orders (land obeyed, ecuyers running to fetch their masters' horses. In a tt the palace was transformed from the seat of administration to : of the garrison. Through the commotion, Ala'is heard someone calling her name. Guilhem. Her heart leapt into her mouth. She turned, straining to see where his voice was coming from. 'Alai's,' he cried in disbelief. 'How? What are you doing here?' Now she could see him, striding through the crowds, clearing a path, until he was lifting her into his arms, squeezing her so hard that she thought every last breath would be driven out of her body. For an instant, the sight of him, the smell of him, drove everything from her mind. All was forgotten, all was forgiven. She felt shy almost, captivated by his obvious pleasure and delight to see her. Alais closed her eyes and imagined themselves alone, returned miraculously to the Chateau Comtal, as if the tribulations of the past few days were but a bad dream. 'How I've missed you,' said Guilhem, kissing her neck, her throat, her hands. Alais winced. 'Mon cor, what is it?' 'Nothing,' she said quickly. Guilhem lifted her cloak and saw the angry purple bruising across her shoulder. 'Nothing, by Sant-Foy. How in the name of--' 'I fell,' she said. 'My shoulder took the worst of it. It is worse than it looks. Please, do not concern yourself.' Now Guilhem looked uncertain, caught between concern and doubt. 'Is this how you fill your hours when I am away?' he said, suspicion forming in his eyes. He took a step back. "Why are you here, Alais?' She faltered. 'To bring a message to my father.' The moment the words were out of her mouth, Alai's realised she had said the wrong thing. Her intense pleasure immediately turned to anxiety. His brow darkened. 'What message?' Her mind went blank. What might her father have said? What possible excuse could she give? What message, Alais?' She caught her breath. More than anything, she wanted there to be trust between them, but she had given her word to her father. 'Messire, forgive me, but I cannot say. It was a matter for his ears alone.' 'Cannot or will not?' 'Cannot, Guilhem,' she said with regret. 'I would that it were otherwise.' 'Did he send for you?' he said furiously. 'Did he send for you without asking my permission?' 'No, no one sent for me,' she cried. 'I came of my own accord.' 'But yet you will not tell me why.' 'I beseech you, Guilhem. Do not ask me to break my word to my father. Please. Try to understand.' He grabbed hold of her arms and shook her. "You will not tell me? No?' He gave a sharp, bitter laugh. 'And to think I believed I had first claim on you. What a fool to think so!' Ala'is tried to stop him leaving, but he was already striding away from her through the crowds. 'Guilhem! Wait.' 'What's the matter?' She spun round to see that her father had come up behind her. 'My husband is offended by my unwillingness to confide in him.' 'Did you tell him I forbid you to speak of it?' 'I tried, but he was not minded to listen.' Pelletier scowled. 'He has no right to ask you to break your word.' Alais held her ground, feeling anger well up inside her. With respect, Paire, he has every right. He is my husband. He deserves my obedience and my loyalty.' *You are not being disloyal,' Pelletier said impatiently. 'His anger will pass. This is not the time nor the place.' 'He feels things deeply. Insults go deep with him.' 'As do we all,' he replied. 'Each of us feels deeply. However, the rest of us do not let our emotions govern our common sense. Come, Alais. Put it .from your mind. Guilhem is here to serve his seigneur not fret over his iwife. As soon as we are back in Carcassona, I'm sure all will be quickly olved between you.' He placed a kiss on the top of her head. 'Let it lie. Jow, fetch Tatou. You must get ready to leave.' Slowly, she turned and followed him to the stables. 'You will speak Oriane about her part in this. I feel sure she knows something of at happened to me.' jPdletier waved his hand. 'I'm sure you misjudge your sister. For too there has been discord between you, which I have allowed to run ecked, believing it would pass.' icForgive me, Paire, but I do not think you see her true character.' etier ignored her comment. "You are inclined to judge Oriane too Alais. I am certain she undertook your care for the best of g. Did you even ask her?' Alais flushed. 'Exactly. I see from your \yo\x did not.' He paused again. 'She is your sister, Alais. You owe her The unfairness of the rebuke ignited the anger simmering inside her chest. 'It is not I--' 'If I have the chance, I will talk to Oriane,' he said firmly, making it dear the subject was closed. Alais flushed, but held her tongue. She had always known she was her father's favourite and therefore she understood that it was his lack of affection for Oriane that pricked at his conscience and made him blind to her faults. Of her, he had higher expectations. Frustrated, Alai's fell into step beside him. Will you try to seek out those who took the mere/} Have you--' 'Enough, Alais. No more can be accomplished until we return to Carcassona. Now, may God grant us speed and good fortune to carry us swiftly home.' Pelletier stopped and looked around. 'And pray that Besiers has the strength to hold them here.' t « CHAPTER 30 Carcassonne TUESDAY 5 JULY 2OO5 Alice felt her spirits lift as she drove away from Toulouse. The motorway ran dead straight through a green and brown fertile landscape of crops. Now and then she saw fields of sunflowers, their faces tilted from the late afternoon sun. For much of the journey, the highspeed railway ran alongside the road. After the mountains and undulating valleys of the Ariege, which had been her introduction to this part of France, it appeared a more tamed landscape. There were clusters of small villages on the hilltops. Isolated houses with windows shuttered and a cloche-mur, the bells silhouetted against the pink dusk sky. She read the names of the towns as she passed Avignonet, Castelnaudary, Saint-Papoul, Bram, Mirepoix - rolling the .words over her tongue like wine. In her mind's eye, each promised the et of cobbled streets and history buried in pale stone walls. Alice crossed into the departement of the Aude. A brown heritage sign Vous etes en Pays Cathare. She smiled. Cathar country. She was ly learning that the region defined itself as much by its past as its ent. Not just Foix, but also Toulouse, Beziers and Carcassonne itself, I the great cities of the southwest living still in the shadow of events that taken place nearly eight hundred years ago. Books, souvenirs, posts, videos, an entire tourist industry had grown up on the back of it. i the evening shadows lengthening in the west, the signs seemed to be ; her towards Carcassonne. nine o'clock, Alice was through thep'eage and following the signs le city centre. She felt nervous and excited, strangely apprehensive, as 1 picked her way through grey industrial suburbs and retail parks. She ) dose now, she could feel it. : traffic lights turned green and Alice surged forward, carried along I flow of traffic, driving over roundabouts and bridges, then suddenly in countryside again. Coarse scrub along the rocade, wild grasses and twisted trees blown horizontal by the wind. Alice cleared the brow of the hill and there it was. The medieval Cite dominated the landscape. It was so much more imposing than Alice had imagined, more substantial and complete. From this distance, with the purple mountains thrown into sharp relief behind, it looked like a magical kingdom floating in the sky. She fell in love immediately. Alice pulled over and got out of the car. There were two sets of ramparts, an inner and an outer ring. She could pick out the cathedral and the castle. One rectangular, symmetrical tower, very thin, very tall, stood higher than everything else. The Cite was set on top of a grassy hill. The slopes swept down to streets filled with red-roofed houses. On the flat land at the bottom there were fields of vines, fig and olive trees, wigwams of heavy ripe tomatoes in rows. Reluctant to venture closer and risk breaking the spell, Alice watched the sun set, stripping the colour from everything. She shivered, the evening air suddenly chill on her bare arms. Her memory provided the words she needed. To arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. For the first time, Alice understood exactly what Eliot had meant. CHAPTER 31 Paul Authie's legal practice was in the heart of the Basse Ville of Carcassonne. His business had expanded fast in the last two years and his address reflected his success. A building of glass and steel, designed by a leading architect. An elegant walled courtyard, an atrium garden separating the business spaces and corridors. It was discreet and stylish. Authie was in his private office on the fourth floor. The huge window faced west overlooking the cathedral of Saint-Michel and the barracks of the parachute regiment. The room was a reflection of the man, neat and with a tightly controlled ambience of affluence and orthodox good taste. The entire outer wall of the office was glass. At this time of day the blinds were drawn against the late afternoon sun. Framed and mounted photographs covered the other three walls, together with testimonials and certificates. There were several old maps, originals not reproductions. Some depicted the routes of the Crusades, others were illustrations of the H shifting historical boundaries of the Languedoc. The paper was yellow 1and the reds and greens of the ink had faded in places, giving an uneven, | mottled distribution of colour. A long and wide desk, designed for the space, was positioned in front ' the window. It was almost empty, except for a large leather-rimmed stter and a few framed photographs, one a studio portrait of his ex-wife ad two children. Clients were reassured by evidence of stability and r values, so he kept it on display. There were three other photos: the first was a formal portrait of iself, at twenty-one, shortly after his graduation from the Ecole ationale d'Administration in Paris, shaking hands with Jean-Marie Le the leader of the Front Nationale; the second was taken at Coma; the third, taken last year, showed him with the Abbot of among others, on the occasion of Authie's most recent, and : substantial, donation to the Society of Jesus. i photograph reminded him of how far he had come. The phone on his desk buzzed. 'Oui?' His secretary announced his visitors had arrived. 'Send them up.' Javier Domingo and Cyrille Braissart were both ex-police. Braissart had been dismissed in 1999 for excessive use of force when questioning a suspect, Domingo a year later on charges of intimidation and accepting bribes. The fact that neither had served time was thanks to Authie's skilful work. They'd worked for him since then. Well?' he said. 'If you've got an explanation, this would be the time to share it.' They shut the door and stood in silence in front of his desk. 'No? Nothing to say?' He jabbed the air with his finger. "You had better start praying Biau doesn't wake up and remember who was driving the car.' 'He won't, sir.' 'You're suddenly a doctor now, are you Braissart?' 'His condition's deteriorated during the day.' Authie turned his back on them, hands on his hips, and stared out of the window towards the cathedral. Well, what have you got for me?' 'Biau passed her a note,' said Domingo. Which has disappeared,' he said sarcastically, 'along with the girl herself. Why are you here, Domingo, if you've got nothing new to say? Why are you wasting my time?' Domingo flushed an ugly red. We know where she is, Sir. Santini picked her up in Toulouse earlier today.' 'And?' 'She left Toulouse about an hour ago,' said Braissart. 'She spent the afternoon in the Bibliotheque Nationale. Santini's faxing through a list of the sites she visited.' You put a trace on the car? Or is that too much to ask?' We did. She is heading for Carcassonne.' Authie sat down in his chair and stared at them across the expanse of desk. 'So you'll be on your way to wait for her at the hotel, won't you Domingo?' Yes, sir. Which h--' 'Opposite the Porte Narbonnaise,' he snapped. 'I don't want her to know we're watching her. Search the room, the car, everything, but don't let her know.' 'Are we looking for anything other than the ring and the note, sir?' 'A book,' he said, 'about so high. Board covers, held together with leather ties. It's very valuable and very delicate.' He reached into a file on his desk and tossed a photograph across the desk. 'Similar to this one.' He gave Domingo a few seconds to look, then slid the photo back towards him. 'If there's nothing else . . .' We also acquired this from a nurse in the hospital,' Braissart said quickly, holding out a slip of paper. 'Biau had it in his pocket.' Authie took it. It was a recorded delivery receipt for a package posted from the central post office in Foix late on Monday afternoon to an address in Carcassonne. "Who's Jeanne Giraud?' he said. 'Biau's grandmother, on his mother's side.' 'Is she now,' he said softly. He reached forward and pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Aurelie, I need information on a Jeanne Giraud. G-i-r-a-u-d. Lives in rue de la Gaffe. Soon as you can.' Authie sat back in his chair. 'Does she know what's happened to her grandson?' Braissart's silence answered his question. 'Find out,' he said sharply. 'On second thoughts, while Domingo is paying Dr Tanner a visit, get over to Madame Giraud's house and look around - discreetly. I'll meet you in the car park opposite the Porte Narbonnaise in' - he glanced at his watch - 'thirty minutes.' The intercom buzzed again. "What are you waiting for?' he said, dismissing them with his hand. He waited until the door had closed before he answered. 'Oui, Aurelie?' His hand went to the gold crucifix at his neck as he listened. 'Did she say why she wanted the meeting brought forward an hour? Of Ispourse it's inconvenient,' he said, cutting off his secretary's apologies. He Hpulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. There were no messages. : the past, she'd always made contact direct and in person. I'm going to have to go out, Aurelie,' he said. 'Drop the report on and at my apartment on your way home. Before eight o'clock.' Then Authie snatched his jacket from the back of the chair, took a pair "gloves from his drawer and left. ic Baillard was sitting at a small desk in the front bedroom of Jeanne aud's house. The shutters were partially closed and the room was pled with the semi-filtered light of the late afternoon. Behind him an old-fashioned single bed, with a carved wooden headboard and tboard, freshly made with plain white cotton sheets. Jeanne had given this room over to his use many years ago, there for , when he needed it. In a gesture that had touched him enormously, she had furnished the room with copies of all his past publications, which sat on a single wooden shelf above the bed. Baillard had few possessions. All he kept in the room was a change of clothes and writing materials. At the beginning of their long association, Jeanne had teased him about his preference for pen and ink and paper, as thick and heavy as parchment. He'd just smiled, telling her he was too old to change his habits. Now, he wondered. Now, change was inevitable. He leaned back in his chair, thinking of Jeanne and how much her friendship had meant to him. In every season of his life, he had found good men and women to aid him, but Jeanne was special. It was through Jeanne that he had located Grace Tanner, although the two women had never met. The sound of pans clattering in the kitchen drew his thoughts back to the present. Baillard picked up his pen and felt the years falling away, a sudden absence of age and experience. He felt young again. All at once, the words came easily to his mind and he began to write. The letter was short and to the point. When he was done, Audric blotted the glistening ink and folded the paper neatly in three to make an envelope of it. As soon as he had her address, the letter could be sent. Then it was in her hands. Only she could decide. 'Si es atal es atal.' What will be, will be. The telephone rang. Baillard opened his eyes. He heard Jeanne answer, then a sharp cry. At first, he thought it must come from the street outside. Then the sound of the receiver hitting the tiled floor. Without knowing why, he found himself standing up, sensitive to a change in the atmosphere. He turned towards the sound of Jeanne's feet coming up the stairs. 'Qu'es?' he said immediately. What is it? Jeanne,' he said, more urgently. 'What has happened? Who telephoned?' She looked at him blankly. 'It's Yves. He's been hurt.' Audric looked at her in horror. 'Quora?' When? 'Last night. A hit-and-run. They only just managed to get hold of Claudette. That was her calling.' 'How badly hurt is he?' Jeanne didn't seem to hear him. 'They are sending someone to take me to the hospital in Foix.' Who? Claudette is organising this?' Jeanne shook her head. The police.' Would you like me to come with you?' 'Yes,' she said after a moment's hesitation, then, like a sleepwalker, she went out of the room and across the landing. A moment later, Baillard heard her bedroom door shut. Powerless, fearful of the news, he turned back to the room. He knew it was no accident of timing. His eyes fell upon the letter he'd written. He took half a step forward, thinking that he could stop the inevitable chain of events while there was still time. Then Baillard let his hand fall back to his side. To burn the letter would render worthless everything he had fought for, everything he had endured. He must follow the path to the end. Baillard fell to his knees and began to pray. The old words were stiff on his lips at first, but soon they were flowing easily again, connecting him to all those who had spoken such words before. A car horn blaring in the street outside drew him back to the present. Feeling stiff and tired, he struggled to his feet. He slipped the letter into his breast pocket, picked up his jacket from the back of the door, then went to tell Jeanne it was time to go. yfoithie parked his car in one of the large and anonymous municipal car opposite the Porte Narbonnaise. Hordes of foreigners, armed with iidebooks and cameras, swarmed everywhere. He despised it all, the aitation of history and the mindless commercialisation of his past for entertainment of the Japanese, the Americans, the English. He athed the restored walls and inauthentic grey slated towers, the packing of an imagined past for the stupid and the faithless. (feBraissart was waiting for him as arranged and gave his report quickly. house was empty and there was easy access at the back through the ens. According to neighbours, a police car had collected Madame and about fifteen minutes ago. There had been an elderly man with JO?' KTheyVe seen him around before, but no one knew his name.' laving dismissed Braissart, Authie set off down the hill. The house about three-quarters of the way down on the left-hand side. The 1 was locked and the shutters were closed, but an air of recent habitai hung about the place. continued to the end of the street, turned left into rue Barbarcane and walked along to the Place Saint-Gimer. A few residents were sitting outside their houses overlooking the parked cars in the square. A group of boys on bicycles, stripped to the waist and tanned dark by the sun, were hanging about on the steps of the church. Authie paid them no attention. He walked briskly along the tarmacked access road that ran along the backs of the first few houses and gardens of rue de la Gaffe. Then he climbed to the right to follow a narrow dirt path that wound across the grassy slopes below the walls of the Cite. Soon Authie was overlooking the back of Giraud's property. The walls were painted the same powder yellow as at the front. A small, unlocked wooden gate led to a paved garden. Pendulous figs, almost black with sweetness, hung from a generous tree, which covered most of the terrace from the eyes of her neighbours. The terracotta tiles were stained purple where overripe figs had fallen and burst. The glass back doors were framed beneath a wooden pergola covered with vines. Authie peered through and saw that, although the key was in the lock, the doors were also bolted top and bottom. Since he didn't want to leave evidence, he looked around for another way in. Alongside the French windows was a small kitchen window that had been left open at the top. Authie slipped on the latex gloves, threaded his arm through the gap and manipulated the old-fashioned clasp until he slipped the catch. It was stiff and the hinges groaned in complaint as he eased it open. When the gap was wide enough, he squeezed in his fingers and released the lower window. A smell of olives and sour bread greeted him as he climbed in to the chill pantry. A wire guard protected the cheese board. The shelves contained bottles, jars of pickles, jams and mustard. On the table was a wooden chopping board and a white tea towel covering a few crumbs from an old baguette. Apricots sat in a colander in the sink, waiting to be washed. Two glasses, upended, stood on the draining board. Authie walked through into the main room. There was a bureau in the corner on which sat an old electric typewriter. He pressed the on/off button and it buzzed into life. He slipped a piece of paper in and struck a couple of keys. The letters appeared in a sharp black row on the page. Sliding the machine forward, Authie searched the pigeonholes behind. Jeanne Giraud was an orderly woman and everything was clearly labelled and filed: bills in the first section, personal letters in the second, pension and insurance documents in the third, miscellaneous circulars and flyers in the last. Nothing caught his interest. He turned his attention to the drawers. The first two yielded the usual stationery: pens, paperclips, envelopes, stamps, and stores of white A4 paper. The bottom drawer was locked. Using a paperknife, Authie carefully and efficiently slid the blade into the space between the drawer and the carcass and popped the lock. There was only one thing inside, a small padded envelope. Big enough to contain a ring but not the book. It was postmarked Ariege: 18:20, 4th July 2005. Authie slipped his fingers inside. It was empty except for the delivery receipt confirming that Madame Giraud had signed for the package at eight-twenty. It matched the slip Domingo had given him. Authie slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Not incontrovertible proof Biau had taken the ring and sent it to his grandmother, but it pointed that way. Authie continued his search for the object itself. Having completed his examination of the ground floor, he Went upstairs. The door to the back bedroom was straight ahead. This was clearly Giraud's room, bright and clean and feminine. He searched the wardrobe and chest of drawers, his expert fingers riffling through the few but good quality clothes and underwear. Everything was neatly folded and ordered and smelled faintly of rose water: A jewellery box sat on the dressing table in front of the mirror. A |«pouple of brooches, a string of yellowed pearls and a gold bracelet were in with several pairs of earrings and a silver crucifix. Her wedding . engagement rings sat stiffly in the worn red felt, as if they were rarely en out. js The front bedroom was bare and plain in contrast, empty except for a bed and a desk under the window with a lamp on it. Authie proved. It reminded him of the austere cells of the abbey. There were signs of recent occupation. A half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, next to a volume of Occitan poetry by Rene i, its paper marked around the edges. Authie moved to the desk. An 1-fashioned pen and ink bottle stood on the top, together with several i of heavy paper. There was a piece of blotting paper, barely used. I He could hardly believe what he was seeing. Someone had sat at this : and written a letter to Alice Tanner. The name was perfectly legible, ithie turned the blotter round and tried to decipher the signature " visible at the bottom. The handwriting was old fashioned and some 'ithe letters merged into others, but he persevered until he had the an of a name. Ie folded the coarse paper and slipped it into his breast pocket. As he to leave the room, his eye was caught by a scrap of paper on the floor, caught between the door and the doorjamb. Authie picked it up. It was a fragment of a railway ticket, a single, dated today. The destination, Carcassonne, was clear, but the name of the issuing station was missing. The sound of the bells of Saint-Gimer striking the hour reminded him of how little time he had to get back. With a last look around to check that everything was as he had found it, he left the way he had come. Twenty minutes later, he was sitting on the balcony of his apartment on the Quai de Paicherou looking back over the river to the medieval Cite. On the table in front of him was a bottle of Chateau Villerambert Moureau and two glasses. On his lap was a file containing the information his secretary had gathered in the past hour on Jeanne Giraud. The other dossier contained the preliminary report from the forensic anthropologist on the bodies found in the cave. Authie reflected for a moment, then removed several sheets from Giraud's file. Then he resealed the envelope, poured himself a glass of wine and waited for his visitor to arrive. CHAPTER 32 All along the high embankment of the Quai de Paicherou, men and women sat on metal benches overlooking the Aude. The sweeping, cultivated lawns of the public gardens were divided up by brightly planted flowerbeds and cultivated paths. The garish purples and yellows and oranges in the children's playground matched the riotous colours of the flowers in the beds -- red-hot pokers, huge lilies, delphiniums and geraniums. ; Marie-Cecile cast an appraising eye over Paul Authie's building. It was what she had expected, a discreet and understated quartier that had no I need to shout, a mixture of family homes and private apartments. As she patched, a woman with a purple silk scarf and a bright red shirt cycled : on the towpath. She became aware someone was watching her. Without turning her 1, she glanced up to see a man was standing on the top floor balcony, th hands placed on the wrought-iron railings, looking down at the car. rie-Cecile smiled. She recognised Paul Authie from his photographs. : this distance, it did not look as if they had done him justice. f Her driver rang the bell. She watched Authie turn, then disappear gh the balcony doors. By the time her chauffeur was opening the 1 of the car, Authie was standing in the entrance, ready to greet her. IShe had chosen her clothes carefully, a pale brown sleeveless linen and matching jacket, formal but not too official. Very simple, very se up, her first impressions were reinforced. Authie was tall and toned, wearing a casual but well-cut suit and white shirt. His hair pt back from his forehead, accentuating the fine bones of his pale unnerving gaze. But beneath the urbane exterior, Marie-Cecile l the determination of the bare-knuckle fighter. minutes later, having accepted a glass of wine, she felt she had a i of the man she was dealing with. Marie-Cecile smiled as she leaned 1 and extinguished her cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray. xvj 'Bon, aux affaires. Inside would be better, I think.' Authie stood aside to let her through the glass doors that led into the immaculate but impersonal living room. Pale carpets and lampshades, high-backed chairs around a glass table. 'More wine? Or can I get you something else to drink?' 'Pastis, if you have it.' 'Ice? Water?' 'Ice.' Marie-Cecile sat in one of the cream leather armchairs angled either side of a small glass coffee table and watched him mix the drinks. The subtle scent of aniseed filled the room. Authie handed her the drink, before sitting in the chair opposite. 'Thank you,' she smiled her thanks. 'So. Paul. If you don't mind, I'd like you to run through the precise sequence of events.' If he was irritated, he didn't show it. She observed him closely as he talked, but his report was clear and precise, identical in every respect to what he had told her before. 'And the skeletons themselves? They've been taken to Toulouse?' 'To the forensic anthropology department at the university, yes.' 'When do you expect to hear anything?' His response was to pass her the white A4 envelope from the table. Not above a bit of showmanship, she thought. 'Already? That's very quick work.' 'I called in a favour.' Marie-Cecile laid it on her lap. Thank you. I'll read it later,' she said smoothly. 'For now, why don't you summarise for me. You've read it, I presume?' 'It's only a preliminary report, pending the results of more detailed tests,' he cautioned. 'Understood,' she said, leaning back in the chair. 'The bones are those of a man and a woman. Estimate, somewhere between seven to nine hundred years old. The male skeleton showed indications of unhealed wounds on his pelvis and top of the femur, suggesting the possibility they were inflicted shortly before death. There was evidence of older, healed fractures on his right arm and collarbone.' 'Age?' 'Adult, neither very young nor old. Somewhere between twenty and sixty. They should be able to narrow it down after further tests. The woman the same bracket. The cranial cavity was depressed on one side, which could have been caused either by a blow to the head or by a fall. She had borne at least one child. There was also evidence of a healed fracture in her right foot and an unhealed break in her left ulna, between elbow and wrist.' 'Cause of death?' 'He's not prepared to commit himself at this early stage, although his opinion is it will be hard to isolate one clearly identifiable diagnosis. Given the sort of time period we're talking about, it's probable that both died as a combination of their injuries, loss of blood and, possibly, starvation.' 'He thinks they were still alive when they were entombed in the cave?' Authie shrugged, although she registered the flicker of interest in his grey eyes. Marie-Cecile took a cigarette from her case and rolled it between her fingers for a moment, while she thought. What about the objects found between the bodies?' she said, leaning forward for him to light her cigarette. 'Again, the same caveat, but his estimate is they date from the late twelfth to mid-thirteenth century. The lamp on the altar might be slightly older and is of Arab design, Spain possibly, more likely further afield. The knife was an ordinary eating knife, for meat and fruit. There is evidence of blood on the blade. Tests will confirm if it's animal or human. The bag was leather, locally sourced and typical of the Languedoc in that period. No clues as to what, if anything, it contained, although there were particles of metal in the lining and slight traces of sheepskin in the Stitching.' Marie-Cecile kept her voice as steady as she could. What else?' ;,,. The woman who discovered the cave, Dr Tanner, found a large copper i silver buckle. It was trapped beneath the boulder outside the entrance i the cave. He's also dated this to the same sort of period and believes it be local or possibly Aragonese. There's a photograph of it in the elope.' Marie-Cecile waved her hand. 'I'm not interested in a buckle, Paul,' she 1. She breathed a spiral of smoke into the air. 'I do, however, want to r why you haven't found the book.' IShe saw his long fingers wind round the arms of his chair. /e have no evidence the book was actually there,' he said calmly. lough the leather pouch is certainly big enough to have contained a : of the size you seek.' |'And what about the ring? Do you doubt that was there also?' lin, he did not let her provoke him. 'On the contrary, I am certain (ring was there.' fell?' 'It was there, but some time between the cave being discovered and my arrival with the police, it was taken.' 'But you have no evidence of that either,' she said, her voice sharp now. 'Unless I am mistaken, you do not have the ring either.' Marie-Cecile watched as Authie produced a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Dr Tanner was most insistent, so much so that she drew this,' he said, handing it over. 'It's crude, I admit, but it's a pretty good match for the description you gave me. Don't you think?' She took the sketch from his hand. The size, shape and proportion were not identical, but close enough to the diagram of the labyrinth ring Marie-Cecile had locked in her safe in Chartres. No one outside the de l'Oradore family had seen it for eight hundred years. It had to be genuine. 'Quite the artist,' she murmured. Was this the only drawing she did?' His grey eyes looked clear into hers without faltering. 'There are others, but this was only one worth bothering about.' Why don't you let me be the judge of that,' she said quietly. 'I'm afraid, Madame de l'Oradore, I took only this. The others seemed irrelevant.' Authie shrugged apologetically. 'Besides, Inspector Noubel, the investigation officer, was already suspicious of my interest.' 'Next time . . .' she started to say, then stopped. She extinguished her cigarette, grinding it so hard that tobacco spilled out in a fan. *You searched Dr Tanner's belongings, I presume?' He nodded. The ring wasn't there.' 'It's small. She could easily have hidden it somewhere.' Technically,' he agreed, 'although I don't think she did. If she stole it, why would she mention it in the first place? Also' - he leaned over and tapped the paper - 'if she had got the original in her possession, why bother to make a record of it?' Marie-Cecile looked at the drawing. 'It's surprisingly accurate for something done from memory.' 'I agree.' Where is she now?' 'Here. In Carcassonne. It appears she has a meeting with a solicitor tomorrow.' 'Concerning?' He shrugged. 'A legacy, something of that sort. She's due to fly home on Sunday.' The doubts Marie-Cecile had from the moment she'd heard about the find yesterday were intensifying the more he told her. Something didn't add up. 'How did Dr Tanner get her place on the team?' she said. Was she recommended?' Authie looked surprised. 'Dr Tanner wasn't actually a member of the team,' he said lightly. Tm sure I mentioned this.' Her lips tightened. "You did not,' Tm sorry,' he said smoothly. 'I was sure I had. Dr Tanner's a volunteer. Since most excavations rely on unpaid help, when a request was put in for her to join the team for this week, there seemed no reason to turn it down.' Who requested it?' 'Shelagh O'Donnell, I believe,' he said blandly, 'the number two on the site.' 'She's a friend of Dr O'Donnell?' she said, struggling to conceal her surprise. 'Obviously, it crossed my mind therefore that Dr Tanner might have passed the ring to her. Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to interview her on Monday and now she appears to have disappeared.' 'She's what?' she said sharply. When? Who knows about this?' 'O'Donnell was at the site house last night. She took a phone call, then went out shortly afterwards. No one's seen her since.' Marie-Cecile lit another cigarette to steady her nerves. Why was I not told about this before?' 'I didn't realise you would be interested in something so peripheral to your main concerns. I apologise.' 'Have the police been informed?' 'Not yet. Dr Brayling, the site director, has given everyone a few days' > leave. He thinks it's possible - probable - that O'Donnell has simply liaken off without bothering to let anyone know.' 'I do not want the police involved,' she said forcefully. 'It would be lely regrettable.' 1 quite agree, Madame de l'Oradore. Dr Brayling is not a fool. If he lieves O'Donnell has taken something from the site, then it's hardly in i best interests to involve the authorities.' 'Do you think O'Donnell stole the ring?' s Authie evaded the question. 'I think we should find her.' ^That's not what I asked. And the book? Do you think she might have l that too?' Authie met her gaze straight on. 'As I said, I remain open-minded it whether or not the book was ever there.' He paused. 'If it was, I'm not convinced she could have got it away from the site without being seen. The ring's a different matter.' Well, someone did,' she snapped in frustration. 'As I said, if it was there at all.' Marie-Cecile sprang to her feet, taking him by surprise, and walked round the table until she was standing in front of him. For the first time, she saw a flash of alarm in his grey eyes. She bent down and pressed her hand flat against his chest. 'I can feel your heart beating,' she said softly. 'Beating very hard. Now why might that be, Paul?' Holding his gaze, she pressed him back against the chair. 'I don't tolerate mistakes. And I don't like not being kept informed.' Their eyes locked. "You understand me?' Authie did not answer. She had not intended him to. 'All you had to do was deliver to me the objects you promised. That's what I'm paying you for. So, find the English girl, deal with Noubel if necessary, the rest is your business. I don't want to hear about it.' 'If I've done anything to give you the impression that--' She put her fingers to his lips and felt him flinch at the physical contact. 'I don't want to hear it.' She released the pressure and stepped away from him, back out on to the balcony. The evening had stripped the colour from everything, leaving the buildings and bridges silhouetted against the darkening sky. A moment later, Authie came and stood next to her. 'I don't doubt you are doing your best, Paul,' she said quietly. He put his hands next to hers on the railings and, for a second, their fingers touched. 'There are other members of the Noublesso Veritable* in Carcassonne, of course, who would serve just as well. However, given the extent of your involvement so far . . .' She left the sentence hanging. From the stiffening of his shoulders and back, she knew the warning shot had hit home. She raised her hand to attract" her driver, who was waiting below. 'I would like to visit the Pic de Soularac myself.' 'You're staying in Carcassonne?' She hid her smile. 'For a few days, yes.' 'I was under the impression you didn't wish to enter the chamber until the night of the ceremony--' 'I've changed my mind,' she said, turning to face him. 'Now I'm here.' She smiled. 'I have things to attend to, so if you could pick me up at one o'clock, that will give me time to read your report. I'm at the Hotel de la Cite.' Marie-Cecile walked back inside, picked up the envelope and put it in her handbag. 'Bien. A demain, Paul. Sleep well.' Aware of his eyes on her back watching her walk down the stairs, Marie-Cecile could only admire his self-control. But as she got into the car, she had the satisfaction of hearing a glass hit the wall and shatter in Authie's apartment two floors above. The lounge of the hotel was thick with cigar smoke. After-dinner drinkers in summer suits or evening dresses sat enfolded in the deep leather armchairs and the discreet shadows of the high-backed mahogany settles. Marie-Cecile walked slowly up the sweeping staircase. Black and white photographs looked down on her, reminders of the hotel's celebrated turn-of-the-century past. When she reached her room, she changed out of her clothes into her bathrobe. As always, last thing at night, she looked at herself in the mirror, dispassionately, as if scrutinising a work of art. Translucent skin, high cheekbones, the distinctive de l'Oradore profile. Marie-Cecile smoothed her fingers over her face and neck. She would not allow her beauty to fade with the passing of the years. If all went well, then she would succeed in doing what her grandfather had dreamed of. She would cheat old age. Cheat death. She frowned. But only if the book and ring could be found. She picked up her phone and dialled. With a renewed sense of purpose, |3^Iarie-Cecile lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window, looking ut over the gardens while she waited for her call to be answered, lurmured late-night conversations floated up to her from the terrace. snd the battlements of the Cite walls, beyond the river, the lights the Basse Ville sparkled like cheap white and orange Christmas wations. Trancois-Baptiste? C'est moi. Has anyone called in the past twenty¦ hours on my private number?' She listened. 'No? Has she called you?' i waited. 'I've just been told of a problem this end.' She drummed her ers on her arm while he talked. 'Have there been any developments the other matter?' (The reply was not what she wanted to hear. 'National or just local?' A pause. 'Keep me in touch. Call me if anything else comes up, otherwise I'll be back Thursday night.' After she'd hung up, Marie-Cecile allowed her thoughts to dwell on the other man in her house. Will was sweet enough, keen to please, but the relationship had run its course. He was too demanding and his adolescent jealousies were starting to get on her nerves. He was always asking questions. She needed no complications at the moment. Besides, they needed the house to themselves. She turned on the reading light and got out the report Authie had given her on the skeletons, as well as a dossier on Authie himself from her suitcase, which had been compiled when he'd been put forward for election to the Noublesso Veritable two years ago. She skimmed the document, although she knew it well enough. There were a couple of accusations of sexual assault when he was a student. Both women had been paid off, she assumed, since no charges were ever brought. There had been allegations of an attack on an Algerian woman during a pro-Islamic rally, although again no charge had been made; evidence of involvement in an anti-Semitic publication at university, as well as allegations of sexual and physical abuse from his ex-wife, which had also come to nothing. More significant were the regular and increasingly substantial donations to the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits. In the past couple of years his involvement with fundamentalist groups opposed to Vatican II and the modernising of the Catholic Church had also been growing. To Marie-Cecile's mind, such evidence of hardline religious commitment sat uneasily with membership of the Noublesso. Authie had pledged his service to the organisation and he had been useful so far. He had arranged the excavation at the Pic de Soularac efficiently and everything appeared to be in hand for wrapping things up just as quickly. The warning of the breach of security in Chartres had come via one of his contacts. His intelligence was always clear and reliable. Nonetheless, Marie-Cecile didn't trust him. He was too ambitious. Set against his successes were the failures of the past forty-eight hours. She did not believe he'd be so stupid as to take either the ring or the book himself, but Authie did not seem the sort of a man to let things disappear from under his nose. She hesitated, then made a second call. 'I have a job for you. I am interested in a book, approximately twenty centimetres high by ten centimetres wide, leather over board, held together by leather ties. Also, a man's stone ring, flat face, a thin line around the middle and an engraving on the underside. There might even be a small token, about the size of a one euro piece, with it.' She paused. 'Carcassonne. A flat on the Quai de Paicherou and an office in the rue de Verdun. Both belong to Paul Authie.' CHAPTER 33 Alice's hotel was immediately opposite the main gates into the medieval Cite, set in pretty gardens, sunk down out of sight of the road. She was shown to a comfortable room on the first floor. Alice flung open the windows to let the world in. Smells of meat cooking, garlic and vanilla, cigar smoke floated into the room. She unpacked quickly and showered, then called Shelagh again, more out of habit than expectation. Still no answer. She shrugged. Nobody could accuse her of not trying. Armed with the guidebook she'd bought in a service station on the journey from Toulouse, Alice left the hotel and crossed the road towards the Cite. Steep concrete steps led up into a small park bordered on two sides by bushes and tall evergreens and plane trees. A brightly lit 19* century carousel dominated the far end of the gardens, its garish fin-desiecle ornamentation out of place in the shadow of the sandstone medieval fortifications. Covered with a brown and white striped canopy, with a painted frieze of knights, ladies and white horses around the rim, everything was pink and gold - charging horses, spinning teacups, fairytale carriages. Even the ticket kiosk looked like a booth at a fairground. A bell rang and children squealed as the carousel began to turn, slowly belching out its antique mechanical song. Beyond the carousel, Alice could see the grey heads and shoulders of tombs and gravestones behind the walls of the cemetery, a row of cypress and yew protecting the sleepers from casual glances. To the right of the gates, a group of men played petanque. For a moment, she stood still, facing the entrance to the Cite head on, preparing herself to go in. To her right was a stone pillar from which an ugly stone gargoyle stared out, its flat face uncompromising and blunt. It looked newly restored. SUM CARCAS. I am Carcas. Dame Carcas, the Saracen queen and wife of King Balaack, after whom Carcassonne was said to be named after resisting a five-year siege by Charlemagne. Alice walked over the covered drawbridge, which was squat and confined and fashioned from stone, chain and wood. The boards creaked and clattered beneath her feet. There was no water in the moat beneath her, only grass speckled with wild flowers. It led into the Lices, a dusty, wide area between the outer and inner ring of fortifications. To left and right, children were climbing on the walls and staging mock battles with plastic swords. Straight ahead was the Porte Narbonnaise. As she passed beneath the high, narrow arch, Alice raised her eyes. A benign stone statue of the Virgin Mary looked down at her. The moment Alice passed through the gates all sense of space vanished. The rue Cros-Mayrevieille, the cobbled main street, was very narrow and sloped upwards. The buildings were packed so closely together that a person could lean out of the top storey of one house and join hands with someone on the opposite side. The high buildings trapped the noise. Different languages, shouting, laughing, gesturing as a car crawled by with barely a hand's width to spare v«>n either side. Shops leaped out at her, selling postcards, guidebooks, a mannequin in the stocks advertising a museum of inquisitional instrulinents of torture, soaps and cushions and tableware, everywhere replica and shields. Twisted wrought-iron brackets stuck out from the i with wooden signs attached to them: FEperon Medievale, the Medi1 Spur, sold replica swords and porcelain dolls; A Saint Louis sold soap, ; and tableware. Alice let her feet guide her to the main square, Place Marcou. It was . and filled with restaurants and clipped plane trees. Their spreading aches, wide like entwined and sheltering hands above the tables and competed with the brightly coloured awnings. The names of individual cafes were printed on the top -- Le Marcou, Le Trouvere, I Menestrel. strolled over the cobbles and out the other side, finding herself at the junction of the rue Cros-Mayrevieille and the Place du eau, where a triangle of shops, creperies and restaurants surrounded (ie obelisk about eight feet high, topped by a bust of the nineteenth ' historian Jean-Pierre Cros-Mayrevieille. Around the bottom was a i frieze of the fortifications. s walked forward until she was standing in front of a sweeping semilar wall that protected the Chateau Comtal. Behind the imposing 2*7 locked gates were the turrets and battlements of the castle. A fortress within a fortress. Alice stopped, realising that this had been her destination all along. The Chateau Comtal, home of the Trencavel family. She peered through the tall wooden gates. There was something familiar about it all, as if she was returning to a place she'd been once, long ago, and forgotten. There were glass ticket booths on either side of the entrance, blinds drawn, with printed signs advertising the opening hours. Beyond that was a grey expanse of gravel and dust, not grass, which led to a flat, narrow bridge, about six feet across. Alice stepped away from the gates, promising herself she'd come back first thing in the morning. She turned to the right and followed signs for the Porte de Rodez. It was set between two distinctive, horseshoe-shaped towers. She climbed down the wide steps, worn away in the middle by countless feet. The difference in age between the inner and outer walls was most evident here. The outer fortifications, which she read had been built at the end of the thirteenth century and restored during the nineteenth, were grey and the blocks were relatively equal in size. Detractors would claim it was just another indication of how inappropriately the restoration had been carried out. Alice didn't care. The spirit of the place was what moved her. The inner wall, including the western wall of the Chateau Comtal itself, was composed of a mixture of red tiles of the GalloRoman remains and the crumbling sandstone of the twelfth century. Alice felt a sense of peace after the noise within the Cite, a feeling of belonging here, among such mountains and skies. With her arms resting on the battlements, she stood looking down to the river, imagining the cold touch of the water between her toes. Only when the remains of the day gave way to dusk did Alice turn and head back into the Cite. CHAPTER 34 Carcassona JULHET I2O9 They rode in single file as they approached Carcassonne, Raymond Roger Trencavel at the head, followed closely by Bertrand Pelletier. The ehevalier, Guilhem du Mas, brought up the rear. Alais was at the back with the clergy. Less than a week had passed since she had left, but it seemed much er. Spirits were low. Although the Trencavel ensigns fluttered intact 1 the breeze and the same number of men were returning as had set out, expression on the Viscount's face told the story of the failure of their ition. ; The horses slowed to a walk as they approached the gates. Alais leaned rd and patted Tatou on the neck. She was tired and she'd thrown a e, but the mare's stamina could not be faulted. SkThe crowds were several deep as they passed under the Trencavel coat |arms hanging between the two towers of the Porte Narbonnaise. en ran alongside the horses, throwing flowers in their path and ing. Women waved makeshift pennants and kerchiefs out of top1 windows, as Trencavel led them up through the streets towards the au Comtal. felt nothing but relief as they crossed the narrow bridge and t the Eastern Gates. The Cour d'Honneur erupted in sound, every' waving and calling out. Ecuyers sprang forward to take their masters' 8, servants ran to make ready the bathhouse, scullions headed for the 1 with pails of water ready so that a feast could be prepared. Among the forest of waving arms and smiling faces, Alais caught sight of Oriane. Her father's servant, Francois, was standing close behind. She flushed at the thought of how she had tricked him and slipped away from under his nose. She saw Oriane scanning the crowd. Her eyes came briefly to rest upon her husband, Jehan Congost. A look of contempt flitted across Oriane's face, before she moved on and to her discomfort, fixed her gaze upon Alais. Alai's pretended not to notice, but she could feel her sister staring at her across the sea of heads. When she looked again, Oriane had gone. Alai's dismounted, taking care not to knock her injured shoulder, and handed Tatou's reins to Amiel to take to the stables. Her relief at being home had already passed. Melancholy settled over her like a winter fog. Everyone else seemed to be in someone's arms, a wife, a mother, an aunt, a sister. She searched for Guilhem, but he was nowhere to be seen. In the bathhouse already. Even her father had gone. Alai's wandered into the smaller courtyard, seeking solitude. She couldn't shake a verse by Raymond de Mirval from her mind, although he made her mood worse. 'Res contr Amor non es guirens, lai on sos poders s'atura.' There is no protection against love, once it chooses to exert its power. When Alais had first heard the poem the emotions expressed in it were unknown to her. Even so, as she'd sat in the Cour d'Honneur, her thin arms hooped around her child's knees, listening to the trouvere as he sang of a heart torn in two, she had understood the sentiment behind the words well enough. Tears sprang into her eyes. Angrily, she rubbed them away with the back of her hand. She would not give in to self-pity. She sat down on a secluded bench in the shade. She and Guilhem had often walked in the Cour du Midi in the days before their marriage. Then, the trees had been turning gold and a carpet of autumn leaves, the colour of burned copper and ochre, had covered the ground. Alais traced a pattern in the dust with the tip of her boot, wondering how she and Guilhem could be reconciled. She lacked the art and he lacked the inclination. Oriane often stopped talking to her husband for days. Then, as quickly as the silence had fallen, it would lift and Oriane would be sweet and attentive to Jehan, until the next time. What few memories Alais had of her parents' marriage were of similar periods of light and dark. Alai's had not expected this to be her fate. She had stood before the priest in the chapel in her red veil and spoken her wedding vows, the flames from the flickering red Michelmas candles sending shadows dancing over the altar bedecked with flowering winter hawthorn. She had believed, and did still in her heart, in a love that would last forever. Her friend and mentor, Esclarmonde, was petitioned by lovers for potions and posies to regain or capture affection. Wine mulled with mint leaves and parsnips, forget-me-knots to keep a lover fruitful, bunches of yellow primrose. For all her respect for Esclarmonde's skills, Alais had always dismissed such behaviour as superstitious nonsense. She did not want to believe love could be so easily tricked and bought. There were others, she knew, who offered more dangerous magic, black charms to bewitch or to harm faithless suitors. Esclarmonde warned her against such dark powers, the obvious manifestation of the Devil's dominion over the world. No good could ever come of such ill. Today, for the first time in her life, Alais had a flicker of understanding of what might drive women to such desperate measures. 'Filha.' Alais jumped up. 'Where have you been?' said Pelletier, out of breath. 'I have searched everywhere for you.' , 'I did not hear you, Paire] she said. Work to prepare the Ciutat will begin as soon as Viscount Trencavel has been reunited with his wife and son. There will be little time to draw breath in the days ahead.' When are you expecting Simeon to arrive?' 'A day or two more yet.' He frowned. 'I wish I could have persuaded to travel with us. But, he believes he will be less conspicuous among i own people. He may well be right.' 'And once he is here,' she pressed on, 'you will decide what is to be >ne? I have an idea about--' Alais stopped, realising she would rather test her theory first before ig a fool of herself in front of her father. And him. 'An idea?' he said. kit's nothing,' she said quickly. 'I was just going to ask if I could be ent when you and Simeon meet to talk.' ftjConsternation flickered across his lined face. She could see him strug; to decide. the light of the service you have performed so far,' he said in the , "you may hear what we have to say. However' - he held up a finger in ling - 'on the clear understanding that you are there as an observer »3i only. Any active participation in this matter is at an end. I will not have you putting yourself at risk again.' A bubble of excitement inside her grew. / will persuade him otherwise when the time comes. She lowered her eyes and folded her hands meekly in her lap. 'Of course, Paire. I will obey your wishes.' Pelletier shot her a look, but did not pursue it. 'There is one more service I must ask of you, Alais. Viscount Trencavel will make a public celebration of his safe return to Carcassona, while the news of our failure to agree terms with Toulouse is not yet widely known. Dame Agnes will observe Vespers in the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari this evening rather than in the chapel.' He paused. 'I wish you to attend. Your sister too.' Alais was astounded. Although she attended services in the chapel of the Chateau Comtal from time to time, her father had not challenged her decision to abstain from services in the cathedral. 'I know you must be weary, but Viscount Trencavel believes it important that no just criticism could be made of his conduct - and that of those closest to him - at this time. If there are spies within the Ciutat - and I have no doubt that there are - we do not wish our spiritual failings, as they might be interpreted, to reach the ears of our enemies.' 'It's not a question of fatigue,' she said furiously. 'Bishop de Rochefort and his priests, they're hypocrites. They preach one thing but do another.' Pelletier turned red, whether through anger or embarrassment, she could not be sure. 'By this token, will you be attending also?' she demanded. Pelletier did not meet her eye. You will appreciate I will be occupied with Viscount Trencavel.' Ala'is glared at him. 'Very well,' she said at last. 'I will obey you, Paire. But do not expect me to kneel before the figure of a broken man on a cross of wood and pray.' For a moment, she thought she had been too outspoken. Then, to her astonishment, her father began to laugh. 'Quite right,' he said. 'I would expect nothing less of you. Just be careful, Alais. Do not express such views unwisely. They may be listening.' Alais passed the next few hours in her chamber. She made a poultice of fresh wild marjoram for her stiff neck and shoulder. At the same time, she listened to her servant's good-natured chatter. According to Rixende, opinion was divided over Alai's' early morning flight from the Chateau. Some expressed admiration for Alais' fortitude and bravery. Others, Oriane among them, criticised her. She had made a fool of her husband by acting in so rash a manner. Worse, she had jeopardised the success of the mission. Alais hoped this was not what Guilhem felt, although she feared it was. His thoughts tended to run along well-trodden paths. More than that, his pride was easily hurt and Alais knew from experience his desire to be admired, to be celebrated within the household, sometimes led him to say and do things contrary to his true nature. If he felt himself humiliated, there was no saying how he would react. 'But they can hardly say so now, Dame Alais,' Rixende said, as she cleared away the remains of the compress. 'All have returned safely. If that doesn't prove God is on our side, then what does!' Alais gave a pale smile. She suspected Rixende would see things in a different light once news of the true state of affairs spread through the Cite. I The bells were clamouring and the sky was flecked pink and white as they ; walked from the Chateau Comtal towards Sant-Nasari. At the head of procession was a priest, decked in white and holding a golden cross in the air. The other priests, nuns and monks followed. Behind them came Dame Agnes, the wives of the Consuls, her ladiesswaiting bringing up the rear. Alais was obliged to partner her sister. Oriane did not address a single word to her, good or ill. As always, she the eyes and admiration of the crowd. She was wearing a deep red s, with a delicate gold and black girdle pulled tight to accentuate her waist and rounded hips. Her black hair was washed and oiled and hands were clasped in front of her in an attitude of piety, perfectly playing the alms purse that dangled from her wrist. Is assumed the purse was a gift from an admirer, a wealthy one at , judging by the pearls set around the neck and the motto embroidl in gold thread. Jcneath the ceremony and display, Alice was aware of an undercurrent prehension and suspicion. phe didn't notice Francois until he tapped her lightly on the arm. larmonde has returned,' he whispered in her ear. 'I have come ' from there.' is spun round to face him. 'Did you speak with her?' ; hesitated. 'Not really, Dame.' dediately, she stepped out of the line. 'I will go.' 'May I suggest, Dame, you wait until after the service is finished?' he suggested, glancing to the door. Alais followed his eyes. Three black hooded monks were standing guard, clearly noting who was present and who was not. 'It would be unfortunate if your absence reflected badly on Dame Agnes or your father. It could be interpreted as a sign of your sympathy for the new church.' 'Of course, yes.' She thought a moment. 'But please tell Esclarmonde I will be with her as soon as I can.' Alais dipped her fingers in the benitier and crossed herself with holy water, in case anyone was watching. She found a space in the tightly packed north transept, as far away as she could get from Oriane without attracting attention. Candles flickered high above the nave from chandeliers suspended from the roof. From below, they looked like huge wheels of steel that might at any time come crashing down upon the sinners below. Although surprised to find his church full after so long empty, the Bishop's voice was thin and insubstantial, barely audible over the mass of people breathing and shuffling in the heat. How different it was from the simplicity of Esclarmonde's church. Her father's church also. The Bons Homes valued inner faith above outward display. They needed no consecrated buildings, no superstitious rituals, no humiliating obeisance designed to keep ordinary men apart from God. They did not worship images nor prostrate themselves before idols or instruments of torture. For the Bon Chretiens, the power of God lay in the word. They needed only books and prayers, words spoken and read aloud. Salvation was nothing to do with the alms or relics or Sabbath prayers spoken in a language only the priests understood. In their eyes, all were equal in the Grace of the Holy Father - Jew and Saracen, man and woman, the beast of the fields and the birds of the air. There would be no hell, no final day of judgement, because through God's grace all would be saved, although many would be destined to live life many times over before they regained God's kingdom. Although Alai's had not actually attended a worship, because and Esclarmonde she was familiar with the words of their prayers and rituals. What mattered was that in these darkening times, the Bons Chretiens were good men, tolerant men, men of peace who celebrated a God of Light rather than cowering under the wrath of the Catholics' cruel God. At last, Alais heard the words of the Benedictus. This was her moment to slip away. She bowed her head. Slowly, her hands clasped, careful not to attract attention, Alais edged back towards the door. A few moments later, she was free. CHAPTER 35 Esclarmonde's house lay in the shadow of the Tour du Balthazar. Alais hesitated a moment before tapping on the shutter, watching her friend moving about inside through the large window overlooking the street. She was wearing a plain green dress and her hair, streaked with grey, was tied back. I know I am right. Alais felt a surge of affection. She was certain her suspicions would prove true. Esclarmonde glanced up. Straight away, she raised her arm and waved, a smile lighting her face. 'Alai's. You are most welcome. We have missed you, Sajhe and I.' The familiar smell of herbs and spices hit Alais the moment she stepped under the lintel into the single downstairs room. A pan of water was boiling over the small fire in the centre of the room. A table, a bench and two chairs were set against the wall. A heavy curtain separated the front from the back of the room. It was in here that Esclarmonde gave consultations. Since she had no visitors, the curtain was pinned back and rows of earthenware containers stood in lines on long shelves. Bunches of herbs and sprigs of dried flowers hung from the ceiling. On the table, there was a lantern and a pestle and mortar, the twin of the one Alais had. It had been a wedding gift from Esclarmonde. A ladder led up to a small platform above the consulting area where Esclarmonde and Sajhe slept. He was up there and gave a shout when he saw who it was, hurling down the rungs and throwing his arms around her waist. Immediately, he launched into a description of all the things he'd done and seen and heard since last they'd met. Sajhe was a good storyteller, full of description and colour, and his amber eyes sparkled with excitement as he spoke. 'I need you to deliver one or two messages for me, maniac,' Esclarmonde said, after giving him his head for a while. 'Dame Alais will excuse you.' Sajhe was about to object, when the look on his great-grandmother's face stopped him. 'It won't take long.' Alais ruffled his hair. 'You have an observant eye, Sajhe, and a skill with words. Perhaps you'll be a poet when you are older?' He shook his head. 'I want to be a chevalier, Dame. I want to fight.' 'Sajhe,' said Esclarmonde sternly. 'Listen to me now.' She spoke the names of the people he was to visit and then gave him the message that two patfaits from Albi would be in the copse east of the suburb of Sant-Miquel in three nights' time. 'Are you sure of the message?' He nodded. 'Good,' she smiled, kissing the top of his head, then put her finger to her lip. 'Remember. Only to those of whom I have spoken. Now, go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll be back and can recite more of your stories to Dame Alais.' 'Do you not fear he will be overheard?' asked Alais as Esclarmonde closed the door. 'Sajhe is a sensible boy. He knows to speak only to those for whom the message is intended.' She leaned out of the window and pulled the shutters closed. 'Does anyone know you're here?' 'Only Francois. It was he who told me you were returned.' A strange look appeared in Esclarmonde's eyes, but she said nothing of it. 'Best keep it that way, e.' She sat down at the table and gestured that Alai's should join her. 'Now, Alais. Was your journey to Besiers successful?' Alais blushed. 'You heard about that.' 'All of Carcassona knows of it. The talk has been of little else.' Her face serious. 'I was concerned when I heard, coming so soon after the ; upon you.' You know about that too? Since you did not send word, I thought rhaps you were away.' 'Far from it. I came to the Chateau the day you were discovered, but same Francois would not give me leave to enter. On your sister's no one was to be admitted without her permission.' !«'He did not say so,' she said, puzzled at the oversight. 'Nor, indeed, did ie, although that surprises me less.' low so?' She watched me all the time, with a purpose rather than affection, or r seemed.' Alais paused. 'Forgive me for not confiding my plans in you, londe, but the time between the decision and execution of the I was too brief to allow it.' londe waved her hand. 'Let me tell you what happened here while you were gone. Some few days after you had left the Chateau, a man arrived asking after Raoul.' 'Raoul?' 'The boy who found you in the orchard.' Esclarmonde gave a wry smile. 'He has gained some notoriety since the attack on you, aggrandising his own role to the point that if you heard him speak, you would think he had taken on the armies of Saladin single-handed to save your life.' 'I have no memory of him at all,' said Alais, shaking her head. 'Did he see anything, do you think?' Esclarmonde shrugged. 'I doubt it. You had been missing more than a day before the alarm was raised. I cannot believe Raoul witnessed the actual attack otherwise he would have spoken up earlier. Anyway, the stranger approached Raoul and took him to the taberna Sant Joan dels Evangelis. He plied him with ale, flattered him. Raoul is but a boy for all his talk and swagger, and a rather dull-witted one at that, with the result that by the time Gaston was shutting up for the night, Raoul was incapable of putting one foot in front of the other. His companion offered to see him safely to his lodgings.' Yes?' 'Raoul never arrived home. Nor has he been seen since.' 'And the man?' 'Vanished, as if he had never been. In the tavern, he claimed to be from Alzonne. While you were in Besiers, I travelled there. No one had heard of him.' 'So we can learn nothing from that quarter.' Esclarmonde shook her head. 'How came it that you were in the courtyard that time of night?' she said. Her voice was calm and steady, but there was no mistaking the serious intent behind her words. Alais told her. When she had finished, Esclarmonde was silent for a moment. There are two questions,' she said in the end. 'The first is who knew that you had been summoned to your father's presence, for I do not believe that your assailants were there by chance. The second is, presuming they were not the instigators of the plot, for whom were they acting?' 'I told no one. My father advised me against it.' 'Francois brought the message.' Yes,' admitted Alai's, 'but I cannot believe Francois would--' 'Any number of servants might have seen him come to your chamber and overheard you talking.' She fixed Alais with her direct and intelligent stare. Why did you follow your father to Besiers?' The change of subject was so sudden, so unexpected, that it took Alai's by surprise. 'I was--' she began, sombre, but careful. She had come to Esclarmonde to find out answers to her questions. Instead, she found herself instead the witness. 'He gave me a token,' she said, not taking her eyes from Esclarmonde's face, 'a token, with an engraving of a labyrinth. It was that the thieves took. Because of what my father had told me, I feared that every day that passed in ignorance of what had come to pass, might jeopardise the--' She broke off, not sure how to continue. Instead of looking alarmed, Esclarmonde was smiling. 'Did you tell him about the board too, Alai's?' she said softly. 'On the eve of his departure, yes, before . . . before the attack. He was much perturbed, especially when I admitted I did not know where it had come from.' She paused. 'But how do you know that I--' 'Sajhe saw it when he helped you buy cheese in the market and told me of it. As you remarked, he is observant.' 'It is a strange thing for a boy of eleven to remark upon.' 'He recognised its importance to me,' Esclarmonde replied. 'Like the merel! Their eyes met. Esclarmonde hesitated. 'No,' she said, choosing her words with care. |*No, not exactly.' *You have it?' said Ala'is slowly. Esclarmonde nodded. "But why did you simply not ask? I would have given it willingly.' I 'Sajhe was there the night of your disappearance to make just such a ljuest. He waited and waited and when, finally, you still did not return your chamber, he took it. In the circumstances, it was good that he d.' j^'And you have it still?' Esclarmonde nodded. ai's felt a surge of triumph, proud that she had been right about her the last guardian. I saw the pattern. It spoke to me. iswer me this, Esclarmonde,' she said, her excitement making her y. 'If the board belongs to you, why did my father not know it?' larmonde smiled. 'For the same reason he does not know why I i it. Because Harif wished it. For the safety of the Trilogy.' Alai's couldn't trust herself to speak. 'Good. So, now we understand one another, you must tell me all you know.' Esclarmonde listened carefully until Alai's had reached the end of her story. 'And Simeon is making his way to Carcassona?' "Yes, although he gave to my father the book for safekeeping.' 'A wise precaution.' She nodded. 'I shall looking forward to making his acquaintance properly. He always seemed a fine man.' 'I liked him enormously,' admitted Alai's. 'In Besiers, my father was disappointed to discover Simeon had but one of the books. He was expecting both.' Esclarmonde was about to answer when there was a sudden hammering on the shutters and door. Both women leaped to their feet. 'Atencion! Atencion!' 'What is it? What's going on?' cried Alais. 'Soldiers! In your father's absence, there have been a number of searches.' 'But what are they looking for?' 'Criminals, they say, but in truth for Born Homes! 'But on whose authority do they act? The consuls?' Esclarmonde shook her head. 'Berenger de Rochefort, our noble Bishop; the Spanish monk Domingo de Guzman and his friar preachers; legates, who can say? They do not announce themselves.' That's against our laws to--' Esclarmonde raised a finger to her lips. 'Sssh. They might yet pass us by.' At that moment, a savage kick sent splinters of wood flying into the room. The latch gave and the door smashed back against the stone wall with a hollow thud. Two men-at-arms, their features concealed by helmets worn low over their faces, burst into the room. 'I am Alais du Mas, the daughter of Intendant Pelletier. I demand to know on whose authority you act.' They did not lower their weapons nor raise their visors. 'I insist that you--' There was a flash of red in the doorway and to Alais' horror, Oriane appeared in the doorway. 'Sister! What brings you here in this manner?' 'I come at our father's request to escort you back to the Chateau Comtal. Your somewhat hasty departure from Vespers has already reached his ears. Fearing some catastrophe might have overtaken you, he bid me find you.' You are lying. 'He would never think such a thing unless you had planted the idea in his head in the first place,' she said immediately. Alais glanced at the soldiers. 'And was it his idea to bring an armed guard?' "We all have your best interests at heart,' she said, smiling slightly. They were, I admit, perhaps overzealous.' 'There is no need for you to concern yourself. I will return to the Chateau Comtal when I am ready.' Alais suddenly realised Oriane wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were sweeping around the room. Alais felt a hard cold feeling in her stomach. Could Oriane have overheard their conversation? Immediately, she changed tactics. 'On second thoughts, perhaps I will accompany you now. My business here is concluded.' 'Business, sister?' Oriane started to prowl around the room, running her hand over the backs of the chairs and the surface of the table. She opened the lid of the chest standing in the corner, then let it fall shut with a snap. Alais I watched her anxiously. She halted on the threshold of Esclarmonde's consulting room, at is it you do through there, sorciere,' Oriane said contemptuously, nowledging Esclarmonde for the first time. 'Potions, spells for the c-minded?' She put her head inside, a look of disgust on her face, i withdrew. There are many who say you are a witch, Esclarmonde de 1, zjaitilhier as the common people say.' ^,*How dare you address her like that!' exclaimed Alais. '"You are welcome to look, Dame Oriane, if it pleases you,' said londe mildly. )riane suddenly grabbed Alai's' arm. That is enough from you,' she > diggi11? ner sharp nails into Alais' skin. *You declared yourself ready to the Chateau, so let us go.' are she knew it, Alai's found herself back in the street. The soldiers so close behind her that she could feel their breath on the back of She had a fleeting memory of the smell of ale, a calloused hand ¦ mouth, jdck,' said Oriane, poking her in the back. Esclarmonde's sake, Alais felt she had no choice but to comply fOriane's wishes. At the corner of the street, Alais managed to throw a final glance over her shoulder. Esclarmonde was standing in the doorway, watching. Quickly, she raised her finger to her lips. A clear warning to say nothing. CHAPTER 36 In the donjon, Pelletier rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms to relieve the stiffness in his bones. For many hours, messengers had been dispatched from the Chateau Comtal carrying letters to all of Trencavel's sixty vassals not already making their way to Carcassona. The strongest of his vassals were independent in all but name, so Pelletier was mindful of the need for Raymond-Roger to persuade and appeal rather than command. Each letter laid bare the threat in the clearest terms. The French were massing I on their borders preparing for an invasion the like of which the Midi had never seen. The garrison at Carcassona had to be strengthened. They I must fulfil their obligation of allegiance and come with as many good W'men as they could muster. 'A la per/in,' said Trencavel, softening the wax over the flame before Itetting his seal upon it. At last. Pelletier returned to his Viscount's side, nodding to Jehan Congost. He . little time for Oriane's husband usually, but on this occasion he had admit Congost and his team of scribes had worked tirelessly and iciently. Now, as the servant took the final missive to the last waiting enger, Pelletier gave the escrivans permission to leave too. Following Qngost's lead, one by one they rose, cracking the joints of their stiff rs, rubbing tired eyes, gathering up their rolls of parchment, quills '. inks. Pelletier waited until he and Viscount Trencavel were alone. (?"You should rest, Messire,' he said. "You need to conserve your strength.' feTrencavel laughed. 'Forpa e vertu,' he said, echoing the words he'd in Beziers. Strength and courage. 'Do not worry, Bertrand, I am Never better.' The Viscount put his hand on Pelletier's shoulder. , my old friend, do look in need of rest.' i confess the thought is attractive, Messire,' he admitted. After weeks iken nights, he felt every one of his fifty-two years. Tonight we will all sleep in our own beds, Bertrand, although I'm that hour is still some way off, for us at least.' His handsome face grew solemn. 'It is essential I meet with the consuls as soon as possible, as many as can be gathered at such notice.' Pelletier nodded. 'Do you have a particular request?' 'Even if all of our vassals heed my call, and come bringing a fair contingent of soldiers with them, we need more men.' He spread his hands. "You wish the consuls to raise a war chest?' We need enough to buy the services of disciplined, battle-skilled mercenaries, Aragonese or Catalan, the closer to hand the better.' 'Have you considered a raise in taxes? On salt, perhaps? Wheat?' 'It's too soon for that. For now, I would rather try to gather the funds we need through gift than obligation.' He paused. 'If that fails, then I will consider more stringent measures. How progresses the fortification?' 'All masons and sawyers within the Ciutat, Sant-Vincens and SantMiquel have been summoned, as well as from the villages to the north. Work to dismantle the choir stalls in the cathedral and the priests' refectory has already begun.' Trencavel grinned. 'Berenger de Rochefort will not like that!' The Bishop will have to accept it,' Pelletier growled. We need all the timber we can get, as quickly as possible, to start work constructing the ambans and cadefalcs. His palace and the cloisters are the closest source of wood available.' Raymond-Roger held up his hands in mock surrender. I'm not challenging your decision,' he laughed. 'The hoards and brattices are more important than the Bishop's comfort! Tell me, Bertrand, has Pierre-Roger de Cabaret arrived yet?' 'Not yet, Messire, although he is expected at any time.' 'Send him straight to me when he comes, Bertrand. If possible, I would delay speaking with the consuls until he is here. They hold him in high esteem. Any word from Termenes or Foix?' 'None yet, Messire.' A while later, Pelletier stood looking out over the Cour d'Honneur, his hands on his hips, pleased at how quickly work was progressing. Already, sounds of sawing and hammering, the rumble of cart wheels delivering wood, nails and tar, the roar of the fires in the smithy filled the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Alais running across the courtyard towards him. He frowned. Why did you send Oriane to fetch me?' she demanded as she came level with him. He looked bewildered. 'Oriane? To fetch you from where?' 'I was visiting a friend, Esdarmonde de Servian, in the southern quartier of the Ciutat, when Oriane arrived, accompanied by two soldiers, claiming you had sent her to bring me back to the Chateau.' She watched her father's face for signs of a reaction, but saw only bafflement. 'Is she speaking the truth?' 'I have not seen Oriane.' 'Have you spoken to her as you promised, about her behaviour in your absence?' 'I have not yet had the chance.' 'I beseech you, do not underestimate her. She knows something, something that could harm you, I am convinced of it.' Pelletier's face turned red. 'I will not have you accusing your sister. This has got--' 'The labyrinth board belongs to Esclarmonde,' she blurted out. He stopped as if she had struck him. What? What do you mean?' 'Simeon gave it, remember, to the woman who came for the second book.' 'It cannot be,' he said, with such force that Alais took a step back. 'Esclarmonde is the other guardian,' Alai's persisted, talking faster before he stopped her. 'The sister in Carcassona of whom Harif wrote. She knew about the merel too.' 'And Esclarmonde has told you she is a guardian?' he demanded. "Because if she has, then--' . 'I did not ask her directly,' Alai's replied firmly, then added. 'It makes sense, Paire. She is exactly the nature of person Harif would choose.' She paused. "What do you know of Esclarmonde?' 'I know of her reputation as a wise woman. And have reason to be Igiateful to her for the love and attention she has shown to you. She has a idson, you say?' 'Great-grandson, yes. Sajhe. He is eleven. Esclarmonde comes from idan, Messire. She came to Carcassona when Sajhe was a baby. The lings all fit with what Simeon reported.' 'Intendant Pelletier.' They both turned as a servant hurried towards them. *'Messire, my lord Trencavel requests your presence immediately in his ibers. Pierre-Roger, Lord of Cabaret, has arrived.' *Where is Francois?' 1 know not, Messire.' Pelletier glowered at him in frustration. Tell my lord I will attend him immediately,' he said brusquely. Then find Francois and send him to me. The man's never where he should be.' Alais laid her hand on his arm. 'At least speak with Esclarmonde. Hear what she has to say. I will take word to her.' He hesitated, then gave in. When Simeon comes, then I will listen to what your wise woman has to say.' Pelletier strode up the stairs. At the top, he stopped. 'One thing, Alais. How did Oriane know where to find you?' 'She must have followed me from Sant-Nasari, although . . .' she stopped, as she realised Oriane wouldn't have had time to enlist the help of the soldiers and return so quickly. 'I don't know,' she admitted. 'But I am sure of--' But Pelletier was already gone. As she walked across the courtyard, Alais was relieved to see that Oriane was no longer anywhere to be seen. Then she stopped. What if she went back? Alais picked up her skirts and ran. As soon as she rounded the corner of Esclarmonde's street, Alais saw her fears were justified. The shutters hung by a thread and the door had been ripped clean from its frame. 'Esclarmonde,' she cried. 'Are you here?' Alais went inside. The furniture lay upturned, the arms of the chair snapped like broken bones. The contents of the chest were thrown carelessly on the ground and the remains of the fire had been kicked over, leaving clouds of soft, grey ash smudged on the floor. She climbed a few steps up the ladder. Straw, bedding and feathers covered the wooden slats of the sleeping area, everything ripped through. The marks of the pikes and swords as they had plunged through the fabric were easy to see. The mess in Esclarmonde's consulting room was worse. The curtain had been ripped from the ceiling. Smashed earthenware jars and shattered bowls lay all around in pools of spilled liquids and compresses, brown, white and deep red. Bunches of herbs, flowers and leaves were trampled into the earth floor. Had Esclarmonde been here when the soldiers returned? Alais ran back outside, in the hope of finding someone who could tell her what had happened. The doors all around were shut and the windows latched. 'Dame Alais.' At first she thought she'd imagined it. 'Dame Alais.' 'Sajhe?' she whispered. 'Sajhe? Where are you?' 'Up here.' Alais stepped out of the shadow of the building and looked up. In the gathering dusk, she could just make out a tumbling mass of light brown hair and two amber eyes peering at her from between the sloped eaves of the houses. 'Sajhe, you'll kill yourself]' 'I won't,' he grinned. 'I've done it lots of times. I can get in and out of the Chateau Comtal over the roof too!' Well, you're making me dizzy. Come down.' Alais held her breath as Sajhe swung himself over the edge and dropped on the ground in front of her. What happened? Where's Esdarmonde?' 'Menina is safe. She told me to wait until you came. She knew you would.' Glancing over her shoulder, Alais drew him into the shelter of a doorway. What happened?' she repeated urgently. Sajhe looked unhappily at his feet. 'The soldiers came back. I heard most of it from the window. Menina feared they would, once your sister had taken you back to the Chateau, so as soon as you were gone, we gathered everything of importance and hid in the cellars.' He took a deep breath. They were very quick. We heard them going from door to door asking for us, questioning the neighbours. I could hear them stamping jjUround over our heads, making the floor shake, but they didn't find the ElStrap door. I was frightened.' He broke off, all mischief gone from his voice. 'They broke Meninds jars. All her medicines.' 'I know,' she said softly. 'I saw.' They didn't stop shouting. They said they were looking for heretics, lit they were lying, I think. They didn't ask the usual questions.' Alais put her fingers under his chin and made him look at her. This is very important, Sajhe. Were they the same soldiers who came are? Did you see them?' 1 didn't see.' i 'Never mind,' she said quickly, seeing he was close to tears. 'It sounds as "you were very brave. You must have been a great comfort to Esclar 3nde.' She hesitated. Was anyone with them?' 'I don't think so,' he said miserably. 'I couldn't stop them.' Alais put her arms around him as the first tear rolled down his cheek. ,'Ssh, ssh, it will be well. Don't distress yourself. You did your best, if I. That is all any of us can do.' He nodded. Where is Esclarmonde now?' 'There's a house in Sant-Miquel,' he gulped. 'She says we are to wait there until you tell us Intendant Pelletier is coming.' Alais stiffened. 'Is that what Esclarmonde said, Sajhe?' she said quickly. 'That she is waiting for a message from my father?' Sajhe looked puzzled. 'Is she mistaken then?' 'No, no, it's just that I don't see how . . .' Alai's broke off. 'Never mind. It doesn't matter.' She wiped his face with her kerchief. 'There. That's better. My father does wish to talk with Esclarmonde, however he is waiting on the arrival of another ... a friend who is travelling from Besiers.' Sajhe nodded. 'Simeon.' Alais looked at him in astonishment. 'Yes,' she said, smiling now. 'Simeon. Tell me, Sajhe, is there anything you don't know?' He managed to raise a grin. 'Not much.' You must tell Esclarmonde I will tell my father of what has happened, but that she - you both - should stay in Sant-Miquel for the time being.' He surprised her by taking her hand. 'Tell her yourself,' he said. 'She will be glad to see you. And you can talk more. Menina said you had to go before you had finished talking.' Alais looked down at his amber eyes, shining brightly with enthusiasm. Will you come?' She laughed. 'For you, Sajhe? Of course. But not now. It is too dangerous. They might be watching the house. I will send word.' Sajhe nodded, then disappeared as quickly as he had come. 'Deman al vespre,' he called out. CHAPTER 37 Jehan Congost had seen little of his wife since returning from Montpellier. Oriane had not welcomed him home as she should, showing no respect for the hardships and indignities he'd suffered. He had also not forgotten her lewd behaviour in their chamber shortly before his departure. He scuttled across the courtyard, muttering to himself, then into the living quarters. Pelletier's manservant, Francois, was coming towards him. Congost thought him untrustworthy, inclined to think too much of himself, always skulking around and reporting everything back to his master. There was no business for him to be in the living quarters at this time of day. Francois bowed his head. 'Escrivan.' Congost did not acknowledge him. By the time he reached his quarters, Congost had worked himself into 'fm frenzy of righteous indignation. The time had come to teach Oriane a ;lcsson. He could not allow such provocative and deliberate disobedience ti'to go unpunished. He flung open the door without knocking. 'Oriane! Where are you? Come here.' i The room was empty. In his frustration at finding her absent, he swept erything off the table. Bowls smashed, the candle holder clattered on : ground. He strode over to the wardrobe and pulled everything out and iched the covers off the bed, the bedding with her wanton scent on Furious, Congost threw himself down on a chair and looked at his idiwork. Torn material, broken bowls, candles. It was Oriane's fault. ill behaviour had caused this. jfcHe went in search of Guirande to clear up the mess, reflecting on the i he could bring his errant wife to heel. air was humid and heavy when Guilhem emerged from the bath to find Guirande waiting for him, her wide mouth upturned in a it smile. His mood darkened. 'What is it?' She giggled and looked at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. Well?' he said harshly. 'If you have something to say, say it, or leave me in peace.' Guirande leaned forward and whispered in his ear. He straightened up. "What does she want?' 'I cannot say, Messire. My lady does not confide her wishes to me.' 'You're a poor liar, Guirande.' 'Is there any message?' He hesitated. Tell your mistress I will attend her presently.' He pressed a coin into her hand. 'And keep your mouth shut.' He watched her go, then walked to the centre of the courtyard and sat down beneath the elm tree. He didn't have to go. Why put himself in the way of temptation? It was too dangerous. She was dangerous. He had never intended things to go so far. A winter's night, bare skin wrapped in furs, his blood heated by the mulled wine and the exhilaration of the chase. A kind of madness had come over him. He'd been bewitched. In the morning, he'd woken with regret and vowed that it would never happen again. For the first few months after his marriage, he had kept his word. Then there had been another such night, then a third and a fourth. She overwhelmed him, took his senses captive. Now, given how things were, he was even more desperate to ensure no whisper of scandal seeped out. But he must be careful. It was important to finish the affair well. He would keep this appointment only to tell her that their meetings must stop. He stood up and headed for the orchard before his courage failed. At the gate, he stopped, his hand on the latch, reluctant to go further. Then he saw her standing beneath the willow tree, a shadowed figure in the fading light. His heart leaped in his chest. She looked like a dark angel, her hair shining like jet in the dusk, tumbling unbraided down her back in twists. Guilhem took a deep breath. He should turn back. But at that moment, as if she could sense his indecision, Oriane turned and he felt the power of her gaze, drawing him to her. He told his ecuyer to keep watch at the gate, then stepped through on to the soft grass and walked towards her. 'I feared you would not come,' she said as he drew level. 'I cannot stay.' He felt the warm tips of her fingers brush against his, then her hands gentle on his wrist. 'Then I beg your pardon for disturbing you,' she murmured, pressing herself against him. 'Someone will see us,' he hissed, trying to pull away. Oriane tilted her face and he caught the scent of her perfume. He tried to ignore the stirrings of desire. 'Why do you speak so harshly to me?' she pleaded. 'There is no one here to see. I have posted a watch at the gate. Besides, everyone is too busy tonight to pay attention to us.' 'They are not so immersed in their own business that they don't notice,' he said. 'Everybody is watching, listening. Hoping for something they can use to their advantage.' 'Such ugly thoughts,' she murmured, stroking his hair. 'Forget everyone else. For now, think only of me.' Oriane was so close now he could feel her heart beating through the thin fabric of her dress. "Why are you so cold, Messire} Have I said something to offend you?' He could feel his resolve weakening as his blood grew hotter. 'Oriane, we are sinning. You know it. We wrong your husband and my wife by our unholy--' 'Love?' she suggested and she laughed, a pretty, light sound that turned his heart over. ' "Love is not a sin, it is a virtue that makes the bad good and the good better". You have heard the troubadours.' He found himself holding her beautiful face in his hands. That is but a song. The reality of our vows is quite another matter. I Or are you minded to misconstrue my meaning?' He took a deep breath. I "What I am saying is that we must not meet any more.' He felt her grow still in his arms. "You no longer want me, Messire}' she Iwhispered. Her hair, loose and thick, had fallen across her face, con|Cesding her from him. 'Don't,' he said, but his resolve was weakening. 'Is there something I can do to prove my love for you?' she said, her aice so broken, so soft, that he could barely hear her. 'If I have not eased you, Messire, then tell me.' He entwined his fingers with hers. "You've done nothing wrong. You're autiful, Oriane, you are--' he broke off, no longer able to think of the it words to say. The clasp on Oriane's cloak came undone. It fell to the Ound, the vibrant, shimmering blue material pooling like water at her She looked so vulnerable, so powerless, it was all he could do not to i her up in his arms. fi'No,' he murmured. 'I cannot . . .' ruilhem tried to summon up Alais' face, imagined her steady gaze on her trusting smile. Unusual for a man of his rank and position, he believed in his wedding vows. He did not want to betray her. Many nights in the early days of their marriage, watching her as she slept in the quiet of their chamber, he understood he was - he couldbe. - a better man because he was loved by her. He attempted to pull himself free. But now all he could hear was Oriane's voice, mixed up with the spiteful chattering of the household saying how Alai's had made a fool of him by following him to Beziers. The roaring in his head grew louder, drowning out Alai's' light voice. Her image grew fainter, paler. She was drifting away from him, leaving him to resist temptation alone. 'I adore you,' whispered Oriane, sliding her hand between his legs. Despite his resolution, he closed his eyes, helpless to resist the soft whispering of her voice. It was like the wind in the trees. 'Since your return from Besiers, I have barely caught sight of you.' Guilhem tried to speak, but his throat was dry. They are saying Viscount Trencavel favours you most of all his chevaliers,' she said. Guilhem could no longer distinguish one word from another. His blood pulsed too loud, too heavily in his head, swamping every other sound or sensation. He laid her down on the ground. Tell me what happened between the Viscount and his uncle,' she murmured in his ear. Tell me what happened in Besiers.' Guilhem gasped as she wrapped her legs around him and drew him to her. Tell me how your fortunes have changed.' 'It is not a story I can share,' he breathed, conscious only of the movement of her body beneath his. Oriane bit his lip. *You can share it with me.' He shouted her name, no longer caring who might be listening or watching. He did not see the look of satisfaction in her green eyes nor the traces of blood - his blood - on her lips. Pelletier looked around him, displeased to see neither Oriane nor Alais at the supper table. Despite the preparations for war going on around them, there was an element of celebration in the Great Hall that Viscount Trencavel and his retinue had returned safely home. The meeting with the consuls had passed off well. Pelletier had no doubt they would raise the funds they needed. Messengers were arriving every hour from the chateaux closest to Carcassonne. So far, no vassal had failed to pledge allegiance and offer men or money. As soon as Viscount Trencavel and Dame Agnes had withdrawn, Pelletier excused himself and went out for some air. His indecision lay heavy on his shoulders once more. Your brother awaits you in Besiers, your sister in Carcassona.' Fortune had restored Simeon and the second book more quickly than Pelletier had believed possible. Now, if Alai's' suspicions were right, it seemed the third book might also be close at hand. Pelletier's hand drifted to his chest, where Simeon's book lay next to his heart. Alais was woken by a loud clatter as the shutter banged against the wall. She sat up with a jolt, her heart thumping. In her dream, she had been back in the woods outside Coursan, hands bound, struggling to escape from the coarse hood. She picked up one of the pillows, still warm with sleep, and held it to her chest. Guilhem's scent still hung about the bed, even though it had been more than a week since last he had laid his head beside hers. There was another bang as the shutter smashed against the wall. The storm was whistling around the towers and skimming the surface of the roof. The last thing she remembered was asking Rixende to bring her something to eat. Rixende knocked at the door and came timidly into the room. 'Forgive me, Dame. I did not want to wake you, but he insisted I should.' 'Guilhem?' she said quickly. Rixende shook her head. 'Your father. He bids you join him at the eastern gatehouse.' 'Now? But it must be after twelve?' The midnight has not yet struck, Dame.' *Why has he sent you rather than Francois?' 1 don't know, Dame.' Leaving Rixende to keep watch in her chamber, Alais threw her cloak iOver her shoulders, and hurried downstairs. Thunder was still rumbling ¦ the mountains as she rushed across the courtyard to join him. *Where are we going?' she shouted over the wind, as they hurried augh the East Gate. To Sant-Nasari,' he said. To where the Book of Words is hidden.' riane lay stretched out, like a cat, on her bed, listening to the wind. nde had done a good job, both at restoring the room to order and describing the damage her husband had done. What had set him in such a rage, Oriane did not know. Nor did she care. All men - courtiers, scribes, chevaliers, priests - were the same under the skin. Their resolve snapped like twigs in winter for all their talk of honour. The first betrayal was the hardest. After that, it never ceased to amaze her how quickly secrets spewed from their faithless lips, how their actions denied all they claimed to hold dear. She had learned more than she expected. The irony was, Guilhem didn't even understand the significance of what he had told her tonight. She had suspected Alais had followed their father to Beziers. Now she knew she was right. She knew, too, something of what had passed between them on the night of his departure. The sole reason Oriane had concerned herself with Alai's' recuperation was in the hope of tricking her sister into betraying their father's confidence, but it had not worked. The only thing of note was Alais' distress at the loss of a wooden board from her chamber. She'd talked about it in her sleep as she tossed and turned. So far, despite her best efforts, all attempts to retrieve the board had failed. Oriane stretched her arms above her head. Even in her wildest dreams, she had never imagined her father possessed something of such power and such influence that men would pay a king's ransom to obtain it. All she had to do was be patient. After what Guilhem had told her tonight, she realised the board was of less significance than she'd thought. If only they'd had more time, she would have coaxed from him the name of the man her father had met in Beziers. i^Guilhem knew it. Oriane sat up. Francois would know. She clapped her hands. 'Take this to Francois,' she said to Guirande. 'Let no one see you.' CHAPTER 38 Night had fallen over the Crusader camp. Guy d'Evreux wiped his greasy hands on the cloth a nervous servant was holding out to him. He drained his cup and glanced towards the Abbot of Citeaux at the head of the table to see if he was ready to rise. He was not. Smug and self-satisfied in his white robes, the Abbot had positioned himself between the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Nevers. The constant jockeying for position that went on between the two and their followers had started before the Host had even left Lyon. From the glazed look on their faces, it was clear that ArnaldAmalric was once more castigating them. Heresy, the fires of hell, the dangers of the vernacular, all subjects about which he was capable of lambasting an audience for hours. Evreux had no respect for either of them. He thought their ambitions pathetic - a few gold coins, wine and whores, a little fighting, then home in glory having served their forty days. Only de Montfort, seated a little further down the table, seemed to be listening. His eyes burned with an unpleasant zeal matched only by the Abbot's own fanaticism. Evreux knew de Montfort by reputation only, even though they were near neighbours. Evreux had inherited land to the north of Chartres with good hunting. A combination of strategic marriage and repressive taxation had ensured the family's wealth had grown steadily over the past fifty years. He had no brothers to challenge his title and no significant debts. De Montfort's lands were outside Paris, less than two days' ride from Evreux's estate. It was known de Montfort had taken the Cross at the personal request of the Duke of Burgundy, but his ambition was common knowledge, as were his piety and courage. He was a veteran of the eastern campaigns in Syria and Palestine, one of the few Crusaders who'd refused to take part in the siege of the Christian city of Zara during the Fourth Crusade to the Holy Land. Although now in his forties, de Montfort was still as strong as an ox. Moody, introspective, he inspired extravagant loyalty in his men, but was distrusted by many of the barons who thought him devious and ambitious beyond his status. Evreux despised him, as he despised all those who proclaimed their actions as the work of God. Evreux had taken the Cross for a single reason. As soon as he had accomplished his purpose, he would return to Chartres with the books he had been hunting half his lifetime. He had no intention of dying on the altar of other men's beliefs. What is it?' he growled to the servant who'd appeared at his shoulder. 'There's a messenger come for you, my lord.' Evreux glanced up. Where is he?' he said sharply. Waiting just outside the camp. He would not give his name.' 'From Carcassonne?' 'He would not say, my lord.' Bowing briefly to the top table, Evreux excused himself and slipped away, his pale face flushed. He walked quickly between the tents and animals to the glade on the eastern boundary of the camp. At first, he could pick out only indistinct shapes in the dark between the trees. As he got closer, he recognised the man as a servant of an informer in Beziers. Well?' he said, disappointment hardening his voice. The messenger dropped to his knees. We found their bodies in woods outside Coursan.' His grey eyes narrowed. 'Coursan? They were supposed to be tailing Trencavel and his men. What business had they in Coursan?' 'I cannot say, my lord,' he stammered. At his glance, two more of his men appeared from behind the trees, their hands resting lightly on the hilts of their swords. What was found at the site?' 'Nothing, my lord. Surcoats, weapons, horses, even the arrows that killed them were . . . were not there. The bodies had been stripped. Everything was taken.' 'So their identity is known?' The servant took a step back. 'The talk within the castellum is all of Amiel de Coursan's bravery, not so much of who the men were. There was a girl, the daughter of Viscount Trencavel's steward. Alai's.' 'She was travelling alone?' 'I know not, my lord, but de Coursan escorted her personally to Besiers. She was reunited with her father in the Jewish quarter. They spent some time there. In a private house.' Evreux paused. 'Did they indeed,' he murmured, a smile forming on his thin lips. 'And the name of this Jew?' 'I was not given his name, my lord.' Was he part of the exodus to Carcassonne?' 'He was.' Evreux was relieved, although he did not show it. He fingered the dagger in his belt. Who else knows of this?' 'No one, my lord, I swear. I have told no one.' Evreux struck without warning, plunging the knife clean into the man's throat. Eyes alive with shock, he started to choke as his dying gasps hissed from the wound and blood, pumping red, sprayed the earth around him. The messenger dropped to his knees, clawing frantically at his throat to remove the blade, lacerating his hands, then fell forward. For a moment, his body lay jerking violently on the stained earth, then he gave a final shudder and was still. Evreux's face expressed no emotion. He held out his hand, palm up, waiting for one of his soldiers to return his dagger. He wiped it on the corner of the dead man's tunic and returned it to its sheath. 'Get rid of him,' Evreux said, prodding the body with the toe of his boot. 'I want the Jew found. I want to know if he is still here or is already in Carcassonne. You have a physical likeness?' The soldier nodded. 'Good. Unless there is news from there, do not disturb me again tonight.' CHAPTER 39 Carcassonne WEDNESDAY 6 JULY 2OO5 Alice swam twenty lengths of the hotel pool and then had breakfast on the terrace watching the rays of the sun creep above the trees. By nine thirty she was waiting in line for the Chateau Comtal to open. She paid and was given a leaflet in eccentric English about the history of the castle. Wooden platforms had been constructed on two sections of the battlements to the right of the gate and around the top of the horseshoe-shaped Tour de Casernes, like a crow's nest on a ship. A stillness descended over her as she walked through the formidable metal and wooden double doors of the Eastern Gatehouse and into the courtyard. The Cour d'Honneur was mostly in shadow. Already, there were lots of visitors, like her, wandering around, reading and looking. In the time of the Trencavels, apparently an elm tree stood in the centre of the courtyard under which three generations of viscounts dispensed justice. There was no sign of it now. In its place were two perfectly proportioned plane trees, the shadow of their leaves cast on the western wall of the courtyard as the sun peeked its face above the battlement walls opposite. The far northern corner of the Cour d'Honneur was already in full sunlight. A few pigeons nested in the empty doorways and cracks in the walls and abandoned arches of the Tour du Major and the Tour du Degre. A flash of memory - of the feel of a rough wooden ladder, the struts lashed with rope, clambering like an urchin from floor to floor. Alice looked up, trying to distinguish in her mind between what was in front of her eyes and the physical sensation in the tips of her fingers. There was little to see. Then a devastating sense of loss swooped down on her. Grief closed around her heart like a fist. He lay here. She wept for him here. Alice looked down. Two raised bronze lines on the ground marked out the site of where a building had once stood. There was a row of letters set into the ground. She crouched down and read that this had been the site of the chapel of the Chateau Comtal, dedicated to Sainte-Marie. SantMaria. Nothing remained. Alice shook her head, unnerved by the strength of her emotions. The world that had existed eight hundred years ago beneath these sweeping southern skies existed here still, beneath the surface. The sense of someone standing at her shoulder was very strong, as if the frontier between her present and another's past was disintegrating. She closed her eyes, blocking out the modern colours and shapes and sounds, imagining the people who had lived here, allowing their voices to speak to her. This once had been a good place to live. Red candles flickering on an altar, flowering hawthorn, hands joined in matrimony. The voices of other visitors drew Alice back to the present and the past faded as she resumed her circuit. Now she was inside the Chateau, she could see that the wooden galleries constructed along the battlements were open to the air at the back. Set deep into the walls were more of the small, square holes she'd noticed on her tour around the Lues yesterday evening. The leaflet told her they marked the joists where the upper floors would have been. Alice glanced at the time and was pleased to see she had enough time to visit the museum before her appointment. The twelfth- and thirteenth century rooms, all that remained of the original buildings, housed a collection of stone chancels, columns, corbels, fountains and tombs, ;dating from the Roman period to the fifteenth century. She wandered, not much engaged. The powerful sensations that ; Swamped her in the courtyard had disappeared, leaving her feeling ^vaguely restless. She followed the arrows through the rooms until she id herself in the Round Room, rectangular in shape despite its name. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It had a barrel-vaulted ing and the remains of a mural of a battle scene on the two long Js. The sign told her Bernard Aton Trencavel, who had taken part in First Crusade and fought the Moors in Spain, had commissioned the at the end of the eleventh century. Among the fabulous creatures , birds decorating the frieze were a leopard, a zebu, a swan, a bull and ething that looked like a camel. I Alice looked up in admiration at the cerulean blue ceiling, faded and cracked, but beautiful still. On the panel to her left, two chevaliers were fighting, the one dressed in black, holding a round shield, destined to fall for ever more under the other's lance. On the wall opposite, a battle between Saracen and Christian knights was being played out. It was better preserved and more complete and Alice stepped closer to get a better look. In the centre, two chevaliers confronted one another, one mounted on an ochre horse, the other, the Christian knight, on a white horse, bearing an almond-shaped shield. Without thinking, she reached up to touch. The attendant tutted and shook her head. The last place she visited before leaving the castle was a small garden off the main courtyard, the Cour du Midi. It was derelict, with only the memory of the high arched windows left standing. Green tendrils of ivy and other plants wound through the empty columns and cracks in the walls. It had an air of faded grandeur. As she wandered slowly around, then back into the sun, Alice was filled with a sense, not of grief this time, but regret. The streets of the Cite were even busier by the time Alice emerged from the Chateau Comtal. She still had time to kill before her meeting with the solicitor, so she turned in the opposite direction to last night and walked to the Place St Nazaire, which was dominated by the Basilica. It was the fin-desiecle facade of the Hotel de la Cite, understated but grand all the same, that caught her eye. Covered by ivy, with wrought-iron gates, arched stained glass windows and deep red awnings the colour of ripe cherries, it whispered of money. As she watched, the doors slid open, revealing the panelled and tapestried walls, and a woman appeared. Tall, with high cheekbones and immaculately cut black hair held off her face with gold-rimmed sunglasses. Her pale brown sleeveless shirt and matching trousers seemed to shimmer and reflect the light as she moved. With a gold bracelet on her wrist and a choker at her neck, she looked like an Egyptian princess. Alice was sure she'd seen her before. In a magazine or in a film, perhaps on television? The woman got into a car. Alice watched her until she was out of sight, then walked to the door of the Basilica. A beggar stood outside, her hand stretched out. Alice fished in her pocket and pressed a coin into the woman's hand, then went to go in. She froze, her hand on the door. She felt as if she was caught in a tunnel of cold air. Don't be stupid. Alice once more tried to make herself go in, determined not to give in to such irrational feelings. The same terror that had overwhelmed her at Saint-Etienne in Toulouse held her back. Apologising to the people behind, Alice stepped out of the line and sank down on a shaded stone ledge beside the north door. What the hell is happening to me? Her parents had taught her to pray. When she was old enough to question the presence of evil in the world and found that the Church could provide no satisfactory answers, she'd taught herself to stop. But she remembered the sense of meaning that religion can confer. The certainty, the promise of salvation lying somewhere beyond the clouds had never entirely left her. When she had time, like Larkin, she always stopped. She felt at home in churches. They evoked in her a sense of history and a shared past which spoke to her through the architecture, the windows, the choir stalls. But not here. In these Catholic cathedrals of the Midi she felt not peace but threat. The stench of evil seemed to bleed out of the bricks. She looked up at the hideous gargoyles that leered down at her, their twisted mouths distorted and sneering. Alice got up quickly and left the square. She kept glancing over her shoulder, telling herself she was imagining it, yet not able to shake the feeling there was someone at her heels. It's just your imagination. Even when she left the Cite and started to walk down rue Trivalle ||Dwards the main town, she felt just as nervous. No matter what she said ItiO"herself, she was sure someone was following her. le offices of Daniel Delagarde were in rue George Brassens. The brass on the wall gleamed in the sunlight. She was a little early for her ointment, so she stopped to read the names before going in. Karen ' was about halfway up, one of only two women. Alice went up the grey stone steps, pushed open the glass double doors found herself in a tiled reception area. She gave her name to the ian at a highly polished mahogany table and was directed to a waiting i. The silence was oppressive. A rather bucolic looking man in his late i nodded to her as she walked in. Copies of Paris Match, Immo Media . several back editions of French Vogue were neatly stacked on a large table in the centre of the room. There was an ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece and a tall, rectangular glass vase filled with sunflowers in the grate. Alice sat down in a black leather armchair next to the window and pretended to read. 'Ms Tanner? Karen Fleury. Good to meet you.' Alice stood up, immediately liking the look of her. In her mid-thirties, Ms Fleury exuded an air of competence in a sombre black suit and white blouse. Her neat blonde hair was clipped short. She wore a gold cross at her neck. 'My funeral clothes,' she said, noticing Alice's glance. 'Very hot in this weather.' 'I can imagine.' She held back the door for Alice to pass through. 'Shall we?' 'How long have you been working out here?' asked Alice, as they walked down an increasingly shabby network of corridors. We moved here a couple of years ago. My husband's French. Loads of English people are moving down here, all needing solicitors to help them, so it's worked out rather well.' Karen led her into a small office at the back of the building. 'It's great you could come in person,' she said, gesturing Alice to a chair. 'I'd assumed we'd conduct most of our business over the phone.' 'Good timing. Just after I received the letter from you, a friend who's working outside Foix invited me to come and visit her. It seemed too much of an opportunity to ignore.' She paused. 'Besides, given the size and nature of the bequest, it seemed the least I could do to come in person.' Karen smiled. Well, it makes things easier from my point of view and will also speed things up.' She pulled a brown file towards her. 'From what you said on the phone, it didn't sound as if you knew much about your aunt.' Alice pulled a face. 'Actually, I'd never heard of her at all. I'd no idea Dad had any living relatives, let alone a half sister. I was under the impression my parents were both only children. There certainly weren't any aunts or uncles around at Christmas or birthdays.' Karen glanced down at her notes. You lost them some time ago.' 'They were killed in a car accident when I was eighteen,' she said. 'May 1993. Just before I was due to sit my A levels.' 'Dreadful for you.' Alice nodded. What more was there to say? You have no brothers or sisters?' 'I assumed that my parents left it too late. They were both quite old, relatively speaking, when I was born. In their forties.' Karen nodded. Well, in the circumstances, I think the best thing is for me to simply go through everything I've got in the file about your great aunt's estate and the terms of her will. Once we're done here, you can go and have a look at the house if you'd like to. It's in a small town about an hour's drive from here, Salleles d'Aude.' 'That sounds fine.' 'So what I've got here,' Karen continued, tapping the file, 'is pretty basic stuff, names and dates and so forth. I'm sure when you visit the house you'll get a better sense of her personally from her private papers and effects. Once you've had a look, you can decide if you'd like us to have the house cleared or if you'd rather do it yourself. How much longer are you here?' 'Technically until Sunday, although I'm thinking about staying on. There's nothing desperately urgent I need to get back for.' Karen nodded as she glanced at her notes. Well, let's start and see how we get on. Grace Alice Tanner was your father's half sister. She was born in London in 1912, the youngest and only surviving child of five. Two other girls died in infancy and the two boys b,were killed in World War I. Her mother passed away in' - she paused, Ifunning her finger down the page until she found the date she was dng for - '1928 after a long illness and the family broke up. Grace left home by then and her father moved away from the area and quently married again. There was one child from that marriage, your er, who was born the following year. So far as I can tell from the srds, there appears to have been little or no contact between Miss iner and her father - your grandfather - from that point onwards.'