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 <The sentry on duty at the postern was miserable, coughing and uttering and wrapped up in his cloak so that only the tip of his nose
i his eyebrows were visible. He didn't want to be disturbed. At first he to acknowledge her presence. Alais dug into her purse and iuced a coin. Without even looking at her, he snatched it with a
hand, tested it between his teeth, then shot the bolts and opened
: postern gate a crack to let her slide through.


The path down to the barbican was steep and rocky. It ran between the
two high, protective wooden palisade walls and it was hard to see anything.
But Alais had taken this route out of the Cite many times, knew
every dip and rise of the land, and she climbed down without difficulty.
She skirted the foot of the squat, round wooden tower, following the path
of the fast-flowing water where it sped, like a mill race, through the
barbican.

The brambles scratched sharp at her legs and the thorns snagged her
dress. By the time she reached the bottom, the hem of her cloak was
a deep crimson and soaking wet from skimming the grass. The tips of her
leather slippers were stained dark.

Alais felt her spirits soar the moment she stepped out of the shadow of
the palisade into the wide, open world. In the distance, a white July mist
was hovering above the Montagne Noire. The breaking sky on the
horizon was slashed through with pink and purple.

As she stood looking out over the perfect patchwork of fields of barley,
corn and wheat and the woodlands that stretched further than her eye
could see, Alais felt the presence of the past all around her, embracing
her. Spirits, friends and ghosts who held out their hands and whispered of
their lives, and shared their secrets with her. They connected her to all
those who had stood on this hill before - and all who were yet to stand
here -- dreaming of what life might hold.

Alais had never travelled beyond Viscount Trencavel's lands. She found
it hard to picture the grey cities of the north, Paris, Amiens or Chartres,
where her mother had been born. They were just names, words with no
colour or warmth, as harsh as the language, the langue d'o'il, they spoke
there. But even though she had little to compare it with, she could not
believe that anywhere else was as beautiful as the enduring, timeless
landscape of Carcassona.

Alais set off down the hill, weaving her way through the scrub and the
coarse bushes until she reached the flat marshlands on the southern banks
of the river Aude. Her sodden skirts kept twisting themselves around the
backs of her legs and she stumbled from time to time. She felt uneasy, she
realised, watchful, and was walking faster than usual. It wasn't that
Jacques or Berenger had alarmed her, she told herself. They were always
anxious on her behalf. But today she felt isolated and vulnerable.

Her hand moved to the dagger at her waist as she remembered the
story of the merchant who claimed to have seen a wok0 on the opposite
bank, just last week. Everybody thought he was exaggerating. At this time
of year, it was probably just a fox or a wild dog. But now she was out here


f On her own, the tale seemed more believable. The cold hilt was reassuring-
For
a moment, Alais was tempted to turn back. Do not be so cowardly. She carried on. Once or twice she turned, startled, by noises nearby that \ turned out to be no more than the flapping of a bird's wing or the slither find splash of a yellow river eel in the shallows.

Gradually, as she followed her familiar path, her nerves melted away.
: river Aude was wide and shallow, with several tributaries leading off i like veins on the back, of a hand. A dawn mist shimmered translucent
the surface of the water. During the winter, the river flowed fast ', furiously, swollen by the icy streams from the mountains. But it had
a dry summer so the water was low and still. The salt mills barely [ in the current. Secured to the banks by thick ropes, they formed a ien spine up the centre of the river.
felt was too early for the flies and mosquitoes that would hover like black
over the pools as the heat intensified, so Alai's took the shortcut
" the mud flats. The path was marked by little heaps of white stones to
people from slipping into the treacherous sludge. She followed it
lly until she arrived at the edge of the woods that lay immediately  the western section of the Cite walls.

ler destination was a small, secluded glade, where the best plants grew
s partially shaded shallows. As soon as she reached the shelter of the
5, Alai's slowed her pace and began to enjoy herself. She pushed aside
I tendrils of ivy that overhung her path and breathed in the rich, earthy
lof leaf and moss.

lough there was no sign of human activity, the wood was alive
, colour and sound. The air was filled with the shriek and twitter of
s, wrens and linnets. Twigs and leaves crackled and snapped be- her feet. Rabbits scampered through the undergrowth, their white
I bobbing as they dived for cover among the clusters of yellow, purple blue summer flowers. High in the spreading branches of the pines, sated squirrels cracked the cones shells apart, sending thin, aromatic

i showering down on the ground below.

Is was hot by the time she arrived at the glade, a small island of land
i an open space that led down to the river. With relief, she put down fponier, rubbing the inside of her elbow where the handle had cut into
I tkin. She removed her heavy cloak and hung it over a low-hanging
of a white willow, before wiping her face and neck with a hand- lief. She put the wine in the hollow of a tree to keep it cool.

sheer walls of the Chateau Comtal loomed high above her. The


distinctive tall, thin outline of the Tour Pinte was silhouetted against the
pale sky. Alais wondered if her father was awake, already sitting with
the Viscount in his private chambers. Her eyes drifted to the left of the
watchtower, seeking out her own window. Was Guilhem still sleeping?
Or had he woken to find her gone?

It always amazed her, when she looked up through the green canopy of
leaves, that the Cite was so close. Two different worlds thrown into sharp
relief. There, in the streets and the corridors of the Chateau Comtal, all
was noise and activity. There was no peace. Down here, in the realm of
the creatures of the woods and marshlands, a deep and timeless silence
reigned.

It was here that she felt at home.

Alais eased off her leather slippers. The grass was deliciously cool
between her toes, still wet with early morning dew, and tickled the soles
of her feet. In the pleasure of the moment, all thoughts of the Cite and
the household were driven from her mind.

She carried her tools down to the water's edge. A clump of angelica was
growing in the shallows at the river's edge. Their strong fluted stems
looked like a line of toy soldiers standing to attention in the muddy
ground. Their bright green leaves - some bigger than her hand - threw a
faint shadow over the water.

Nothing was better than angelica for purifying the blood and protecting
against infection. Her friend and mentor, Esdarmonde, had
drummed it into her how essential it was to gather ingredients for
poultices, medicines and remedies wherever and whenever she found
them. Even if the Cite was free from infection today, who could say
what tomorrow would bring. Disease or illness could take hold at any
time. Like everything Esclarmonde told her, it was good advice.

Rolling up her sleeves, Alais slipped the sheath round until the knife
was lying flat against her back and wouldn't be in the way. She twisted her
hair into a plait to stop it falling over her face as she worked, then tucked
the skirts of her dress into her girdle before stepping into the river. The
sudden cold on her ankles brought her skin out in goosebumps and made
her draw breath.

Alais dipped the strips of cloth into the water and laid them out in a
row along the bank, then she started to dig at the roots with her trowel. It
wasn't long before the first plant came free from the riverbed with a slurp.
Dragging it up on to the bank, she used her small axe to cut it into
different sections. She wrapped the roots in the cloth and laid them flat at
the bottom of the panier, then wrapped the small, yellow-green flowers,


with their distinctive peppery aroma, in a separate cloth in her leather
pouch. She discarded the leaves and the rest of the stems before going
back into the water and starting the process again. Pretty soon, her hands
were stained green and her arms smeared with mud.

Once she had harvested all the angelica, Alais looked around to see if

there was anything else she could make use of. A little further upstream

she spotted comfrey, with its strange, telltale leaves that grew down into

I,,.the stem itself, and its lopsided clusters of bell-shaped pink and purple

flowers. Comfrey, or knitbone as most called it, was good for reducing

bruising and helping skin and bone to mend. Postponing her breakfast for

I? just a while longer, Alais took her tools and got back to work, only stop
|$jang
when the panier was full and she had used up every strip of cloth.

Carrying her basket back up the bank, she sat down under the trees and
| ftretched her legs in front of her. Her back, shoulders and fingers were
||tiff, but she felt pleased with what she'd achieved. She leaned over and
gj>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


jIntendant 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, <??'

'I'm just saying, you should watch out.'

He moved closer, switching his stick at Sajhe's face.

'And who's going to make me? You?'

The boy was a head taller than Sajhe. His skin was a mass of purple
bruises and red marks. Sajhe took a step back and held up his hands.

'I said, who's going to make me?' repeated the boy, ready for a fight.

Words would have given way to fists had not an old drunk, who was
slumped against the wall, woken up and started yelling at them to clear
off and leave him alone. Sajhe took advantage of the diversion to slip
away.

The sun was just climbing over the higher roofs of the buildings,
flooding sections of the street with slats of bright light and glinting off
the horseshoe outside the door of the blacksmith's forge. Sajhe stopped
and looked in, feeling the heat from the furnace on his face even from
the street.


So
There was a crowd of men waiting round the forge, as well as several
younger ecuyers with their masters' helmets, shields and hauberks, all of
which required attention. He presumed the blacksmith in the Chateau
was overwhelmed with too much work.

Sajhe didn't have the blood or the pedigree to be apprenticed, but it
didn't stop him dreaming of being a chevalier in his own colours. He
smiled at one or two of the boys of his own age, but they just stared right through him, as they always did and always would.

Sajhe turned and walked away.

,-,: Most of the market traders were regulars and had set up in their usual {daces. The smell of hot fat filled Sajhe's nose the moment he walked into the square. He loitered at a stall where a man was frying pancakes, turning them on a hot griddle. The smell of thick bean soup and warm mitadenc bread, made from half barley and half wheat, stimulated his Appetite. He walked past stalls selling buckles and pots, woollen cloths, kins and leather, both local goods and more exotic belts and purses from
Cordoba or further afield even, but he didn't stop. He paused a while by a Stall offering scissors for shearing sheep and knives, before moving to the corner of the square where most of the live animals were penned. There were always lots of chickens and capons in wooden cages, sometimes larks ftnd wrens, which fluted and whistled. His favourite were the rabbits, all quashed together in a heap of brown, black and white fur.

Sajhe walked past the stalls selling grain and salt, white meats, ale from Casks and wine, until he found himself at a stand selling herbs and exotic pices. In front of the table was a merchant. Sajhe had never seen a man to tall, so black. He was dressed in long, shimmering blue robes, a shining *#ilk turban and red and gold pointed slippers. His skin was darker even
i than that of the gypsies that travelled from Navarre and Aragon over the
IJROuntains. Sajhe guessed he must be a Saracen, although he'd never met
!one before.

The merchant had laid out his display in the shape of a wheel: greens
I yellows, oranges, browns and reds, ochre. At the front were rosemary
parsley, garlic, marigold and lavender, but at the back there were ore expensive spices, such as cardamom, nutmeg and saffron. Sajhe i't recognise any of the others, but he was already looking forward to ling his grandmother what he had seen.

He was about to step forward to get a better look, when the Saracen jared in a voice like thunder. His heavy dark hand grabbed the skinny |nrrist of a cutpurse who'd tried to steal a coin from the embroidered purse that hung from a twisted, red cord around his waist. He cuffed the boy


5i
around the head, sending him flying back into a woman standing behind,
who started shouting. Straight away a crowd started to gather.

Sajhe slipped away. He didn't want to get caught up in any trouble.


Sajhe wandered out of the square towards the taberna Sant Joan dels
Evangelis. Since he had no money with him, at the back of his mind was
the idea he could offer to run errands in exchange for a cup oibrout. Then
he heard someone calling his name.

Sajhe turned and saw one of his grandmother's friends, Na Marti,
sitting with her husband at their stall, waving to attract his attention. She
was a weaver and her husband was a carder. Most weeks they could be
found in the same spot, spinning and combing, preparing their wool and
threads.

Sajhe waved back. Like Esclarmonde, Na Marti was a follower of the
new church. Her husband, S'enher Marti was not a believer, although
he had come to Esclarmonde's house with his wife at Pentecost to hear
the Bons Homes preach.

Na Marti ruffled his hair.

'How are you, young man? You're getting so tall, these days, I hardly
recognise you.'

'Fine, thank you,' he replied, smiling at her, then turned to her husband
who was combing wool into skeins ready to sell. 'Bonjorn, S'enher.'

'And Esclarmonde?' Na Marti continued. 'She's keeping well too?
Keeping everyone in order as usual?'

He grinned. 'She's the same as always.'

'Ben, ben.'Good.

Sajhe sat himself down cross-legged at her feet and watched the
spinning wheel as it turned round and round.

'Na Marti?' he said, after a while. "Why don't you come to pray with us
any more?'

S'enher Marti stopped what he was doing and exchanged a worried
glance with his wife.

'Oh, you know how it is,' Na Marti replied, avoiding his eye. We're so
busy these days. It's hard to make the journey to Carcassona as often as
we'd like.'

She adjusted her bobbin and continued to spin, the rocking of the
treadle rilling the silence that had fallen between them.

'Menina misses you.'

'I miss her too, but friends can't always be together.'

Sajhe frowned. 'But then why--'


5*
Senher Marti tapped him sharply on the shoulder.
'Do not talk so loudly,' he said in a low voice. 'This sort of thing is best
kept to ourselves.'

"What's best kept to ourselves?' he said, puzzled. 'I only--'
We heard, Sajhe,' said Senher Marti, glancing over his shoulder. The
whole market heard. Now, no more about prayer, e?y

Confused about what he'd done to make Senher Marti so angry, Sajhe
scrambled to his feet. Na Marti turned on her husband. They seemed to
have forgotten all about him.
> /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 jep 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 jjdear. 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
fould 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.

jft 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?'
<j	>

'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

i0Vent, 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.'
<I didn't know, but do you think it's likely my father knew he had a half

r?'

1<1 have no idea. My guess would be that he didn't.'
|'But Grace clearly knew of him?'

fes, although how and when she found out, again I don't know. More
; point, she knew about you. She revised her will in 1993, after your
its' deaths, naming you as her sole beneficiary. By that time, she had
1 living in France for some time.'

lice frowned. 'If she knew about me and about what had happened, I
pounds understand why she didn't get in touch.'

shrugged. 'It's possible she thought you wouldn't welcome the
t. Since we don't know what caused the rift in the family, she might


have thought your father had prejudiced you against her. In cases such as
this, it's not uncommon for an assumption to be made -- sometimes
rightly so -- that any overture would be rejected. Once contact is severed
it can be hard to repair the damage.'

You didn't draw up the will, I'm assuming?'

Karen smiled. 'No, it was well before my time. But I talked to the colleague
who did. He's retired now, but he remembers your aunt. She was
very matter-of-fact, no fuss or sentimentality. She knew exactly what she
wanted, which was for everything to be left to you.'

'So you don't know why she came to be living here in the first place?'

'I'm afraid not.' She paused. 'From our point of view, it's all relatively
straightforward. So, as I said, I think your best bet is to go to the house
and look around. You might find out more about her that way. Given
you're going to be around for a few days more, we can meet later in the
week. I'm in court tomorrow and Friday, but I'd be happy to see you on
Saturday morning if that is convenient.' She stood up and held out her
hand. 'Leave a message with my assistant and let me know what you
decide.'

'I'd like to visit her grave while I'm here.'

'Of course. I'll get the details. If I remember rightfully, the circumstances
were unusual.' Karen stopped at her assistant's desk on their
way out. 'Dominique, tupeux me trouver le num'ero du lot de cimitiere de
Madame Tanner. La cimitiere de la Cite. Menu

'In what way unusual?' asked Alice.

'Madame Tanner wasn't buried in Salleles d'Aude but here in Carcassonne,
in the cemetery outside the Cite walls, in the family tomb of a
friend.' Karen took the printout from her assistant and skimmed the
information. That's right, I remember now. Jeanne Giraud, a local
woman, although there didn't appear to be any evidence the two women
even knew each other. Madame Giraud's address is also here, along with
the plot details.'

'Thank you. I'll be in touch.'

'Dominique will show you out,' she smiled. 'Let me know how you get
on.'


CHAPTER 40 Ariege


Paul Authie had expected Marie-Cecile to use the journey into the
Ariege to continue last night's discussion or else ask him about the
I report. But apart from the occasional comment, she said nothing.

In the confined space of the car, he was very physically aware of her.
Her perfume caught in his nose, the scent of her skin. Today she was
K wearing a pale brown sleeveless shirt and matching trousers. Sunglasses
concealed her eyes and her lips and nails were the same, burned red.

Authie shot the cuffs on his shirt, glancing discreetly at his watch.
t Allowing a couple of hours at the site, then the journey back, they were
i Unlikely to be back in Carcassonne much before the end of the afternoon.
lit was very frustrating.

'Any news of O'Donnell?' she said.

Authie was startled to hear his thoughts voiced aloud. 'Not so far.'
'And the policeman?' she said, turning to face him.
There's no longer a problem.'
'Since when?'
*Early this morning.'

I*' "Did you learn anything more from him?'
Authie shook his head.

'So long as nothing can be traced back to you, Paul.'
It won't be.'

|She was silent for a moment, then asked: 'And the English woman?'
l^he arrived in Carcassonne last night. I've got someone tailing her.' (on don't think she went to Toulouse in order to deposit the ring or I book there?'

(^Unless she handed it over to someone inside the hotel, then no. She
I no visitors. She talked to no one, either in the street or in the library.'


arrived at the Pic de Soularac just after one o'clock. A wooden


palisade had been erected around the car park. The gate was padlocked
shut. As arranged, there was no one on duty to witness their arrival.

Authie opened the gate and drove through. The site was unnaturally
quiet after the activity of Monday afternoon. An air of abandonment
hung about everything. The sides of the tents battened down, the pots
and pans and rows of tools neatly labelled.

"Where's the entrance?'

Authie pointed up to where the scene of crime tape still flapped in the
breeze.

He took a torch from the glove compartment. They climbed up the
lower slopes in silence, the oppressive afternoon heat weighing down on
them. Authie pointed to the boulder, still lying on its side, like the head
of a fallen idol, then led her the final few metres to the cave itself.

'I would like to go in alone,' she said as they reached the top.

He was irritated, but didn't show it. He was confident there was
nothing in the chamber for her to find. He'd combed every last centimetre
of the cave himself. He handed her the torch.

'As you wish,' he said.

Authie watched as she disappeared into the tunnel, the beam of light
getting weaker and more distant until it vanished altogether.

He wandered away from the entrance, until he was out of earshot.

Even being close to the chamber made him angry. His hand went to
the crucifix at his neck, like a talisman to ward off the evil of the place.

'In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,' he said,
crossing himself. Authie waited until his breathing had returned to
normal, before calling his office.

What have you got for me?'

A look of satisfaction spread across his face as he listened. 'At the
hotel? Did they speak to one another?' He listened to the reply. 'OK.
Keep with her and see what she does.'

He smiled and disconnected. Something else to add to his list of
questions for O'Donnell.

His secretary had found surprisingly little on Baillard. He had no car,
no passport, was not listed at the land registry, no phone, nothing was
registered within the system. Even his numero de securite sociale was missing.
Officially, he didn't seem to exist. He was a man with no past.

It crossed Authie's mind Baillard might be a disaffected ex-member of
the Noublesso Veritable. His age, his background, his interest in Cathar
history and knowledge of hieroglyphics linked him to the Labyrinth
Trilogy.


Authie knew there was a connection. It was just a matter of finding it.
He would destroy the cave now, without a moment's hesitation, were it
not for the fact that he was still not in possession of the books. He was
God's instrument by which the four-thousand-year-old heresy would
finally be wiped from the face of the earth. Only when the profane parchments
were returned to the chamber would he act. Then he would give
everyone and everything to the fire.

The thought that he only had two days in which to find the book
spurred him back into action. His grey eyes sharp with conviction, Authie
made another call.

'Tomorrow morning,' he said. 'Have her ready.'


Audric Baillard was aware of the click of Jeanne's brown shoes on the grey
linoleum as they walked in silence through the hospital in Foix.

Everything else was white. His clothes, the colour of chalk, the uniforms
of the technicians, their rubber-soled footwear, the walls, the
charts, clipboards. Inspector Noubel, crumpled and dishevelled, stood
out in the sterile environment. He looked as if he'd not changed for days.
A trolley was being pushed up the corridor towards them, its wheels
creaking painfully in the hushed environment. They stood back to allow it
to pass. The nurse acknowledged the courtesy with a slight bob of her
head.

Baillard was aware that they were treating Jeanne with particular care,
ir sympathy, no doubt genuine, was mixed with concern at how she
Id cope with the shock. He gave a grim smile. The young always
3t Jeanne's generation had seen and experienced more than they ever
J. War, the Occupation, the Resistance. They had fought and killed
seen their friends die. They were tough. Nothing surprised them ept, perhaps, for the dogged resilience of the human spirit.
Noubel came to a halt in front of a large white door. He pushed it open
stood back to let them go in first. Cool air and the sharp smell of
ectant slid out. Baillard removed his hat and held it to his chest.

machines were silent now. In the centre of the room was the bed,
leath the window, the shape beneath covered by a sheet that hung jked over the sides.

ley did everything they could,' Noubel muttered,
fas my grandson murdered, Inspector?' asked Jeanne. It was the first she'd spoken since arriving at the hospital and learning they had ed too late.

rd saw the Inspector's hands jerk nervously at his side.


'It's too early to say, Madame Giraud, however--'

'Are you treating it as a suspicious death, Inspector, yes or no?'

Tes.'

Thank you,' she said in the same tone of voice. 'That is all I wanted to
know.'

'If there's nothing else,' said Noubel, edging towards the door, 'I will
leave you to pay your respects. I will be with Madame Claudette in the
relatives' room if you need me.'

The door closed with a sharp click. Jeanne took a step closer to the bed.
Her face was grey and her mouth tight, but her back and shoulders were
as straight as ever.

She turned down the sheet. The stillness of death slipped into the
room. Baillard could see how young Yves looked. His skin was very white
and smooth, free of lines. The top of his head was covered by bandages.
Strands of his black hair peeked out around the edges. His hands, the
knuckles red and scratched, were folded on his chest like a boy pharaoh.

Baillard watched Jeanne as she bent down and kissed her grandson on the
forehead. Then, with a steady hand she covered his face and turned away.

'Shall we?' she said, taking Baillard's arm.

They walked back into the empty corridor. Baillard glanced to left and
right, then led Jeanne to a row of institutional plastic chairs fixed to the
wall. The silence was oppressive. Automatically they dropped their voices,
even though there was no one around to overhear.

'I had been concerned about him for some time, Audric,' she said. 'I
had seen a change in him. He became withdrawn, anxious.'

'Did you ask him what was wrong?'

She nodded. 'He claimed there was nothing. Just stress, overwork.'

Audric laid his hand on her arm. 'He loved you, Jeanne. Perhaps there
was nothing. Perhaps there was.' He paused. 'If Yves was involved in
something wrong, it went against his nature. His conscience was troubled.
In the end, when most it mattered, he did the right thing. He sent the ring
to you, regardless of the consequences.'

'Inspector Noubel asked me about the ring. He wanted to know if I
had spoken to Yves on Monday.'

What answer did you give?'

'Truthfully, that I had not.'

Audric sighed with relief.

'But you think Yves was being paid to pass on information, don't you,
Audric?' Her voice was hesitant, but firm. 'Tell me. I would rather hear
the truth.'


He raised his hands. 'How can I speak the truth when I do not know
it?'

'Then tell me what you suspect. Not knowing--' she broke off- 'there is
nothing worse.'

Baillard imagined the moment the boulder fell across the entrance to
the cave, trapping them inside. Not knowing what was happening to her.
The smell of the box, the roar of the flames, the soldiers shouting as they
ran. Half-remembered places and images. Not knowing if she was alive or
dead.

'Es vertat,' he said softly. 'It is the not knowing that is unbearable.' He
sighed once again. 'Very well. I do believe Yves was being paid for
providing information, yes - about the Trilogy primarily, but probably
other things as well. I imagine it seemed harmless at first - a telephone
call here or there, details about where someone might be, who they might
talk to - but soon I suspect they started to ask of him more than he
wished to give.'

"You say "they"? Do you know who is responsible then?'
'Speculation, no more,' he said quickly. 'Mankind does not much
change, Jeanne. On the surface, we seem different. We evolve, we develop new rules, new standards of living. Each generation asserts modern values
,. fnd dismisses the old, priding itself on its sophistication, its wisdom. We |jsppear to have little in common with those that have gone before us.' He
ped his chest. 'But within these tunics of flesh, the human heart beats
same as it ever did. Greed, desire for power, fear of death, these
lotions do not change.' His voice softened. 'The things that are fine in
e, too, do not change. Love, courage, willingness to lay down one's life
what one believes in, kindness.'
' Will it ever end?'

r-Baillard hesitated. 'I pray that it will.'

Above their heads, the clock marked the passing of time. At the far end fthc corridor, hushed voices, footsteps, the squeak of rubber soles on the
1 floor, heard briefly, then gone.

i will not go to the police?' said Jeanne eventually. '. do not think it wise.' fou don't trust Inspector Noubel?'

lieu.' Perhaps. 'Did the police return Yves' personal belongings to
' The clothes he was wearing when he was brought in, the contents of

ets?'

i clothes were . . . were beyond saving. Inspector Noubel said there
It nothing in his pockets except for his wallet and keys.'


'Nothing at all? No carte d'identite, no papers, no telephone? Did he not
think that odd?'

'He said nothing,' she replied.

'And his apartment. Did they find anything there? Papers?'

Jeanne shrugged. 'I don't know.' She paused. 'I asked one of his friends
to draw me up a list of who was at the site on Monday afternoon.' She
handed him a piece of paper with names scribbled on it. 'It's not complete.'
He
looked down. 'And this?' he queried, pointing at the name of a
hotel.

Jeanne looked. "You wanted to know where the English woman was
staying.' She paused. 'Or, at least, that's the information she gave the
Inspector.'

'Dr Alice Tanner,' he murmured under his breath. After so long, she
had come to him. Then that is where I shall send my letter.'

'I could deliver it for you when I return home.'

'No,' he said sharply. Jeanne looked up in surprise. 'Forgive me,' he said
quickly. "You are kind to offer, but ... I do not think it wise for you to
return home. For now, at least.'

'Why ever not?'
'It will not take them long to discover Yves sent the ring to you, if they
do not know already. Please, stay with friends. Go away somewhere, with
Claudette, anywhere. It is not safe.'

To his surprise, she did not argue. 'Ever since we got here you've been
looking over your shoulder.'

Baillard smiled. He had thought he'd kept his anxiety hidden.

'What about you, Audric?'

'It is different for me,' he said. 'I have been waiting for this moment
for ... for longer than I can say, Jeanne. It is how it is meant to be, for
good or ill.'

For a moment, Jeanne said nothing.

'Who is she, Audric?' she said softly. 'This English girl? Why does she
matter so much to you?'

He smiled, but he could not answer.

'Where will you go from here?' she asked in the end.

Baillard caught his breath. An image of his village, as it had once been,
came to his mind.

'Oustdou,' he replied softly. 'I will return home. A laperfin? At last.


CHAPTER 41


Shelagh had grown accustomed to the dark.

She was being held in a stable or animal pen of some sort. There was a
sharp, acrid smell of droppings, urine, straw and a sweet sickly odour, like
rancid meat. A strip of white light showed under the door, but she
couldn't tell if it was late afternoon or early morning. She wasn't even
sure what day it was.

The rope around her legs chafed, irritating the raw, broken skin on her
ankles. Her wrists were tied together and she was tethered to one of
several metal rings attached to the wall.

Shelagh shifted position, trying to get comfortable. Insects were crawling
across her hands and face. She was covered in bites. Her wrists were
sore where the rope was rubbing and her shoulders were stiff where her
arms had been pulled back for so long. Mice or rats scuttled in the straw
in the corners of the pen, but she'd become accustomed to them in the 'Same way she'd ceased to notice the pain.

If only she'd rung Alice. Another mistake. Shelagh wondered if Alice
1 kept trying or given up. If she rang the site house and found she was
sing, she'd realise something was wrong, wouldn't she? What about
s? Would Brayling have called the police . . . ?

Shelagh felt her eyes well up. More likely they didn't realise she was
sing. Several of her colleagues had announced their intention to take
' for a few days until the situation was resolved. Maybe they thought
p'd done the same.

|She had gone beyond hunger some time back, but she was thirsty. She
fas if she'd swallowed a block of sandpaper. The small amount of water fd given her had gone and her lips were cracked where she'd licked
1, over and over. She tried to remember how long a normal, healthy
i could survive without water. A day? A week?
;h heard the scrunch of the gravel. Her heart contracted and
surged through her, as it did every time she heard a sound
B. Until now, nobody had come in.


She pulled herself up into a sitting position as the padlock was
unlocked. There was a heavy clunk as the chain fell, folding up on itself,
in spirals of dull chatter, then the sound of the door juddering on its
hinges. Shelagh turned her face away as sunlight, aggressively bright,
burst into the gloom of the hut and a dark, stocky man ducked under the
lintel. He was wearing a jacket, despite the heat, and his eyes were hidden
behind sunglasses. Instinctively, Shelagh shrank back against the wall,
ashamed of the tight knot of fear in her stomach.

The man crossed the hut in two strides. He grabbed the rope and
dragged her to her feet. He produced a knife from his pocket.

Shelagh flinched, tried to pull away. 'Non,' she whispered. 'Please.' She
despised the pleading tone of her voice, but couldn't help it. Terror had
stripped her pride away.

He smiled as he brought the blade close to her throat, revealing rotten
teeth stained yellow from smoking. He reached behind her and cut
through the rope tethering her to the wall, then jerked on the rope,
pulling her forward. Weak and disorientated, Shelagh lost her balance
and dropped heavily to her knees.

'I can't walk. You'll have to untie me.' She darted a glance at her feet. 'Mes pieds.'

The man hesitated a moment, then sawed through the thicker bonds
on her ankles as if he was carving meat.

'Leve-toi. Vitef'He raised his arm as if he was going to hit her, but then
jerked on the rope again, dragging her towards him. 'Vite.'Her legs were
stiff, but she was too scared to disobey. Her ankles were ringed with
broken skin, which strained with every step she took, sending pain shooting
up her calves.

The ground lurched and pitched beneath her as she stumbled out into
the light. The sun was fierce. She felt it burning into her retinas. The air
was hot and humid. It seemed to squat over the yard and buildings like a
malignant Buddha.

As she walked the short distance from her makeshift prison, one of
several disused animal pens she could now see, Shelagh forced herself to
look around, realising it might be the only chance she'd get to figure
out where they had taken her. And who they were, she added. Despite
everything, she wasn't sure.

It had started back in March. He'd been charming, flattering, and
apologetic almost for bothering her. He was working on someone else's
behalf, he'd explained, someone who wished to remain anonymous. All
he'd wanted was for her to make one phone call. Information, nothing


more. He was prepared to pay a great deal. A little later, the deal changed:
half for the information, more on delivery. Looking back, Shelagh wasn't
sure when she'd started to have doubts.

The client didn't fit the normal profile of the gullible collector willing
to pay over the odds, no questions asked. For a start, he sounded young.
Usually they were like medieval relic hunters, superstitious, susceptible,
stupid, obsessed. He was none of these things. That alone should have
been enough to set alarm bells ringing.

In retrospect, it seemed absurd she'd never stopped to ask herself why,
if the ring and the book were indeed only of sentimental value, he was
prepared to go to such trouble.

Any moral objections Shelagh had about stealing and selling on
artefacts had gone years ago. She'd suffered enough at the hands of old
fashioned museums and elitist academic institutions to believe they were
more appropriate custodians of the treasures of antiquity than private
collectors. She took the money; they got what they wanted. Everybody
was happy. It wasn't her business what happened afterwards.

Looking back, she realised she had been frightened long before the
second phone call, certainly weeks before she had invited Alice to come to
the Pic de Soularac. Then when Yves Biau had made contact and they
had compared stories . . . The knot in her chest tightened.
If something happened to Alice it was her fault.
They reached the farmhouse, a medium-sized building, ringed by
elict outbuildings, a garage and a wine barn. The paint on the shutters
: the front door was peeling and the empty black windows gaped. Two
were parked out front, otherwise it was completely deserted.
All around were unbroken views of mountains and valleys. At least she
i still in the Pyrenees. For some reason, that gave her hope.
j.The door stood open, as if they were expected. It was cool inside
ough, at first glance, deserted. A layer of dust covered everything. It
like it had once been a hotel or auberge. There was a reception
straight ahead, above which was a row of hooks, all empty, that
. as if they once had held keys.

; jerked the rope to keep her moving. This close, he smelled of sweat,
aftershave and stale tobacco. Shelagh caught the sound of voices
; from a room to her left. The door was slightly ajar. She swivelled
Byes to try to see something and caught a glimpse of one man
ig in front of the window, his back to her. Leather shoes and legs
1 in light summer trousers,
i was forced up the stairs to the second floor, then along a corridor


and up a confined, narrow staircase leading to an airless attic that occupied
nearly the whole top floor of the house. They came to a halt in front
of a door built into the eaves.

He shot the bolts and shoved her in the small of her back, sending her
flying forward. She landed heavily, hitting her elbow on the ground, as he
slammed the door behind him. Despite the pain, Shelagh threw herself at
the door, shouting and pummelling the metal casing with her fists, but it
had been specially adapted and there was metal flashing around the edges.

In the end, she gave up and turned round to inspect her new home.
There was a mattress pushed against the far wall. A blanket was folded
neatly on it. Opposite the door there was a small window. Metal bars
had been hammered across the inside. Shelagh walked stiffly across the
room and saw she was now at the back of the house. The bars were solid
and didn't move at all when she pulled them. It was a sheer drop down
anyway.

There was a small hand basin in the corner, with a bucket next to
it. She relieved herself and, with difficulty, turned the taps. The pipes
spluttered and coughed like a forty-a-day-smoker but, after a couple of
false starts, a thin dribble of water appeared. Cupping her filthy hands,
Shelagh drank until her insides hurt. Then she washed as best she could,
dabbing the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, which were caked in dry
blood.

A little later, he brought her something to eat. More than usual.

'Why I am here?'

He put the tray down in the middle of the room.

Why have you brought me here? Pourquoije suis la?'

'It te le dira.'

"Who wants to talk to me?'

He gestured at the food. 'Mange.'

'You'll have to untie me.' Then she repeated, "Who? Tell me.'

He pushed the tray forward with his foot. 'Eat.'

When he'd gone, Shelagh fell upon the food. She ate every scrap, even
the core and pips of the apple, then returned to the window. The first rays
of the sun burst over the crest of the mountain, turning the world from
grey to white.

In the distance, she heard the sound of a car, driving slowly towards the
farmhouse.


CHAPTER 42


Karen's directions were good. An hour after leaving Carcassonne, Alice
found herself on the outskirts of Narbonne. She followed signs to Cuxac
d'Aude and Capestang along a pretty road bordered on either side by high
bamboo and wild grasses leaping in the winds, sheltering fertile green
fields. It was very different from the mountains of the Ariege or the
|s garrigue of the Corbieres.

It was nearly two o'clock by the time Alice drove into Salleles d'Aude.
She parked under the lime trees and parasol pines that bordered the
Canal du Midi, just down from the lock gates, then wound her way
through pretty streets until she arrived at the rue des Burgues.

Grace's tiny three-storey house was on the corner and gave straight on
I to the street. A fairytale summer rose, its crimson blooms hanging heavily
ffrom the bough, framed the old-fashioned wooden door and large brown
phutters. The lock was stiff and Alice had to jiggle the heavy brass key
wind until she managed to make it turn. She gave a good hard shove
a sharp kick. The door creaked open, scraping over the black and
lite tiles and free newspapers blocking the door from the inside.
It opened straight into a single downstairs room, the kitchen area to
left and a larger living area to her right. The house felt cold and
ivp, the maudlin smell of a home long abandoned. The chill air crept
id her bare legs like a cat. Alice tried the light switch, but the eleccity
had been turned off. Picking up the junk mail and circulars and
it out of the way on the table, she leaned over the sink, opened P window and struggled with the ornate latch to pin back the shutters. t jug kettle and an old-fashioned cooker with a grill-pan at eye-level
i the closest her aunt had come to mod cons. The draining board was r and the sink was clean, although a couple of sponges, rigid like dry
[bones, were wedged behind the taps.

crossed the room and opened the large window in the living and pushed back the heavy brown shutters. Straight away, the sun
I in, transforming the room. Leaning out, she breathed in the scent


of the roses, relaxing under the touch of the hot summer air for a
moment, letting it chase her feelings of discomfort away. She felt like an
intruder, poking around someone else's life without permission.

Two high-backed wooden armchairs were set at an angle to the fireplace.
The chimney surround was grey stone, with a few china ornaments
arranged on the mantle, coated with dust. The blackened remains of a fire
long cold sat in the grate. Alice pushed with her toe and it collapsed,
sending a cloud of fine grey ash billowing over everything.

Hanging on the wall beside the fireplace was an oil painting of a stone
house with a sloping, red-tiled roof, set among fields of sunflowers and
vines. Alice peered at the signature scrawled across the bottom right-hand corner: BAILLARD.

A dining table, four chairs and a sideboard occupied the back of the
room. Alice opened the doors and found a set of coasters and mats, decorated
with pictures of French cathedrals, a pile of linen napkins and a
canteen of silver cutlery, which rattled loudly as she pushed the drawer
shut. The best china - serving dishes, cream jug, dessert bowls, and a
gravy boat - was tucked away on the shelves underneath.

In the far corner of the room were two doors. The first turned out to be
the utility cupboard - ironing board, dustpan and brush, broom, a couple
of coat hooks and lots of carrier bags from Giant tucked one inside the
other. The second door concealed the stairs.

Her sandals clipped on the wooden treads as she made her way up
into the dark. There was a pink-tiled, functional bathroom straight
ahead, with a lump of dried-out soap on the basin and a bone-dry flannel
hanging on a hook next to the no-nonsense mirror.

Grace's bedroom was to the left. The single bed was made up with
sheets and blankets and a heavy feather eiderdown. On a mahogany bedside cupboard was an ancient bottle of Milk of Magnesia with a
white crust around its top, and a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine by
Alison Weir.

The sight of an old-fashioned bookmark marking the page tugged at
her heartstrings. She could imagine Grace turning off the light to go to
sleep, slipping the bookmark in to save the page. But time had run out.
She had died before she had the chance to finish. Feeling uncharacteristically
sentimental, Alice put the book to one side. She'd take it with her
and give it a home.

In the drawer of the bedside table was a lavender bag, the pink ribbon
at its neck bleached with age, as well as a prescription and a box of new
handkerchiefs. Several other books filled the ledge beneath. Alice


crouched down and tilted her head to one side to read the spines, always
unable to resist snooping at what other people had on their shelves. It was
much as she would expect. A Mary Stewart or two, a couple of Joanna
Trollopes, an old book club edition of Peyton Place and a slim volume
about the Cathars. The author's name was printed in capital letters: a s baillard. Alice raised her eyebrows. The same person who had painted
the picture downstairs? The name of the translator was printed underneath: j giraud.

Alice turned the book over and read the blurb. A translation of the
Gospel of St John into Occitan, as well as several books about Ancient
Egypt and an award-winning biography of Jean-Francois Champollion,
the nineteenth-century scholar who'd deciphered the secret of hieroglyphs.

Something sparked in Alice's brain. The library in Toulouse with the
maps and charts and illustrations blinking on the screen in front of her
eyes. Egypt again.

The front cover illustration of Baillard's book was a photograph of a
ruined castle, shrouded in purple mist, perched perilously at the top of a sheer
rock. Alice recognised it from postcards and guidebooks as Montsegur.

She opened it. The pages fell open of their own accord about two
thirds of the way through, where a piece of card had been tucked into the
spine. Alice started to read:


The fortified citadel of Montsegur is set high on the mountain top, nearly ; an hour's climb up from the village of Montsegur. Often hidden by clouds, ;. three sides of the castle are hewn out of the mountainside itself. It is , an extraordinary natural fortress. What remains dates not from the thirteenth
century but from more recent wars of occupation. Yet the spirit of V place reminds the visitor always of its tragic past.

; The legends associated with Montsegur -- the safe mountain -- are
' pounds legion. Some believe it is a solar temple, others that it was the inspiration
\; for Wagner's Munsalvaesche, his Safe or Grail Mountain in his greatest
work, Parsival. Others believed it to have been the final resting place of
the Graal. It has been suggested that the Cathars were the guardians of the
Cup of Christ, together with many other treasures from the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, or perhaps Visigoth gold and other riches from
, unspecified sources.

Whilst it is believed the fabled Cathar treasure was smuggled away from the besieged citadel in January 1244, shortly before the final defeat, j. that treasure has never been found. Rumours that this most precious of
objects was lost are inaccurate. *


Alice followed the note to the asterisk to the bottom of the page. Rather
than a footnote there was a quotation from the Gospel of St John, chapter
eight, verse thirty-two: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall
make you free.'

She raised her eyebrows. It didn't seem to have much relevance to the
text at all.

Alice put Baillard's book with the others ready to take with her, then
crossed to the back bedroom.

There was an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine, incongruously
English in the thick-walled French house. Her mother had had one
exactly like it and sat sewing for hours on end, filling the house with the
comforting thud and rat-a-tat of the treadle.

Alice smoothed her hand over the dust-covered surface. It looked to be
in good working order. She opened each of the compartments in turn,
finding cotton reels, needles, pins, fragments of lace and ribbon, a card of
old-fashioned silver poppers and a box of assorted buttons.

She turned to the oak desk by the window which overlooked a small,
enclosed courtyard at the back of the house. The first two drawers were
lined with wallpaper but completely empty. The third, surprisingly, was
locked, although the key had been left in the keyhole.

With a combination of force and jiggling of the tiny silver key, Alice
managed to pull it open. Sitting at the bottom of the drawer was a
shoebox. She lifted it out and placed it on top of the desk.

Everything was very neat inside. There was a bundle of photographs
tied up with string. A single letter lay loose on the top. It was addressed
to Mme Tanner in black, spidery script. Postmarked Carcassonne, 16 Mars 2005, the word prioritaire was stamped across it in red. There was no
return address on the back, simply a name printed in the same italic
script: Expediteur Audric S Baillard.

Alice slid her fingers inside and pulled out a single sheet of thick,
cream paper. There was no date or address or explanation, just a poem
written in the same hand.


Bona nueit, bona nueit. . .
Braves antics, pica miejanueit
Calfinir velhada
Ejos laflassada


A faint memory rippled across the surface of her mind like a song long
forgotten. The words scratched at the top of the steps in the cave. It was


the same language, she'd swear, her unconscious mind making the connection
her conscious mind could not.

Alice leaned back against the bed. March the sixteenth, a couple of
days before her great-aunt's death. Had she put it in the box herself or
had that been left to someone else? Baillard himself?
Putting the poem to one side, Alice undid the string.
There were ten photographs in all, all black and white and arranged in
chronological order. The month, place and date were printed on the back
in capital letters in pencil. The first photograph was a studio portrait
of a serious little boy in school uniform, his hair combed flat with a
sharp parting. Alice turned it over. Frederick William tanner,
September igj/ was written on the back in blue ink. Different
handwriting.

Her heart did a somersault. The same photo of her dad had stood on
the mantelpiece at home, next to her parents' wedding photograph and a
portrait of Alice herself at the age of six in a smocked party dress with
puffed sleeves. She traced the lines of his face with her fingers. It proved,
if nothing else, that Grace was aware of her little brother's existence, even
if they'd never met.

Alice put it to one side and moved to the next, working her way
methodically through the pile. The earliest photograph she found of her
aunt herself was surprisingly recent, taken at a summer fete in July 1958.

There was a distinct family resemblance. Like Alice, Grace was petite
with delicate, almost elfin, features, although her hair was straight and
grey and cut uncompromisingly short. Grace was looking straight at the
camera, her handbag held firmly in front of her like a barrier.

The final photograph was another shot of Grace, a few years older,
'jitanding with an elderly man. Alice creased her brow. He reminded her
' someone. She turned the photo slightly, to change the way the light
. on the image.

They were standing in front of an old stone wall. There was something
about the pose, as if they didn't know each other well. From their
lies, it was late spring or summer. Grace was wearing a short-sleeved
ler dress, gathered at the waist. Her companion was tall and very
in a pale summer suit. His face was obscured by the shadow of his
la hat but his speckled, creased hands gave his age away,
the wall behind them a French street sign was partially visible,
i peered at the tiny sign and managed to make out the words Rue des
Degres. The caption on the back was in Baillard's spidery handng:
AB e GT.junh 1982, Chartres.


m
Chartres again. Grace and Audric Baillard, it had to be. And 1982, the
year her parents had died.

Putting that to one side too, Alice took out the only item left in the
box, a small, old-fashioned book. The black leather was cracked and held
together with a corroded brass zip and the words holy bible were
embossed in gold on the front.

After several attempts, Alice managed to get it open. At first glance, it
seemed like any other standard King James edition. It was only when she
got three-quarters of the way through that she discovered a hole had been
cut through the tissue-thin pages to create a shallow, rectangular hiding
place, about four inches by three.

Inside, folded tight, were several sheets of paper, which Alice carefully
opened out. A pale stone disc, the size of a one euro piece, fell out and
landed in her lap. It was flat and very thin, made of stone, not metal.
Surprised, she balanced it between her fingers. There were two letters
engraved on it. US. Compass points? Somebody's initials? Some kind of
currency?

Alice turned the disc over. Engraved on the other side was the
labyrinth, identical in every respect to the markings on the underside of
the ring and on the wall of the cave.

Common sense told her there would be a perfectly acceptable explanation
for the coincidence, although nothing came immediately to mind.
She looked with apprehension at the papers that had contained the disc.
She was nervous of what she might discover, but she was too curious to
leave them unopened.

You can't stop now.

Alice began to unfold the pages. She had to stop herself sighing with
relief. It was only a family tree. The first sheet was headed arbre genealogique. The ink was faded and hard to read in places, but
certain words stood out. Most names were in black, but on the second line one name, alais pelletier-du mas (riyj-), was written in red ink. Alice couldn't decipher the name next to it but, on the line below and
set slightly to the right, was another name, sajhe de Servian, written
in green.

Beside both names was a small, delicate motif picked out in gold. Alice
reached for the stone disc and laid it next to the symbol on the page,
pattern side up. They were identical.

One by one, she turned the sheets over until she got to the last page.
There she found an entry for Grace, her date of death added in a different
colour ink. Below that and to the side were Alice's parents.


The final entry was hers, alice Helena (1976-) picked out in red ink.
Next to it, the labyrinth symbol.

With her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms hooped around her
legs, Alice lost track of how long she sat in the still, abandoned room.
Finally, she understood. The past was reaching out to claim her. Whether
she wished it or not.


CHAPTER 43


The journey back from Salleles d'Aude to Carcassonne passed in a blur.
When Alice got back, the hotel lobby was crowded with new arrivals,
so she retrieved her key herself from its hook, and then went upstairs
without anyone noticing.

As she went to unlock the door, she noticed it was ajar.

Alice hesitated. She put the shoebox and books down on the ground,
then carefully pushed the door open wide.

"AIM Hello?'

She cast her eyes around the room. Everything inside looked as she'd
left it. Still feeling apprehensive, Alice stepped over the things on the threshold, and took a cautious step inside. She stopped. There was a smell
of vanilla and stale tobacco.

There was a movement behind the door. Her heart leaped into her
mouth. She spun round, just in time to register a grey jacket and black
hair reflected in the glass, before she was shoved hard in the chest and
sent flying back. Her head smashed against the mirrored door of the
wardrobe, setting the wire coat hangers on the rail inside rattling like
marbles on a tin roof.

The room went fuzzy around the edges. Everything dancing, out of
focus. Alice blinked. She could hear him running away down the corridor. Go. Quick.

Alice staggered to her feet and went after him. She hurtled down the
stairs and into the lobby, where a large party of Italians were blocking her
exit. In panic, she cast her eyes around the busy lobby, just in time to see
the man disappearing through the side entrance.

She pushed her way through the forest of people and luggage, clambering
over suitcases and luggage, then out after him into the gardens. He
was already at the top of the drive. Summoning every last ounce of
energy, Alice ran, but he was too fast.

By the time she reached the main road, there was no sign of him. He'd
disappeared into the crowds of tourists on their way down from the Cite.


Alice put her hands on her knees, trying to get her breath back. Then she
straightened up and felt the back of her head with her fingers. Already a
bruise was forming.

With a last look at the road, Alice turned and walked back to reception.
Apologising, she went straight to the front of the queue.

'Pardon, mats vous I'avez vuf

The girl on duty looked put out. 'I'll be with you as soon as I've finished
with this gentleman,' she said.

'I'm afraid this can't wait,' she said. There was someone in my room.
He just ran out. A couple of minutes ago.'

'Really, Madame, if you could just wait a moment--'

Alice raised her voice so that everyone could hear. 'II y avait quelquun clans ma chambre. Un voleur!

The crowded reception fell silent. The girl's eyes widened. She slid
from her stool and disappeared. Seconds later, the owner of the hotel
appeared and steered Alice away from the main area.

'What seems to be the problem, Madame? he said in a low voice.

Alice explained.

'The door's not been forced,' he said, checking the catch, when he
accompanied her back upstairs.

With the proprietor watching from the doorway, Alice checked to see
if anything was missing. To her confusion, nothing was. Her passport was
still at the bottom of the wardrobe, although it had been moved. The
same was true of the contents of her rucksack. Nothing was gone, but it
was all in slightly the wrong place. Hardly proof.

Alice checked the bathroom. At last, she'd found something.

1 Monsieur, s'il vous plait,' she called out. She pointed at the hand basin. 'Regardez.'

There was a strong smell of lavender where her soap had been hacked
I' into pieces. Her toothpaste also had been cut open and the contents
squeezed out. 'Voila. Commeje vous ai dit.' As I told you.

He looked concerned, but doubtful. Did Madame want him to call the police? He would ask the other guests if they had noticed anything, of ^Course, but since nothing seemed to be missing . . .? He left the sentence changing.

The shock suddenly kicked in. This wasn't a random burglary. Who
er
it was had been looking for something specific, something they

ieved she had.

Who knew she was here? Noubel, Paul Authie, Karen Fleury and her
Shelagh. To her knowledge, no one else.


'No,' she said quickly. 'No police. Since nothing's gone. But I want to
move to another room.' He started to protest that the hotel was full, then
stopped when he saw the look on her face.

I'll see what I can do.'


Twenty minutes later, Alice was installed in a different part of the hotel.

She was nervous. For the second or third time, she checked the door
was locked and the windows fastened. She sat on the bed surrounded by
her things, trying to decide what to do. Alice got up, walked around the
tiny room, sat down again, got up again. She was still not certain she
shouldn't move to a new hotel.

What if he comes back tonight}

An alarm went off. Alice jumped out of her skin, before realising it was
only her phone, ringing in her jacket pocket.

"Allo, oui?'

It was a relief to hear Stephen's voice, one of Shelagh's colleagues from
the dig. 'Hi, Steve. No, sorry. I only just got in. I haven't had time to
check my messages yet. What's up?'

As she listened, the colour drained from her face as he told her the dig
was being closed down.

'But why? What possible reason did Brayling give?'

'He said it wasn't up to him.'

'Just because of the skeletons?'

'The police didn't say.'

Her heart started to thump. 'They were there when Brayling announced
this?' she said.

They were partly there about Shelagh,' he said, then stopped. 'I was
just wondering, Alice, if you'd heard from her at all since you left.'

'Not a thing since Monday. I tried her several times yesterday, but she's
not returned any of my calls. Why?'

Alice found herself on her feet as she waited for Stephen to answer.

'She seems to have gone off,' he said in the end. 'Brayling's inclined to
put a sinister interpretation on it. He suspects her of stealing something
from the site.'

'Shelagh wouldn't do that,' she exclaimed. 'No way. She's not the sort
to . . .'

But as she was speaking, the thought of Shelagh's angry white face
came back to her. She felt disloyal, but Alice was suddenly less confident.

'Is this what the police think too?' she demanded.


'I don't know. It's just all a bit odd,' he said vaguely. 'One of the
policemen at the site on Monday has been killed by a hit-and-run driver
in Foix,' he continued. 'It was in the paper. It appears Shelagh and he
knew each other.'

Alice sank down on to the bed. 'Sorry, Steve. I'm finding this hard to
take in. Is anybody looking for her? Doing anything at all?'

'There is one thing,' he said tentatively. 'I'd do it myself, but I'm
heading home first thing tomorrow. No point hanging about.' What is it?'

'Before the excavation started, I know Shelagh was staying with friends
in Chartres. It did occur to me that she might have gone there, just
forgotten to let anyone know.'

It seemed a long shot to Alice, but it was better than nothing.
'I did call the number. A boy answered and claimed not to have heard
of Shelagh, but I'm sure it's the number she gave me. I had it stored in my
phone.'

Alice picked up a pencil and paper. 'Give it to me. I'll have a go,' she
said, poised to write.
Her hand froze.

'I'm sorry, Steve.' Her voice sounded hollow, as if she was speaking
from a long way away. 'Run that by me again.'

'It's oa 68 J2 31 26,' he repeated. 'And you'll let me know if you find out
anything?'

It was the number Biau had given her.

'Leave it with me,' she said, barely aware of what she was saying. 'I'll |keep in touch.'

Alice knew she should call Noubel. Tell him about her non-burglary
1 her encounter with Biau, but she hesitated. She wasn't sure she could
st Noubel. He'd done nothing to stop Authie.

She reached into her rucksack and pulled out her roadmap of France. 1 idea's crazy. It's an eight-hour drive at least. Something was niggling at the back of her mind. She went back to the

1 she'd made in the library.

jf;In the mountain of words about Chartres Cathedral, there had been a
tig reference to the Holy Grail. There, too, was a labyrinth. Alice
nd the paragraph she was looking for. She read it through twice, to
sure she hadn't misunderstood, then she jerked the chair out from
the desk and sat down with the book by Audric Baillard and tied it at the page marked.


'Others believed it to have been the final resting place of the Graal. It
has been suggested that the Cathars were the guardians of the Cup of
Christ. . .'


The Cathar treasure was smuggled away from Montsegur. To the Pic de
Soularac? Alice turned to the map at the front of the book. Montsegur to
the Sabarthes Mountains was not far. What if the treasure was hidden
there?

What connects Chartres and Carcassonne?

In the distance, she heard the first growls of thunder. The room
was now bathed in a strange orange light from the streetlamps outside
bouncing off the underside of the night clouds. A wind had blown up,
rattling the shutters and sending bits of rubbish scuttling across the car
parks.

As Alice drew the curtains the first heavy drops of rain started to fall,
exploding like spots of black ink on the windowsill. She wanted to leave
now. But it was late and she didn't want to risk driving through the
storm.

She locked the windows and doors, set her alarm, then climbed fully
clothed into bed to wait for the morning.


At first, everything was the same. Familiar, peaceful. She was floating in
the white weightless world, transparent and silent. Then, like the trap
door clattering open beneath the gallows, there was a sudden lurch and
she fell down through the open sky towards the wooded mountainside
rushing up to meet her.

She knew where she was. At Montsegur, in early summer.

Alice started to run as soon as her feet hit the ground, stumbling along
a steep, rough forest track between two columns of high trees. The trees
were dense and tall and towered above her. She grabbed at the branches
to slow herself, but her hands went straight through and clumps of tiny
leaves came away in her fingers, like hair on a brush, staining the tips
green.

The path sloped away beneath her feet. Alice was aware of the crunch
of stone and rock, which had replaced the soft earth, moss and twigs on
the track higher up the mountain. Still, there was no sound. No birds singing, no voices calling, nothing but her own ragged breathing.

The path twisted and coiled back on itself, sending her scuttling this
way and that, until she rounded the corner and saw the silent wall of fire
blocking the path ahead. She put her hands up to shield her face from the


billowing, puffing, red and orange and yellow flames that whipped and
swirled in the air, like reeds under the surface of a river.

Now the dream was changing. This time, rather than the multitude of
faces taking shape in the flames, there was only one, a young woman with
a gentle yet forceful expression, reaching out and taking the book from
Alice's hand.

She was singing, in a voice of spun silver.

'Bona nueit, bona nueit.'

This time, no chill fingers grabbed her ankles or shackled her to the
earth. The fire no longer claimed her. Now she was spiralling through the air like a wisp of smoke, the woman's thin, strong arms embracing her,
holding her tight. She was safe.

'Braves amics, pica miejanueit.'

Alice smiled as together they soared higher and higher towards the light, leaving the world far beneath.


CHAPTER 44


Carcassona


JULHET I2O9


Alais rose early, awoken by the sounds of sawing and banging in the
courtyard below. She looked out of the window at the wooden galleries
and brattices being constructed over the walls of the Chateau Comtal.

The impressive wooden skeleton was taking shape quickly. Like a
covered walkway in the sky, it provided the perfect vantage point from
which the archers could rain down a hail of arrows on the enemy in the
unlikely event that the walls of the Cite itself were breached.

She dressed quickly and ran down to the courtyard. In the smithy the
fires were roaring. Hammers and anvils rang out as weapons were sharpened
and shaped; sappers yelled to one another in short, sharp bursts as
the axles, ropes and counterweights of the peireras, the ballistas, were
prepared.

Standing outside the stable, Alais saw Guilhem. Her heart turned over. Notice me. He did not turn and he did not look up. Alai's raised her hand
to call out, but then cowardice overcame her and she let her arm drop
back to her side. She would not humiliate herself by begging for his
affection when he was unwilling to give it.

The scenes of industry within the Chateau Comtal were reproduced in
the Cite. Stone from the Corbieres was being piled high in the central
square, ready for the ballistas and the catapults. There was an acrid stench
of urine from the tannery where animal hides were being prepared to
protect the galleries from fire. A steady procession of carts was coming in
through the Porte Narbonnaise bringing food to support the Cite: salted


meat from La Piege and the Lauragais, wine from the Carcasses, barley
and wheat from the plains, beans and lentils from the market gardens of
Sant-Miquel and SantVicens.

There was a sense of pride and purpose behind the activity. Only the
clouds of noxious black smoke over the river and marshes to the north where
Viscount Trencavel had ordered the mills to be burned and the crops
destroyed - served as a reminder of how imminent and real was the threat.

Alais waited for Sajhe at the agreed meeting place. Her mind was full
of questions she wished to ask Esclarmonde, that swooped in and out of
her head, first one, then another, like birds at a river. By the time Sajhe
arrived, she was tongue-tied with anticipation.

She followed him through unnamed streets into the suburb of SantMiquel,
until they arrived at a low doorway set hard by the outer walls.
The sound of men digging trenches to prevent the enemy getting close
enough to mine the walls was very loud. Sajhe had to shout to make
himself heard.

'Menina is waiting inside,' he said, his face suddenly solemn.

'Are you not coming in?'

'She told me to bring you, then go back to the Chateau to find
Intendant Pelletier.'

'Seek him in the Cour d'Honneur,' she said.

'OK,' he said, his grin back in place. 'See you later.'

Alais pushed open the door and called out, looking forward to seeing
Esclarmonde, then checked her step. In the shadows, she could see a
second figure sitting on a chair in the corner of the room.

'Come in, come in,' said Esclarmonde, the smile showing in her voice.
1 believe you already know Simeon.'

Alais was astonished. 'Simeon? Already?' she cried with delight, rushing
to him and taking his hands. "What news? When did you arrive in
Carcassona? Where are you lodging?'

Simeon gave a deep, rich laugh. 'So many questions! Such haste to
; Tenow everything and so quickly! Bertrand said that, as a child, you never Stopped asking questions!'

Alais acknowledged the truth of this with a smile. She slid along the ench at the table and accepted the cup of wine Esclarmonde offered, Ilistening as Simeon continued to talk to Esclarmonde. Already there

emed to be a bond, an ease between them.

He was a skilful storyteller, weaving tales of his life in Chartres and

siers with memories of his life in the Holy Land. The time passed iickly as he talked of the hills of Judea in springtime, told them of the


plains of Sephal covered with lilies, yellow and purple irises and pink
almond trees, which stretched like a carpet to the ends of the earth. Alais
was captivated.

The shadows lengthened. As it did so, the atmosphere changed, without
Alais being aware it was happening. She was conscious of a nervous
fluttering in her stomach, an anticipation of what was to come. She
wondered if this was how Guilhem or her father felt on the eve of a
battle. This sense of time hanging in the balance.

She glanced across at Esclarmonde, her hands folded in her lap and her
face serene. She looked composed and poised.

'I'm sure my father will be here soon,' she said, feeling responsible for
his continued absence. 'He gave me his word.'

"We know,' said Simeon, patting her hand. His skin was as dry as
parchment.

We may not be able to wait much longer,' said Esclarmonde, looking
to the door that remained firmly shut. 'The owners of this house will soon
return.'

Alai's intercepted a look between them. Unable to bear the tension any
longer, she leaned forward.

'Yesterday, you did not answer my question, Esclarmonde.' She was
amazed at how steady she sounded. 'Are you also a guardian? Is the book
my father seeks in your safekeeping?'

For a moment, her words seemed to hang in the air between them,
claimed by no one. Then, to Ala'is's surprise, Simeon chuckled.

'How much did your father tell you about the NoublessoT he said, his
black eyes twinkling.

'That there were always five guardians, pledged to protect the books of
the Labyrinth Trilogy.'

'And did he explain why there were five?'

Alais shook her head.

'Always, the Navigataire, the leader, is supported by four initiates.
Together, they represent the five points of the human body and the
power of the number five. Each guardian is chosen for their fortitude,
their determination and their loyalty. Christian, Saracen, Jew, it is our
soul, our courage that matters, not blood or birth or race. It also reflects
the nature of the secret we are pledged to protect, which belongs to every
faith and to none.' He smiled. 'For more than two thousand years, the Noublesso de los Seres has existed - although not always under that name to
watch over and protect the secret. Sometimes our presence has been
hidden, other times we have lived openly.'


Alais turned to Esclarmonde. 'My father is unwilling to accept your
identity. He cannot believe it.'

'It flies in the face of his expectation.'

'It was ever thus with Bertrand,' chuckled Simeon.

'He would not have anticipated the fifth guardian being a woman,'
Alais said, coming to her father's defence.

'It was less remarkable in times gone past,' said Simeon. 'Egypt,
Assyria, Rome, Babylon, these ancient cultures of which you have heard
tell, accorded more respect to the female state than these dark times of
ours.'

Alais thought a moment. 'Do you think Harif is right to believe the
books will be safer in the mountains?' she asked.

Simeon raised his hands. 'It is not for us to seek the truth or to question
what will or will not be. Our task is simply to guard the books and to
protect them from harm. To make sure that they are ready when they are
needed.'

Which is why Harif chose your father to carry the books, rather than
either of us,' continued Esclarmonde. 'His position makes him the most
suitable envoi. He has access to men and horses, he can travel more freely
than either of us.'

Alais hesitated, not wishing to be disloyal to her father. 'He is reluctant
to leave the Viscount. He is torn between his old and his new loyalties.'

We all feel such conflicts,' said Simeon. We all have found ourselves
struggling to choose what path to take for the best. Bertrand is fortunate
to have lived so long without having to make his choice.' He took her
hands between his. 'Bertrand cannot delay, Alais. You must encourage
him to fulfil his responsibilities. That Carcassona has not fallen before
does not mean that it cannot.'

Alais felt their eyes upon her. She stood up and walked over to the
hearth. Her heart was racing as an idea took shape in her mind.

'Is it permitted for another to act in his stead?' she said in a level voice.

Esclarmonde understood. 'I do not think your father would allow it.
I You are too precious to him.'

Alais turned back to face them. 'Before he left for Montpelhier, he
believed me equal to the task. In principle, he has already given me leave.'

Simeon nodded. 'That's true, but the situation changes daily. As the French approach the borders of Viscount Trencavel's lands, the roads
I every day become more dangerous, as I saw for myself. It will not be long |bcfore it is too perilous to travel at all.'

Alais held her ground. 'But I will be going in the opposite direction,'


she said, looking from one to the other. 'And you did not answer my
question. If the traditions of the Noublesso do not prohibit me taking this
burden from my father's shoulders, then I offer my service in his place. I
am more than capable of protecting myself. I am an excellent rider, skilled
with sword and bow. No one would ever suspect me of--'

Simeon raised his hand. "You misinterpret our hesitation, child. I
certainly do not doubt your courage or your resolve.'

Then give me your blessing.'

Simeon sighed and turned to Esclarmonde. 'Sister, what say you? If
Bertrand agrees, of course.'

'I beseech you, Esclarmonde,' Alais pleaded, 'give your voice to my
request. I know my father.'

'I can promise nothing,' she said, in the end, 'but I will not argue
against you.' Ala'is let a smile break out on her face. 'But you must abide
by his decision,' Esclarmonde continued. 'If he will not give his permission,
you must accept it.'

He can't say no. I won't let him.

'I will obey him, of course,' she said.


The door opened and Sajhe burst into the room, followed by Bertrand
Pelletier.

He embraced Alai's, greeted Simeon with much relief and affection,
and then paid more formal respects to Esclarmonde. Alais and Sajhe
fetched wine and bread while Simeon explained what had so far passed
between them.

To Alais' surprise, her father listened in silence and without comment.
Sajhe was wide-eyed to begin with, but soon grew sleepy and curled up
against his grandmother. Alais took no part in the conversation, knowing
Simeon and Esclarmonde would plead her case better than she, but
from time to time she threw a look at her father. His face was grey
and lined and he looked exhausted. She could see he did not know what
to do.

Finally, there were no more words to speak. An expectant hush fell
over the tiny room. Each of them waiting, none sure of the way the
decision would go.

Alais cleared her throat. 'So, Paire. What is your decision? Will you
give me leave to go?'

Pelletier sighed. 'I do not want you put at risk.'

Her spirits sank. 'I know that, and I am grateful for your love of me.
But I want to help. I am capable of it.'


'I have a suggestion that might yet satisfy you both,' said Esclarmonde
quietly. 'Allow Alais to travel ahead with the Trilogy, but part of the way
only, as far as Limoux, say. I have friends there who can provide safe
lodging. When your work here is completed and Viscount Trencavel
can spare you, you can join her and make the journey to the mountains
together.'

Pelletier scowled. 'I do not see this helps at all. The madness of undertaking
such a voyage during these unsettled times will draw attention,
which is the one thing we most wish to avoid. Besides, I cannot say how
long my responsibilities will keep me in Carcassona.'

Alais' eyes flashed. That's easy. I could publish it that I was fulfilling a
private pledge made on the occasion of my marriage,' she said, thinking as
she went along. 'I could say I wished to make a gift to the Abbot of SantHilaire.
From there, it is no distance to Limoux.'

This sudden display of piety will convince no one,' said Pelletier, with
a sudden flash of humour, least of all your husband.'

Simeon shook his finger. 'It is an excellent idea, Bertrand. No one
would challenge such a pilgrimage at this time. Besides, Alais is the
daughter of the steward of Carcassona. No one would dare challenge her
intentions.'

Pelletier shifted in his chair, his face stubborn and set. 'I am still of the
opinion that the Trilogy is best protected here, within the Ciutat. Harif
cannot be as aware of the current situation as we are. Carcassona will not
be taken.'

'All cities, however strong, however indomitable, can fall. You know
this. The Navigataires instructions are to deliver the books to him in the
mountains.' He fixed Pelletier with his black eyes. 'I understand you do
not feel you can abandon Viscount Trencavel at this time. You have said
so and we accept it. It is your conscience that speaks to you, for good or ill.' He paused. 'However, if not you, then another must go in your place.'

Alais saw how painfully her father struggled to reconcile his warring
emotions. Moved, she reached out and put her hand over his. He did not speak, but he did acknowledge her gesture by squeezing her fingers.

'Aquo es vostre,' she said softly. Let me do this for you.

Pelletier let a long sigh come from his lips. You put yourself in great |danger, Filha! Alais nodded. 'And yet still you wish to do this?'

'It will be an honour to serve you in this way.'

Simeon placed his hand on Pelletier's shoulder. 'She is brave, this aughter of yours. Steadfast. Like you, my old friend.'

Alai's hardly dared breathe.


'My heart counsels against this,' Pelletier said at last. 'My head speaks
otherwise, so . . .' He paused, as if dreading what he was about to say. 'If
your husband and Dame Agnes will release you - and Esclarmonde will
go as chaperone - then I give my permission.'

Alais leaned across the table and kissed her father on the lips.

"You have chosen wisely,' said Simeon, beaming.

'How many men can you spare us, Intendant Pelletier?' asked Esclarmonde.
'Four
men-at-arms, six at most.'

'And how soon can arrangements be made?'

'Inside a week,' Pelletier replied. 'To act too quickly will attract attention.
I must seek permission from Dame Agnes and you from your
husband, Alai's.' She opened her mouth to say Guilhem would hardly
notice her gone, then thought better of it. 'For this plan of yours to work, Filha, etiquette must be observed.' All indecision gone from his face and
manner, he stood to take his leave. 'Alais, return to the Chateau Comtal
and seek out Francois. Inform him of your plans, in the barest terms, and
tell him to wait upon me presently.'

'Are you not coming?'

'Presently.'

'Very well. Should I take Esclarmonde's book with me?'

Pelletier gave a wry smile. 'Since Esclarmonde is to accompany you,
Alais, I feel sure the book will be safe with her a while longer.'

'I didn't mean to suggest . . .'

Pelletier patted the pouch beneath his cloak. 'Simeon's book, however.'
He reached beneath his cloak and withdrew the sheepskin chemise Alai's
had seen briefly in Besiers as Simeon handed it over. Take it to the
Chateau. Sew it into your travelling cloak. I will fetch the Book of Words by and by.'

Alais took the book and put it into her purse, then raised her eyes to
her father. 'Thank you, Paire, for putting your faith in me.'

Pelletier blushed. Sajhe scrambled to his feet. 'I'll make sure Dame
Alais gets home safely,' he said. Everybody laughed.

'Mind you do, gentilome,' said Pelletier, slapping him on the back. 'All
our hopes rest on her shoulders.'


'I see your qualities in her,' said Simeon as they walked towards the gates
that led out of Sant-Miquel to the Jewish suburb beyond. 'She's courageous,
stubborn, loyal. She does not give in easily. Is your eldest daughter as
much like you?'


'Oriane favours her mother,' he said shortly. 'She has Marguerite's
looks and temperament.'

'It often happens like that. Sometimes the child is a good match to one
parent, sometimes the other.' He paused. 'She is married to Viscount
Trencavel's escrivati?

Pelletier sighed. 'It is not a happy marriage. Congost is not young and
is intolerant of her ways. But for all that, he is a man of position within
the household.'

They walked a few steps more in silence. 'If she favours Marguerite, she
must be beautiful.'

'Oriane has charm and a grace that draws the eye. Many men would
court her. Some make no secret of it.'

"Your daughters must be of great comfort to you.' Pelletier shot a glance at Simeon. 'Alai's, yes.' He hesitated. 'I dare say I am to blame, but I find Oriane's company less ... I try to be evenhanded,
but I fear there is little love lost between them.'
'A pity,' Simeon murmured.

They had arrived at the gates. Pelletier came to a halt.
'I wish I could persuade you to stay within the Ciutat. In SantMiquel at the very least. If our enemies are at hand, I will not be able to protect you outside the walls--'

Simeon put his hand on Pelletier's arm. *You worry too much, my friend. My role is over now. I gave you the book entrusted to me. The other two books are also within these walls. You have Esclarmonde and
; Alais to help you. What business would anyone have with me now?' He \ fixed his friend with his dark glittering eyes. 'My place is with my own fpeople.'

There was something in Simeon's tone that alarmed Pelletier.
'I will not accept there is anything final in this leave-taking,' he said
;ly. We'll be drinking wine together before the month is out, mark
' words.'
I? 'It's not your words I mistrust, my friend, but the swords of the

ich.'

f*By next spring I wager it will all be over. The French will have limped ic with their tails between their legs, the Count of Toulouse will be
; a new alliance, and you and I will be sitting reminiscing over our tyouthby the fire.'

iftw a pas, se va luenh,' said Simeon, embracing him. 'And give my fond to Harif. Tell him I'm still waiting for that game of chess he ed me thirty years ago!'


Pelletier raised his hand in farewell as Simeon walked out through the
gates. He did not look back.

'Intendant Pelletier!'

Pelletier carried on looking into the crowd of people making their way
towards the river, but he could no longer distinguish Simeon.

'Messire!' the messenger, red-faced and breathless, repeated.

What is it?'

"You are needed at the Porte Narbonnaise, Messire. There's trouble.'


CHAPTER 45


Alais pushed open the door to her chamber and ran in.
'Guilhem?'

Even though she needed solitude and had no expectation it would be
otherwise, she still was disappointed to find the room empty.

Alais locked the door, unhooked her purse from her waist, laid it on the table and removed the book from its protective covering. It was the
size of a lady's psalter. The outer wooden boards were covered with
leather, completely plain and a little worn at the corners.

Alai's undid the leather ties and let the book fall open in her hands, like a butterfly displaying its wings. The first page was empty apart from a tiny
chalice in gold leaf in the centre, sparkling like a jewel on the heavy cream
parchment. It was no bigger than the pattern that appeared on her father's ring or the merel she'd had so briefly in her possession.

She turned the page. Four lines of black script looked up at her, written
in an ornate and elegant hand.

Around the edges were pictures and symbols, a repeated pattern like a
running stitch around the hem of a cloak. Birds, animals, figures with long arms and sharp fingers. Alai's caught her breath. These are the faces and figures of my dreams.

One by one, she turned the pages. Each was covered with lines of

I black script, with nothing on the reverse side. She recognised words of

Simeon's language, although she didn't understand it. Most of the book

was written in her own language. The first letter of each new page was

I illuminated, in red, blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise

I they were plain. No illustrations in the margins, no other letters picked

ir^ut within the body of the text and the words following on one from the

|other with few gaps or indications to show where one thought ended and

^tnother began.

[; Alais reached the parchment concealed in the centre of the book. It was er and darker than the pages surrounding it, goatskin rather than I Vellum. Rather than symbols or illustrations, there were only a few words,


accompanied by rows of numbers and measurements. It looked like some
sort of a map.

She could just pick out tiny arrows pointing in different directions. A
few of them were gold, but mostly they were black.

Alais tried reading the page from the top from left to right, but that
didn't make sense and she came to a dead end. Next she tried deciphering
the page from bottom to top, right to left, like a stained-glass window in a
church, but that didn't make sense either. Finally she read alternate lines
or picked out words from every third line, but still understood nothing.

Look beyond the visible images to the secrets concealed beneath.

She thought hard. To each guardian according to their skills and knowledge.
Esclarmonde had her ability to heal and cure, so to her Harif had
entrusted the Book of Potions. Simeon was a scholar of an ancient Jewish
system of numbers, to him the Book of Numbers.

What had led Harif to choose her father as the guardian of the Book of Words}

Deep in thought, Alais lit the lamp and went to her nightstand. She
took out some parchment, ink and a quill. Pelletier had been determined
his daughters should be taught to read and write, having learned the value
of these things in the Holy Land. Oriane cared only for accomplishments
appropriate to a lady of the household - dancing, singing, falconry and
embroidery. Writing was, as she never stopped staying, for old men and
priests. Alais, however, had grasped the opportunity with both hands. She
had been quick to learn and, although there were few opportunities for
her to use her skills, she held them close to her.

Alai's spread her writing materials on the table. She didn't understand
the parchment, nor could she hope to replicate the exquisite workmanship,
colours and style. But she could at least make a copy while she had
the chance.

It took her some time, but at last she was finished and laid the
parchment copy on the table to dry. Then, aware of how her father
might return to the Chateau Comtal at any moment with the Book of
Words, Alais quickly turned her attention to concealing the book as her
father had suggested.

Her favourite red cloak was no good. The material was too delicate and
the hem bulged. Instead she picked a heavy brown cloak. It was a winter
garment, intended to be worn for hunting, but that couldn't be helped.
With expert fingers, Alai's unpicked the passementerie at the front until
she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze the book inside. Next, she
took the thread Sajhe had brought her from the market, which exactly


matched the colour of the material, and sewed the book in place at the
back, secure.

Alais held the cloak up and swung it over her shoulders. It was uneven
at present but, once she had her father's book too, it would be better balanced.

She had only one more task to accomplish. Leaving the cloak draped
over the chair, Alais went back to the table to see if the ink was dry.
Mindful that she could be interrupted at any moment, she folded the
parchment and slipped it inside a lavender posy. She stitched the opening
shut, so that no one could come upon it by accident, then placed it back
under her pillow.

Alais looked around, satisfied with what she had accomplished, and
started to clear up her sewing materials.


There was a knock at the door. Alais rushed to open it, expecting to see
her father. Instead, she found Guilhem standing on the threshold, unsure
of his welcome. The familiar half smile, the little boy lost eyes.

'May I come in, Dame?' he asked softly.

Her instinct was to throw her arms about him. Caution held her back.
Too much had been said. Too little forgiven.

'May I?'

'It is your chamber also,' she said lightly. 'I would not deny you
admittance.'

'So formal,' he said, closing the door behind him. 'I would that pleasure
not duty made you answer thus.'

'I am . . .' she hesitated, thrown off balance by the intense longing
sweeping through her. 'I am happy to see you, Messire.'

*You look tired,' he said, reaching to touch her face.

How easy it would be to give in. To give all of herself to him.

She closed her eyes, almost feeling his fingers moving over her skin. A
caress, as light as a whisper and as natural as breathing. Alais imagined
herself leaning towards him, letting him hold her up. His presence made
; her dizzy, made her feel weak.

/ cannot. Must not.

Alais forced open her eyes and took a step back. 'Don't,' she whispered.

ease don't.'

Guilhem took her hand and held it between his. Alais could see he was


[HIS.

'Soon . . . unless God intervenes, we will face them. When the time
s, Alzeu, Thierry, the others, we all will ride out. And might not return.'


'Yes/ she said softly, wishing some of the life would return to his face.

'Since our return from Besiers, I have behaved ill towards you, Alais,
without cause or justification. I'm sorry for it and have come to ask your
forgiveness. Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things
- things - that I regret.'

Alais held his gaze but, unsure of how she felt, did not trust herself to
speak.

Guilhem moved closer. 'But you are not displeased to see me.'

She smiled. 'You have been absent from me so long, Guilhem, I hardly
know what to feel.'

'Do you wish me to leave you?'

Alais felt tears spring into her eyes, which gave her the courage to stand
firm. She did not want him to see her cry.

'I think it would be best.' She reached into the neck of her dress and
pulled out a handkerchief, which she pressed into his hand. 'There is yet
time for things to be right between us.'

Time is the one thing that we do not have, little Alai's,' he said gently.
'But, unless God or the French allow it, I will come again tomorrow.'

Alais thought of the books and of the responsibility resting on her
shoulders. How soon she would be leaving. / might never see him more. Her heartstrings cracked. She hesitated, and then embraced him fiercely,
as if to imprint his outline on hers.

Then, as swiftly as she had taken him, she let him go.

We are all in God's hands,' she said. 'Now, please leave, Guilhem.'

Tomorrow?'

We will see.'

Alai's stood like a statue, hands clasped in front of her to stop them
from shaking, until the door had shut and Guilhem was gone. Then, lost
in thought, she wandered slowly back to the table, wondering what had
driven him to come. Love? Regret? Or something else?


CHAPTER 46


Simeon glanced up at the sky. Grey clouds jostled for position, obscuring
the sun. He had journeyed some distance from the Cite already, but
wanted to get back to his lodgings before the storm hit.

Once he reached the outskirts of the woods that separated the plains
outside Carcassonne from the river, he slowed his pace. He was out of
breath, too old to travel so far on foot. He leaned heavily against his staff
and loosened the neck of his robe. It was not so far now. Esther would
have a meal waiting for him, perhaps a little wine. The thought restored
him. Perhaps Bertrand was right? Perhaps it would be over by spring.

Simeon did not notice the two men who stepped out behind him on
the path. He was not aware of the raised arm, the club coming down on
his head, until he felt the blow and the darkness took him.


By the time Pelletier arrived at the Porte Narbonnaise, a crowd had
Iilready formed.

'Let me through,' he shouted, pushing everyone out of his way until he
peached the front. A man was slumped on all fours on the ground. Blood
i flowing from a cut on his forehead.

Two men-at-arms towered above him, their pikes pointed at his neck.
: man was evidently a musician. His tabor was punctured and his pipe
[ been snapped in two and tossed aside, like bones at a feast.
What in the name of Sant-Foy is going on?' Pelletier demanded.
lat is this man's offence?'

|;'He did not stop when ordered to do so,' the older of the soldiers
lied. His face was a patchwork of scars and old wounds. 'He has no
btorisation.'
pPeUetier crouched down beside the musician.

am Bertrand Pelletier, Intendant to the Viscount. What is your
ss in Carcassona?'

man's eyes flickered open. 'Intendant Pelletier?' he murmured,
ling Pelletier's arm.


'It is I. Speak, friend.'

1 Besiers es preset] Beziers is taken.

Close by, a woman stifled a cry and clasped her hand to her mouth.

Shocked to his core, Pelletier found himself on his feet again.

"You,' he commanded, 'fetch reinforcements to relieve you here and
help get this man to the Chateau. If he does not regain his speech
through your ill treatment, it will be the worse for you.' Pelletier spun to
the crowd. 'Mind my words well,' he shouted. 'No citizen is to speak of what you have witnessed here. We will know soon enough the truth of
the matter.'


When they reached the Chateau Comtal, Pelletier ordered the musician
to be taken to the kitchens to have his wounds dressed, while he went
immediately to inform Viscount Trencavel. Some little time later, fortified
by sweet wine and honey, the musician was brought to the donjon.

He was pale but in command of himself. Fearing the man's legs would
not hold him, Pelletier ordered a stool to be fetched so he could give his
testimony sitting down.

'Tell us your name, amic,' he said.

'Pierre de Murviel, Messire.'

Viscount Trencavel sat in the middle, his allies around him in a semicircle.
'Benvenguda, Pierre de Murviel,' he said. You have news for us.'

Sitting bolt upright with his hands on his knees, his face as white as
milk, he cleared his throat and began to talk. He had been born in
Beziers, although he had spent the past few years in the courts of Navarre
and Aragon. He was a musician, having learned his trade from Raimon de
Mirval himself, the finest troubadour of the Midi. It was on the strength
of this that he'd received an invitation from the Suzerain of Beziers.
Seeing an opportunity to visit his family again, he'd accepted and
returned home.

His voice was so quiet that the listeners had to strain to hear what
he was saying. 'Tell us of Besiers,' said Trencavel. 'Leave no detail unspoken.'
The
French army arrived at the walls the day before the Feast Day
of Santa Maria Magdalena and pitched camp along the left bank of
the River Orb. Closest to the river were the pilgrims and mercenaries,
beggars and unfortunates, a tattered rabble of men, bare-footed and
wearing only breeches and shirts. Further away, the colours of the
barons and the churchmen flew above their pavilions in a mass of green


and gold and red. They built flagpoles and felled trees for enclosures for
their animals.'

Who was sent to parley?'

'The Bishop of Besiers, Renaud de Montpeyroux.'
'It is said he is a traitor, Messire,' said Pelletier, leaning over and
whispering in his ear, 'that he has already taken the Cross.'

'Bishop Montpeyroux returned with a list of supposed heretics drawn
up by the Papal Legates. I don't know how many were set down on the
parchment, Messire, but hundreds certainly. The names of some of the
most influential, most wealthy, most noble citizens of Besiers were
written there, as well as followers of the new church and those who were
accused of being Bons Chretiens. If the Consuls would hand over the
heretics, then Besiers would be spared. If not . . .' He left the words
hanging.

What answer gave the consuls?' said Pelletier. It was the first indication
of whether or not the alliance would hold against the French.

That they would rather be drowned in the salt sea's brine than
surrender or betray their fellow citizens.'
Trencavel gave the slightest sigh.

The Bishop withdrew from the city, taking with him a small number
of Catholic priests. The commander of our garrison, Bernard de Servian,
: began to organise the defences.'

He stopped and swallowed hard. Even Congost, bent over his parchjjjllftent,
stopped and looked up.

The morning of July the twenty-second dawned quietly enough. It was
t, even at first light. A handful of Crusaders, camp followers, not even
Dldiers, went to the river, immediately below the fortifications to the
nth of the city. They were observed from the walls. Insults were traded.
)ne of the routiers walked on to the bridge, swaggering, swearing. It
inflamed our young men on the walls, they armed themselves with
Bars, clubs, even a makeshift drum and banner. Determined to teach the
nch a lesson, they threw open the gate and charged down the slope
jre anyone knew what was happening, shouting at the tops of their
and attacked the man. It was over in moments. They threw the
"'s dead body off the bridge into the river.'
letier glanced at Viscount Trencavel. His face was white.
Prom the walls, the townspeople screamed at the boys to come back,
they were too dizzied with confidence to listen. The noise of the t\ drew the attention of the captain of the mercenaries, the Roi as his
i call him. Seeing the gate standing open, he gave the order to attack.


At last the youths realised the danger, but it was too late. The routiers slaughtered them where they stood. The few that made it back tried to
secure the gate, but the routiers were too quick, too well armed. They
forced their way through and held it open.

"Within moments, French soldiers were hammering at the walls, armed
with picks and mattocks and scaling ladders. Bernard de Servian did his
best to defend the ramparts and hold the keep, but everything happened
too quickly. The mercenaries held the gate.

'Once the Crusaders were inside, the massacre began. There were bodies
everywhere, dead and mutilated; we were in blood knee-deep. Children
were cut from their mothers' arms and skewered on the points of pikes and
swords. Heads were severed from limbs and mounted on the walls for the
crows to pick clean, so it seemed that a line of bloody gargoyles, fashioned
from flesh and bone, not stone, gaped down on our defeat. They butchered
all who they came upon, without regard to age or sex.'

Viscount Trencavel could remain silent no longer. 'But how came it
that the Legates or the French barons did not stop this carnage? Did they
not know of it?'

Du Murviel raised his head. They knew, Messire.'

'But a massacre of innocent people goes against all honour, all convention
in war,' said Pierre-Roger de Cabaret. 'I cannot believe that the
Abbot of Citeaux, for all his zeal and hatred of heresy, would sanction the
slaughter of Christian women and children, in a state of sin?'

'It is said that the Abbot was asked how he should tell the good
Catholics from the heretics: "Tuez-ks tons. Dieu reconnaitra les siens",' said du Murviel in a hollow voice. ' "Kill them all. God will recognise his
own." Or so it is rumoured that he spoke.'

Trencavel and de Cabaret exchanged glances.

'Go on,' ordered Pelletier grimly. 'Finish your story.'

The great bells of Besiers were ringing the alarum. Women and
children crowded into the Church of Sant-Jude and the Church of
Santa Maria Magdalena in the upper town, thousands of people crammed
inside like animals in a pen. The Catholic priests vested themselves and
sang the Requiem, but the Crusaders broke down the door and slaughtered
them all.'

His voice faltered. 'In the space of a few brief hours, our entire city had
been turned into a charnel house. The looting started. All our fine houses
were stripped bare by greed and barbarity. Only now did the French
barons, through greed not conscience, seek to control the routiers. They,
in turn, were furious to be deprived of the spoils they had earned, so set


the town alight so none could benefit. The wooden dwellings of the slums
went up like a tinderbox. The roof timbers of the Cathedral caught light
and collapsed, trapping all those sheltering inside. So fierce were the
flames, the Cathedral cracked down the middle.'

Tell me this, amic. How many survive?' said the Viscount.
The musician dropped his head. 'None, Messire. Save those few of us
who escaped the city. Otherwise, all are dead.'

'Twenty thousand slaughtered in the space of a single morning,'
Raymond-Roger muttered in horror. 'How can this be?'
Nobody answered. There were no words equal to the task.
Trencavel raised his head and looked down at the musicians.
Tou have seen sights that no man should see, Pierre du Murviel. You
have shown great bravery and courage in bringing this news to us.
Carcassona is in your debt and I will see you are well rewarded.' He
paused. 'Before you take your leave, I would ask you one further question.
Did my uncle, Raymond, Count of Toulouse, take part in the sack of the
city?'

'I do not believe so, Messire. It was rumoured he remained in the
French camp.'

Trencavel glanced at Pelletier. 'That, at least, is something.'
'And as you travelled to Carcassona, did you pass anyone on the road?'
f Pelletier asked. 'Has the news of this massacre spread?'

1 know not, Messire. I stayed away from the main routes, following the
[ passes through the gorges of Lagrasse. But I saw no soldiers.'
I. Viscount Trencavel looked to his consuls in case they had questions to

, but no one spoke.
: 'Very well,' he said, turning back to the musician. Tfou may take your

i. Once more, our thanks.'

it As soon as du Murviel had been led away, Trencavel turned to Pelletier.
jrWhy have we received no word? It beggars belief we should not have
I whisperings at least. Four days have passed since the massacre.' :du Murviel's tale is true, then who is left to carry the news?' said de

: grimly.

Evtn so,' said Trencavel, dismissing the comment with a wave of his
I. 'Send out fresh riders immediately, as many as we can spare. We know if the Host remains yet at Besiers or already marches east. ' victory will give speed to their progress.'
sne bowed as he stood up.

land the consuls to publish this ill news throughout the Ciutat. I
: capela Sant-Maria. Send my wife to me there.'


Pelletier felt as if his legs were encased in armour as he climbed the stairs
to the living quarters. There seemed to be something around his chest, a
band or a ligature, stopping him from breathing freely.

Alai's was waiting for him at the door.

"You have brought the book?' she said eagerly. The look on his face
stopped her in her tracks. What is it? Has something happened?'

'I have not been to Sant-Nasari, Filha. There has been news.' Pelletier
sat heavily down in a chair.

"What manner of news?' He heard the dread in her voice.

'Besiers has fallen,' he said. 'Three, four days ago. None survive.'

Alais stumbled to the bench. 'All dead?' she said, horrorstruck.
Women and children also?'

We stand now on the very edge of perdition,' he said. 'If they are
capable of visiting such atrocities on innocent . . .'

She sat down beside him. What will happen now?' she said.

For the first time he could remember, Pelletier heard fear in his
daughter's voice. We can only wait and see,' he said.

He sensed rather than heard her draw breath.

'But this makes no difference to what we agreed,' she said carefully.
You will allow me to take the Trilogy to safety.'

'The situation has changed.'

A look of fierce determination came over her. With respect, Paire, there is even more reason to let us go. If we don't, the books will be
trapped within the Ciutat. That cannot be what you want.' She paused.
He made no answer. 'After everything you and Simeon and Esclarmonde
have sacrificed, all the years of hiding, keeping the books safe, only to fail
at the last.'

What happened in Besiers will not happen here,' he said firmly.
'Carcassona can withstand siege. It will withstand. The books will be
safer kept here.'

Alai's stretched across the table and took his hand.

'I beseech you, do not go back on your word.'

'Artist, Alai's,' he said sharply. We do not know where the army is.
Already, the tragedy that has befallen Besiers is old news. Several days
have passed since these events took place, even though they are fresh to
us. An advance guard might already be within striking distance of the Ciutat. If I let you go, I would be signing your death warrant.'

'But--'

'I forbid it. It is too dangerous.'


'I am prepared to take the risk.'

'No, Alais,' he shouted, fear fuelling his temper. 'I will not sacrifice you.
The duty is mine, not yours.'

'Then come with me,' she cried. 'Tonight. Let's take the books and go,
now, while still there is the chance.'

'It is too dangerous,' he repeated stubbornly.

'Do you think I do not know that? Yes, it may be that our journey will
end at the point of a French sword. But surely it is better to die in the
trying, than let fear of what may come to pass take our courage from us?'

To her surprise, frustration also, he smiled. "Your spirit does you credit, Filha,' he said, although he sounded defeated. 'But the books stay within
the Ciutat'

Alai's stared at him aghast, then turned and ran out of the room.


CHAPTER 47
Besiers


For two days after their unexpected victory at Beziers, the Crusaders
remained in the fertile meadows and abundant countryside surrounding
the city. To have taken such a prize with so few casualties was a miracle.
God could have given no clearer a sign of the justness of their cause.

Above them were the smoking ruins of the once great city. Fragments
of grey ash spiralled up into the incongruous blue of the summer skies and
were scattered by the winds over the defeated land. From time to time,
the unmistakeable sound of crumpling masonry and brittle, broken
timbers could be heard.

The following morning, the Host struck camp and headed south across
open country towards the Roman city of Narbonne. At the front of the
column of men was the Abbot of Citeaux, flanked by the Papal Legates,
his temporal authority strengthened by the devastating defeat of the city
that had dared to harbour heresy. Every cross of white or gold seemed to
shimmer like the finest cloth upon the backs of God's warriors. Every
crucifix seemed to catch the rays of the brilliant sun.

The conquering army wound its way like a snake through the landscape
of saltpans, stagnant pools and extensive tracts of yellow scrub, whipped
by the fierce winds that blew off the Golfe du Lion. Vines grew wild
along the roadsides, as well as olive and almond trees.

The French soldiers, untried and unused to the extreme climate of the
south, had never seen terrain like it. They crossed themselves, seeing it as
proof that they had indeed entered a land abandoned by God.


A deputation led by the Archbishop of Narbonne and the Viscount of the
city met the Crusaders at Capestang on the twenty-fifth of July.

Narbonne was a rich trading port on the Mediterranean Sea, although
the heart of the city was some distance inland. With rumours of the
horrors inflicted upon Beziers fresh in their minds - and hoping to save


Narbonne from the same fate - both church and state were prepared to
sacrifice their independence and honour. In front of witnesses, the Bishop
of Narbonne and the Viscount of Narbonne knelt before the Abbot and
made full and complete submission to the Church. They agreed to deliver
all known heretics to the Legates, to confiscate all property owned by
Cathars and Jews, even to pay a tax on their possessions to subsidise the
Crusade.

Within hours, terms had been ratified. Narbonne would be spared.
Never had a war chest been won, so easily.

If the Abbot and his Legates were surprised at the speed with which
the Narbonnais relinquished their birthright, they did not show it. If the
men who marched beneath the vermilion colours of the Count of
Toulouse were embarrassed by the lack of courage of their countrymen,
they did not voice it.

The order was given to change course. They would stay outside
Narbonne for the night, then head for Olonzac in the morning. After
that, it was but a few days' march to Carcassonne itself.


The following day, the fortified hilltop town of Azille surrendered,
throwing its gates open wide to the invaders. Several families denounced
jUm heretics were burned on a pyre hastily constructed in the central
i-Baarketplace. The black smoke wound through the narrow, steep streets
slipped over the thick walls of the town to the flat countryside Mid.

One by one, the small chateaux and villages surrendered without a 3rd being raised. The neighbouring town of La Redorte followed
le's example, as did most of the hamlets and dusters of tiny dwellings
i between. Other places fortes they found deserted. The Host helped themselves to what they wanted from the bursting
ties and well-stocked fruit stores and moved on. What little resist
the army did encounter was met with violent and swift reprisals,
ly, the savage reputation of the army spread, like a malignant
dw stretching out black before them. Little by little, the ancient
between the people of the eastern Languedoc and the Trencavel r was broken.


\ the eve of the Feast Day of Sant-Nasari, a week after their victory at
s, the advance guard reached Trebes, two days ahead of the main


ring the course of the afternoon, it grew steadily more humid. The


hazy afternoon light gave way to a glowering grey. A few rumbles of thunder growled in the sky, followed by a violent crack of lightning. As
the Crusaders rode through the gates of the town, left unguarded and open, the first drops of rain began to fall.

The streets were eerily deserted. Everyone had disappeared, stolen
away like wraiths or spirits. The sky was an endless expanse of black and
purple, as bruised clouds scudded across the horizon. When the storm hit,
sweeping across the plains surrounding the town, the thunder cracked
and roared overhead as if the heavens themselves were disintegrating.

The horses slithered and slipped on the cobbled stones. Each alleyway,
every passage, became a river. The rain pounded ferociously on shield and
helmet. Rats scurried to the steps to the church, seeking refuge from the
swirling torrents. The tower was hit by lightning, but did not burn.

Soldiers from the north fell to their knees, crossing themselves and
praying that God would spare them. The flat lands around Chartres, the
fields of Burgundy or the wooded countryside of Champagne offered
nothing so extreme.

As quickly as it had struck, like a lumbering beast, the storm passed on.
The air became fresh and pleasant. The Crusaders heard the bells in the
nearby monastery start to ring out in thanks for their safe deliverance.
Taking it as a sign the worst was over, they emerged from the trees and
set to work. The squires searched for safe grazing for the horses. Servants
began to unpack their masters' belongings and went in search of dry
kindling to lay the fires.

Gradually, the camp took shape.

Dusk fell. The sky was a patchwork of pinks and purples. As the final
wisps of trailing white cloud drifted away, the northerners got their first
glimpse of the towers and turrets of Carcassonne, revealed suddenly on
the horizon.

The Cite seemed to rise out of the land itself, a stone fortress in the sky
looking down in grandeur upon the world of men. Nothing they had
heard had prepared the Crusaders for this first sight of the place they had
come to conquer. Words did not begin to do justice to its splendour.

It was magnificent, dominant. Impregnable.


CHAPTER 48


When he came to his senses, Simeon was no longer in the wood, but in
some sort of byre. He had a memory of travelling, a long way. His ribs were sore from the motion of the horse.

The smell was terrible, a mixture of sweat, goat, damp straw and something
he could not quite identify: a sickliness, like decaying flowers. There were several harnesses hanging from the wall and a pitchfork propped up
in the corner closest to the door, which came no higher than a man's
shoulder. On the wall opposite the door were five or six metal rings for 'tethering animals.

Simeon glanced down. The hood they'd put over his head was lying I'fMEXt to him on the ground. His hands were still tied, as were his feet.
Coughing and trying to spit the coarse threads of the material out of
mouth, he levered himself up into a sitting position. Feeling bruised
stiff, Simeon slowly shuffled backwards on the ground until he
tied the door. It took some time, but the relief of feeling something
against his shoulders and back was immense. Patiently, he pushed
fto his feet, his head nearly hitting the roof. He banged against the
r. The wood groaned and strained, but it was barred from the outside
I would not open.

leon had no idea where he was, still close to Carcassonne or further
He had half memories of being carried on horseback through the then over flat land. From the little he knew of the terrain, he
. that meant they were somewhere around Trebes.
i could see a slither of light under the small gap at the bottom of the a dark blue, but not yet the pitch black of night. When he pressed
' to the ground, he could hear the murmur of his captors dose by. were waiting for someone to arrive. The thought chilled him;
e, although he barely needed it, that this was no random ambush.
>n shuffled his way back to the far side of the byre. Over time, he slumping sideways and jerking awake, then sliding into sleep


The sound of someone shouting brought him to his senses. Immediately,
every nerve in his body was alert. He heard the sound of men
scrambling to their feet, then a thud as the heavy wooden bar securing the
door was removed.

Three shadowy figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against
the bright sunlight beyond. Simeon blinked, unable to see much.

'Oil est-UT Where is he?

It was an educated northern voice, cold and peremptory. There was a
pause. The torch was held higher, picking out Simeon where he stood
blinking in the shadows. 'Bring him to me.'

Simeon barely had time to recognise the leader of the ambush, when
he was grabbed by the arms and thrown on his knees in front of the
Frenchman.

Slowly, Simeon raised his eyes. The man had a cruel, thin face and
expressionless eyes the colour of flint. His tunic and trousers were of good
quality, cut in the northern style, although they gave no indication of his
status or position.

"Where is it?' he demanded.

Simeon raised his head. 'I don't understand,' he replied in Yiddish.

The kick took him by surprise. He felt a rib snap and he fell backwards,
his legs buckling under him. Simeon felt rough hands beneath his armpits
propping him back in position.

'I know who you are, Jew,' he said. 'There is no sense in playing this
game with me. I will ask you once again. Where is the book?'

Simeon raised his head once more and said nothing.

This time, the man went for his face. Pain exploded inside his head as
his mouth split open and teeth cracked in his jaw. Simeon could taste
blood and saliva, stinging, on his tongue and throat.

'I have pursued you like an animal, Jew,' he said, 'all the way from
Chartres, to Beziers, to here. Tracked you down, like an animal. You
have wasted a great deal of my time. My patience is growing thin.'
He took a step closer so that Simeon could see the hate in his grey,
dead eyes. 'Once more: where is the book? Did you give it to Pelletier? Cat fat'

Two thoughts came simultaneously into Simeon's mind. First, that he
could not save himself. Second, that he must protect his friends. He still
had that power. His eyes were swollen shut and blood pooled in the torn
hollows of his lids.

'I have the right to know the name of my accuser,' he said through a
mouth too broken for speech. 'I would pray for you.'


The man's eyes narrowed. 'Make no mistake, you will tell me where
you have hidden the book.'

He jerked his head.

Simeon was hauled to his feet. They ripped the clothes from him and
threw him flat over a cart, one man holding his hands, the other his legs
to expose his back. Simeon heard the sharp crack of the leather in the air
just before the buckle connected with his bare skin. His body jerked in
agony. 'Where is it?' Simeon closed his eyes as the belt whipped down
again through the air. 'Is it in Carcassonne already? Or do you still have it with you, Jew?' He was shouting in time with the stroke. "You will tell
me. You. Or them.'

Blood was flowing from the lacerations on his back. Simeon began to
pray in the custom of his fathers, ancient, holy words thrown out into the
darkness, keeping his mind from the pain.

'On -- est -- le -- RvreT the man insisted, another strike for every word.

It was the last thing Simeon heard before the darkness reached out and
took him.


CHAPTER 49


The Crusade's advance guard arrived within sight of Carcassonne on the
Feast Day of Sant-Nasari, following the road from Trebes. The guards at
the Tour Pinte lit the fires. The alarum bells were rung.

By the evening of the first of August, the French camp on the far side
of the river had grown until there was a rival city of tents and pavilions,
banners and golden crosses glittering in the sun. Barons from the north,
Gascon mercenaries, soldiers from Chartres and Burgundy and Paris,
sappers, longbowmen archers, priests, camp followers.

At Vespers, Viscount Trencavel ascended the ramparts, accompanied
by Pierre-Roger de Cabaret, Bertrand Pelletier and one or two others. In
the distance, trails of smoke spiralled up into the air. The river was a
ribbon of silver.

'There are so very many.'

'No more than we expected, Messire,' replied Pelletier.

'How long, think you, before the main army arrives?'

'It's hard to be sure,' he replied. 'So large a righting force will travel
slowly. The heat will hinder them too.'

'Hinder them, yes,' said Trencavel. 'Stop them, no.'

We're ready for them, Messire. The Ciutat is well stocked. The hourds are completed to protect the walls from their sappers; all broken sections
or points of weakness have been repaired and blocked; all the towers are
manned.' Pelletier waved his hand. 'The hawsers holding the mills in
place in the river have been cut and the crops burned. The French will
find little to sustain them here.'

His eyes flashing, Trencavel suddenly turned to de Cabaret.

'Let's saddle our horses and make a sortie. Before night arrives and the
sun sets, let's take four hundred of our best men, those most skilled with
lance, and with sword, and chase the French from our slopes. They will
not expect us to take the battle to them. What say you?'

Pelletier sympathised with his desire to strike first. He also knew it
would be an act of supreme folly.


There are battalions on the plains, Messire, routiers, small contingents
from the advance party.'

Pierre-Roger de Cabaret added his voice. 'Do not sacrifice your men,
Raymond.'

'But if we could strike the first blow . . .'

We have prepared for siege, Messire, not open battle. The garrison is
strong. The bravest, most experienced chevaliers are here, waiting for their
chance to prove themselves.'

'But?' Trencavel sighed.

"You would be sacrificing them for no gain,' he said firmly.

"Your people trust you, they love you,' Pelletier said. 'They will lay
down their lives for you if need be. But, we should wait. Let them bring
the battle to us.'

'I fear it is my pride that has brought us to this place,' he said in a low
voice. 'Somehow, I did not expect it to come to this, so soon.' He smiled.
'Do you remember how my mother used to fill the Chateau with singing
and dancing, Bertrand? All the greatest troubadours and jongleurs
came to play for her. Aimeric de Pegulham, Arnaut de Carcasses, even
Guilhem Fabre and Bernat Alanham from Narbonne. We were always
feasting, celebrating.'

'I have heard it was the finest court in the Pays d'Oc' He put his hand
on his master's shoulder. 'And will be again.'

The bells fell silent. All eyes were on Viscount Trencavel.

When he spoke, Pelletier was proud to hear all trace of self-doubt iyns gone from his lord's voice. He was no longer a boy remembering his
i childhood, but a captain on the eve of battle.

'Order the posterns to be closed and the gates to be barred, Bertrand,
.id summon the commander of the garrison to the donjon. We will be

iy for the French when they come.'

'Perhaps also send reinforcements to Sant-Vicens, Messire,' suggested

i Cabaret. When the Host attacks, they will start there. And we cannot

3rd to relinquish our access to the river.'

Trencavel nodded.


letier lingered a while after the others had gone, looking out over the

as if to imprint its image in his mind.

To the north, the walls of Sant-Vicens were low and sparsely defended
ers. If the invaders penetrated the suburbs, they would be able to
i within bowshot of the Cite walls under the cover of the houses,
i southern suburb, Sant-Miquel, would hold longer.


It was true that the Carcassonne was ready for siege. There was plenty
of food - bread, cheese, beans - and goats for milk. But there were too
many people within the walls and Pelletier was concerned about the
supply of water. On his word, a guard was set on each of the wells and
rationing was in place.

As he walked out of the Tour Pinte into the courtyard, Pelletier found
his thoughts once more turning to Simeon. Twice he had sent Francois to
the Jewish quartier for news, but both times he had returned empty
handed and Pelletier's anxiety increased with each passing day.

He took a quick look around the courtyard and decided he could be
spared for a few hours.

He headed for the stables.


Pelletier followed the most direct route across the plains and through the
woods, very aware of the Host camped in the distance.

Although the Jewish quarter was crowded and people were on the
streets, it was unnaturally quiet and hushed. There was fear and apprehension
on every face, young and old. Soon, they knew, the fighting
would begin. As Pelletier rode through the narrow alleys, women and
children looked up at him with anxious eyes, looking for hope in his face.
He had nothing to offer them.

No one had any news of Simeon. He found his lodgings easily enough,
but the door was barred. He dismounted and knocked on the house opposite.
'I
seek a man called Simeon,' he said, when a woman came fearfully to
door. 'Do you know of whom I speak?'

She nodded. 'He came with the others from Besiers.'

'Can you remember when last you saw him?'

'A few days back, before we heard the news of Besiers, he went to
Carcassona. A man came for him.'

Pelletier frowned. 'What manner of man?'

'A high-born servant. Orange hair,' she said, wrinkling her nose.
'Simeon appeared to know him.'

Pelletier's bafflement deepened. It sounded like Francois, except how
could it be? He said he had not found Simeon.

'That was the last time I saw him.'

You are saying Simeon did not return from Carcassona?'

'If he's got any sense, he'll have stayed. He will be safer there than
here.'

'Is it possible Simeon could have come back without you seeing him?'


he said desperately. "You might have been sleeping. You might not have
noticed him return.'

'Look, Messire,' she replied, pointing to the house across the street.
"You can see for yourself. Vueg.' Empty.


CHAPTER 50


Oriane tiptoed along the corridor to her sister's chamber.

'Alais!' Guirande was sure her sister was once again with their father,
but she was cautious. 'Sorre?'

When no one answered, Oriane opened the door and stepped inside.
With the skill of a thief, she quickly began to search Alai's' possessions.
Bottles, jars and bowls, her wardrobe, drawers filled with cloth and
perfumes and sweet-smelling herbs. Oriane patted the pillows and found
a lavender posy, which didn't interest her. Then she checked over and
beneath the bed. There was nothing but dead insects and cobwebs.

As she turned back to face the room, she noticed a heavy brown hunting
cloak lying over the back of Alais' sewing chair. Her threads and needles
were spread all around. Oriane felt a spark of excitement. Why a winter
cloak at this time of year? Why was Alais mending her clothes herself?

She picked it up and immediately felt something was wrong. It was
lopsided and hung crookedly. Oriane lifted the corner and saw something
had been sewn into the hem.

Quickly, she unpicked the stitching, pushed her fingers inside and
pulled out a small, rectangular object, wrapped in a piece of linen.

She was about to investigate, when a noise in the corridor outside drew
her attention. Quick as a flash, Oriane concealed the parcel beneath her
dress and returned the cloak to the back of the chair.

A hand descended heavily on her shoulder. Oriane jumped.

"What do you think you're doing?' he said.

'Guilhem,' she gasped, clasping her hand to her chest. You startled
me.'

'What are you doing in my wife's chamber, Oriane?'

Oriane raised her chin. 'I could ask you the same question.'

In the darkening room, she saw his expression harden and knew the
dart had hit home.

'I have every right to be here, whereas you do not . . .' He glanced at
the cloak, then back to her face.


"What are you doing?'

She met his gaze. 'Nothing that concerns you.'
Guilhem kicked the door shut with his heel.
You forget yourself, Dame,' he said, grabbing her wrist.
'Don't be a fool, Guilhem,' she said in a low voice. 'Open the door. It
will go ill for both of us if someone comes and finds us together.'

'Don't play games with me, Oriane. I'm in no mood for them. I'm not
letting you go unless you tell me what you are doing here. Did he send
you here?'

Oriane looked at him with genuine confusion. 'I don't know what
you're talking about, Guilhem, on my word.'

His fingers were digging deep into her skin. 'Did you think I wouldn't
notice, <?? I saw you together, Oriane.'

: Relief flooded through her. Now she understood the reason for his temper. Provided Guilhem had not recognised her companion, she could
, turn the misunderstanding to her advantage.

'Let me go,' she said, trying to twist out of his grasp. 'If you remember, iMessire, you were the one who said we could meet no longer.' She tossed tier black hair and glared at him, eyes flashing. 'So if I choose to seek
jmfort elsewhere, how can it concern you? You have no right over me.' Who is he?'

I, Oriane thought quickly. She needed a name that would satisfy him. efore I tell you, I want you to promise that you will not do anything

;,' she pleaded, playing for time.

'At this moment, Dame, you are not in a position to set terms.' |T*hen at least let us go elsewhere, to my chamber, the courtyard,
riiere but here. If Alai's should come . . .'

3m the expression on his face, Oriane knew she had got him. His West fear now was that Alais would discovery his infidelity. fery well,' he said roughly. He flung open the door with his free hand, half pushed, half dragged her along the corridor. By the time they
; her chamber, Oriane had gathered her thoughts.

, Dame,' he commanded.

eyes fixed on the ground, Oriane confessed she had accepted the tions of a new suitor, the son of one of the Viscount's allies. He had |dmired her. Ithis the truth?' he demanded.

it is, on my life,' she whispered, glancing up at him through led lashes,
{was still suspicious, but there was a flicker of indecision in his eyes.


'This does not answer why you were in my wife's chamber.'

'Safe-guarding your reputation only,' she said. 'Returning to its rightful
place something of yours.'

What manner of thing?'

'My husband found a man's buckle in my chamber.' She made a shape
with her hands. 'About so big, fashioned from copper and silver.'

'I have lost such a buckle,' he admitted.

'Jehan was determined to identify the owner and publish his name.
Knowing it to be yours, I decided the safest thing was to return it to your
chamber.'

Guilhem was frowning. 'Why not return the buckle to me?'

"You are avoiding me, Messire,' she said softly. 'I did not know when,
even if, I would see you. Besides, if we had been noticed together, it could
have been proof of what once was between us. Judge my actions foolish.
But do not doubt the intention behind them.'

Oriane could see he was not convinced, but dared not push the matter
further. His hand went to the blade at his waist.

'If you breathe a word of this to Alai's,' he said, 'I will kill you, Oriane,
God strike me down if I don't.'

'She will not learn of it from me,' she said, then smiled. 'Unless, of
course, I find myself with no choice. I must protect myself. And,' she
paused. Guilhem drew a deep breath. 'And as it happens,' she continued,
'there is a favour I would ask of you.'

His eyes narrowed. 'And if I am not so minded?'

'All I want is to know if our father has given Alais anything of value to
keep, that's all.'

"You are asking me to spy upon my own wife,' he said, his voice rising
in disbelief. 'I will do no such thing, Oriane, and you will do nothing to upset her, is that clear?'

'I upset her. It's your fear of discovery that brings out this chivalry in
you. You're the one who betrayed her all those nights you lay with me,
Guilhem. It is only information I seek. I will learn what I want to know,
with or without your help. However, if you make it difficult . . .' She left
the threat hanging in the air.

"You wouldn't dare.'

'It would be nothing to tell Alai's everything we did together, share
with her the things you whispered to me, the gifts you gave me.
She would believe me, Guilhem. Too much of your soul shows in your
face.'


Disgusted by her, by himsplf, Guilhem threw open the door. 'Damn
you to hell, Oriane,' he said, then stormed away down the corridor.
Oriane smiled. She had snared him.


Alai's had spent all afternoon trying to find her father. No one had seen
him. She had ventured into the Cite, hoping at least to be able to talk to
Esdarmonde. But she and Sajhe were no longer in Sant-Miquel and did
not appear to have yet returned home.

In the end, exhausted and apprehensive, Alai's returned to her chamber
alone. She could not go to bed. She was too nervous, too anxious, so she
lit a lamp and sat at her table.

It was after the bells had struck one that she was woken by footsteps
outside the door. She raised her head from her arms and looked blearily in the direction of the sound.

'Rixende?' she whispered into the dark. 'Is that you?'
'No, not Rixende,' he said.
'Guilhem?'

He came into the light, smiling as if not sure of his welcome. 'Forgive me. I promised to leave you, I know, but . . . may I?'
Alais sat up.

'I have been in the chapel,' he said. 'I have prayed, but I do not think
my words flew up.'

jt". Guilhem sat down on the end of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, |she went to him. He seemed to have something on his mind.

'Here,' she whispered. 'Let me help you.'

|- She unstrapped his boots and helped him with his shoulder harness
[ belt. The leather and buckle fell with a clunk to the floor.
"What does Viscount Trencavel think will happen?' she asked.
| Guilhem lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. That the Host will
Sant-Vicens first, then Sant-Miquel, in order to be able to api
close to the walls of the Ciutat itself.'

Alais sat down beside him and smoothed his hair from his face. The
[ of his skin under her fingers made her shiver.

|*You should sleep, Messire. You will need all your strength for the battle ffiome.'

ly, he opened his eyes and smiled up at her. "You could help me


i smiled and reached over for a preparation of rosemary she kept on
r bedside table. She knelt beside him and massaged the cool lotion into I temples.


When I was looking for my father, earlier, I went to my sister's
chamber. I think there was someone with her.'

'Probably Congost,' he said sharply.

'I don't think so. He and the other scribes sleep in the Tour Pinte at
present, in case the Viscount needs them.' She paused. 'There was laughter.'
Guilhem
put his finger on her mouth to stop her. 'Enough of Oriane,'
he whispered, slipping his hands around her waist and drawing her to
him. She could taste the wine on his lips. You have the scent of camomile
and honey,' he said. He reached up and loosened her hair so it fell like a
waterfall around her face.

'Mon cor.'

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end at his touch, his skin
against hers, so startling and intimate. Slowly, carefully, not taking his
brown eyes from her face, Guilhem eased her dress from her shoulders,
then lower to her waist. Alais shifted. The material came loose and
slithered off the bed to the floor, like a winter skin no longer needed.

Guilhem lifted the bedcover to let her under and laid her down beside
him, on pillows that still held the memory of him. For a moment, they
lay,, arm to arm, side to side, her feet cold against the heat of his skin.
He bent over her. Now Alais could feel his breath, whispering over the
surface of her skin like a summer breeze. His lips dancing, his tongue
slipping, sliding over her breasts. Alais caught her breath as he took her
nipple into his mouth, licking, teasing.

Guilhem raised his head. He gave a half smile.

Then, still holding her gaze, he lowered his body into the space
between her bare legs. Alais stared at his brown eyes, unblinking and
serious.

'Mon cor,' he said again.

Gently, Guilhem eased himself inside her, little by little, until she had
taken the whole of him. For a moment he lay still, contained within her,
as if resting.

Alais felt strong, powerful, as if at this moment she could do anything,
be anyone. A hypnotic, heavy warmth was seeping through her limbs,
filling her up, devouring her senses. Her head was filled with the sound of
her blood beating. She had no sense of time or space. There was only
Guilhem and the nickering shadows of the lamp.

Slowly, he began to move.

'Alais.' The words slipped from between his lips.

She placed her hands on his back, her fingers splayed wide in the shape


of stars. She could feel the strength of him, the force in his tanned arms
and firm thighs, the soft hair on his chest brushing against her. His
tongue was darting between her lips, hot and wet and hungry.

He was breathing faster, harder, driven on by desire, by need. Alai's
held him to her as Guilhem cried out her name. He shuddered, then was
still.

Gradually, the roaring in her head faded away until nothing remained
but the hushed silence of the room.

Later, after they had talked and whispered promises in the dark, they
drifted into sleep. The oil burned away. The flame in the lamp guttered and died. Alais and Guilhem did not notice. They were not aware of the silver march of the moon across the sky, nor the purple light of dawn as it came creeping through the window. They knew nothing but each other as they lay sleeping in one another's arms, a wife and her husband, lovers once more.

Reconciled. At peace.


3*3
CHAPTER 51


THURSDAY JJULY 2OO5


Alice woke seconds before the alarm went off, to find herself sprawled
across the bed, papers strewn all about her.

The family tree was in front of her, together with her notes from the
library in Toulouse. She grinned. Quite like her student days, when she
was forever falling asleep at her desk.

She didn't feel bad on it, though. Despite the burglary last night, this
morning she felt in good spirits. Contented, happy even.

Alice stretched her arms and neck, then got up to open the shutters and
window. The sky was cut through with pale slashes of light and flat white
clouds. The slopes of the Cite were in shadow and the grassy banks
beneath the walls shimmered with early morning dew. Above the turrets
and towers, the sky was blue, like a bolt of silk. Wrens and larks sang to
one another across the rooftops. Evidence of the aftermath of the storm
was everywhere. Debris blown against railings, boxes sodden and upturned
at the back of the hotel, newspapers pooled at the foot of the street
lamps in the car park.

Alice was uneasy at the idea of leaving Carcassonne, as if the act of
departure would precipitate something. But she had to take some action
and, at this point, Chartres was her only lead to Shelagh.

It was a good day for a journey.

As she packed her papers away, she admitted she was also being
sensible. She didn't want to sit around like a victim, waiting for last
night's intruder to come back.

She explained to the receptionist that she was going out of town for a
day but to hold her room.

'You have a woman waiting to see you, Madame,' the girl said, pointing
to the lounge. 'I was about to call your room.'

'Oh?' Alice turned to look. 'Did she say what she wanted?'

The receptionist shook her head.


'OK. Thank you.'

'Also, this came for you this morning,' she added, handing over a letter.
Alice glanced at the postmark. It came from Foix yesterday. She didn't
recognise the handwriting. She was about to open it, when the woman
waiting for her approached.

'Dr Tanner?' she said. She looked nervous.

Alice put the letter in her jacket pocket to read later. "Yes?'

'I have a message for you from Audric Baillard. He wonders if you
could meet him in the cemetery?'

The woman was vaguely familiar, although Alice couldn't immediately
place her.

'Do I know you from somewhere?' she said.

The woman hesitated. 'From Daniel Delargarde,' she said in a rush. 'Notaires.'

Alice looked again. She didn't remember seeing her yesterday, but
there were a lot of people in the central office.

'Monsieur Baillard is waiting for you at the Giraud-Biau tomb.'

'Really?' said Alice. Why didn't he come himself?'

'I have to go now.'

Then the woman turned tail and disappeared, leaving Alice staring
after her, baffled. She turned to the receptionist, who shrugged.

Alice glanced at her watch. She was keen to get going. She'd got a long
drive ahead of her. On the other hand, ten minutes wasn't going to make
any difference.

'A demainl she said to the receptionist, but she'd already gone back to
whatever it was she was doing.

Alice detoured via the car to leave her rucksack, then, vaguely irritated, she hurried across the road to the cemetery.


The atmosphere changed the moment Alice walked through the high metal gates. The early morning bustle of the Cite awaking was replaced day stillness.

There was a low, whitewashed building on her right. Outside a row of
and green plastic watering cans hung on hooks. Alice peered in
sugh the window and saw an old jacket slung over the back of a chair
id a newspaper open on the table, as if someone had only just left. Alice walked slowly up the central aisle, feeling suddenly on edge. She
the atmosphere oppressive. Grey sculpted headstones, white porin
cameos and black granite inscriptions marking birth and death, ing places bought by local families a perpetuite to mark their passing.


Photographs of those who had died young jostled for space beside the
features of the old. At the base of many of the tombs were flowers, some
real and dying, others fashioned from silk or plastic or porcelain.

Following the directions Karen Fleury had given her, Alice found the
Giraud-Biau grave easily enough. It was a large flat tomb at the top of the
central aisle overlooked by a stone angel with open arms and furled wings.

She glanced around. There was no sign of Baillard.

Alice traced her fingers across the surface. Here lay most of Jeanne
Giraud's family, a woman she knew nothing about other than she was a
link between Audric Baillard and Grace. Only now, as she stood staring
at the chiselled names of one family, did Alice realise how very unusual it
was that space had been found her for her aunt.

A noise in one of the cross aisles caught her attention. She looked
around, expecting to see the elderly man of the photograph making her
way towards her.

'Dr Tanner?'

There were two men, both wearing light summer suits, both dark
haired and with their eyes obscured by sunglasses.

Yes?'

The shorter of the two flashed a badge at her.

'Police. We have a few questions we need to ask you.'

Alice's stomach lurched. 'Concerning what?'

'It won't take long, Madame.'

'I'd like to see some ID.'

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a card. She had no idea
if it was authentic or not. But the gun in the holster underneath the jacket
looked real enough. Her pulse started to race.

Alice pretended to examine it as she cast a look around the graveyard.
There was no one about. The aisles stretched away empty in all directions.
"What
is this about?' she said again, trying to keep her voice steady.

'If you could just come with us.'

They can't do anything in broad daylight.

Too late, Alice realised why the woman who'd delivered the message
was familiar. She'd similar characteristics to the man she'd seen briefly in
her room last night. This man.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alice could see there was a flight of
concrete steps leading down to the newest section of the graveyard.
Beyond that there was a gate.

He put his hand on her arm. 'Maintenant, Dr Tan--'


Alice launched herself forward, like a sprinter out of the blocks, taking
them by surprise. They were slow to react. A shout went up, but she was
already down the steps and running through the gate, out into the
Chemin des Anglais.

A car phut-putting up the hill slammed on its brakes. Alice didn't stop.
She hurled herself over a rickety wooden farm gate and tore through the
rows of vines, stumbling on the furrowed earth. She could feel the men at
her back, gaining on her. Blood pounded in her ears, the muscles in her
legs were pulled tight as piano strings, but she kept going.

At the bottom of the field was a tight-meshed wire fence, too high to
jump. Alice looked round in panic, then spotted a gap in the far corner.
Throwing herself to the ground, she crawled along the earth on her belly,
feeling the sharp rocks and stones digging into her palms and knees. She
slithered under the wire, the frayed edges catching on her jacket, holding
her as fast as a fly in a spider's web. She pulled and with a superhuman
effort, yanked herself free, leaving a scrap of blue denim on the wire.

She found herself in a market garden, filled with long rows of tall bamboo
frames supporting aubergines, courgettes and runner beans, which
shielded her. Keeping her head down, Alice zigzagged through the allotments, heading for the shelter of the outbuildings. A huge mastiff on a heavy metal chain lunged at her as she rounded the corner, barking
ferociously and snapping its vicious jaws. She stifled a scream and jumped back.

The main entrance to the farm led straight out on to the busy main road at the bottom of the hill. Once she was on the pavement, she allowed herself a glance over her shoulder. Empty, silent space stretched behind her. They'd stopped following.

Alice put her hands on her knees and doubled over, panting with exertion and relief, waiting for the shaking in her arms and legs to stop. Already, her mind was starting to click into motion.

What are you going to do f The men would go back to the hotel and wait I for her there. She couldn't go back there. She felt in her pocket and was I'felieved to find she hadn't lost the car keys in her panic to get away. Her ffucksack was squashed under the front seat.

You must call Noubel.

She could picture the scrap of paper with Noubel's number in her sack under the seat of the car with everything in it. Alice brushed

self down. Her jeans were covered in dirt and ripped on one knee. Her chance was to go back to the car and pray they weren't waiting for

there.


Alice walked fast along rue Barbarcane, keeping her head down every
time a car went past. She passed the church, then took a shortcut down a
small road to the right called rue de la Gaffe.

Who'd sent them?

She walked quickly, keeping to the shadows. It was hard to tell where
one house ended and the next began. Alice felt a sudden prickling at the
back of her neck. She stopped, glanced to her right at the pretty house
with yellow walls, expecting to see someone watching her from the
doorway. But the door was firmly shut and the shutters locked. After a
moment's hesitation, Alice continued.

Should she change her mind about Chartres?

If anything, Alice realised that having confirmation she was in danger that
it wasn't just her imagination - strengthened her resolve. As she
thought about it, she became more certain Authie was behind what was
going on. He believed she'd stolen the ring. He was clearly determined to
get it back.

CallNoubel.

Again, she ignored her own advice. So far, the Inspector had done
nothing. A policeman was dead, Shelagh was missing. Better to rely on
no one but herself.

Alice had arrived at the steps that connected rue Trivalle to the back of
the car park, reasoning that if they were waiting for her, they were more
likely to be at the main entrance.

The steps were steep and there was a high wall on this side of the area,
which stopped her from being able to see in but gave a dear view to
anyone looking down from above. If they were there, she wouldn't know
it until it was too late.

Only one way to find out.

Alice took a deep breath and ran up the steps, her legs powered by the
adrenalin racing through her veins. At the top, she stopped and looked
around. There were a couple of coaches and cars, but very few people
about.

The car was sitting where she'd left it. She picked her way between
the lines of parked cars, keeping low. Her hands were shaking as she
slid into the front seat. She was still expecting the men to loom up in
front of her. She could still hear their voices, shouting, in her head. The
moment she was in, she locked the doors and rammed the key into the
ignition.

Her eyes darting in all directions, hands white on the steering wheel,
Alice waited until a camper van was pulling away and the attendant raised


the barrier. She accelerated and shot across the tarmac, too fast, aiming
straight for the exit. The attendant shouted and leaped back, but Alice
took no notice.
She kept driving.


CHAPTER 52


Audric Baillard stood on the railway station platform at Foix with Jeanne,
waiting for the Andorra train.

'Ten minutes,' Jeanne said, glancing at her watch. 'It's not too late. You
could change your mind and come with me?'

He smiled at her persistence. "You know I cannot.'

She waved her hand impatiently. 'You've devoted thirty years to telling
their story, Audric. Ala'is, her sister, her father, her husband - you have
spent your life in their company.' Her voice softened. 'But what of the living?'

'Their life is my life, Jeanne,' he said with a quiet dignity. "Words are
our only weapons against the lies of history. We must bear witness to the truth. If we do not, those we love die twice over.' He paused. 'I will not
find peace until I know how it ended.'

'After eight hundred years? The truth might be buried too deep.'
Jeanne hesitated. 'And perhaps it is better that way. Some secrets are
better for remaining hidden.'

Baillard was looking ahead at the mountains. 'I regret the sorrow I have
brought into your life, you know that.'

'That's not what I meant, Audric.'

'But to discover the truth and set it down,' he continued, as if she had
not spoken. 'It is that I live for, Jeanne.'

'Truth! But what about those you fight, Audric? What are they seeking?
The truth? I doubt it.'

'No,' he admitted in the end. 'I do not think that is their purpose.'

'Then what?' she said, impatient. 'I am going, as you advised me to do.
What possible harm can it do to tell me now?'

Still he hesitated.

Jeanne persisted. 'Are the Noublesso Veritable and the Noublesso de los Seres but different names for the same organisation?'

'No,' the word escaped from his lips more severely than he'd intended.
'No.'


33
Well then?'

Audric sighed. 'The Noublesso de los Seres were the appointed guardians
of the Grail parchments. For thousands of years they fulfilled this role.
Until, indeed, the parchments were separated.' He paused, choosing his
words with care. 'The Noublesso Veritable, on the other hand, was formed
only one hundred and fifty years ago, when the lost language of the
parchments began to be understood once more. The name Veritable meaning
true or real guardians - was a deliberate attempt to give validity
to the organisation.'

'So the Noublesso de los Seres no longer exists?'

Audric shook his head. 'Once the Trilogy was separated the reason for
the guardians' existence was gone.'

Jeanne frowned. 'But did they not attempt to regain the lost parchments?'
'At
first, yes,' he admitted, 'but they failed. In time, it became more
foolhardy to continue, for fear of sacrificing the one remaining parchment
for the sake of regaining the other two. Since the ability to read the texts
was lost by all, the secret could not be revealed. Only one person . . .'
Baillard faltered. He felt Jeanne's eyes on him. 'The one person with the
knowledge to read the parchments chose not to pass on his learning.'

What changed?'

'For hundreds of years, nothing. Then in 1798 the Emperor Napoleon
sailed for Egypt, taking savants and scholars with him as well as soldiers.
They discovered there the remains of the ancient civilisations that had
ruled those lands thousands of years ago. Hundreds of artefacts, sacred
tables, stones, were brought back to France. From that moment on, it was
only a matter of time before the ancient languages - demotic, cuneiform,
hieroglyphs - were deciphered. As you know, Jean-Francois Champollion
was the first to realise that hieroglyphs should be read, not as symbols of
ideas or scripts, but as a phonetic script. In 1822, he cracked the code, to use the vulgar expression. To the ancient Egyptians, writing was a gift from the Gods - indeed the word hieroglyph means divine speech.'

'But if the Grail parchments are written in the language of ancient
Egypt . . .' she tailed off. 'If you are saying what I think you are,
Audric . . .' She shook her head. 'That such a society as the Noublesso existed, yes. That the Trilogy was believed to contain an ancient secret, then again, yes. But, for the rest? It's inconceivable.'

Audric smiled. 'But how better to protect a secret than allow it to be
1 concealed beneath another? To appropriate or assimilate the powerful I symbols, the ideas of others, is the way civilisations survive.'


'What do you mean?'

'People dig for the truth. They think they have found it. They stop,
never imagining that something more astounding lies beneath. History is
full of religious, ritualistic, social signifiers, stolen from one society to
help build up another. For example, the day Christians celebrate the birth
of Jesus the Nazarene, December the twenty-fifth, is actually the feast
of the Sol Invictus, as well as the winter Solstice. The Christian cross,
just like the Grail, is actually an ancient Egyptian symbol, the ankh, appropriated and modified by the Emperor Constantine. In hoc signo
vinces - by this sign shalt thou conquer - words attributed to him when
seeing a symbol in the shape of a cross appear in the sky. More recently,
followers of the Third Reich appropriated the swastika to symbolise their
order. It is in fact an ancient Hindu symbol of rebirth.'

'The labyrinth,' she said, understanding.

'L'antica simbol del Mieg/orn.' The ancient symbol of the Midi.

Jeanne sat in thoughtful silence, hands folded in her lap, her feet
crossed at the ankles. 'And what of now?' she said at last.

'Once the cave was opened, it was only ever a matter of time, Jeanne,'
he said. 'I am not the only one who knows this.'

'But the Sabarthes Mountains were excavated by the Nazis during the
war,' she said. The Nazi Grail hunters knew the rumours that the Cathar
treasure was buried somewhere in the mountains. They spent years
excavating every site of possible esoteric interest. If this cave is of such
significance, how was it not discovered sixty years ago?'

We made sure that they did not.'

'You were there?' she said, her voice sharp with surprise.

Baillard smiled. 'There are conflicts within the Noublesso Veritable] he
said, avoiding her question. 'The leader of the organisation is a woman
called Marie-Cecile de l'Oradore. She believes in the Grail and would
regain it. She believes in the Quest.' He paused. 'However, there is
another within the organisation.' His face grew sombre. 'His motives are
different.'

"You must speak to Inspector Noubel,' she said fiercely.

'But what if, as I said, he is working for them also? It is too great a risk.'

The shrill blast of the horn split the quiet of the station. They both
turned towards the train drawing into the station with a screech of brakes.
The conversation was over.

'I don't want to leave you here alone, Audric.'

'I know,' he said, taking her hand to help her up into the train. 'But this
is how it is supposed to end.'


'End?'

She slid open the window and reached for his hand. 'Please take care.
Do not gamble too much of yourself.'

All along the platform the heavy doors slammed shut and the train
pulled away, slowly at first, then picking up speed until it had disappeared
into the folds of the mountains.


CHAPTER 53


Shelagh could sense there was someone in the room with her.

She struggled to lift her head. She felt sick. Her mouth was dry and
there was a dull thudding in her head, like the monotonous hum of an
air-conditioning unit. She couldn't move. It took a few seconds for her to
identify the fact she was sitting on a chair now, her arms pulled tight
behind her back and her ankles strapped to the wooden legs.

There was a slight movement, a creak of the bare floorboards as
someone shifted position.

Who's there?'

Her palms were slippery with fear. A trickle of sweat ran down the
small of her back. Shelagh forced her eyes open, but she still couldn't see.
She panicked, shaking her head, blinking, trying to bring back the light
until she realised the hood was back on her head. It smelled of earth and
mould.

Was she still in the farmhouse? She remembered the needle, the surprise
of the sharp injection. The same man who brought her food. Surely
someone would come and save her? Wouldn't they?

Who's there?' No one answered, although she could feel them close.
The air was greasy with the smell of aftershave and cigarettes. What do
you want?'

The door opened. Footsteps. Shelagh felt the change in atmosphere.
An instinct for self-preservation kicked in and she struggled wildly for a
moment to get free. The rope only tightened, putting more pressure on
her shoulders, making them ache.

The door shut with an ominous, heavy thud.

She fell still. For a moment, there was silence, then the sound of
someone walking towards her, closer and closer. Shelagh shrank back in
her chair. He stopped right in front of her. She felt her entire body
contract, as if there were thousands of tiny wires pulling at her skin. Like
an animal circling his prey, he walked round the chair a couple of times,
and then dropped his hands on her shoulders.


Who are you? Please, take this blindfold off at least.'

We need to have another talk, Dr O'Donnell.'

A voice she knew, cold and precise, cut through her like a knife. She
realised it was him she had been expecting. Him she feared.

He suddenly jerked the chair back.

Shelagh screamed, plummeting backwards, powerless to stop herself
falling. She never hit the ground. He stopped her, inches above the floor,
so she was lying almost flat, her head tipped back and her feet suspended
in the air.

'You're not in a position to ask for anything, Dr O'Donnell.'

He held her in that position for what seemed like hours. Then, without
warning, he suddenly righted the chair. Shelagh's neck snapped forward
with the force of it. She was becoming disorientated, like a child in a
game of blind man's bluff.

Who are you working for, O'Donnell?'

'I can't breathe,' she whispered.

He ignored her. She heard him click his fingers and the sound of a
second chair being placed in front of her. He sat down and pulled her
towards him so his knees were pressing against her thighs.

'Let's take it back to Monday afternoon. Why did you let your friend
go to that part of the site?'

'Alice has got nothing to do with this,' she cried. 'I didn't let her work
there, she just went of her own accord. I didn't even know. It was just a
mistake. She doesn't know anything.'

'So tell me what you know, Shelagh.' Her name in his mouth sounded like a threat.

'I don't know anything,' she cried. 'I told you everything I knew on
; Monday, I swear it.'

The blow came out of nowhere, striking her right cheek and slamming |hcr head back. Shelagh could taste blood in her mouth, sliding over her
>ngue and down the back of her throat.

'Did your friend take the ring?' he said in a level voice.

'No, no, I swear she didn't.'

He squeezed harder. 'Then who? You? You were on your own with the

sletons for long enough. Dr Tanner told me that.'

"Why would I take it? It's worth nothing to me.'

*Why are you so sure Dr Tanner didn't take it?'
i 'She wouldn't. She just wouldn't,' she cried. 'Lots of other people went

, Any of them could have taken it. Dr Brayling, the police--'. Shelagh

iiptly stopped.


lAs you say, the police,' he said. She held her breath. 'Any one of them
could have taken the ring. Yves Biau, for example.'

Shelagh froze. She could hear the rise and fall of his breathing, calm
and unhurried. He knew.

The ring wasn't there.'

He sighed. 'Did Biau give the ring to you? To give to your friend?'

'I don't know what you mean.' she managed to say.

He hit her again, this time with his fist, not the flat of his hand. Blood
spurted from her nose and poured down her chin.

What I don't understand,' he was saying, as if nothing had happened,
'is why he didn't give you the book as well, Dr O'Donnell.'

'He gave me nothing,' she choked.

'Dr Brayling says you left the site house on Monday night carrying a
bag.'

'He's lying.'

"Who are you working for?' he said softly, gently. 'This will stop. If
your friend isn't involved, there's no reason for her to be harmed.'

'She's not,' she whimpered. 'Alice doesn't know . . .'

Shelagh flinched as he placed his hand on her throat, stroking her at
first in a parody of affection. Then he started to squeeze, harder and
harder, until it felt like an iron collar tightening around her neck. She
thrashed from side to side, trying to get some air, but he was too strong.

Were you and Biau both working for her?' he said.

Just as she could feel herself starting to lose consciousness, he released
her. She felt him fumbling with the buttons on her shirt, undoing them
one by one.

What are you doing?' she whispered, then flinched at his cold, clinical
touch on her skin.

'No one's looking for you.' There was a click, then Shelagh smelled
lighter fuel. 'No one's going to come.'

'Please don't hurt me . . .'

You and Biau were working together?'

She nodded.

'For Madame de l'Oradore?'

She nodded again. 'Her son,' she managed to say. 'Francois-Baptiste. I
only talked to him . . .'

She could feel the flame close to her skin.

'And what about the book?'

'I couldn't find it. Yves neither.'

She sensed him react, then he pulled his hand back.


'So why did Biau go to Foix? You know he went to Dr Tanner's hotel?'

Shelagh tried to shake her head, but it sent a new wave of pain
shuddering through her body.

'He passed something to her.'

'It wasn't the book,' she managed to say.

Before she could choke out the rest of the sentence, the door opened
and she heard muffled voices in the corridor, then the combination of the
smell of aftershave and sweat.

'How were you supposed to get the book to Madame de l'Oradore?'

'Francois-Baptiste.' It hurt to speak. 'Meet him at the Pic de - I had a
number to ring.' She recoiled at the touch of his hand on her breast.

'Please don't--'

'You see how much easier it is when you cooperate? Now, in a moment,
you're going to make that call for me.'

Shelagh tried to shake her head in terror. 'If they find out I've told you,
they'll kill me.'

'And I will kill you and Mademoiselle Tanner if you don't,' he said
calmly. 'It's your choice.'

Shelagh had no way of knowing if he had Alice. If she was safe or here
too.

'He is expecting you to call when you have the book, yes?'

She no longer had the courage to lie. She nodded. They are more concerned
with a small disc, the size of the ring, than the ring itself

With horror, Shelagh realised she'd told him the one thing he hadn't
known.

'What's the disc for?' he demanded.

'I don't know.'

Shelagh heard herself screaming as the flame licked her skin.

"What - is - it - for?' he said. There was no emotion in his voice. She was freezing cold. There was a dreadful smell of burning flesh, sweet and sickly.

She could no longer distinguish one word from another as the pain litarted to carry her away. She was drifting, falling. She felt her neck

ing way.

We're losing her. Get the hood off

The material was dragged off, catching on the cuts and split skin.

'Fits inside the ring . . .'

Her voice sounded as if it was coming from underwater. 'Like a key. To

i labyrinth . . .'
1 "Who else knows about this?' he was shouting at her, but she knew he


couldn't reach her now. Her chin dropped down on to her chest. He
jerked her head back. One of her eyes was swollen shut, but the other
flickered open. All she could see was a mass of blurred faces, moving in
and out of her line of vision. 'She doesn't realise . . .'

Who?' he said. 'Madame de l'Oradore? Jeanne Giraud?'

'Alice,' she whispered.


CHAPTER 54


Alice arrived in Chartres late in the afternoon. She found a hotel, then
bought a map and went straight to the address she'd been given by
directory enquiries. Alice looked up in surprise at the elegant town
house, with its gleaming brass knocker and letter box and elegant plants
in the window boxes, and the tubs framing the steps. Alice couldn't
imagine Shelagh staying here.

What the hell are you going to say if someone answers}

Alice took a deep breath, then walked up the steps and rang the bell.
There was no answer. She waited, took a pace back and looked up at the windows, then tried again. She dialled the number. Seconds later, she
could hear a phone ringing inside.

At least it was the right place.

It was an anticlimax but, if she was honest, a relief also. The confrontation,
if that's what was coming, could wait.


The square in front of the cathedral was thronging with tourists, all
clutching cameras, and tour guides holding flags or colourful umbrellas
held high. Orderly Germans, self-conscious English, glamorous Italians,
quiet Japanese, enthusiastic Americans. All the children looked bored.

At some point during the long drive north, she'd stopped thinking she
would learn anything from the labyrinth in Chartres. It seemed so
obviously connected - the cave at the Pic de Soularac, to Grace, to her
personally - too obvious. Part of her felt like she'd been set up to follow a false trail.

Still, Alice bought a ticket and joined an English-language tour,
scheduled to start outside in five minutes. Their guide was an efficient,
I middle-aged woman with a superior manner and clipped voice.

To the modern eye, cathedrals are grey, soaring structures of devotion IjUid faith. However, in medieval times, they were very colourful, rather
i: than like Hindu shrines in India or Thailand. The statues and tympana
I that adorned the great portals, in Chartres as elsewhere, were tricked out


in polychrome.' The guide pointed up at the outside with her umbrella.
'Look closely and you can still see fragments of pink, blue and yellow
clinging to the cracks in the statues.'

All around Alice, people were nodding obediently.

'In 1194,' the woman continued, 'a fire destroyed most of the city of
Chartres as well as the cathedral itself. At first it was believed that the cathedral's holiest relic, the sancta camisia - the robe supposedly worn by
Mary at the birth of Christ - had been destroyed. But after three days the
relic was discovered, having been hidden by the monks in the crypt. This
was seen as a miracle, a sign that the cathedral should be rebuilt.
The current edifice was finished in 1223 and in 1260 consecrated as the
Cathedral Church of the Assumption of Our Lady, the first cathedral in
France to be dedicated to the Virgin Mary.'

Alice listened with half an ear, until they arrived at the northern side of
the cathedral. The guide pointed at the eerie stone procession of Old
Testament kings and queens carved above the north portal.

Alice felt a flutter of nervous excitement.

'This is the only significant representation of the Old Testament in the
cathedral,' said the guide, beckoning them closer. 'On this pillar is a
carving which many people believe shows the Ark of the Covenant being
carried away from Jerusalem by Menelik, son of Solomon and the Queen
of Sheba, despite the fact that historians claim the story of Menelik was
not known in Europe until the fifteenth century. And here' - she lowered
her arm a little - 'is another mystery. Those of you with good eyesight
might just be able to make out the Latin - hic amititur archa cederis.' She looked round the group and smiled smugly. The Latin
scholars among you will realise that the inscription does not make sense.
Some guidebooks translate archa cederis as: "You are to work
through the Ark" and translate the entire inscription as: "Here things
take their course: you are to work through the Ark." However, if you take
cederis to be a corruption of foederis, as some commentators have
suggested, then the inscription might be translated as: "Here it is let go,
the Ark of the Covenant".'

She looked around the group. 'This door, among other things, is one of
the reasons for the number of myths and legends that have grown up
around the cathedral. Unusually, the names of the master builders of
Chartres Cathedral are not known. It is likely that, for some reason, no
records were kept and the names were simply forgotten. However, those
with more, shall we say, lurid imaginations have interpreted the absence
of information differently. The most persistent of the rumours has it that


the cathedral was built by descendants of the Poor Knights of Solomon,
the Knights Templar, as a codified book in stone, a gigantic puzzle
decipherable only by the initiated. Many believed the bones of Mary
Magdalene had once been buried beneath the labyrinth. Or even the
Holy Grail itself'

'Has anybody looked?' Alice said, regretting the words the second they
were out of her mouth. Disapproving eyes swivelled to her like a spotlight.
The
guide raised her eyebrows. 'Certainly. On more than one occasion.
But most of you will not be surprised to hear they found nothing.
Another myth.' She paused. 'Shall we move inside?'

Feeling awkward, Alice followed the group to the West Door and
joined the queue to enter the cathedral. Straight away, everybody dropped
their voices as the distinctive smell of stone and incense worked their
magic. In the side chapels and by the main entrance, flickering rows of
devotional candles sparkled in the gloom.

She braced herself for some sort of reaction, visions of the past, as she'd
experienced in Toulouse and Carcassonne. She felt nothing and after a
while, she relaxed and began to enjoy herself. From her research, she
knew Chartres Cathedral was said to have the finest collection of stained
glass anywhere in the world, but she was unprepared for the dazzling
brilliance of the windows. A kaleidoscope of shimmering colour flooded
the cathedral, depicting scenes of everyday and biblical life. The Rose
Window and the Blue Virgin Window, the Noah Window showing the
Flood and the animals marching two by two into the ark. As she
wandered around, Alice tried to imagine what it must have been like
when the walls were covered with frescos and decked with richly woven
tapestries, the Eastern fabrics and silken banners all embroidered with
gold. To medieval eyes, the contrast between the splendours of God's
temple and the world outside the cloister must have been overwhelming.
Proof positive, perhaps, of God's glory on earth.

'And, finally,' the guide said, 'we come to the famous eleven-circuit

pavement labyrinth. Completed in 1200, it is the largest in Europe. The

original centrepiece is long gone, but the rest is intact. For medieval

Christians, the labyrinth provided an opportunity to undertake a spiritual

.pilgrimage, in place of an actual journey to Jerusalem. Hence the fact that

Jj pavement labyrinths - as opposed to those found on the walls of churches

land cathedrals - were often known as the chemin de Jerusalem, that is, the

ji road or path to Jerusalem. Pilgrims would walk the circuit towards the

' centre, sometimes many times, symbolic of a growing understanding or


closeness to God. Penitents often completed the journey on their knees,
sometimes taking many days over it.'

Alice edged to the front, her heart racing, only now realising subconsciously
she'd been putting this moment off.

This is the moment.

She took a deep breath. The symmetry was destroyed by the rows of
chairs on either side of the nave facing the altar for evensong. Even so,
and despite knowing its dimensions from her research, Alice was taken
aback by the size of it. It entirely dominated the cathedral.

Slowly, like everyone else, Alice began to walk the labyrinth, round and
round in ever decreasing circles, like a halting game of follow-my-leader,
until she arrived at the centre.

She felt nothing. No shiver up her spine, no moment of enlightenment
or transformation. Nothing. She crouched down and touched the ground.
The stone was smooth and cool, but it did not speak to her.

Alice gave a wry smile. What were you expecting?

She didn't even need to get her drawing of the cave labyrinth from her
bag to know that there was nothing for her here. Without a fuss, Alice
excused herself from the group, and slipped away.


After the fierce heat of the Midi, the gentle northern sun was a relief and
Alice spent the next hour exploring the picturesque historic town centre.
She was half looking for the corner where Grace and Audric Baillard had
posed for the camera.

It didn't seem to exist or else was outside the area covered by the map.
Most of the streets had taken their names from the trades practised there
in previous times: clockmakers, tanners, equerries and stationers, testament
to Chartres' importance as the great centre of paper making and
book binding in France in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But no
rue des Trois Degres.

Finally, Alice arrived back where she had started, in front of the West
Door of the cathedral. She sat down on the wall leaning against the
railings. Immediately, her gaze honed in on the corner of the street
directly opposite. She jumped up and ran over to read the sign on the
wall: rue de l'etroit degre, dite aussi rue des trois degres
(des trois marches).

The road had been renamed. Smiling to herself, Alice stepped back to
get a better view and banged into a man buried in a newspaper.

'Pardon,' she said, moving sideways.


34a
'No, excuse me,' he said, in a pleasant American accent. 'It was my
fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. Are you OK?'
'I'm fine.'

To her surprise, he was staring intently at her.
'Is there . . .'
'It's Alice, right?'
Yes?' she said cautiously.

'Alice, of course. Hi,' he said, pushing his fingers through his mop of
shaggy brown hair. 'How amazing!'
'I'm sorry, but I--'

William Franklin,' he said, holding out his hand. Will. We met in
London, nineteen-ninety four or five. Big group of us. You were dating a
guy . . . what was he called . . . Oliver. Is that right? I'd gone over to visit
with my cousin.'

Alice had a vague memory of an afternoon in an over-crowded flat
filled with Oliver's university friends. She thought she could just about
remember an American boy, engaging, good looking, although she'd been
head over heels in love at that stage, noticing no one else. This boy?

You have a good memory,' she said, shaking his hand. 'It was a long
time ago.'

You haven't changed so much.' he said, smiling. 'So, how is Oliver
anyhow?'

Alice pulled a face. We're not still together.'

That's too bad,' he said. There was a slight pause, then added: Who's
in the photo?'

Alice looked down. She'd forgotten she was still holding it.
'My aunt. I came across this in some of her things and, since I was here,
J thought I'd see if I could track down where it was taken.' She grinned. pit's been harder than you'd imagine.'

Will looked over her shoulder. 'And the guy?'
| Just a friend. A writer.'

 Another a pause, as if both wanted to keep the conversation going, but a't quite know what to say. Will looked back to the picture.
le looks nice.'

ftce? She looks rather determined to me, although I don't know that
l fact. I never met her.'

lly? So how come you're carrying her photo around?' : put the photograph back in her bag. 'It's complicated.'
s can do complicated,' he grinned. 'Look ..." he hesitated. 'Do you


want to get coffee or something? If you've not got someplace else you've

got to be.'

Alice was surprised but, actually, she'd been thinking the same thing.
'Do you usually go picking up random women like this?'
'Not usually,' he said. 'The question is do you usually accept?'


Alice felt as if she was looking down on the scene from above. Watching
a man and a woman, who looked like her, walk into the old-fashioned patisserie with the cakes and pastries laid out in long glass cabinets.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Sights, smells, sounds. The waiters dipping in and out of the tables, the
burned, bitter aroma of the coffee, the hiss of milk in the machine, the
dink of forks on the plate, everything was especially vivid. Most of all
Will himself, the way he smiled, the turn of his head, the way his fingers
went to the silver chain at his neck when he was talking.

They sat at a table outside. The spire of the cathedral was just visible
over the tops of the houses. A slight constraint descended on them when
they sat down. They both started talking at once. Alice laughed, Will
apologised.

Cautiously, tentatively, they started to fill in the stories of their lives
since they'd last met six years ago.

'You looked really engrossed,' she said, turning his newspaper around
so she could read the headline. You know, when you came hurtling round
that corner.'

Will grinned. "Yeah, sorry about that,' he apologised. 'The local paper's
not usually so exciting. A man's been found dead in the river, right in the
centre of the city. He'd been stabbed in the back, his hands and feet were
tied, the local radio station's going crazy. They seem to think it's some
kind of ritual killing. Now they're linking it to the disappearance last
week of a local journalist, who was writing an expose of secret religious
societies.'

The smile fell from Alice's face. 'Can I see that?' she said, reaching for
the paper.
'Sure. Help yourself.'

Her sense of uneasiness grew as she read the list of names. The Noublesso Veritable. There was something familiar about the name.

'Are you OK?' Alice looked up to see Will gazing at her.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I was miles away. It's just I've come across something
similar recently. The coincidence gave me a shock.'

'Coincidence? Sounds intriguing.'


'It's a long story.'

'I'm in no hurry,' said Will, propping his elbows on the table and
smiling encouragingly at her.

After being trapped inside her own thoughts for so long, Alice was
tempted by the chance of finally talking to someone. And she sort of
knew him. Only tell him what you want.

'Well, I'm not sure this is going to make much sense,' she began. 'A
couple of months ago I discovered, totally out of the blue, that an aunt I'd
never heard of had died and left everything to me, including a house in
France.'

'The lady in the photo.'

She nodded. 'She's called Grace Tanner. I was due to come to France
anyway, to visit a friend who was working at an archaeological dig in the
Pyrenees, so I decided to run the two trips together.' She hesitated. 'Some
things happened at the dig - I won't bore you by going into detail except
to say there seemed to be ... Well, never mind.' She took a
breath. 'Yesterday, after a meeting with the solicitor, I went to my aunt's
house and I found some things . . . something, a pattern, which I'd seen
at the dig.' She stumbled, inarticulate. 'There was also a book by an
author called Audric Baillard who, I'm almost a hundred per cent certain,
is the man in the photo.'

He's still alive?'

'So far as I know. I haven't been able to track him down.'

"What's his relationship with your aunt?'

Tm not sure. I'm hoping he'll be able to tell me. He's my only link to

r. And other things.'
I, To the labyrinth, the family tree, to my dream.

When she looked up, she saw Will was looking confused, but engaged.
| can't say I'm much the wiser yet,' he said with a grin.

Tm not explaining it very well,' she admitted. 'Let's talk about some
less complicated. You never did tell me what you were doing in

68.'

: every other American in France, trying to write.'
: smiled. 'Isn't Paris more traditional?'

I started off there, but I guess I found it too, well, impersonal, if you r what I mean. My parents knew folks here. I liked it. Ended up stayi
while.'

nodded, expecting him to carry on. Instead, he returned to
ling she'd said earlier. This pattern you mentioned,' he said


casually. 'That you found at the dig and then at Grace's house, what was
special about it?'

She hesitated. 'It's a labyrinth.'

'Is that why you're here in Chartres then? To go to the cathedral?'

'It's not quite the same . . .' She stopped as caution returned. 'Partly,
although it's more because I'm hoping to catch up with a friend. Shelagh.
There's a ... a possibility she might be in Chartres.' Alice reached in her
bag and passed the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it across
the table to Will. 'I went there earlier, but there was no one there. So I
decided to do my sightseeing, then go back in about an hour or so.'

Alice was shocked to see Will had turned white. He looked dumbstruck.
'Are
you OK?' she asked.

"Why do you think your friend might be there?' he said in a tight voice.

'I don't, for sure,' she said, still puzzled by the change that had come
over him.

'This is the friend you went to visit at the dig?'

She nodded.

'And she saw this labyrinth pattern also? Like you?'

'I suppose so, although she didn't mention it. She was more obsessed
with something I'd found, which . . .' Alice broke off as Will abruptly
stood up.

What are you doing?' she said, unnerved by the expression on his face
as he took her hand.

'Come with me. There's something you ought to see.'


'Where are we going?' she asked again, hurrying to keep up with him.

Then they rounded the corner and Alice realised they were at the other
end of rue du Cheval Blanc. Will strode towards the house, then ran up
the steps to the front door.

'Are you out of your mind? What if someone's come home?'

'There won't be.'

'But how do you know?'

Alice watched with astonishment as Will produced a key from his
pocket and opened the front door. 'Hurry. Before someone sees us.'

"You have a key,' she said in disbelief. 'Suppose you start telling me
what the hell's going on.'

Will ran back down the steps and grabbed her hand.

'There's a version of your labyrinth here,' he hissed. 'OK? Now, will

you come?'


What if it's another trap?

After everything that had happened, she'd be crazy to follow him. It
was too much of a risk. Nobody even knew she was here. Curiosity won
out over common sense. Alice looked up at Will's face, eager and anxious
at one and the same time.

She decided to give him another chance and trust him.


CHAPTER 55


Alice found herself standing in a grand entrance hall, more like a museum
than a private house. Will went straight to a tapestry opposite the front
door and pulled it away from the wall.

'What are you doing?'

She ran after him and saw a tiny brass handle set into the panelling.
Will rattled and pushed at it, then turned round with frustration.

'Dammit. It's been locked from the other side.'

'It's a door?'

'Right.'

'And the labyrinth you saw, it's down there?'

Will nodded. You go down a flight of stairs and along a corridor,
which leads into a weird sort of chamber. Egyptian symbols on the wall, a
tomb with the symbol of the labyrinth, just like you described, carved on
top. Now--' he broke off. The stuff in the newspaper. The fact your
friend had this address . . .'

You're making a lot of assumptions based on not much,' she said.

Will dropped the corner of the tapestry and was striding to a room on
the opposite side of the hall. After a moment's hesitation, Alice followed.

*What are you doing?' she hissed as Will opened the door.

Walking into the library was like stepping back in time. It was a formal
room with the atmosphere of a men's club. The shutters were partially
closed and batons of yellow light lay stretched on the carpet like strips of
golden cloth. There was an air of permanence, a smell of antiquity and
polish.

Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three sides of the room
with sliding book ladders giving access to the highest shelves. Will knew
exactly where he was going. There was a section dedicated to books on
Chartres, photographic volumes set alongside the more serious examinations
of architecture and social history.

Turning anxiously towards the door, her heart racing, Alice watched as
Will pulled out a book with a family crest embossed on the front and


carried it to the table. Alice looked over his shoulder as he flicked through
the pages. Glossy colour photographs, old maps of Chartres, line and ink
drawings flashed by until Will reached the section he wanted.

What is it?'

'A book about the de l'Oradore house. This house,' he said. 'The family
has lived here for hundreds of years, since it was built. There are architectural
floor plans and elevations of each floor of the house.'

Will flicked through until he'd found the page he wanted. 'There,' he
said, turning the book round so she could see properly. 'Is that it?'

Alice caught her breath. 'Oh God,' she whispered.

It was a perfect drawing of her labyrinth.


The sound of the front door being slammed shut made them both jump.

Will, the door! We left it open!'

*'' She could make out muffled voices in the hall, a man and a woman.
They're coming in here,' she hissed.

Will thrust the book into her hands. 'Quick,' he hissed, pointing at a large three-seater sofa standing beneath the window. 'Let me handle this.'
Alice scooped up her bag, ran to the sofa and crawled into the gap
sn it and the wall. There was a pungent smell of cracked leather and
cigar smoke and the dust tickled her nose. She heard Will shut the
: with a rattle, then take up position in the middle of the room just as
i library door creaked open. ; 'Qu'est-ce que vousfoutez la?'

IA young man's voice. By tilting her head a little, Alice could just about the two of them reflected in the glass doors of the cabinets. He was
; and tall, about the same size as Will, although more angular. Black r hair, a high forehead and patrician nose. She frowned. He reminded : someone.

ipois-Baptiste. Hi,' said Will. Even to Alice's ears he sounded
' bright.

at the fuck are you doing in here?' he repeated in English.
1 flashed the magazine he'd picked up from the table. 'Just dropped
: something to read.'

Dis-Baptiste cast his eye over the title and gave a short laugh.
1't seem your thing.'
a'd be surprised.'

i boy took a step towards Will. You won't last much longer,' he said r, bitter voice. 'She'll get bored of you and kick you out like all the
, didn't even know she was going out of town, did you?'


What goes on between her and me is none of your business, so if you
don't mind--'

Fran9ois-Baptiste stepped in front of him. Why the hurry?'

'Don't push me, Fran9ois-Baptiste, I'm warning you.'

Francois-Baptiste put his hand on Will's chest to stop him passing.

Will pushed the boy's arm away. 'Don't touch me.'

What are you going to do about it?'

Vasuffit'

Both men spun round. Alice strained to get a better look, but the
woman hadn't come far enough into the room.

What is going on?' she demanded. 'Squabbling like children. FrancoisBaptiste?
William?'

'Rien, maman. Je lui demandais--'

Will was looking stunned as he finally realised who it was who'd come in with Francois. 'Marie-Cecile. I had no idea . . .' He faltered. 'I wasn't
expecting you back just yet.'

The woman moved further into the room and Alice got a clear look at
her face.

It can't be.

Today, she was dressed more formally than the last time Alice had seen
her, in a knee-length ochre skirt and matching jacket. Her hair was loose
around her face rather than tied back with a scarf.

But there was no mistaking her. It was the same woman Alice had seen
outside the Hotel de la Cite in Carcassonne. This was Marie-Cecile de
l'Oradore.

She glanced from mother to son. The family resemblance was strong. The
same profile, the same imperious air. The reason for FrancoisBaptiste's
jealousy and the antagonism between him and Will now made sense.

'But, actually, my son has a point,' Marie-Cecile was saying. What are
you doing in here?'

'I've been ... I was just looking for something different to read. It's
been . . . lonely without you.'

Alice winced. He sounded utterly unconvincing.

'Lonely?' she echoed. 'Your face tells a different story, Will.'

Marie-Cecile leaned forward and kissed Will on the mouth. Alice felt
the embarrassment seep into the room. It was uncomfortably intimate.
She could see Will's fists were clenched.

He doesn't want me to see this.

The thought, bewildering as it was, came and went from her mind in
the blinking of an eye.


35
Marie-Cecile released him, a glint of satisfaction on her face.

We'll catch up later, Will. But now, I'm afraid, Francois-Baptiste and I
have a little business to attend to. Desolee. So if you'll excuse us.'

'In here?'

Too quick. Too obvious.

Marie-Cecile narrowed her eyes. Why not in here?'

'No reason,' he said sharply.

'Maman. II est dix-huit heures deja.'

'f arrive,' she said, still looking suspiciously at Will.

'Mais, je ne . . .'

'Va le chercher,' she snapped. Go and get it.

Alice heard Francois-Baptiste storm out of the room, then watched
Marie-Cecile put her arms around Will's waist and pull him against her. Her nails were bright red against the white of his T-shirt. She wanted to look away, but couldn't.

'Tiens,' said Marie-Cecile. A bientot.'

'Are you coming now?' said Will. Alice could hear the panic in his voice as he realised he was going to have to leave her trapped.

Toute a I'heure.' Later.

Alice could do nothing. Just listen to the sound of Will's feet walking
at.


i two men crossed in the doorway. 'Here,' he said, handing his mother a copy of the same paper Will had

, reading earlier. |*How did they get hold of the story so quickly?' |;1 have no idea.' he said sulkily. 'Authie, I suspect.' lice went rigid. The same Authie}

i you actually know that for a fact, Francois-Baptiste?' Marie-Cecile
i saying.

fdl, someone must have told them. The police sent divers into the i Tuesday, in exactly the right place. They knew what they were
; for. Think about it. Who claimed there was a leak in Chartres in place? Authie. Did he ever actually produce any evidence that 1 had talked to the journalist?' lier?'

i man in the river,' he said acidly.

, of course.' Marie-Cecile lit a cigarette. The report mentions the Veritable by name.' i himself could have told them.'


3Si
'So long as there is nothing to connect Tavernier with this house,
there's no problem,' she said, sounding bored. 'Is there anything?'

'I did everything you told me to do.'

'And you have prepared everything for Saturday?'

"Yes,' he admitted, 'although without the ring or the book, I don't
know why we're bothering.'

A smile flitted across Marie-Cecile's red lips. 'Well, you see, this is why
we still need Authie, despite your evident mistrust of him,' she said
smoothly. 'He says he has, miracle, retrieved the ring.'

Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?' he said furiously.

'I'm telling you now,' she said. 'He claims his men took it from the
English girl's hotel room in Carcassonne last night.'

Alice felt her skin turn cold. That's impossible.

You think he's lying?'

'Don't be idiotic, Francois-Baptiste,' she snapped. 'Obviously, he's
lying. If Dr Tanner had taken it, it wouldn't have taken Authie four
days to get it. Besides, I had his apartment and his offices searched.'

'Then--'

She cut across him. 'If- if-- Authie does have it - which I doubt - then
either he got it from Biau's grandmother or else he's had it all along.
Possibly he took it from the cave himself.'

'But why bother?'

The phone rang, intrusive, loud. Alice's heart leaped into her mouth.

Francois-Baptiste looked to his mother.

'Answer it,' she said.

He did what he was told. 'Oui.'

Alice hardly dared breathe for fear she would give herself away.

'Out, je comprends. Attends.' He covered the phone with his hand. 'It's
O'Donnell. She says she has the book.'

'Ask why she's been out of touch.'

He nodded. Where've you been since Monday?' He listened. 'Does
anybody else know you have it?' He listened. 'OK. A vingt-deux heures. Demain soir.'

He put the receiver back in its cradle.

'Are you sure it was her?'

'It was her voice. She knew the arrangements.'

'He must have been listening in.'

'What do you mean?' he said, uncertainly. Who?'

'For crying out loud, who do you think?' she snapped. 'Authie, of

course.


1--

'Shelagh O'Donnell's been missing for days. As soon as I'm safely out
of the way in Chartres, O'Donnell reappears! First the ring, then the
book.'

Francois-Baptiste finally lost his temper. 'But you were just defending
him!' he shouted. 'Accusing me of jumping to conclusions. If you know
he's working against us, then why didn't you tell me, instead of letting me
make a fool of myself? More to the point, why don't you stop him? Have
you even ever asked yourself why he wants the books so badly? What he's
going to do with them? Auction them to the highest bidder?'

'I am well aware of precisely why he wants the books,' she said in a chill
voice.

Why do you always have to do this? You humiliate me all the time!'

The discussion is over,' she said. We'll travel tomorrow. That will
get us there in good time for your assignation with O'Donnell and
for me to prepare myself. The ceremony will go ahead at midnight as
planned.'

'You want me to meet her?' he said in disbelief.

"Well, obviously,' she said. For the first time, she heard some sort of
^motion in her voice. 'I want the book, FrancoisBaptiste.'

'And if he doesn't have it?'

'I don't think he would go to all this trouble if he didn't.'

Alice heard Francois-Baptiste walk across the room and open the door.
./What about him?' he said, a little of the fire returning to his voice.
fbu can't leave him here to--'

'Leave Will to me. He, also, is not your concern.'


I was concealed in the cupboard in the kitchen passage.
was cramped and smelled of leather coats, old boots and waxed
s, but it was the only place that gave him a clear view of the library
i Study doors. He saw Francois-Baptiste come out first and go into the y, followed moments later by Marie-Cecile. Will waited until the door shut, then immediately emerged from the cupboard and ran
i the hall to the library.

B,' he whispered. 'Quick. We've got to get you out of here.' There slight sound, then she appeared. 'I'm so sorry,' he said. 'This is all it. Are you OK?'

: nodded, although she was deathly pale.
, reached for her hand, but she refused to come with him.


What is this all about, Will? You live here. You know these people and
yet you're prepared to throw it all away helping a stranger. It makes no
sense.'

He wanted to say she wasn't a stranger, but stopped himself.


He didn't know what to say. The room seemed to fade to nothing. All
Will saw was Alice's heart-shaped face and her unflinching brown eyes
that seemed to be looking into the very heart of him.

Why didn't you tell me that you . . . that you and she . . .? That you
lived here.'

He couldn't meet her gaze. Alice stared at him a moment longer, then
moved quickly across the room and out into the hall, leaving him to
follow.

What are you going to do now?' he said desperately.

Well, I've learned how Shelagh's connected with this house,' she said.
'She works for them.'

'Them?' he said, baffled, opening the front door so they could slip out.
What do you mean?'

'But she's not here. Madame de l'Oradore and her son are looking for
her too. From what I heard, I'd guess she's being held somewhere near
Foix.'

Alice suddenly turned in a panic at the bottom of the steps.

Will, I've left my bag in the library,' she said in horror. 'Behind the
sofa, with the book.'

More than anything, Will wanted to kiss her. The timing couldn't be
worse, they were caught up in a situation he didn't understand, Alice
didn't even really trust him. And yet it felt right.

Without thinking, Will moved to touch the side of her face. He felt he
knew exactly how smooth and cool her skin would feel, as if it was a
gesture he'd made a thousand times before. Then the memory of the way
she'd withdrawn from him in the cafe pulled him up short and he
stopped, his hand a hair's breadth from her cheek.

'I'm sorry,' he started to say, as if Alice could read his mind. She was
staring at him, then a brief smile flickered across her taut and anxious face.

'I didn't mean to offend you,' he stumbled. 'It's . . .'

'It doesn't matter,' she said, but her voice was soft.

Will gave a sigh of relief. He knew she was wrong. It mattered more
than anything in the world, but at least she wasn't angry with him.

Will,' she said, a little sharper this time. 'My bag? It's got everything in
it. All my notes.'


'Sure, yes,' he said immediately. 'Sorry. I'll get it. Bring it to you.' He
tried to focus. 'Where are you staying?'

'Hotel Petit Monarque. On the Place des Epars.'

'Right, he said, running back up the steps. 'Give me thirty minutes.'


Will watched her until she was out of sight, then went back inside. There
was a sliver of light showing under the study door.

Suddenly the door to the study opened. Will sprang back out of sight
between the door and the wall. Francois-Baptiste came out and walked
towards the kitchen. Will heard the pass door swing open and shut, then
nothing.

Will pressed his face to the gap so he could see Marie-Cecile. She
was sitting at her desk looking at something, something that glinted and
caught the light when she moved.

Will forgot what he was supposed to be doing as he watched Marie
Cecile stand up and lift down one of the paintings hanging on the wall
behind her. It was her favourite piece of art. She told him all about it
once, in the early days. It was a golden canvas with splashes of bright
colour showing French soldiers gazing upon the toppled pillars and
palaces of ancient Egypt. 'On Gazing Upon the Sands of Time - 1798',
he remembered. That was it.

Behind where the picture had been hanging was a small black metal
I door cut into the wall with an electronic keypad next to it. She punched
1 six numbers. There was a sharp click and the door opened. From out of
: safe, she lifted two black packages and carefully put them on the desk. /ill adjusted his position, desperate to see what was inside.
He was so caught up that he didn't hear the footsteps coming up find him.
"Don't move.'
Trancois-Baptiste, I--'

/ill felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressing into his side.
feAnd put your hands where I can see them.'

tried to turn round, but Francois-Baptiste grabbed his neck and
led his face flat against the wall. t'est-ce qui sepasse?' Marie-Cecile called out.
icois-Baptiste jabbed him again.
' tnon occupe,' he said. Everything's under control


r looked at her watch again. t's not coming.


She was standing in the reception of the hotel, staring at the glass
doors as if she could conjure Will out of thin air. Nearly an hour had
passed since she'd left rue du Cheval Blanc. She didn't know what to do.
Her purse, her phone, car keys were all in her jacket pocket. Everything
else was in her rucksack.

// doesn't matter. Get away from here.

The longer she waited, the more she started to doubt Will's motives.
The fact he'd appeared out of nowhere. Alice went over the sequence of
events in her mind.

Was it really just coincidence they'd bumped into each other like that?
She'd told no one at all where she was going.

How could he know?

At half-past eight, Alice decided she couldn't wait any longer. She
explained she wouldn't need the room after all, scribbled a note for Will
in case he came, giving her number, then went.

She threw the jacket on the car's front seat and noticed the envelope
sticking out of the pocket. The letter she'd been given at the hotel, which
she'd forgotten all about. Alice pulled it out and put it on the dashboard
to read when she stopped for a break.

Night fell as she drove south. The headlamps of the oncoming cars
shone in her eyes, dazzling her. Trees and bushes leaped ghost-like out of
the darkness. Orleans, Poitiers, Bordeaux, the signs flashed by.

Cocooned in her own world, for hour after hour, Alice asked herself
the same questions over and again. Each time, she came up with a
different answer.

Why? For information. She'd certainly handed that to them all right.
All her notes, her drawings, the photograph of Grace and Baillard.

He promised to show you the labyrinth chamber.

She'd seen nothing. Just a picture in a book. Alice shook her head. She
didn't want to believe it.

Why did he help her get away? Because he'd got what he wanted;
rather, what Madame de l'Oradore wanted.

So they can follow you.


CHAPTER 56


Carcassona


AGOST 1209


 The French attacked Sant-Vicens at dawn on Monday the third of
August.

Alai's scrambled up the ladders of the Tour du Major to join her father
watch from the battlements. She looked for Guilhem in the crowd, but
id not see him.

Now, over the sound of sword and battle cry of the soldiers storming
low defensive walls, she could just make out the sound of singing ating across the plain down from the Graveta hill.


'Vent creator spiritus
Mentes tuorum visita!'


priests,' Alais said aghast. 'They sing to God as they come to
iter us.'
be suburb began to burn. As smoke spiralled up into the air, behind

r walls, people and animals scattered in panic in all directions. appling hooks were hurled over the parapet quicker than the
could cut them down. Dozens of scaling ladders were thrown the walls. The garrison kicked them down, set them alight, but held in place. French foot soldiers swarmed like ants. The more
: cut back, the more there seemed to be.
foot of the fortifications on both sides, the injured and dead


bodies were stacked one on top of another, like piles of firewood. With
every hour that passed, the toll grew greater.

The Crusaders rolled a catapult into place and began their bombardment
of the fortifications. The thuds shook Sant-Vicens to its
foundations, relentless, implacable in the storm of arrows and missiles
thrown from above.

The walls began to crumble.

'They're through,' Alais shouted. They've breached the defences!'

Viscount Trencavel and his men were ready for them. Brandishing
sword and axe, two and three abreast they charged the besiegers. The
massive hooves of the warhorses trampled all in their path, their heavy steel shoes shattering skulls like husks and crushing limbs in a mass of
skin and blood and bone. Street by street, the fighting spread through the
suburb, moving ever closer to the walls of the Cite itself. Alais could see a
mass of terrorised inhabitants flooding through the Porte de Rodez into
the Cite to escape the violence of the battle. The old, the infirm, women
and children. Every able-bodied man was armed, fighting alongside the
soldiers of the garrison. Most were cut down where they stood, clubs no
match for the swords of Crusaders.

The defenders fought bravely, but they were outnumbered ten to one.
Like an inrushing tide breaking on the shore, the Crusaders stormed
through, breaching the fortifications and demolishing sections of the walls.

Trencavel and his chevaliers were desperate not to lose control of the
river, but it was hopeless. He sounded the retreat.

With the triumphant howls of the French echoing in their ears, the
heavy gates of the Porte de Rodez were opened to allow the survivors
back into the Cite. As Viscount Trencavel led his defeated band of
survivors in single file through the streets back to the Chateau Comtal,
Alais looked down in horror at the scene of devastation and destruction
below. She had seen death many times, but not on this scale. She felt
polluted by the reality of war, the senseless waste of it.

Deceived also. Now she realised how the chansons a gestes she had so
loved in her childhood had lied. There was no nobility in war. Only
suffering.


Alais descended the battlements to the courtyard and joined the other
women waiting at the gate, praying that Guilhem was among them.

Be safely delivered.

At last, she heard the sound of hooves on the bridge. Alais saw him
straight away and her spirit leaped. His face and armour were stained


with blood and ash, his eyes reflected the ferocity of the battle, but he was
unharmed.

'Your husband fought valiantly, Dame Alais,' said Viscount Trencavel,
noticing her standing there. 'He cut down many and saved the lives of
many more. We are grateful for both his skill and courage.' Alais flushed.
Tell me, where is your father?'

She pointed to the northeastern corner of the courtyard. We witnessed
the battle from the ambans, Messire.'

Guilhem had dismounted and handed the reins to his ecuyer.

Alais approached him shyly, not sure of her reception. 'Messire.'

He took her pale white hand and raised it to his lips. 'Thierry fell,' he
said in a hollow voice. They're bringing him back now. He's badly
wounded.'

'Messire, I am sorry.'

We were as brothers,' he continued. 'Alzeu too. Barely a month
separated us in age. We stood for each other, worked to pay for our
hauberks and swords. We were dubbed the same Passiontide.'

'I know it,' she said softly, drawing his head down to hers. 'Come, let
me help you, then I will do what I can for Thierry.'

She saw his eyes glistened with tears. She hurried on, knowing he

Id not want her to see him cry.
jp 'Guilhem, come,' she said softly. Take me to him.'


Merry had been taken to the Great Hall with all the others who were
wounded. The lines of dying and injured men were three deep,
and the other women did what they could. With her hair wound
i a plait over her shoulder, she looked no more than a child.
|As the hours passed, the air in the confined chamber grew more putrid the flies more persistent. For the most part, Alais and the other
[)en worked in silence and with steady determination, knowing that
i would be little respite before the assault began anew. Priests stepped
Bn the lines of dying and injured soldiers, hearing confession, giving
st rites. Beneath the disguise of their dark robes, twoparfaits admin1
the consolament to the Cathar believers.

erry's injuries were serious. He'd been struck several times. His
r was broken and a lance had pierced his thigh, shattering the bone
I the leg. Alais knew he had lost too much blood, but for Guilhem's did everything she could. She heated a decoction of knitbone
[ leaves in hot wax, and then applied it in a compress once it had


Leaving Guilhem to sit with him, Alai's turned her attention to those
who had the best chance of survival. She dissolved powder of angelica
root in carduus water and with the help of scullions from the kitchen
carrying the liquid in pails, she spooned the medicine into the mouths of
any who could swallow. If she could keep infection at bay and their blood
stayed pure, then their wounds had a chance of healing.

Alais returned to Thierry whenever she could to refresh the dressings,
even though it was clear there was no hope. He was no longer conscious
and his skin had taken on the blue-white taint of death. She put her hand
Guilhem's shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'It won't be long now.'

Guilhem only nodded.

Alai's worked her way to the far end of the hall. As she passed, a young chevalier, little older than she was, cried out. She stopped and knelt down
beside him. His child's face was creased with pain and confusion, his lips
were cracked and his eyes, which had once been brown, were tortured
with fear.

'Hush,' she murmured. 'Do you have no one?'

He tried to shake his head. Alais smoothed his brow with her hand and
lifted the cloth that covered his shield arm. Immediately, she let it drop.
The boy's shoulder was crushed. Fragments of white bone jutted through
torn skin, like a wreck at low tide. There was a gaping hole in his side.
Blood was flowing steadily from the wound, creating a pool where he lay.

His right hand was frozen around the hilt of his sword. Alais tried to
ease it from his grasp, but his rigid fingers would not let it go. Alais
ripped a piece of material from her skirt and plugged the deep wound.
From a vial in her purse, she took a tincture of valerian and dropped two
measures on to his lips to ease the pain of his passing. There was nothing
else she could do.

Death was unkind. It came slowly. Gradually, the rattling in his chest
grew louder as his breathing became laboured. As his eyes darkened, his
terror grew and he cried out. Alais stayed with him, singing to him and
stroking his brow until his soul left his body.

'God take your soul,' she whispered, closing his eyes. She covered his
face, then moved on to the next.

Alai's worked all day, administering ointment and dressing wounds
until her eyes ached and her hands were streaked red with blood. At the
end of the day, shafts of evening sunlight broke through the high
windows of the Great Hall. The dead had been taken away. The living
were as comfortable as their injuries permitted.


She was exhausted, but thoughts of the night before, lying once more
in Guilhem's arms, sustained her. Her bones ached and her back was stiff
from bending and crouching, but it no longer seemed to matter.


Taking advantage of the frenzy of activity in the rest of the Chateau
Comtal, Oriane slipped away to her chamber to wait for her informer.
'About time,' she snapped. 'Tell me what you have discovered.'
'The Jew died before we learned much, although my lord believes that
he had already given his book into your father's safekeeping.'

Oriane gave a half smile, but said nothing. She had confided in no one
what she had discovered sewn into Alai's' cloak.
"What of Esclarmonde de Servian?'

'She was brave, but in the end she told him where the book would be
found.'

Oriane's green eyes flashed. 'And you have it?'
'Not yet.'

'But it is within the Ciutat} Lord Evreux knows this?'
'He is relying on you, Dame, to provide him with that information.'
Oriane thought a moment. The old woman is dead? The boy too? She
cannot interfere in our plans? She cannot get word to my father.'

He gave a tight smile. The woman is dead. The brat eludes us, although I do not believe he can do any damage. When I find him, we will kill him.'

Oriane nodded. 'And you told Lord Evreux of my . . . interest.'
1 did, Dame. He was honoured that you should consider being of service in such a way.'

'And my terms? He will arrange safe passage out of the Ciutat}' 'Provided you deliver the books to him, Dame, he will.' She stood up and started to pace. 'Good, this is all good. And you can cal with my husband?'

If you tell me when and where he will be at the given hour, Dame,
easily.' He paused. 'It will, however, be more costly than before.
: risks are considerably higher, even in such times of unrest. Viscount icavel's escrivan. He is a man of status.'

"I'm well aware of that,' she snapped in a cold voice. 'How much?' IfThree times what was paid for Raoul,' he replied.

lat's impossible!' she said immediately. 'I cannot possibly lay my i on that amount of gold.'
Nevertheless, Dame, that is my price.'


36i
'And the book?'

This time, he smiled properly. 'That is a matter for separate
negotiation, Dame,' he said.


CHAPTER 57


The bombardment resumed and continued into the night, a steady thud
of missiles, rock and stone, which sent clouds of dust into the air when a
strike was made.

From her window, Alai's could see that the dwellings on the plains had
been reduced to smoking rubble. A noxious cloud was hovering above the
tops of the trees like a black mist, as if caught in the branches. Some of the inhabitants had made it across the open ground to the rubble of SantVicens
and, from there, had sought refuge in the Cite. But most had been cut down as they fled.

In the chapel the candles burned on the altar.


|At dawn on Tuesday the fourth of August, Viscount Trencavel and Ijtatrand Pelletier mounted the ramparts once more.

The French camp was shrouded in the early-morning river mist. Tents,
bles, animals, pavilions, an entire city seemed to have taken root,
lletier looked up. It would be another fiercely hot day. The loss of the 1 so early in the siege was devastating. Without water, they could not
out for long. Drought would defeat them, even if the French did


I Yesterday, Ala'is told him there was rumour of the first case of siege
less reported in the quartier around the Porte de Rodez, which had
most of the refugees from Sant-Vicens. He had gone to see for
" and although the Consul of the quartier had denied it, he feared
I was right. fou are deep in thought, my friend.'

id turned to face him. 'Forgive me, Messire.' icavel waved away his apology. 'Look at them, Bertrand! They are
ny for us to defeat . . . and without water.'

II of Aragon is said to be only a day's ride away,' Pelletier said. I his vassal, Messire. He is bound to come to your aid.' ier knew an appeal would be difficult - Pedro was a staunch


Catholic and also brother-in-law to Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse,
even though there was no love lost between the two men. Still the historic
bond between the House of Trencavel and the House of Aragon was
strong.

'The King's diplomatic ambitions are closely tied up with the fate of
Carcassona, Messire. He has no wish to see the Pays d'Oc controlled by
the French.' He paused. 'Pierre-Roger de Cabaret and your allies support
this course of action.'

Trencavel placed his hands on the wall in front of him.

They have said so, yes.'

'So you will send word?'


Pedro heeded the call and arrived late in the afternoon of Wednesday the
fifth of August.

'Open the gates! Open the gates for lo Ret!'

The gates of the Chateau Comtal were thrown open. Alais was drawn
to her window by the noise and ran down to see what was happening. At
first, she intended only to ask for news. But when she looked up at the
windows of the Great Hall high above her, her curiosity at what was
taking place inside got the better of her. Too often she heard news third
or fourth-hand.

There was a small alcove behind the curtains that separated the Great
Hall from the entrance to Viscount Trencavel's private quarters. Alais had
not tried to get inside the space since she was a girl and would creep down
to eavesdrop on her father as he worked. She wasn't sure if she'd even be
able to slip into the narrow gap.

Alais climbed up on the stone bench and reached for the lowest
window of the Tour Pinte that gave on to the Cour du Midi. She
hauled herself up, wriggled over the stone ledge and threaded herself in
through the narrow gap.

She was in luck. The room was empty. Alais jumped down to the
ground, taking care to make as little noise as possible, then slowly opened
the door and slipped into the space behind the curtain. She shuffled along
until she was as close to the gap as she dared be. She was so close to where
Viscount Trencavel stood, his hands clasped behind his back, that she
could have reached out and touched him.

She was only just in time. At the far end of the Great Hall, the doors
were thrown open. She saw her father stride in, followed by the King
of Aragon and several of Carcassonne's allies, including the seigneurs of
Lavaur and Cabaret.


Viscount Trencavel fell to his knees before his liege lord.
'No need for that,' said Pedro, bidding him rise.
Physically the two men were strikingly different. The King was
Trencavel's senior by many years, of an age with her father. Tall and
broad, a bull of a man, his face bore the marks of many military campaigns.
His features were heavy, brooding, made more so by his thick,
black moustache against his dark skin. His hair, although still black, like
her father's was going grey at the temples.

'Bid your men withdraw,' he said curtly. 'I would talk privately with
you, Trencavel.'

With your leave, Sire King, I would ask permission for my steward to
remain. I value his counsel.'

The King hesitated, and then nodded.

'There are no words that can give adequate expression to our
gratitude . . .'

Pedro interrupted. 'I've not come to support you, but to help you to see
die error of your ways. You have brought this situation upon yourself by your wilful refusal to deal with heretics in your dominions. You have had
four years - four years - to address the matter, but yet you have done
nothing. You allow Cathar bishops to preach openly in your towns and
I; cities. Your vassals openly support the Born Homes--'

'No vassal . . .'

P T)o you deny that attacks on holy men and priests have gone unpunished?
The humiliation of the men of the church? In your lands, heretics
arship openly. Your allies give them protection. It is common know:
the Count of Foix insults the Holy Relics by refusing to bow before
and his sister has slipped so far from grace as to take her vows as a e, a ceremony the Count saw fit to attend.'
1 cannot answer for the Count of Foix.'
I*'He is your vassal and your ally,' Pedro threw back at him. Why do you

' this state of affairs to flourish?'

K Alois felt the Viscount draw in his breath. 'Sire, you answer your own
ion. We live side by side with those you call heretics. We grew up
her, our closest kinsmen are among them. The parfaits lived good
honest lives ministering to an ever-growing flock. I could no more
[ them than I could prevent the daily rising of the sun!'

words did not move Pedro. Your only hope is to be reconciled
['the Holy Mother Church. You are the equal of any of the northern
I the Abbot has with him and they will treat you as such if you seek
i amends. But if, for a moment, you give him cause to believe you


too hold these heretical thoughts, in your heart if not by your actions,
then he will crush you.' The King sighed. 'Do you really believe you can
withstand this, Trencavel? You are outnumbered a hundred to one.'
We have plenty of food.'
'Food, yes, but not water. You have lost the river.'
Alai's saw her father dart a glance at the Viscount, clearly fearing he
would lose his temper.
'I do not wish to defy you or put myself beyond your good offices, but
can you not see they come to fight for our land, not our souls? This war is
not waged for the glory of God but for the greed of men. This is an army
of occupation, Sire. If I have failed the Church - and so offended you,
Sire - I ask your pardon. But I owe no allegiance to the Count of Nevers
or the Abbot of Citeaux. They have no right, spiritual or temporal, over
my lands. I will not betray my people to the French jackals for so base a
cause.'
Alai's felt a surge of pride. From the expression on her father's face, she
knew he felt it also. For the first time, something of Trencavel's courage
and spirit seemed to affect the King.
'These are noble words, Viscount, but they will not help you now. For
the sake of your people, whom you love, let me at least tell the Abbot of
Citeaux you will hear his terms.'
Trencavel walked away to the window and spoke under his breath.
"We do not have enough water to satisfy all those within the CiutatY
Her father shook his head. We do not.'
Only his hands, white against the stone sill of the window, betrayed
how much the words cost him to speak.
'Very well. I will hear what the Abbot has to say.'

For a while after Pedro had departed, Trencavel said nothing. He stayed
where he was, watching the sun sink from the sky. Finally, when the
candles were lit, he sat. Pelletier ordered food and drink to be brought
from the kitchens.
Alais dared not move for fear she would be discovered. She had cramp
in her arms and her legs. The walls seemed to be pressing in upon her, but
there was nothing she could do.
Beneath the curtains, she could see her father's feet as he paced up
and down and heard the low murmurings of conversation from time to
time.
It was late when Pedro II returned. From the expression on his face,
Alais knew straight away the mission had failed. Her spirit sank. It was

the last chance to get the Trilogy away from the Cite before the siege
began in earnest.
You have news?' said Trencavel, rising to greet him.
'None that I would give, Viscount,' Pedro replied. 'It offends me even
to deliver his insulting words.' He accepted a cup of wine and downed it
in one. 'The Abbot of Citeaux will allow you and twelve men of your
choosing to leave the Chateau tonight, unmolested, bearing all you can
carry.'
Alais saw the Viscount's hands ball into fists. 'And Carcassona?'
The Ciutat and everything, everyone else passes to the Host. After
Besiers, the lords will be looking for recompense.' For a moment after he'd spoken, there was silence.
Then, Trencavel finally gave vent to his temper and hurled his cup
; Bgainst the wall. 'How dare he offer such an insult!' he roared. 'How dare
i tie insult our honour, our pride! I will not abandon a single one of my
i"subjects to these French jackals.' 'Messire,' murmured Pelletier.
Trencavel stood, hands on his hips, breathing heavily, waiting until his |nge had passed.
Then he turned again to the King. 'Sire, I am grateful for your intersion and for the offices you have undertaken on our behalf. However, Fyou will not - or cannot - fight with us, then we must part company.
, should withdraw.'
nodded, knowing there was nothing more to be said. |*May God be with you, Trencavel,' he said unhappily.
Prencavel met his gaze. 'I believe he is,' he said defiantly.
i Pelletier accompanied the King from the hall, Alais took her chance
lip away.

i Feast of the Transfiguration of the Virgin passed quietly, with little
ess made on either side. Trencavel continued to shower down and missiles on the Crusaders, while the mindless thud, thud of apult sent rock and stone thundering into the walls. Men fell on jes, but little ground was gained or lost.
t plains resembled a charnel house. Bodies rotted where they lay,
in the heat and feasted on by a plague of black flies. Kites and
, circling over the battlefield, picked the bones clean. Friday the seventh of August, the Crusaders launched an attack on Ithern suburb of Sant-Miquel. For a while, they succeeded in the ditch below the walls, but were repelled by a shower of

arrows and stones. After several hours of stalemate, the French withdrew
under the continued onslaught, to the jeers and triumph of the
Carcassonnais.

At dawn the following day, as the world shimmered silver in the early
morning light and a delicate mist floated gently across the slopes where
more than a thousand Crusaders stood facing Sant-Miquel, the attack
began again.
Helmets and shields, swords and pikes, eyes, glinted in the pale sun.
Each man wore a cross pinned to his breast, white against the colours of
Nevers, Burgundy, Chartres and Champagne.
Viscount Trencavel had positioned himself on the walls of SantMiquel,
shoulder to shoulder with his men, ready to repel the attack.
The archers and dardasiers held themselves ready, bows set. Below, the
footsoldiers were armed with axes, swords and pikes. Behind them, safe
within the Cite until they were required, were the chevaliers.
In the distance, the French drums began to beat. They banged the hard
earth with their pikes, a steady, heavy sound that echoed over the waiting
land.
And so it begins.
Alai's stood on the wall at her father's side, her attention split between
looking for her husband, and watching the Crusaders stream down the
hill.
When the Host was within range, Viscount Trencavel raised his arm
and gave the order. A storm of arrows immediately darkened the sky.
On both sides, men fell. The first scaling ladder was already on the
walls. A bolt from a crossbow whizzed through the air and connected
with rough, heavy wood and brought it down. The ladder tilted, then
overbalanced. It fell slowly at first, then picked up speed, hurling the men
to the ground in a splinter of blood, bone and wood.
The Crusaders succeeded in getting a gata, a siege engine, up to the
walls of the suburb. Sheltered beneath the cover, drenched with water,
the sappers began to pull rocks out of the walls and dig a cavity to weaken
the fortifications.
Trencavel shouted at the archers to destroy the structure. Another
storm of missiles and flaming arrows hurtled through the air on the
wooden structure. The sky fizzed with pitch and black smoke until finally
it caught alight, sending men, their clothes burning, fleeing from the
burning cage, only to be cut down by the arrows.
It was too late. The defenders could only watch as the mine the

Crusaders had been preparing for days was fired. Alai's threw up her
hands to protect her face as the explosion threw a violent shower of stone,
dust and flame up into the air.
The Crusaders charged through the breach. The roar of the fire
drowned out even the screaming of the women and children fleeing the
inferno.
The heavy gate between the Cite and Sant-Miquel was dragged open
and the chevaliers of Carcassonne launched their first attack. Keep him
safe, she found herself murmuring to herself, as if words could repel
arrows.
Now the Crusaders were catapulting the heads of the dead, severed
from their bodies, over the walls to engender panic and fear. The shouting
and shrieking grew louder as Viscount Trencavel led his men into the
fray. He was one of the first to draw blood, driving his sword clean
through the neck of a Crusader and kicking the body free of his blade
with his boot.
Guilhem was not far behind him in the charge, driving his warhorse
through the mass of attackers, trampling all those in his path.
Alai's caught sight of Alzeu de Preixan at his side. She watched in
horror as Alzeu's horse slipped and went down. Straight away, Guilhem
pulled his horse round and went to aid his friend. Frenzied by the smell of
blood and the clashing steel, Guilhem's mighty horse reared up on its
hind legs, crushing a Crusader underfoot, buying Alzeu enough time to
scramble back on to his feet and out of danger.
They were heavily outnumbered. Hordes of terrified and injured men,
women and children fleeing into the Cite got in their way. The Host
advanced relentlessly. Street by street fell under French control.
At last, Alais heard the cry go up.
'Repli! Repli!' Pull back.
Under cover of night a handful of defenders stole back into the
devastated suburb. They slaughtered the few Crusaders left on guard, set fire to the remaining houses, at least depriving the French of cover from which to resume their bombardment of the Cite.
But the truth was stark.
Both Sant-Vicens and Sant-Miquel had fallen. Carcassonne stood alone.

CHAPTER 58


On Viscount Trencavel's wishes, tables had been set up in the Great Hall.
Viscount Trencavel and Dame Agnes were moving between them, thanking
the men for the service they had done and yet would do.

Pelletier was feeling increasingly unwell. The room was filled with the
smells of burned wax, sweat, cold food and warm ale. He wasn't sure he
could stand it much longer. The pains in his stomach were getting worse
and more frequent.

He tried to pull himself upright, but without warning, his legs went
from under him. Clutching at the table for support, Pelletier pitched
forward, sending plates and cups and meat bones flying. He felt as if there
was a wild animal gnawing at his belly.

Viscount Trencavel spun round. Someone started shouting. He was
aware of servants rushing to help him and someone calling for Alais.

He felt hands holding him up and moving him towards the door.
Francois' face swam into focus, then out again. He thought he could hear
Alai's issuing orders, although her voice was coming from a long way away
and she seemed to be speaking a language he didn't understand.

'Alais,' he called out, reaching for her hand in the darkness.

'I'm here. We'll get you to your chamber.'

He felt strong arms lift him, the night air on his face as he was carried
through the Cour d'Honneur, then up the stairs.

They made slow progress. The spasms in his stomach were getting
worse, each more violent than the last. He could feel the pestilence working
in him, poisoning his blood and his breath.

'Alais . . .' he whispered, this time in fear.


As soon as they reached her father's chamber, Alais sent Rixende to find
Francois and collect the medicines she needed from her room. She
dispatched two other servants to the kitchens for precious water.

She had her father laid on his bed. She stripped his stained outer robes
and put them in a pile to be burned. Pestilence seemed to seep from the


37


pores of his skin. The attacks of diarrhoea were getting more frequent and
more severe, blood and pus now making up the greater part. Alai's ordered
herbs and flowers to be burned to try to disguise the smell, but no amount
of lavender or rosemary could mask the truth of his condition.
Rixende arrived quickly with the ingredients and helped Alais to mix
the dried red whortleberries with hot water to form a thin paste. Having
stripped his stained robes from him and covered him with a clean, thin
sheet, Alai's spooned the liquid between his pallid lips.
The first mouthful he swallowed, then immediately vomited up. She
tried again. This time, he managed to swallow, although it cost him much
to do so, sending his body into spasms.
Time became meaningless, moving neither fast nor slow, as Alais tried
to slow the progress of the sickness. At midnight, Viscount Trencavel
came to the chamber.
"What news, Dame?'
'He is very sick, Messire!
'Is there anything you need? Physicians, medicines?'
'A little more water, if it can be spared? I sent Rixende to find Francois,
some time ago, but he has not returned.'
'It shall be done.'
Trencavel glanced over her shoulder to the bed. 'How has the affliction taken hold so quickly?'
It is hard to say why such a disease strikes one so hard and yet passes another by, Messire. My father's constitution was much weakened by his time in the Holy Land. He is particularly susceptible to ailments of the
stomach.' She hesitated. 'God willing, it will not spread.'
There is no doubt it is siege sickness?' he said grimly. Alais shook her head. 'I am sorry to hear it. Send for me if there is any change in his
condition.'
As the hours slid slowly one into the next, her father's grip on life got I Weaker. He had moments of lucidity, when he seemed to be aware of [what was happening to him. At other times, it seemed he no longer knew

here or who he was.
Shortly before dawn, Pelletier's breathing became shallow. Dozing by
i side, Alais heard the change and was immediately alert.
'Fiiha ..."
She felt his hands and his brow and knew there was not long to go.
: fever had left him, leaving his skin cold. 'f-His soul struggles to be set free. * 'Help me . . .' he managed to say,'. . . to sit.'

With Rbcende's help, Alais managed to prop him up. The sickness had
aged him in the course of the one night.
'Don't speak,' she whispered. 'Guard your strength.'
'Alais,' he admonished her softly. *You know my time has come.' His
chest was full of splashing, rattling sounds as he struggled for breath. His
eyes were hollow and ringed in yellow and pale brown blotches were
forming on his hands and neck. Will you send for 2.parfaitV He forced
his sunken eyes open. 'I wish to make a good end.'
'You wish to be consoled, Paire}' she said carefully.
Pelletier managed a thin smile and, for an instant, the man he had been
in his life, shone through.
'I have listened well to the words of the Bons Chretiens. I have learned
the words of the melhorer and the consolament. . .' He broke off. 'I was
born a Christian and I will die one, but not in the corrupt embrace of
those who wage war in God's name at our gates. With God's grace, if I
have lived well enough, I will join the glorious company of spirits in
Heaven.'
A fit of coughing overtook him. Alais cast her eyes around the room
in desperation. She sent a servant to inform Viscount Trencavel her
father's condition had worsened. As soon as he had gone, she summoned
Rixende.
'I need you to fetch the parfaits. They were about the courtyard earlier.
Tell them there is one who wishes to receive the consolament.'
Rixende looked terrified.
'No blame will attach itself to you for carrying a message,' she said,
trying to reassure the girl. "You do not have to return with them.'
A movement from her father drew her attention back to the bed.
'Quick, Rixende. Make haste.'
Alais bent down. What is it, Paire} I'm here with you.'
He was trying to speak, but the words seemed to shrivel in his throat
before he could utter them. She tipped a little wine into his mouth and
wiped his desiccated lips with a wet cloth.
'The Grail is the word of God, Alais. This is what Harif tried to teach
me, although I did not understand.' His voice stuttered. 'But without the merel... the truth of the labyrinth, it is a false path.'
What about the merelY she whispered urgently, not understanding.
You were right, Alais. I was too stubborn. I should have let you go
when there was still a chance.'
Alais was struggling to make sense of his meandering words. What
path?'

'I have not seen it,' he was murmuring, 'nor will I now. The cave . . .
few have seen it.'
Alais spun round to the door in despair. Where is Rixende?
In the corridor outside was the sound of running feet. Rixende appeared,
followed by two parfaits. Alais recognised the elder, a dark
featured man with a thick beard and a gentle expression who she'd met
once at Esclarmonde's house. Both were wearing dark blue robes and
twisted rope belts with metal buckles in the shape of a fish.
He bowed. 'Dame Alai's.' He looked past her to the bed. 'It is your
father, Intendant Pelletier, who has need of consolation?'
She nodded.
'He has the breath to speak?'
'He will find strength to do so.'
There was another disturbance in the corridor as Viscount Trencavel
appeared on the threshold.
'Messire--' she said in alarm. 'He requested the parfaits . . . my father
wishes to make a good end, Messire.'
Surprise flickered in his eyes, but he ordered the door to be closed.
'Nevertheless,' he said. 'I will stay.'
Alai's stared at him for a moment, then turned back to her father as the
,officiating parfait summoned her.
'Intendant Pelletier is in great pain, but his wits are strong still and his
t courage holds.' Alais nodded. 'He has done nothing to harm our church |nor owes us a debt?'
"He is a protector of all friends of God.'
Alais and Raymond-Roger stood back as the parfait walked over to the
and leaned over the dying man. Bertrand's eyes flickered as he spered the melhorer, the blessing.
'Do you vow to follow the rule of justice and truth and to give yourself
> God and to the Church of the Bons Chretiens}' Pelletier forced the words from his lips. 'I - do.'
The parfait placed the parchment copy of the New Testament on his
, 'May God bless you, make a Good Christian of you and lead you to end.' He recited the benedicte, then the adoremus three times,
was moved by the simplicity of the service. Viscount Trencavel
straight ahead. He seemed to be keeping himself under control tan enormous effort of will.
and Pelletier, are you ready to receive the gift of the Lord's
r?'

Her father murmured his assent.
In a clear, true voice, the parfait spoke the paternoster seven times over,
pausing only to allow Pelletier to make his responses.
'This is the prayer that Jesus Christ brought into the world and taught
to the Bons Homes. Never eat or drink again without repeating this prayer
first; and if you fail of this duty, you must need do penance again.'
Pelletier tried to nod. The hollow whistling in his chest was louder
now, like the wind in autumn trees.
The parfait began to read from the Gospel of John.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God.' Pelletier's
hand jerked above the covers as the parfait continued to read.'. . . And ye
shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'
His eyes suddenly flew open.' Vertat,' he whispered. "Yes, the truth.'
Alai's grabbed his hand in alarm, but he was slipping away. The light
had gone from his eyes. She was aware the parfait was speaking faster
now, as if he feared there was not enough time to complete the ritual.
'He must speak the final words,' he urged Alais. 'Help him.'
'Paire, you must . . .' Grief took her voice from her.
'For every sin ... I have committed ... by word or deed,' he rasped,
'I ... I ask pardon of God and the Church . . . and all here present.'
With evident relief, the parfait placed his hands on Pelletier's head and
gave him the kiss of peace. Alai's caught her breath. A look of release had
transformed her father's face as the grace of the consolament descended to
him. It was a moment of transcendence, of understanding. His spirit was
ready, now, to leave his sick body and the earth that held him.
'His soul is prepared,' said the parfait.
Alai's nodded. She sat on the bed, holding her father's hand. Viscount
Trencavel stood on the other. Pelletier was barely conscious, although he
seemed to feel their presence.
'MessireT
'I'm here, Bertrand.'
'Carcassona must not fall.'
'I give you my word, in honour of the love and obligation that has been
between us these many years, I will do all I can.'
Pelletier tried to lift his hand from the blanket. 'It has been an honour
to serve you.'
Alais saw the Viscount's eyes were filled with tears. 'It is I who should
thank you, my old friend.'
Pelletier tried to raise his head. 'Alais?'

'I'm here, Father,' she said quickly. The colour had gone from Pelletier's
face now. His skin hung in grey folds under his eyes. 'No man
ever had such a daughter.'
He seemed to sigh as the life left his body. Then, silence.
For a moment, Alais did not move, breathe, react in any way. Then she
felt a wild grief building within her, taking her over, possessing her, until
she broke down in an agony of weeping.

CHAPTER 59

A soldier appeared in the doorway. 'Lord Trencavel?'
He turned his head. What is it?'
'A thief, Messire. Stealing water from the Place du P16.'
He signalled he would come. 'Dame, I must leave you.'
Alai's nodded. She had worn herself out with weeping.
'I will see him buried with the honour and ceremony that befits
his status. He was a valiant man, both a loyal counsellor and trusted
friend.'
'His church does not require it, Messire. His flesh is nothing. His spirit
is already gone. He would wish you to think only of the living.'
'Then, see it as an act of selfishness on my part, that I wish to pay
my last respects in accordance with the great affection and esteem in
which I held your father. I will have his body moved to the capela Santa
Maria.'
'He would be honoured by such evidence of your love.'
'Can I send anyone to sit with you? I cannot spare your husband, but
your sister? Women to help you with the laying out?'
Her head darted up, realising only now that she had not thought of
Oriane once. She had even forgotten to inform her their father had been
taken sick.
She did not love him.
Alais silenced the voice in her head. She had failed in her duty, both to
her father and to her sister. She got to her feet.
'I will go to my sister, Messire!
She bowed as he left the chamber, then turned back. She could not
bring herself to leave her father. She began the process of laying out the
body herself. She ordered the bed to be stripped and freshly made,
sending the contaminated covers away for burning. Then with Rixende's
help, Alais prepared the winding sheets and burial oils. She cleaned his
body herself and smoothed the hair from his brow so that, in death, he
looked like the man he had been in life.

She lingered a while long, looking down at the empty face. You cannot delay any longer.
'Inform the Viscount his body is ready to be taken to the capela, Rixende. I must inform my sister.'

Guirande was asleep on the floor outside Oriane's chamber.
Alais stepped over her and tried the door. This time, it was unlocked.
Oriane lay alone in her bed with the curtains pulled back. Her tousled
black curls were spread over the pillow and her skin was milky white in
the early morning light. Ala'is marvelled that she could sleep at all.
'Sister!'
Oriane opened her green cat-like eyes with a jolt, her face registering
alarm, then surprise, before taking on its customary expression of disdain.
'I have ill news,' she said. Her voice was dead, cold.
'Could it not wait? The bell for Prime cannot yet have rung.'
'It could not. Our father--' she stopped. How can such words be true?
Alais took a deep breath to steady herself. 'Our father is dead.'
The shock registered on Oriane's face, before her habitual expression
returned. "What did you say?' she said, her eyes narrowing.
'Our father passed away this morning. Just before dawn.'
'How? How did he die?'
'Is that all you can say?' she cried.
Oriane flew out of bed. 'Tell me what he died of?'
'A sickness. It came on very quickly.'
Were you with him at the hour of his passing?'
Alais nodded.
"Yet you did not see fit to inform me?' she said furiously.
I'm sorry,' Alais whispered. 'It all seemed to happen so fast. I know I
. have--'
Who else was there?'
i "Our Lord Trencavel, and . . .'
Oriane heard her hesitation. 'Our father did confess his sins and receive (last rites?' she demanded. 'He died in the Church?'
father did not die unshriven,' Alais replied, choosing her words
i care. 'He made his peace with God.' t has guessed.
at does it matter?' she cried, appalled by Oriane's callous accepti of the news. 'He is dead, sister. Does it mean nothing to you?' fou have failed in your duty, sister,' Oriane jabbed with her finger. 'As

the elder, I had more right to be there than you. I should have been there.
And if, in addition to this, I discover you allowed heretics to paw over
him as he lay dying, then make no mistake about it, I will make sure you
regret it.'
'Do you feel no loss, no regret?'
Alais could see the answer in Oriane's face. 'I feel no more for his
passing than I would for a dog in the street. He did not love me. It is
many years since I allowed myself to be hurt by the fact. Why, now,
would I grieve?' She took a step closer. 'It was you he loved. He saw
himself in you.' She gave an unpleasant smile. 'It was you he confided in.
Shared his innermost secrets with.'
Even in her frozen state, Alai's felt colour fly to her cheeks. What do
you mean?' she said, dreading the answer.
You know perfectly well what I mean,' she hissed. 'Do you really think
I do not know of your midnight conversations?' She took a step closer.
Your life is going to change, little sister, without him to protect you. You
have had things your own way far too long.' Oriane darted out a hand and
grabbed Alais by the wrist.
Tell me. Where is the third book?'
'I do not know what you mean.'
Oriane slapped her with her open hand.
Where is it?' Oriane hissed. 'I know you have it.'
'Let me go.'
'Don't play games with me, sister. He must have given it to you. Who
else would he trust? Tell me where it is. I mean to have it.'
A chill ran down Alais' spine.
You can't do this. Someone will come.'
Who?' she demanded. You forget our father is no longer here to
protect you.'
'Guilhem.'
Oriane laughed. 'Of course, I forgot that you are reconciled with your
husband. Do you know what your husband really thinks of you?' she
continued. 'Do you?'
The door flew open and slammed against the wall.
'That is enough!' Guilhem shouted. Oriane immediately dropped her
wrist as Alai's' husband strode across the room and gathered her into his
arms. 'Mon cor, I came as soon as I heard the news of your father's death.
I'm so sorry.'
'How touching!' Oriane's harsh voice broke the intimacy between
them.

'Ask him what brought him back to your bed,' she said spitefully, not
taking her eyes from Guilhem's face. 'Or are you too afraid to hear what
he has to say? Ask him, Alais. It's not love or desire. This reconciliation is
because of the book, nothing more.'
'I warn you, hold your tongue!'
Why? Are you afraid of what I might say?'
Alais could feel the tension between them. The knowledge. And
immediately she understood.
No. Not that.
'It's not you he wants, Alais. He seeks the book. That's what brought
him back to your chamber. Can you really be so blind?'
Alais took a step away from Guilhem. 'Does she speak the truth?'
He swung round to face her, desperation flashing in his eyes.
'She's lying. I swear, on my life, I care nothing for the book. I have told her nothing. How could I?'
'He searched the chamber while you slept. He cannot deny it.'
'I did not,' he shouted.
Alais looked at him. 'But you knew there was such a book?'
The alarm that nickered in his eyes gave her the answer she feared.
'She tried to blackmail me to help her, but I refused.' His voice cracked,
jfel refused, Alais.'
"What hold did she have over you that she would make such a request?' |'lfae said softly, almost in a whisper.
Guilhem tried to reach for her, but she backed away from him.
Even now, I would that he denied it.
He dropped his hand. 'Once, yes, I ... Forgive me.'
k 'If s a little late for remorse.'
Alais ignored Oriane. 'Do you love her?'
|: Guilhem shook his head. 'Can't you see what she's doing, Alais? She's
; to turn you against me.'
(f Alais was dumbstruck that he could believe she would trust him ever

!e held his hand out. 'Please, Alais,' he pleaded. 'I love you.'
lough of this,' said Oriane, stepping into her line of vision. 'Where is ibook?'
i not have it.'
i does?' said Oriane in a threatening voice,
i held her ground. 'Why do you want it? What is it that is of such
5?'
: tell me,' she snapped, 'and this will all end here.'

'And if I will not?'
'It is so easy to sicken,' she said. 'You nursed our father. Perhaps the
illness is already within you.' She turned to Guilhem. "You understand
what I'm saying, Guilhem? If you go against me.'
'I will not allow you to harm her!'
Oriane laughed. 'You're hardly in a position to threaten me, Guilhem.
I have enough evidence of your treachery to see you hanged.'
'Evidence of your own designing,' he shouted. 'Viscount Trencavel will
not believe you.'
*You underestimate me, Guilhem, if you think I have left grounds for
doubt. Dare you risk it?' She turned back to Alais. 'Tell me where you
have hidden the book or I shall go to the Viscount.'

Alais swallowed hard. What had Guilhem done? She didn't know what
to think. Despite her anger, she couldn't bring herself to denounce him.
'Francois,' she said. 'Our father gave the book to Francois.'
A look of confusion flickered in Oriane's eyes, then vanished as quickly
as it had come.
'Very well. But, I warn you sister, if you are lying you will regret it.' She
turned and walked to the door.
"Where are you going?'
'To pay my respects to our father, where else? However, before that, I
will see you safely to your chamber.'
Alais raised her head and met her sister's gaze. That is quite unnecessary.'
'Oh,
it's entirely necessary. Should Francois not be able to help me, I
would wish to be able to talk with you again.'
Guilhem tried to reach for her. 'She's lying. I have done nothing
wrong.'
"What you have or have not done, Guilhem, is no longer any concern of
mine,' she said. "You knew what you did when you lay with her. Now, just
leave me be.'
With her head held high, Alais walked along the corridor and into her
chamber, with Oriane and Guirande behind her.
'I will return presently. As soon as I have spoken to Francois.'
'As you wish.'
Oriane shut the door. Moments later, as Alais had feared, the key
was turned in the lock. She could hear Guilhem remonstrating with
Oriane.
She shut her ears to their voices. She tried to keep the poisonous,
jealous images from her mind. Alais couldn't stop thinking of Guilhem

and Oriane entwined in one another's arms, she couldn't protect herself
from the thought of Guilhem whispering to her sister the intimate words
he had spoken to her, pearls she'd kept close to her heart.
Alais pressed her trembling hand to her chest. She could feel her heart
thudding hard against her ribs, bewildered and betrayed. She swallowed
hard.
Think not of yourself.
She opened her eyes and dropped her arms to her side, her hands
clenched in fists of misery. She could not allow herself to be weak. If she
did, then Oriane would have taken everything of worth from her. The
I time for regret, for recrimination, would come. Now, her promise to
I her father, keeping the Book safe, mattered more than her breaking heart.
I However difficult, she had to put Guilhem from her mind. She had
liillowed herself to be imprisoned in her room because of something
lOriane had said. The third book. Oriane had asked where she'd hidden
i? die third book.
Alais ran to the cloak, still hanging over the back of her chair, and
linatched it up and patted along the hem where the book had been.
It was no longer there.
Alais slumped down on the chair, desperation welling inside her.
ne had Simeon's book. Soon, she would know she had lied about
ng a book to Francois and return. And what of Esclarmonde?
* Alais realised Guilhem was no longer shouting outside the door. I^Jjr he -with her?
didn't know what to think. It didn't matter anyway. He had
[ her once. He would again. She had to lock her wounded feelings
Ijher battered heart. She had to get out while she had the chance.
tore open the lavender bag to retrieve the copy of the parchment
lie Book of Numbers, then cast a final look around the chamber she'd
it to be her home forever,
i knew she would not be back.
l, with her heart in her mouth, she went to the window and looked
er the roof. Her only chance was to get out before Oriane came

(felt nothing. In the flickering candlelight she stood at the foot of
' and looked down on her father's body.
iding the attendants to withdraw, Oriane bent down as if to
father's head. Her hand closed over his and she slipped the

labyrinth ring from his thumb, hardly believing Alai's had been so stupid
as to leave it on his hand.
Oriane straightened up and slipped it into her pocket. She rearranged
the sheet, genuflected before the altar and crossed herself and then left in
search of Francois.

CHAPTER 60

Alai's put her foot on to the ledge and climbed out on to the sill, her head
spinning at the thought of what she was about to attempt. You will fall.
If she did, what did it matter now? Her father was dead. Guilhem was
lost to her. In the end, her father's judgement of her husband's character
had proved to be true. What more is there to lose?
Taking a deep breath, Alais carefully lowered herself over the sill until
her right foot found the tiles. Then, muttering a prayer, she braced her
arms and legs and let go. She dropped with a small thump. Her feet
slipped from under her. Alais hurled herself forward as she skidded down
the tiles, desperately trying to gain purchase. Cracks in the tiles, gaps in
the wall, anything to stop her plummeting down.
It seemed like she was falling forever. Suddenly, there was a violent jerk
rand Ala'is came to an abrupt halt. The hem of her dress had snagged on a
pnail and was holding her fast. She lay quite still, not daring to move. She
feel the tension in the cloth. It was of good quality, but it was
etched as tight as a drum and could tear at any moment.
Alais glanced up at the nail. Even if she could reach up that high, it
ould take both hands to untangle the material, which had wrapped itself
eral times round the metal spike. She couldn't risk letting go. The only
ion was to abandon the cloak and try to crawl back up the roof, which
ed the outer wall of the Chateau Comtal on the western side. She
be able to squeeze through the wooden slats of the hourds. The
: in the defences were narrow, but she was slight. It was worth trying.
I'jCsureful to make no sudden movements, Alais reached up and shredded
material until it began to tear. She pulled, first one side, then the
until she ripped a square from the skirt. Leaving a pocket of
i behind, she was free once more.
brought up one knee and pushed, then the other. She could feel
of sweat forming at her temples and between her breasts, where

she'd stowed the parchments. Her skin was sore from rubbing against the
rough tiles.
Bit by bit, she pulled herself up until the ambans were in reach.
Alais put her hands out and grasped the wooden struts, which felt
reassuringly solid between her fingers. Then she drew her knees up so
that she was almost crouching on the roof, wedged into the corner
between the battlements and the wall. The gap was smaller than she'd
hoped, no deeper than the stretch of a man's hand and perhaps three
times as wide. Alais extended her right leg, twisted her left leg under to
anchor herself firmly, then pulled herself up through the gap. The purse
with the copies of the labyrinth parchments was awkward and kept
tangling between her legs, but she kept going.
Ignoring her aching limbs, she quickly stood up and picked her way
along the barricade. Although she knew the guards would not betray her
to Oriane, the sooner she got out of the Chateau Comtal and to SantNasari,
the better.
Peering down to make sure there was no one at the bottom, Alais
quickly shinned down the ladders to the ground. Her legs buckled under
her as she jumped the last few rungs and she cracked down on her back,
knocking every last gasp of air out of her.
She glanced towards the chapel. There was no sign of Oriane or
Francois. Keeping close to the walls, Alai's passed through the stables,
pausing at Tatou's stall. She was desperate to drink, to give her suffering
mare water, but what little there was went only to the warhorses.

The streets were filled with refugees. Alais covered her mouth with her
sleeve to keep out the stench of suffering and sickness that hung like a fog
over the streets. Wounded men and women, the dispossessed cradling
children in their arms, stared blankly up at her with hopeless eyes as she
passed.
The square in front of Sant-Nasari was filled with people. With a
glance over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her, Alai's
opened the door and slipped inside. There were people sleeping in the nave. In their misery, they paid little attention.
Candles burned on the main altar. Alais hurried up the north transept to
a little-visited side chapel with a small plain altar where her father had
taken her. Mice ran for cover, their tiny claws scuttling over the flagstones.
Kneeling down, Alais reached around behind the altar, as he'd shown her.
She paddled her fingers over the surface of the wall. A spider, its hiding
place disturbed, darted over the exposed skin of her hand, then was gone.

There was a soft click. Alais slowly, carefully, eased out the stone and
slid it to one side, then stretched her hand into the dusty recess behind.
She found the long, thin key, the metal dull with age and disuse, and put
it into the lock of the wooden latticed door. The hinges creaked as the
wood scraped over the stone floor.

She felt her father's presence strongly now. Alai's bit her lip to stop herself breaking down.

This is all you can do for him now.

Ala'is reached in and pulled out the box, as she had seen him do. No
bigger than a jewellery casket, it was plain and undecorated, with a simple
clasp. She lifted the lid. Inside was a sheepskin pouch, as it had been
when her father showed her this place. She gave a sigh of relief, only now
realising how much she feared Oriane would somehow have been here
before her.

Aware of what little time she had, Alais quickly concealed the book
beneath her dress and then replaced everything exactly as it had been. If
Oriane or Guilhem knew of the hiding place, it would at least delay them
if they believed the casket was still in its place.

She ran back through the church, her head covered by her hood, then
pushed open the heavy door and was swallowed up in the tide of suffering
people milling aimlessly through the square. The sickness that had
claimed her father spread quickly. The alleyways were filled with decaying
and decomposing carcasses - sheep and goats, even cattle, their swollen I' bodies releasing foul-smelling gas into the foetid air.


Alais found herself heading for Esclarmonde's house. There was no
reason to hope she would find her there this time, having failed so many
times in the past few days, but she could think of nowhere else to go.

Most of the houses in the southern quartier were shuttered and
boarded, Esclarmonde's included. Alais raised her hand and knocked on
I the door.

'Esdarmonde?'

Alais knocked again. She tried the door, but it was locked. 'Sajhe'?'

This time she heard something. The sound of feet running and a bolt tbeing shot.

'Dame Alais?'

'Sajhe, thank God. Quick, let me in.'

The door opened just wide enough to allow her to slip inside.

"Where have you been?' she said, hugging him tight. 'What's been
appening? Where's Esclarmonde?'


38s


Alais felt Sajhe's small hand slip into hers. 'Come with me.'
He led her through the curtain to the room at the back of the house. A
trap door was open in the floor. 'You've been here all along?' she said. She
peered down into the dark and saw a calelh was burning at the bottom of
the ladder. 'In the cellars? Has my sister been back--'
'It wasn't her,' he said in a quavering voice. 'Quick, Dame.'
Alais went down first. Sajhe released the catch and the trap door
clattered shut above their heads. He scrambled down after her, jumping
the last few rungs to the earth floor.
'This way.'
He led her along a damp tunnel into a small hollowed-out area, then
held the lamp up so Alais could see Esclarmonde, who was lying motionless
on a pile of furs and blankets.
'No!' she gasped, running to her side.
Her head was heavily bandaged. Alais lifted the corner of the padding
and covered her mouth. Esclarmonde's left eye was red, everything covered
by a film of blood. There was a clean compress over the wound, but
the skin flapped loose around the crushed socket.
'Can you help her?' said Sajhe.
Alais lifted the blanket. Her stomach lurched. There was a line of
angry red burns across Esclarmonde's chest, the skin yellow and black
where the flames had been held.
'Esclarmonde,' she whispered, leaning over her. 'Can you hear me? It's
me, Alais. Who did this to you?'
She fancied she saw movement in Esclarmonde's face. Her lips moved
slightly. Alais turned to Sajhe. 'How did you get her down here?'
'Gaston and his brother helped.'
Alais turned back to the brutalised figure on the bed. What happened
to her, Sajhe?'
He shook his head.
'Has she told you nothing?'
'She . . .' For the first time, his self-possession faltered. 'She cannot
speak . . . her tongue . . .'
Alais turned white. 'No,' she whispered in horror, then strengthened
her voice. 'Tell me what you do know then,' she said softly.
For Esclarmonde's sake, they both had to be strong.
'After we heard that Besiers had fallen, Menina was worried that
Intendant Pelletier would change his mind about letting you take the
Trilogy to Harif.'
'She was right,' she said grimly.

'Menina knew you would try to persuade him, but thought Simeon was
the only person Intendant Pelletier would heed. I didn't want her to go,'
he wailed, 'but she went anyway to the Jewish quartier. I followed, but
because I couldn't let her see me, I stayed back, and so I lost sight of her
in the woods. I got frightened. I waited until sundown, but then imagining
what she would say if she returned home and found I'd disobeyed
her, I came home. That's when I . . .' he broke off, his amber eyes
burning in his white face.
'Straight away I knew it was her. She had collapsed, outside the gates.
Her feet were bleeding as if she had walked a long way.' Sajhe' looked up
at her. 'I wanted to fetch you, Dame, but I didn't dare. With Gaston's
help, I got her down here. I tried to remember what she would do, which
ointments to use.' He shrugged. 'I did my best.'
You did excellently well,' Alais said fiercely. 'Esclarmonde will be very
proud of you.'
A movement from the bed drew their attention. They both turned back
immediately.
'Esclarmonde,' said Alai's. 'Can you hear me? We're both here. You're
quite safe.'
'She's trying to say something.'
Alais watched her hands working frantically. 'I think she wants parch, ment and ink,' she said.
With Sajhe's help, Esclarmonde managed to write.
'It says Francois, I think,' said Alais, frowning.
/What does it mean?'
'I don't know. Maybe he can help,' she said. 'Listen to me, Sajhe. I have
1 news. Simeon is almost certainly dead. My father - my father also has
i:
Sajhe took her hand. The gesture was so thoughtful, it brought tears to  eyes. 'I am sorry.'
Alais bit her lip to stop herself from crying. 'So for his sake -- Simeon
. Esclarmonde also -- I must keep my word and find my way to Harif. I
.' she faltered again. 'I regret I have only the Book of Words. sn's book is gone.' |*But Intendant Pelletier gave it to you.'
ly sister took it. My husband admitted her to our chamber,' she said.
... he has given his heart to my sister. He is no longer to be trusted,
S. It's why I cannot go back to the Chateau. With my father dead,
i is nothing to stop them.' ijhe looked to his grandmother, then back to Alais.

Will she live?' he said in a quiet voice.
'Her injuries are severe, Sajhe. She's lost the sight in her left eye,
but . . . there is no infection. Her spirit is strong. She will recover if she
chooses to do so.'
He nodded, suddenly older than his eleven years.
'But I will take Esclarmonde's book, by your leave, Sajhe.'
For a moment, he looked as if his tears were at last going to claim him.
'That book, also, is lost,' he said in the end.
'No!' said Alais. 'How?'
The people who did . . . they took it from her,' he said. 'Menina took
it with her when she set out for the Jewish quartier. I saw her take it from
its hiding place.'
'Only one book,' Alais said, close to tears herself. 'Then we are lost. It
has all been in vain.'

For the next five days, they lived a strange existence.
Alais and Sajhe took it in turns to venture up into the streets under
cover of darkness. It was immediately clear that there was no way of
getting out of Carcassonne unseen. The siege was unbreakable. There was
a guard on every postern, every gate, beneath every tower, a solid ring of
men and steel around the walls. Day and night, the siege engines
bombarded the walls, so the inhabitants of the Cite no longer knew if
they heard the sounds of the missiles or but the echo of them in their
heads.
It was a relief to return to the cool, damp tunnels where time stood still
and there was no night or day.

CHAPTER 61

Guilhem stood beneath the shade of the great elm in the centre of the
Cour d'Honneur.
On the behalf of the Abbot of Citeaux, the Count of Auxerre had
ridden up to the Porte Narbonnaise and offered safe conduct to parley.
With this surprise proposition Viscount Trencavel's natural optimism had
returned. It was evident in his face and his bearing as he addressed the
household. His hope and fortitude rubbed off a little on those listening.
The reasons behind the Abbot's sudden change of mind were debatable.
The Crusaders were making little progress, but the siege had only
lasted a little over a week, which was nothing. Did the Abbot's motive
matter? Viscount Trencavel claimed not.
Guilhem was barely listening. He was trapped in a web of his own
making and could see no way out, neither through words nor the sword.
ijHe lived on a knife-edge. Alais had been missing for five days. Guilhem I'had sent discreet search parties out into the Cite and scoured the Chateau
Jonvtal, but was no nearer to finding where Oriane was keeping her
sner. He was trapped in a web of his own deceit. Too late had he
ed how well Oriane had prepared the ground. If he did not do what \ wanted, he would be denounced as a traitor and Alais would suffer. ti'So, my friends,' Trencavel concluded. Who will accompany me on this
r?'
t Guilhem felt Oriane's sharp finger in his back. He found himself
ig forward. He knelt down, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and
his service. As Raymond-Roger clasped him on the shoulder in
Guilhem burned with shame.
. have our great thanks, Guilhem. Who, now, will go with you?'
: other chevaliers joined Guilhem. Oriane slipped between them and
1 before the Viscount. tessire, by your leave.'
Dtlgost had not noticed his wife in the mass of men. He flushed red ipped his hands in embarrassment, as if shooing crows from a field.

Withdraw, Dame,' he stammered in his shrill voice. 'This is no place
for you.'
Oriane ignored him. Trencavel raised his hand and summoned her
forward. What is it that you want to say, Dame?'
'Forgive me, Messire, honoured chevaliers, friends . . . husband. With
your leave and God's blessing, I want to offer myself as a member of this
party. I have lost a father and now, it appears, a sister too. Such grief is
heavy to bear. But if my husband will release me, I would like to redeem
my loss and show my love for you, Messire, by this act. It is what my
father would wish.'
Congost looked as if he would like the ground to open up and swallow
him. Guilhem stared at the ground. Viscount Trencavel could not hide
his surprise.
With respect, Dame Oriane, this is not a woman's office.'
'In which case, I offer myself as a willing hostage, Messire. My presence
will be proof of your fair intentions, as clear an indication as any that
Carcassona will abide by the conventions of the parley.'
Trencavel considered for a moment, and then turned to Congost. 'She
is your wife. Can you spare her in our cause?'
Jehan stuttered and rubbed his sweaty hands on his tunic. He wanted
to refuse his permission, but it was clear the proposal had merit in the
Viscount's eyes.
'My wishes are but the servants to yours,' he mumbled.
Trencavel bid her rise. "Your late father, my esteemed friend, would be
proud of what you do today.'
Oriane looked up at him from under her dark lashes. 'And with your
leave, may I take Francois with me? He too, united as we all are in grief
for my worthy father, would be glad of the chance to serve.'
Guilhem felt the bile rising in his throat, unable to believe any of the
listeners would be convinced by Oriane's show of filial affection, but they
were. Admiration showed in every face, bar her husband's. Guilhem
grimaced. He and Congost alone knew Oriane's true worth. All others
were beguiled by her beauty, her gentle words. As once he had been.
Sickened to the bottom of his heart, Guilhem glanced to where
Francois stood impassive, his face a perfect mask, on the outskirts of the
group.
'If you believe it will aid our cause, Dame,' Viscount Trencavel replied,
'then you have my permission.'
Oriane curtseyed once more. 'Thank you, Messire.'
He clapped his hands. 'Saddle the horses.'

Oriane kept close to Guilhem as they rode across the devastated land to
the pavilion of the Count of Nevers, where the parley was to take place.
From the Cite, those with the strength to climb the walls stood in silence
and watched them go.
The moment they entered the camp, Oriane slipped away. Ignoring the
lewd and rough calls of the soldiers, she followed Francois through the
sea of tents and colours, until they found themselves in the green and
silver of Chartres.
'This way, Dame,' murmured Francois, pointing to a pavilion set a
little apart from everyone else. The soldiers stood to attention as they
approached and held their pikes across the opening. One of them
acknowledged Francois with a nod.
Tell your master that Dame Oriane, daughter of the late steward of
Carcassona, is here and wishes audience with Lord Evreux.'
Oriane was taking a terrible risk coming to him. From Francois, she
knew of his cruelty and quick temper. She was playing for high stakes.
'On what matter?' demanded the soldier.
'My lady will speak to none but Lord Evreux himself.'
The man hesitated, then he ducked beneath the opening and disappeared
into the tent. Moments, later, he came out and beckoned them
to follow.
Her first sight of Guy d'Evreux did nothing to allay her fears. He had his back to her as she entered the tent. He turned and flint grey eyes burned in his pale face. His black hair was oiled back from his forehead in "i the French style. He had the look of a hawk about to strike.
'Lady, I have heard much about you.' His voice was calm and steady,
at there was a hint of steel behind it. 'I did not expect to have the
easure of meeting you in person. What can I do for you?'
1 hope it will be a question of what I can do for you, my lord,' she said.
Before she knew it, Evreux had taken hold of her wrist.
1 advise you not to bandy words with me, Lady Oriane. Your
sant southern ways will do you no good here.' Behind her, she felt
ifois trying not to react. 'Do you have news for me, yes or no?' he said.

iane held her nerve. This is an ill way to treat one who brings you
at most you desire,' she said, meeting his gaze. lEvreux raised his arm. 'I could beat the information out of you, as soon Jbe kept waiting and save us both time.'
I Oriane held her gaze. Then you will learn only part of what I have to

say,' she said as steadily as she could. You have invested much in your
quest for the Labyrinth Trilogy. I can give you what you want.'
Evreux stared at her a moment, then lowered his arm.
You have courage, Lady Oriane, I give you that. Whether you also
have wisdom remains to be seen.'
He clicked his ringers and a servant brought a tray of wine. Oriane's
hands were shaking too hard to risk taking a cup.
'No thank you, my lord.'
'As you wish,' he said, gesturing to her to sit. 'What is it you want, my
lady?'
'If I deliver to you what you seek, I wish you to take me north when
you return home.' From the look on his face, Oriane knew she had finally
succeeded in surprising him. 'As your wife.'
You have a husband,' Evreux said, looking over her head to Francois
for confirmation. Trencavel's scribe, I heard. Is that not the case?'
Oriane held his gaze. 'I regret to say my husband was killed. Struck
down within the walls whilst doing his duty.'
'My condolences for your loss.' Evreux pressed his long, thin fingers
together, making a church of his hands. 'This siege could yet last years.
What makes you so sure that I will return north?'
'It is my belief, my Lord Evreux,' she said, choosing her words with
care, 'that your presence here is for one purpose. If, with my assistance,
you are able to conclude your business in the south speedily, I can see no
reason you would wish to stay beyond your forty days.'
Evreux gave a tight smile. You have no faith in your lord Trencavel's
power to persuade?'
With all due respect to those under whose banner you march, my lord,
I do not believe the revered Abbot's intention is to conclude this engagement
by diplomatic means.'
Evreux continued to stare at her. Oriane held her breath.
You play your hand well, Lady Oriane,' he said in the end.
She bowed her head, but did not speak. He got up and walked towards
her.
'I accept your proposal,' he said, handing her a goblet.
This time, she took it.
'There is one thing more, my lord,' she said. Within Viscount Trencavel's
party is a chevalier, Guilhem du Mas. He is the husband of my
sister. It would be advisable, if this is within your power, to take steps to
contain his influence.'
'Permanently?'

Oriane shook her head. 'He may yet have a part to play in our plans.
But it would be advisable to limit his influence. Viscount Trencavel
favours him and, with my father gone . . .'
Evreux nodded and dispatched Francois. 'Now, my Lady Oriane,' he
said, as soon as they were alone. 'No more prevarication. Tell me what
you have to offer.'

CHAPTER 62

'Alais! Alais! Wake up!'
Someone was shaking her shoulders. That was wrong. She was sitting
on the bank of the river, in the peace and dappled light of her private
glade. She could feel the cool water trickling between her toes, cold and
fresh, and the soft touch of the sun caressing her cheek. She could taste
the strong Corbieres wine on her tongue and her nose was full of the
intoxicating aroma of the warm white bread she lifted to her mouth.
Beside her, Guilhem was lying asleep in the grass.
The world was so green, the sky so blue.
She jolted awake, to find herself still in the dank, semi-gloom of the
tunnels. Sajhe was standing over her.
'You must wake up, Dame.'
Alai's scrambled into a sitting position. 'What's happened? Is Esclarmonde
all right?'
'Viscount Trencavel has been taken.'
'Taken,' she said in bewilderment. 'Taken where? By whom?'
'They are saying by treason. People are saying that the French tricked
him into their camp, and then took him by force. Others, that he has
given himself to save the Ciutat. And . . .'
Sajhe broke off. Even in the half-light, Alais could see he was flushing.
'What is it?'
They are saying Dame Oriane and Chevalier du Mas were of the
Viscount's party.' He hesitated. 'They, too, have not returned.'
Alais got to her feet. She glanced at Esclarmonde, who was sleeping
calmly. 'She's resting. She will be fine without us for a while. Come. We
must find out what is happening.'
They ran swiftly along the tunnel and climbed the ladder. Alais flung
the trap door open and hauled Sajhe up after her.
Outside, the streets were crowded, filled with bewildered people rushing
aimlessly backwards and forwards.
'Can you tell me what's happening?' she shouted at a man running by.

He shook his head and kept running. Sajhe took her hand and dragged her into a small house on the opposite side of the street.
'Gaston will know.'
Alais followed him in. Gaston and his brother, Pons, rose as she
entered.
'Dame.'
'Is it true that the Viscount has been captured?' she asked.
Gaston nodded. 'Yesterday morning the Count of Auxerre came to
propose a meeting between Viscount Trencavel and the Count of Nevers,
in the presence of the Abbot. He went with a small entourage, your sister
among them. As to what happened after that, Dame Alais, nobody
knows. Either our lord Trencavel gave himself up of his own accord to
purchase our freedom or else he was deceived.'
'None has returned,' added Pons.
'Either way, there will be no fighting,' said Gaston quietly. 'The
garrison has surrendered. The French have already taken possession of
the main gates and towers.'
'What!' Alais exclaimed, looking in disbelief from face to face. What
are the terms of the surrender?'
That all citizens, Cathar, Jew and Catholic, will be allowed to leave
Carcassona without fear of our lives, carrying nothing but the clothes we
stand up in.'
There are to be no interrogations? No burnings?'
'It seems not. The entire population is to be exiled, but not harmed.'
Alais sank down in a chair before her legs gave way from under her.
What of Dame Agnes?'
'She and the young prince are to be given safe conduct into the custody
of the Count of Foix, provided she renounces all claims on behalf of her ton.' Gaston cleared his throat. 'I am sorry for the loss of your husband and sister, Dame Alais.'
'Does anyone know the fate of our men?'
Pons shook his head.
'Is it a trick, think you?' she said fiercely.
There is no way of knowing, Dame. Only when the exodus begins will
i see if the French are as good as their word.'
'Everyone is to leave through one gate, the Porte d'Aude to the west of
; Cite at the ringing of the bells at dusk.'
'It is over then,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'The Ciutat has
idered.' vAt least my father did not live to see the Viscount in French hands.

'Esclarmonde improves daily, but she is still weak. Can I impose upon
you further and ask if you could accompany her from the Ciutatf She
paused. 'For reasons I dare not confide, for your sake as much as
Esclarmonde's, it would be wisest if we travelled separately.'
Gaston nodded. "You fear those who inflicted these appalling injuries
in the first instance might yet be looking for her?'
Alais looked at him in surprise. Well, yes,' she admitted.
'It will be an honour to help you, Dame Alais.' He flushed red. "Your
father . . . He was a fair man.'
She nodded. 'He was.'

As the dying rays of the setting sun painted the outer walls of the
Chateau Comtal with a fierce orange light, the courtyard, the walkways
and the Great Hall were silent. Everything was abandoned, empty.
At the Porte d'Aude, a mass of frightened and bewildered people were
herded together, desperately trying to keep sight of their loved ones,
averting their eyes from the contemptuous faces of the French soldiers,
who stared at them as if they were less than human. Their hands rested
on the hilts of their swords as if only waiting for an excuse.
Alais hoped her disguise would be good enough. She shuffled forward,
awkward in men's boots several times too big for her, keeping close to the
man in front. She had strapping around her chest to flatten her and to
conceal the books and parchments. In breeches, shirt and a nondescript
straw hat, she looked like any other boy. She had pebbles in her mouth,
which altered the shape of her face, and she'd cut her hair and rubbed
mud in it to darken it.
The line moved forward. Alais kept looking down, for fear of catching
the eye of anyone who might recognise her and give her away. The line
thinned to a single file the closer they got to the gate. There were four
Crusaders on guard, their expressions dull and resentful. They were
stopping people, forcing them to remove their clothes to prove they were
smuggling nothing underneath.
Alais could see the guards had stopped Esclarmonde's litter. Clutching
a kerchief over his mouth, Gaston was explaining his mother was very ill.
The guard pulled back the curtain and immediately stepped back. Alais
hid a smile. She had sewed rotting meat into a pig's bladder and wrapped
stained, bloodied bandages around her feet.
The guard waved them through.
Sajhe was several families behind, travelling with Senher and Na Couza
and their six children, who had similar colouring. She had rubbed dirt

into his hair to darken it too. The only thing she could not disguise were
his eyes, so he was under strict instruction not to look up if he could help
it.
The line lurched forward once more. It's my turn. They'd agreed she
would pretend not to understand if anyone spoke to her.
Toil Paysan. Qu'est-ce que tuportes la?'
She kept her head down, resisting the temptation to touch the strapping
around her body.
'Eh, toil'
The pike cut through the air and Alais braced herself for a blow that
never came. Instead, the girl in front of her was knocked to the ground.
She scrambled in the dirt for her hat. She raised her frightened face to her
accuser.
'Canhbt.'
What's she say?' the guard muttered. 'I can't understand a word they
say.'
'Chien. She's got a puppy.'
Before any of them knew what was happening, the soldier had hauled
the dog out of her arms and run it through with his spear. Blood
splattered over the front of the girl's dress.
'Allez! Vite.'
The girl was too shocked to move. Alais helped her to her feet and
encouraged her to keep moving, steering her through the gate, fighting the impulse to turn around and check on Sajhe. Soon, she was out.
Now I see them.
On the hill overlooking the gate were the French barons. Not the
leaders, who Alais presumed were waiting until the evacuation was over
before making their entrance into Carcassonne, but knights wearing the
colours of Burgundy, Nevers and Chartres.
At the end of the row, closest to the path, a tall, thin man sat astride a
powerful grey stallion. Despite the long southern summer, his skin was still as white as milk. Beside him was Francois. Next to him, Alai's recognised Oriane's familiar red dress.
But not Guilhem.
Keep walking, keeping your eyes fastened on the ground.
She was so close now that she could smell the leather of the saddles and bridles of the horses. Oriane's eyes seemed to be burning into her.
An old man, with sad eyes full of pain, tapped her on the arm. He needed help on the steep slope. Alais gave him her shoulder. It was the luck she needed. Looking to all the world like a grandson and grand

father, she passed directly beneath Oriane's gaze without being recognised.
The
path seemed to last forever. Finally, they reached the shaded area
at the bottom of the slope where the ground levelled out and the woods
and marshes began. Alais saw her companion reunited with his son and
daughter-in-law, then detached herself from the main crowd and slipped
into the trees.
As soon as she was out of sight, Alais spat the stones from her mouth.
The inside of her cheeks were raw and dry. She rubbed her jaw, trying to
ease the discomfort. She took her hat off and ran her fingers through her
stubbly hair. It felt like damp straw, prickly and uncomfortable on the
back of her neck.
A shout at the gate drew her attention.
No, please. Not him.
A soldier was holding Sajhe by the scruff of the neck. She could see
him kicking, trying to get free. He was holding something in his hands. A
small box.
Alais's heart plummeted. She couldn't risk going back up, so was
powerless to do anything. Na Couza was arguing with the soldier, who
struck her round the head, sending her sprawling back into the dirt. Sajhe
took his chance. He wriggled out of the man's grasp and scrambled down
the slope. Senher Couza helped his wife to her feet.
Alai's held her breath. For a moment, it seemed as if it was going to be
all right. The soldier had lost interest. But then Alais heard a woman
shouting. Oriane was shouting and pointing at Sajhe, ordering the guards
to stop him.
She's recognised him.
Sajhe might not be Alais, but he was the next best thing.
There was an immediate outburst of activity. Two of the guards set off
down the slopes after Sajhe, but he was a fast runner, sure-footed and
confident. Weighted down by their weapons and armour, they were no
match for an eleven-year-old boy. Silently, Alais urged him on, watching
as he darted this way and that, jumping and leaping over the uneven
patches of ground, until he reached the cover of the woods.
Realising she was about to lose him, Oriane sent Francois to follow.
His horse thundered down the track, slipping and skidding on the steep,
dry earth, but he covered the ground quickly. Sajhe hurtled into the
undergrowth, Francois hard on his heels.

Alais realised Sajhe' was heading for the boggy marshland where the Aude

split into several tributaries. The ground was green and looked like a
meadow in spring, but it was lethal underneath. Local people stayed
away.
Alais pulled herself up into a tree for a better view. Francis either
didn't realise where Sajhe was going or didn't care, because he spurred his
horse on. He's gaining on him. Sajhe stumbled and nearly lost his footing,
but he managed to keep running, zigzagging through the thicket, leading
them through blackberry bushes and thistles.
Suddenly, Francois let out a howl of anger, which turned immediately
to alarm. The sinking mud had wrapped itself around the hind legs of his
horse. The terrified animal was baying, flailing its legs. Every desperate
attempt only hastened its descent into the treacherous mud.
Francois threw himself from the saddle and tried to swim to the edges
of the bog, but his body sank lower and lower, clawed down into the mud,
until only the tips of his fingers could be seen.
Then, there was silence. It seemed to Alais as if even the birds had
stopped singing. Terrified for Sajhe, she dropped down to the ground,
just as he came back into view. He was ashen faced, his bottom lip
trembling with exertion, and he was still clutching the wooden box.
'I led him into the marsh,' he said.
Alai's put her hand on his shoulder. 'I know. That was clever.'
Was he a traitor too?'
She nodded. 'I think that was what Esclarmonde was trying to tell us.'
Alais pursed her lips together, glad her father had not lived to know it
was Francois who had betrayed him. She shook the thought from her
mind. 'But what were you thinking, Sajhe? Why on earth were you
carrying this box? It almost got you killed.'
'Menina told me to keep it safe.'
Sajhe' stretched his fingers across the bottom of the box until he was able to press both sides at once. There was a sharp dick, then he turned the base, to reveal a flat, concealed drawer. He reached in and pulled out a i piece of cloth.
'It's a map. Menina said we would need it.'
Alai's understood immediately. 'She doesn't mean to come with us,' she |aid heavily, fighting the tears welling up in her eyes.
Sajhe shook his head.
'But why didn't she tell me?' she said, her voice shaking. 'Could she not
st me?'
"You would not have let her go.'
Alais let her head fall back against the tree. She was overwhelmed with

the magnitude of her task. Without Esclarmonde she didn't know how
she could find the strength to do what was required of her.
As if he could read her mind, Sajhe said: 'I'll look after you. And it
won't be for long. When we have given the Book of Words to Harif, we will
come back and find her. Si es atal es atal.' Things will be as they will be.
'That we should all be as wise as you.'
Sajhe flushed. 'This is where we have to go,' he said, pointing at the
map. 'It doesn't appear on any map, but Menina calls the village Los
Seres.'
Of course. Not just the name of the guardians, but also a place.
"You see?' he said. 'In the Sabarthes Mountains.'
Alais nodded. 'Yes, yes,' she said. 'At last, I think I do.'

THE RETURN TO
THE MOUNTAINS

Sabarthes Mountains

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

Audric Baillard sat at a table of dark, highly-polished wood in his house
in the shadow of the mountain.
The ceiling in the main room was low and there were large square tiles
on the floor the colour of red mountain earth. He had made few changes.
This far from civilisation, there was no electricity, no running water, no
cars or telephones. The only sound was the ticking of the clock marking
time.
There was an oil lamp on the table, extinguished now. Next to it was a
glass tumbler, rilled almost to the brim with Guignolet, filling the room
with the subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. On the far side of the table
there was a brass tray holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine,
unopened, as well as a small wooden platter of savoury biscuits covered
with a white linen cloth.
Baillard had opened the shutters so he could see the sunrise. In spring,
the trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight silver and
white buds and yellow and pink flowers peeped out shyly from the
hedgerows and banks. By this late in the year, there was little colour left, only the grey and green of the mountain in whose eternal presence he had
lived for so long.
A curtain separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. The
whole of the back wall was covered with narrow shelves, almost empty
now. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars.
Also books, both those written by him, and the great voices of Cathar
history - Delteil, Duvernoy, Nelli, Marti, Brenon, Rouquette. Works of
Arab philosophy sat side by side with translations of ancient Judaic texts,
monographs by authors ancient and modern. The rows of paperbacks,
incongruous in such a setting, filled the space once occupied by medicines and potions and herbs.

He was prepared to wait.
Baillard raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
And if she did not come? If he never learned the truth of those final
hours?
He sighed. If she did not come, then he would be forced to take the last
steps of his long journey alone. As he had always feared.

By the time dawn broke, Alice was a few kilometres north of Toulouse.
She pulled into a service station and drank two cups of hot, sweet coffee
to steady her nerves.
Alice read the letter once more. Posted in Foix on Wednesday morning.
A letter from Audric Baillard giving directions to his house. She
knew it was genuine. She recognised the black spidery writing.
She felt she had no choice but to go.
Alice spread the map on the counter, trying to work out precisely
where she was heading. The hameau where Baillard lived didn't appear
on the map, although he'd mentioned enough landmarks and names of
nearby towns for her to work out the general area.
He was confident, he said, that Alice would know the place when she
saw it.

As a precaution, and one she realised she should have taken earlier, Alice
exchanged her hire car at the airport for one of a different colour and
make, just in case they were looking for her, then continued her journey
south.
She drove past Foix towards Andorra, and then through Tarascon
before following Baillard's directions. She turned off the main road at
Luzenac and went through Lordat and Bestiac. The landscape changed.
lit reminded Alice of the slopes of the Alps. Small mountain flowers, long
Jsgrass, the houses like Swiss chalets.
She passed a sprawling quarry, like a huge white scar gouged into the
: of the mountain. Towering electricity pylons and thick black cabling
the winter ski resorts dominated the skyline, black against the summer
: sky.
Alice crossed the river Lauze. She was forced to shift down into second  as the road got steeper and the bends tighter. She was starting to feel
: from the constant doubling back, when she suddenly found herself in
i small village.

There were two shops and a cafe with a couple of tables and chairs
sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would good to check she was
still heading the right way, Alice went into the cafe. The air inside
was thick with smoke and hunched, mulish men with weather-beaten
faces and blue overalls lined the counter.
Alice ordered coffee and ostentatiously put her map on the counter.
Dislike of strangers, particularly women, meant no one spoke to her for a
while, but finally she managed to strike up a conversation. No one had
heard of Los Seres, but they knew the area and gave what help they could.
She drove higher, gradually getting her bearings. The road became a
track, and then finally petered out altogether. Alice parked the car and got
out. Only now, standing in the familiar landscape, her nose filled with the
smells of the mountain, did she realise that she had in fact doubled back
on herself and was actually on the far side of the Pic de Soularac.
Alice climbed to the highest point and shielded her eyes. She identified
the etang de Tort, a distinctively shaped tarn the men in the bar had told
her to look out for. Close by was another expanse of water known locally
as the Devil's Lake.
Finally, she orientated herself to the Pic de Saint-Barthelemy, which
stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montsegur itself.
Straight ahead, a single track wound up through the green scrub and
brown earth and bright yellow broom. The dark green leaves of the box
were fragrant and sharp. She touched the leaves and rubbed the dew
between her fingers.
Alice climbed for ten minutes. Then, the path opened into a clearing,
and she was there.
A single-storied house stood alone, surrounded by ruins, the grey stone
camouflaged against the mountain behind. And in the doorway stood a
man, very thin and very old, with a shock of white hair, wearing the pale
suit she remembered from the photograph.
Alice felt her legs were moving of their own accord. The ground
levelled out as she walked the last few steps towards him. Baillard watched
in silence and was completely still. He did not smile or raise his hand in
greeting. Even when she drew close, he did not speak or move. He never
took his eyes from her face. They were the most startling colour.
Amber mixed with autumn leaves.
Alice stopped in front of him. At last, he smiled. It was like the sun
coming out from behind the clouds, transforming the crevices and lines of
his face.
'Madomaise/a Tanner,' he said. His voice was deep and old, like the

wind in the desert. 'Benvenguda. I knew you would come.' He stood back
to let her enter. 'Please.'
Nervous, awkward, Alice ducked under the lintel and stepped through
the door into the room, still feeling the intensity of his gaze. It was as if
he was trying to commit every feature to memory.
'Monsieur Baillard,' she said, then stopped.
She was unable to think of anything to say. His delight, his wonder
that she had come - mixed with his faith that she would - made ordinary
conversation impossible.
'You resemble her,' he said slowly. 'There is much of her in your face.'
'I've only seen photos, but I thought so too.'
He smiled. 'I did not mean Grace,' he said softly, then turned away, as
if he had said too much. 'Please, sit down.'
Alice glanced surreptiously around the room, noticing the lack of
modern equipment. No lights, no heating, nothing electronic. She wondered
if there was a kitchen.
'Monsieur Baillard,' she started again. 'It's a pleasure to meet you. I was
wondering . . . how did you know where to find me?'
Again, he smiled. 'Does it matter?'
Alice thought about it and realised it did not.
'Madomaisela Tanner, I know about the Pic de Soularac. I have one
question I must ask you before we go any further. Did you find a book?'
More than anything, Alice wanted to say she had. 'I'm sorry,' she said, shaking her head. 'He asked me about it too, but I didn't see it.'
'He?'
She frowned. 'A man called Paul Authie.'
Baillard nodded his head up and down. 'Ah, yes,' he said, in such a way |tfeat Alice felt she didn't need to explain.
"You found this, though, I believe?'
I He lifted his left hand and placed it on the table, like a young girl
ig off an engagement ring, and she saw to her astonishment he was
ig the stone ring. She smiled. It was so familiar, even though she'd
i it for a few seconds at most.
; swallowed hard. 'May I?'
removed it from his thumb. Alice took it and turned it over
t her fingers, again discomforted by the intensity of his gaze. it belong to you?' she heard herself asking, although she feared
, say yes and all that that might mean.
I paused. 'No,' he said in the end, 'although I had one like it once.'
i who did this belong to?'


'You do not know?' he said.
For a split second, Alice thought she did. Then the spark of understanding
disappeared and her mind was clouded once more.
'I'm not sure,' she said uncertainly, shaking her head, 'but it lacks this, I
think.' She pulled the labyrinth disc from her pocket. 'It was with the
family tree at my aunt's house.' She handed it to him. 'Did you send it to
her?'
Baillard did not answer. 'Grace was a charming woman, well educated
and intelligent. During the course of our first conversation we discovered
we had several interests in common, several experiences in common.'
"What is it for?' she asked, refusing to be deflected.
'It's called a merel. Once there were many. Now, only this one remains.'
She watched in amazement as Baillard inserted the disc into the gap in
the body of the ring. 'Aqui. There.' He smiled and put the ring back on
his thumb.
'Is that decorative only or does it serve some purpose?'
He smiled, as if she had passed some sort of test. 'It is the key that is
needed,' he said softly.
'Needed for what?'
Again, Baillard did not answer. 'Alai's comes to you sometimes when
you are sleeping, does she not?'
She was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. She didn't
know how to react.
We carry the past within us, in our bones, in our blood,' he said. 'Alai's
has been with you all of your life, watching over you. You share many
qualities with her. She had great courage, a quiet determination, as do
you. Alais was loyal and steadfast as, I suspect, are you.' He stopped and
smiled at her again. 'She, too, had dreams. Of the old days, of the
beginning. Those dreams revealed her destiny to her, although she was
reluctant to accept it, as yours now light your way.'
Alice felt as if the words were coming at her from a long distance, as if
they were nothing to do with her or Baillard or anybody, but had always
existed in time and space.
'My dreams have always been about her,' she said, not knowing where
her words were taking her. 'About the fire, the mountain, the book. This mountain?' He nodded. 'I feel she's trying to tell me something. Her face
has grown clearer these past few days, but I still can't hear her speak.' She
hesitated. 'I don't understand what she wants of me.'
'Or you of her, perhaps,' he said lightly. Baillard poured the wine and
handed a glass to Alice.

Despite the earliness of the hour, she took several mouthfuls, feeling
the liquid warming her as it slid down her throat.
'Monsieur Baillard, I need to know what happened to Alais. Until I do,
nothing will make sense. You know, don't you?'
A look of infinite sadness came over him.
'She did survive,' she said slowly, fearing to hear the answer. 'After
Carcassonne . . . they didn't . . . she wasn't captured?'
He placed his hands flat on the table. Thin and speckled brown with
age, Alice thought they resembled the claws of a bird.
'Alais did not die before her time,' he said carefully.
That doesn't tell me . . .' she started to say.
Baillard held up his hand. 'At the Pic de Soularac events were set in
motion that will give you - give us - the answers we seek. Only through
understanding the present, the truth of the past will be known. You seek
your friend, oc?
Again, Alice was caught out by the way Baillard jumped from one
subject to another.
'How do you know about Shelagh?' she said.
'I know about the excavation and what happened there. Now your
friend has disappeared. You are trying to find her.'
Deciding there was no point trying to work out how or what he knew,
Alice replied.
'She left the site house a couple of days ago. No one's seen her since. I
know her disappearance is connected with the discovery of the labyrinth.' She hesitated. 'In fact, I think I know who might be behind it all. At first,
I thought Shelagh might have stolen the ring.'
Baillard shook his head. Tves Biau took it and sent it to his grandmother,
Jeanne Giraud.'
Alice's eyes widened as another part of the jigsaw slotted into place. *Yves and your friend work for a woman called Madame de l'Oradore.' He paused. 'Fortunately, Yves had second thoughts. Your friend too, perhaps.'
Alice nodded. 'Biau passed me a telephone number. Then I discovered ifihelagh had called the same number. I found out the address and when I
a't get any answer, I thought I should go and see if she was there. It
led out to be the house of Madame de l'Oradore. In Chartres.' /You went to Chartres?' Baillard said, his eyes bright. 'Tell me. Tell me. at did you see?'
ie listened in silence until Alice had finished telling him about every
;
she'd seen and overheard. |*But this young man, Will, he did not show you the chamber?'

Alice shook her head. 'After a while, I started to think that maybe it
didn't really exist.'
'It exists,' he said.
'I left my rucksack behind. It had all my notes about the labyrinth in it,
the photograph of you with my aunt. It will lead her straight to me.' She
paused. 'That's why Will went back to get it for me.'
'And now you fear something has happened to him also?'
'I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. Half the time, I'm frightened for
him. The rest of the time, I think he's probably all tied up in it as well.'
Why did you feel you could trust him in the first instance?' Alice
looked up, alerted by the change in his tone. His usually benign gentle
expression had vanished. 'Do you feel you owe him something?'
'Owe him something?' Alice repeated, surprised by his choice of words.
'No, not that. I barely know him. But, I liked him, I suppose. I felt
comfortable in his company. I felt . . .'
'Q^fWhat?
It was more the other way round. It sounds crazy, but it was if he felt
he owed me. Like he was making up to me for something.'
Without warning, Baillard pushed his chair back and walked to the
window. He was clearly in a state of some confusion.
Alice waited, not understanding what was going on. At last, he turned
to face her.
'I will tell you Alais' story,' he said. 'And through the knowing of it, we
will perhaps find the courage to face what lies ahead. But know this, Madomaisela Tanner. Once you have heard it, you will have no choice but
to follow the path to its end.'
Alice frowned. 'It sounds like a warning.'
'No,' he said quickly. 'Far from it. But we must not lose sight of
your friend. From what you overheard, we must assume her safety is
guaranteed until this evening at least.'
'But I don't know where the meeting's supposed to take place,' she said.
'Francois-Baptiste didn't say. Only tomorrow night at nine-thirty.'
'I can guess,' Baillard said calmly. 'By dusk we will be there, waiting for
them.' He glanced out of the open window at the rising sun. 'That gives
us some time to talk.'
'But what if you're wrong?'
Baillard shrugged. We must hope I am not.'
Alice was quiet for a moment. 'I just want to know the truth,' she said,
amazed at how steady her voice sounded.
He smiled. 'leu tanben', he said. Me too.

CHAPTER 65

Will was aware of being dragged down the flight of narrow stairs to the
basement, then along the concrete corridor through the two doors. His
head was hanging forward. The smell of incense was less strong, although
it still hung, like a memory, in the hushed subterranean gloom.
At first, Will thought they were taking him to the chamber and that
they would kill him. A memory of the block of stone at the foot of the
tomb, the blood on the floor, flashed into his mind. But, then he was
being bumped over a step. He felt the fresh air of early morning on his
face and he realised he was outside, in some sort of alley that ran along
the back of rue du Cheval Blanc. There were the early morning smells of
burned coffee beans and rubbish, the sounds of the garbage truck not far
off. Will realised this was how they must have got Tavernier's body away
from the house and down to the river.
A spasm of fear went through him and he struggled a little, only to
register that his arms and legs were tied. Will heard the sound of a car boot being opened. He was half lifted, half thrown into the back. It wasn't the usual sort of thing. He was in some sort of large box. It smelled of plastic.
; As he rolled awkwardly on to his side, his head connected with the |l>ack of the container and Will felt the skin around the wound split open.
. started to trickle down his temple, irritating, stinging. He couldn't
: his hands to wipe it away.
Now Will remembered standing outside the door of the study. Then
blinding crack of pain as Francois-Baptiste brought the gun down the side of his head; his knees giving way under him; Marie-Cecile's
rious voice once again demanding to know what was going on.
|A. calloused hand grasped his arm. Will felt his sleeve being pushed up
1 then the sharp point of a needle piercing his skin. Like before. Then,
f found of catches being snapped into place and some sort of covering,
ulin perhaps, being pulled over his prison.
drug was seeping into his veins, cold, pleasant, anaesthetising ||Min. Hazy. Will drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt the car

picking up speed. He started to feel queasy as his head rolled from side to
side as they took the corners. He thought of Alice. More than anything,
he wanted to see her. Tell her he had tried his best. That he had not let
her down.
He was hallucinating now. He could picture the swirling, murky green
waters of the river Eure flooding into his mouth and nose and lungs. Will
tried to keep Alice's face in his mind, her serious brown eyes, her smile. If
he could keep her image with him, then perhaps he would be all right.
But the fear of drowning, of dying in this foreign place that meant
nothing to him, was more powerful. Will slipped away into the darkness.

In Carcassonne, Paul Authie stood on his balcony looking out over the
river Aude, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had used O'Donnell as
bait to get to Francois-Baptiste de FOradore, but instinctively he rejected
the idea of a dummy book for her to hand over. The boy would spot it
was a fake. Besides, he did want him to see the state she was in and know
he'd been set up.
Authie put his cup down on the table and shot the cuffs on his crisp
white shirt. The only option was to confront Francois-Baptiste himself
alone - and tell him he'd bring O'Donnell and the book to Marie-Cecile
at the Pic de Soularac in time for the ceremony.
He regretted he'd not retrieved the ring, although he still believed
Giraud had passed it to Audric Baillard and that Baillard would come to
the Pic de Soularac of his own accord. Authie had no doubt the old man
was out there somewhere, watching.
Alice Tanner was more of a problem. The disc O'Donnell had mentioned
gave him pause for thought, all the more so because he didn't
understand its significance. Tanner was proving surprisingly adept at
keeping out of his reach. She'd got away from Domingo and Braissart in
the cemetery. They'd lost the car for several hours yesterday and when
they did finally pick up the signal this morning, it was only to discover the
vehicle was parked at the Hertz depot at Toulouse airport.
Authie closed his thin fingers around his crucifix. By midnight it would
all be over. The heretical texts, the heretics themselves, would be destroyed.
In the distance the bell of the cathedral began to call the faithful to
Friday mass. Authie glanced at his watch. He would go to confession.
With his sins forgiven, in a state of Grace, he would kneel at the altar and
receive the Holy Communion. Then he would be ready, body and soul, to
fulfil God's purpose.

Will felt the car slow down, then turn off the road on to a farm track.

The driver took it carefully, swerving to avoid the dips and hollows.
Will's teeth rattled in his head as the car bumped, jerked, jolted up the
hill.

Finally, they stopped. The engine was turned off.

He felt the car rock as both men got out, then the sound of the doors
slamming like shots from a gun and the clunk of the central locking.
His hands were tied behind his back not in front, which made it harder,
but Will twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the straps. He made little
progress. The feeling was starting to come back. There was a band of pain
across his shoulders from lying awkwardly for so long.

Suddenly, the boot was opened. Will lay completely still, his heart
thudding, as the catches on the plastic container were unlocked. One of
them took him under the arms, the other behind the knees. He was
dragged out of the boot and dropped to the ground.

Even in his drugged state, Will felt they were miles from civilisation.
The sun was fierce and there was a sharpness, a freshness to the air that
spoke of space and lack of human habitation. It was utterly silent, utterly
still. No cars, no people. Will blinked. He tried to focus, but it was too
bright. The air was too clear. The sun seemed to be burning his eyes,
turning everything to white.

He felt the hypodermic stab his arm again and the familiar embrace of

the drug in his veins. The men pulled him roughly to his feet and started

. to drag him up the hill. The ground was steep and he could hear their

laboured breathing, smell the sweat coming off them as they struggled in

i heat.

Will was aware of the scrunch of gravel and stone, then the wooden

its of steps cut into the slope beneath his trailing feet, then the softness
grass.

to As he drifted back into semi-consciousness, he realised the whistling '. in his head was the ghostly sighing of the wind.


4*3


CHAPTER 66

The Commissioner of the Police Judiciaire of the Haute-Pyrenees strode
into Inspector Noubel's office in Foix and slammed the door shut behind
him.
'This had better be good, Noubel.'
Thank you for coming, sir. I wouldn't have disturbed your lunch if I
thought it could wait.'
He grunted. 'You've identified Biau's killers?'
'Cyrille Braissart and Javier Domingo,' confirmed Noubel, waving a fax
that had come through minutes earlier. Two positive IDs. One shortly
before the accident in Foix on Monday night, the second immediately
afterwards. The car was found abandoned on the Spanish-Andorra
border yesterday.' Noubel paused to wipe the sweat from his nose and
forehead. They work for Paul Authie, sir.'
The Commissioner lowered his massive frame on to the edge of the
desk.
Tm listening.'
You've heard the allegations against Authie? That he's a member of the Noublesso Veritable}'
He nodded.
'I spoke to the police in Chartres this afternoon - following up the
Shelagh O'Donnell link - and they confirmed they're investigating
the links between the organisation and a murder that took place earlier
in the week.'
"What's that got to do with Authie?'
The body was recovered quickly due to an anonymous tip-off.'
'Any proof it was Authie?'
'No,' Noubel admitted, 'but there is evidence he met with a journalist,
who's also disappeared. The police in Chartres think there's a link.'
Seeing the look of scepticism on his boss' face, Noubel rushed on.
'The excavation at the Pic de Soularac was funded by Madame de
l'Oradore. Well hidden, but it's her money behind it. Brayling, the

director of the dig, is pushing the idea that O'Donnell has disappeared,
having stolen artefacts from the site. But it's not what her friends think.'
He paused. 'I'm sure Authie has her, either on Madame de l'Oradore's
orders or on his own account.'
The fan in his office was broken and Noubel was perspiring heavily. He
could feel rings of sweat mushrooming under his arms.
'It's very thin, Noubel.'
'Madame de l'Oradore was in Carcassonne from Tuesday to Thursday,
sir. She met twice with Authie. I believe she went with him to the Pic de
Soularac'
There's no crime in that, Noubel.'
When I came in this morning I found this message waiting for me, sir,'
he said. 'That's when I decided we'd got enough to ask for this meeting.'
Noubel hit the play button on his voicemail. Jeanne Giraud's voice
filled the room. The Commissionaire listened, his expression growing
grimmer by the second.
Who is she?' he said when Noubel had played the message a second
time.
Tves Biau's grandmother.'
'And Audric Baillard?'
'An author and friend. He accompanied her to the hospital in Foix.'
The Commissioner put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. Noubel could see he was calculating the potential damage if they went after Authie and failed.
'And you're a hundred per cent certain you've got enough to link
iJPomingo and Braissart to both Biau and Authie?' The descriptions fit, sir.' They fit half of the Ariege,' he growled.
'CDonnell's been missing for three days, sir.' l;The Commissionaire sighed and heaved himself off the desk.
at do you want to do, Noubel?' j/I want to pull in Braissart and Domingo, sir.' inodded.
J, I need a search warrant. Authie's got several properties, includlict farm in the Sabarthes Mountains, registered in his ex-wife's
, If O'DonnelTs being held locally, chances are it's there.'
I Commissioner was shaking his hand.
: if you put a personal call through to the Prefect ..."
1 waited.
lit, all right.' He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at him. 'But I

promise you this, Claude, if you fuck up, you're on your own. Authie's an
influential man. As for Madame de l'Oradore . . .' He let his arms drop.
'If you can't make this stick, they'll rip you to pieces and there won't be a
damn thing I can do to stop them.'
He turned and walked to the door. Just before he went out, he stopped.
'Remind me who this Baillard is? Do I know him? The name's vaguely
familiar.'
Writes about Cathars. An expert on Ancient Egypt too.'
'That's not it . . .'
Noubel waited. 'No, it's gone,' said the Commissioner. 'But for all we
know, Madame Giraud could be making something out of nothing.'
'She could, sir, although I have to tell you I've not been able to locate
Baillard. No one's seen him since he left the hospital with Madame
Giraud on Wednesday night.'
The Commissioner nodded. 'I'll call you when the paperwork's ready.
You'll be here?'
'Actually, sir,' he said cautiously, 'I thought I might have another go at
the English woman. She's a friend of O'Donnell. She might know something.'
'I'll
find you.'
As soon as the Commissioner had gone, Noubel made a few calls,
then grabbed his jacket and headed for his car. By his reckoning, he'd
got plenty of time to get to Carcassonne and back before the Prefect's
signature on the search warrant had dried.

By half-past four, Noubel was sitting with his opposite number in
Carcassonne. Arnaud Moureau was an old friend. Noubel knew he could
speak freely. He pushed a scrap of paper across the table.
'Dr Tanner said she would be staying here.'
It took minutes to check she was registered there. 'Nice hotel just
outside the Cite walls, less than five minutes from rue de la Gaffe. Shall I
drive?'
The receptionist was very nervous about being interviewed by two
police officers. She was a poor witness, close to tears much of the time.
Noubel got more and more impatient until Moureau stepped in. His
more avuncular approach yielded better results.
'So, Sylvie,' he said gently. 'Dr Tanner left the hotel early yesterday
morning, yes?' The girl nodded. 'She said she would be back today? I just
want to be clear.'
'Oui.'

'And you haven't heard anything to the contrary. She hasn't telephoned
or anything?'
She shook her head.
'Good. Now, is there anything you can tell us? For example, has she
had any visitors since she's been staying here?'
The girl hesitated.
'Yesterday a woman came, very early, with a message.'
Noubel couldn't help himself jumping in. 'What time was this?'
Moureau gestured for him to be quiet. 'How early is early, Sylvie?'
'I came on duty at six o'clock. Not long after that.'
'Did Dr Tanner know her? Was she a friend?'
'I don't know. I don't think so. She seemed surprised.'
'This is very helpful, Sylvie,' said Moureau. 'Can you tell us what made
you think that?'
'She was asking Dr Tanner to meet someone in the cemetery. It
seemed an odd place to meet.'

'Who?' said Noubel. 'Did you hear a name?'
Looking even more terrified, Syvlie shook her head. 'I don't know if
she even went.'
That's OK. You're doing very well. Now, anything else?'
'A letter came for her.'
'Post or hand-delivered?'
There was that business with changing rooms,' called a voice from out the back. Sylvie turned and glared at a boy, hidden behind a mound of
cardboard boxes. 'Pain in the bloody--'
"What business with rooms?' interrupted Noubel.
'I wasn't here,' said Sylvie stubbornly.
'But I bet you know about it all the same.'
'Dr Tanner said there was an intruder in her room. Wednesday night. She demanded to be moved.'
Noubel stiffened. Immediately, he walked through to the back.
'Causing a lot of extra work for everybody,' Moureau was saying mildly,
ig Sylvie occupied.
; Noubel followed the smells of cooking and found the boy easily enough. 0Vere you here Wednesday night?'
i gave a cocky smile. 'On duty in the bar.'
anything?'
aw a woman come charging out of the door and go chasing after
i bloke. Didn't know it was Dr Tanner until after.'

'Did you see the man?'
'Not really. It was her I noticed more.'
Noubel took the pictures out of his jacket and held them in front of the
boys face. 'Recognise either of them?'
'I've seen that one before. Nice suit. Not a tourist. Stuck out a bit.
Hanging around. Tuesday, Wednesday maybe. Can't be sure, though.'
By the time Noubel got back to the lobby, Moureau had got Sylvie
smiling.
'He picked out Domingo. Said he'd seen him around the hotel.'
'Doesn't make him the intruder, though,' murmured Moureau.
Noubel slid the photo on the counter in front of Sylvie. 'Either of these
men familiar to you?'
'No,' she said, shaking her head, 'although . . .' She hesitated, then
pointed at the picture of Domingo. The woman asking for Dr Tanner
looked quite like this.'
Noubel exchanged glances with Moureau. 'Sister?'
'I'll get it checked out.'
'I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to let us into Dr Tanner's
room,' said Noubel.
'I can't do that!'
Moureau overrode her objections. We'll only be five minutes. It'll
be much easier this way, Sylvie. If we have to wait for the manager to
give permission, we'll come back with a whole search team. It will be
disruptive for everybody.'
Sylvie took a key from the hook and took them to Alice's room,
looking drawn and nervous.
The windows and curtains were shut and it was stuffy. The bed was
neatly made and a quick inspection of the bathroom revealed that there
were fresh towels on the rack and the water glasses had been replaced.
'No one's been in here since the chambermaid cleaned yesterday morning,'
muttered Noubel.
There was nothing personal in the bathroom.
'Anything?' asked Moureau.
Noubel shook his head as he moved on to the wardrobe. There he
found Alice's suitcase, packed.
'Looks like she didn't unpack anything when she moved rooms. She's
obviously got passport, phone, the basics, with her,' he said, running his
hands under the edge of the mattress. Holding the handkerchief between
his fingers, Noubel pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. It
contained a silver strip of headache pills and Audric Baillard's book.

'Moureau,' he said sharply. As he passed it over, a small piece of paper
fluttered from between the pages to the floor.
'What is it?'
Noubel picked it up, then frowned as he passed it over.
'Problem?' said Moureau.
'This is Yves Biau's writing,' he said. 'A Chartres number.'
He got out his phone to dial, but it rang before he'd finished.
'Noubel,' he said abruptly. Moureau's eyes were fixed on him. That's
excellent news, sir. Yes. Right away.'
He disconnected.
We've got the search warrant,' he said, heading for the door. 'Quicker
than I'd expected.'
"What do you expect?' said Moureau. 'He's a worried man.'

LW

CHAPTER 67

'Shall we sit outside?' Audric suggested. 'At least until the heat becomes
too much.'
'That would be lovely,' Alice replied, following him out of the little
house. She felt like she was in a dream. Everything seemed to be happening
in slow motion. The vastness of the mountains, the acres of sky,
Baillard's slow and deliberate movements.
Alice felt the strain and confusion of the past few days slipping away
from her.
This will do well,' he said in his gentle voice, stopping by a small grassy
mound. Baillard sat down with his long, thin legs straight out in front of
him like a boy.
Alice hesitated, then sat at his feet. She drew her knees up to her chin
and wrapped her arms around her legs, then saw he was smiling again.
What?' she said, self-conscious suddenly.
Audric just shook his head. 'Los reasons.' The echoes. 'Forgive me, Madomaisela Tanner. Forgive an old man his foolishness.'
Alice didn't know what had made him smile so, only that she was
happy to see it. 'Please, call me Alice. Madomaisela sounds so formal.'
He inclined his head. 'Very well.'
You speak Occitan rather than French?' she asked.
'Both, yes.'
'Others too?'
He smiled self-deprecatingly. 'English, Arabic, Spanish, Hebrew.
Stories shift their shape, change character, take on different colours
depending on the words you use, the language in which you choose to
tell them. Sometimes more serious, sometimes more playful, more melodic,
say. Here, in this part of what they now call France, the langue d'Oc was spoken by the people whose land this was. The langue d'oil, the
forerunner of modern-day French, was the language of the invaders. Such
choices divided people.' He waved his hands. 'But, this is not what you
came to hear. You want people, not theories, yes?

It was Alice's turn to smile. 'I read one of your books, Monsieur
Baillard, which I found at my aunt's house in Salleles d'Aude.'
He nodded. 'It's a beautiful place. The Canal de Jonction. Lime trees
and pin parasols line the banks.' He paused. 'The leader of the Crusade,
Arnald-Amalric, was given a house in Salleles, you know? Also, in
Carcassona and Besiers.'
'No,' she said, shaking her head. 'Before, when I first arrived, you said
Alai's did not die before her time. She . . . did she survive the fall of
Carcassonne?'
Alice was surprised to realise her heart was beating fast.
Baillard nodded. 'Alais left Carcassona in the company of a boy, Sajhe,
the grandson of one of the guardians of the Labyrinth Trilogy.' He raised
his eyes to see if she was following, then continued when she indicated
she was.
'They were heading here,' he said. 'In the old language Los Seres means
the mountain crests, the ridges.'
Why here?'
'The Navigataire, the leader of the Noublesso de los Seres, the society to
which Ala'is' father and Sajhe's grandmother had sworn allegiance, was
waiting for them here. Since Alai's feared she was being pursued, they
took an indirect route, first heading west to Fanjeaux, then south to
Puivert and Lavelanet, then west again towards the Sabarthes Mountains.
With the fall of Carcassona, there were soldiers everywhere. They
swarmed all over our land like rats. There were also bandits who preyed on the refugees without pity. Alai's and Sajhe travelled early in the
morning and late at night, sheltering from the biting sun in the heat of the day. It was a particularly hot summer, so they slept outdoors when night fell. They survived on nuts, berries, fruit, anything they could forage. Alai's avoided the towns, except when she was sure of finding a safe house.'
'How did they know where to go?' asked Alice, remembering her own ijourney only hours earlier.
*Sajhe had a map, given to him . . .'
His voice cracked with distress. Alice didn't know why, but she reached
: and took his hand. It seemed to give him comfort.
I They made good progress,' he continued, 'arriving in Los Seres shortly
ore the Feast Day of Sant-Miquel, at the end of September, just as the
I was turning to gold. Already here, in the mountains, was the smell of and wet earth. The smoke hung over the fields as the stubble i. It was a new world to them, who had been brought up in the

shadows and alleyways and overcrowded halls of Carcassona. Such light.
Such skies that reached, as it seemed, all the way to heaven.' He paused as
he looked out over the landscape in front of them. "You understand?'
She nodded, mesmerised by his voice.
'Harif, the Navigataire, was waiting for them.' Baillard bowed his head.
'When he heard all that had happened, he wept for the soul of Alais'
father and for Simeon too. For the loss of the books and for Esclarmonde's
generosity in letting Alais and Sajhe travel on without her to
better secure the safety of the Book of Words.'
Baillard stopped again and, for a while, was silent. Alice did not want
to interrupt or hurry him. The story would tell itself. He would speak
when he was ready.
His face softened. 'It was a blessed time, both in the mountains and on
the plains, or at first so it seemed. Despite the indescribable horror of the
defeat of Besiers, many Carcassonnais believed they would soon be
allowed to return home. Many trusted in the Church. They thought that
if the heretics were expelled, then their lives would be returned to them.'
'But the Crusaders did not leave,' she said.
Baillard shook his head. 'It was a war for land, not faith,' he said. 'After
the Ciutat was defeated in August 1209, Simon de Montfort was elected
Viscount, despite the fact that Raymond-Roger Trencavel still lived. To
modern minds, it is hard to understand how unprecedented, how grave
an offence this was. It went against all tradition and honour. War was
financed, in part, by the ransoms paid by one noble family to another.
Unless convicted of a crime, a seigneurs lands would never be confiscated
and given to another. There could have been no clearer indication of the
contempt in which the northerners held the Pays d'Oc'
What happened to Viscount Trencavel?' Alice asked. 'I see him
remembered everywhere in the Cite.'
Baillard nodded. 'He is worthy of remembrance. He died - was
murdered - after three months of incarceration in the prisons of the
Chateau Comtal, in November 1209. De Montfort published it that he
had died of siege sickness, as it was known. Dysentery. No one believed it.
There were sporadic uprisings and outbreaks of unrest, until de Montfort
was forced to grant Raymond-Roger's two-year-old son and heir an
annual allowance of 3,000 sols in return for the legal surrender of the
Viscounty.'
A face suddenly flashed into Alice's mind. A devout, serious woman,
pretty, devoted to her husband and son.
'Dame Agnes,' she muttered.

Baillard held her in his gaze for a moment. 'She too is remembered
within the walls of the Ciutat,' he said quietly. 'De Montfort was a devout
Catholic. He - perhaps only he - of the Crusaders believed he was doing
God's work. He established a tax of house or hearth in favour of the
Church, introduced tithes on the first fruits, northern ways.
'The Ciutat might have been defeated, but the fortresses of the Minervois,
the Montagne Noire, the Pyrenees refused to surrender. The King
of Aragon, Pedro, would not accept him as a vassal; Raymond VI, uncle
to Viscount Trencavel, withdrew to Toulouse; the Counts of Never and
Saint-Pol, others such as Guy d'Evreux, returned north. Simon de
Montfort had possession of Carcassona, but he was isolated.
'Merchants, peddlers, weavers brought news of sieges and battles, good
and bad. Montreal, Preixan, Saverdun, Pamiers fell, Cabaret was holding
out. In the spring of April 1210, after three months of siege, de Montfort
took the town of Bram. He ordered his soldiers to round up the defeated
garrison and had their eyes put out. Only one man was spared, charged
with leading the mutilated procession cross-country to Cabaret, a clear
warning to any who resisted that they could expect no mercy.
'The savagery and reprisals escalated. In July 1210, de Montfort besieged
the hill fortress of Minerve. The town is protected on two sides by
deep rocky gorges cut by rivers over thousands of years. High above the
village, de Montfort installed a giant trebuchet, known as La Mahoisine the
bad neighbour.' He stopped and turned to Alice. 'There is a replica
there now. Strange to see. For six weeks, de Montfort bombarded the
village. When finally Minerve fell, one hundred and forty Cathar parfaits refused to recant and were burned on a communal pyre.
'In May 1211, the invaders took Lavaur, after a siege of a month. The
Catholics called it "the very seat of Satan". In a way, they were right. It
was the See of the Cathar bishop of Toulouse and hundreds of parfaits
tun.d parfaites lived peaceably and openly there.'
Baillard lifted his glass to his lips and drank.
'Nearly four hundred credentes and parfaits were burned, including
tAmaury de Montreal, who had led the resistance, alongside eighty of his ghts. The scaffold collapsed under their weight. The French were
ed to slit their throats. Fired by bloodlust, invaders rampaged through town searching for the lady of Lavaur, Guirande, under whose
ion the Bons Homes had lived. They seized her, misused her. They
her through the streets like a common criminal, then threw her the well and hurled stones down upon her until she was dead. She
t buried alive. Or possibly drowned.'

'Did they know how bad things were?' she said.
'Alais and Sajhe heard some news, but often many months after the
event. The war was still concentrated on the plains. They lived simply,
but happily, here in Los Seres with Harif. They gathered wood, salted
meats for the long dark months of winter, learned how to bake bread and
to thatch the roof with straw to protect it against storms.'
Baillard's voice had softened.
'Harif taught Sajhe to read, then to write, first the langue d'Oc, then the
language of the invaders, as well as a little Arabic and a little Hebrew.' He
smiled. 'Sajhe was an unwilling pupil, preferring activities of the body to
those of the mind but, with Alai's' help, he persevered.'
'He probably wanted to prove something to her.'
Baillard slid a glance at her, but made no comment.
'Nothing changed until the Passiontide after Sajhe's thirteenth birthday, when Harif told him he was to be apprenticed in the household of
Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix to begin his training as a chevalier.'
What did Alais think of that?'
'She was delighted for him. It was what he always wanted. In Carcassona,
he'd watched the ecuyers polishing their masters' boots and helmets.
He had crept into the Ikes to watch them joust. The life of a chevalier was beyond his station, but it had not stopped him dreaming of riding out in
his own colours. Now it seemed he was to have the chance to prove
himself after all.'
'So he went?'
Baillard nodded. 'Pierre-Roger Mirepoix was a demanding master,
although fair, and had a reputation for training his boys well. It was
hard work, but Sajhe was clever and quick and worked hard. He learned
to tilt his lance at the quintain. He practised with sword, mace, ball-and
chain, dagger, how to ride straight-backed in a high saddle.'
For a while, Alice watched him gazing out over the mountains and
thought, not for the first time, how these distant people, in whose
company Baillard had spent much of his life, had become flesh and
blood to him.
What of Alai's during this time?'
While Sajhe was in Mirepoix, Harif began to instruct Alai's in the rites
and rituals of the Noublesso. Already, her skills as a healer and a wise
woman became well known. There were few illnesses, of spirit or body,
which she could not treat. Harif taught her much about the stars, about
the patterns that make up the world, drawing on the wisdom of the
ancient mystics of his land. Alais was aware that Harif had a deeper

purpose. She knew he was preparing her - preparing Sajhe too, that was
why he had sent him away - for their task.
'In the meantime, Sajhe thought little about the village. Morsels of
news about Alais reached Mirepoix from time to time, brought by
shepherds or paifaits, but she did not visit. Thanks to her sister Oriane,
Alais was a fugitive with a price on her head. Harif sent money to
purchase Sajhe a hauberk, a palfrey, armour and a sword. He was
dubbed when he was only fifteen.' He hesitated. 'Shortly after that, he
went to war. Those who had thrown in their lot with the French, hoping
for clemency, switched allegiance, including the Count of Toulouse. This
time when he called on his liege lord, Pedro II of Aragon, Pedro accepted
his responsibilities and in January 1213 rode north. Together with the
Count of Foix, their combined forces were large enough to inflict significant
damage on de Montfort's depleted forces.
'In September 1213, the two armies, north against south, came face to
face at Muret. Pedro was a brave leader and a skilled strategist, but the
attack was badly mismanaged and, in the heat of battle, Pedro was slain.
The South had lost its leader.'
Baillard stopped. 'Among those fighting for independence was a chevalier from Carcassona. Guilhem du Mas.' He paused. 'He acquitted
himself well. He was well liked. Men were drawn to him.'
An odd tone had entered his voice, admiration, mixed with something
else Alice could not identify. Before she could think more of it, Baillard
continued. 'On the twenty-fifth day of June, 1218, the wolf was slain.'
'The wolf?'
He raised his hands. 'Forgive me. In the songs of the time, for example the Canso de lo Crosada, de Montfort was known as the wolf. He was
killed besieging Tolosa. He was hit on the head by stone from a catapult, it said, operated by a woman.' Alice couldn't help herself smiling. 'They carried his body back to Carcassona and saw him buried in the northern manner. His heart, liver, stomach, were taken to Sant-Cerni and the bones to Sant-Nasari to be buried beneath a gravestone, which now hangs on the wall of the south transept of the Basilica.' He paused. 'Perhaps you noticed it on your visit to the Ciutat?
Alice blushed. 'I ... I found that I could not enter the Cathedral,' she
litted. Baillard looked quickly at her, but said nothing more about the
ie.
f$imon de Montfort's son, Amaury, succeeded him, but he was not the lander his father was and, straight away, he began to lose the lands
1 father had taken. In 1224, Amaury withdrew. The de Montfort family

relinquished their claim to the Trencavel lands. Sajhe was free to return
home. Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix was reluctant to allow him to leave, but
Sajhe had . . .'
He broke off, then stood up and wandered some way from her down
the hill. When he spoke, he did not turn.
'He was twenty-six,' he said. 'Alais was older, but Sajhe" ... he had
hopes. He looked on Alais with different eyes, no longer the brother to
the sister. He knew they could not marry, for Guilhem du Mas still lived,
but he dreamed, now he had proved himself, that there could be more
between them.'
Alice hesitated, then went to stand beside him. When she placed her
hand on his arm, Baillard jolted, as if he had forgotten she was there at
all.
'What happened?' she said quietly, feeling oddly anxious. She felt as if
she was somehow eavesdropping, as if it was too intimate a story to be
shared.
'He gathered his courage to speak.' He faltered. 'Harif knew. If Sajhe
had asked his advice, he would have given it. As it was, he kept his
counsel.'
'Perhaps Sajhe knew he wouldn't wish to hear what Harif had to
say.'
Baillard gave a half-smile, sad. 'Benleu.' Perhaps. Alice waited.
'So . . .' she prompted, when it was clear he was not going to continue.
'Did Sajhe tell her what he felt?'
'He did.'
"Well?' said Alice quickly. 'What did she say?'
Baillard turned and looked at her. 'Do you not know?' he said, almost
in a whisper. 'Pray God that you never know what it is like to love, like
that, without hope of that love being returned.'
Alice sprang to Alais' defence, crazy as it was.
'But she did love him,' she said firmly. 'As a brother. Was that not
enough?'
Baillard turned and smiled at her. 'It was what he settled for,' he
replied. 'But enough? No. It was not enough.'
He turned and started to walk back towards the house. 'Shall we?' he
said, formal again. 'I am a little hot. You, Madomaisela Tanner, must be
tired after your long journey.'
Alice noticed how pale, how exhausted he suddenly looked and felt
guilty. She glanced at her watch and saw they'd been talking for longer
than she'd realised. It was nearly midday.

'Of course,' she said quickly, offering him her arm. They walked slowly
back to the house together.
'If you will excuse me,' he said quietly, once back inside. 'I must sleep a
while. Perhaps you should rest also?'
'I am tired,' she admitted.
When I awake, I will prepare food, then I will finish the story. Before
dusk falls and we turn our mind to other things.'
She waited until he had walked to the back of the house and drawn the
curtain behind him. Then, feeling strangely bereft, Alice took a blanket
for a pillow and went back outside.
She settled herself under the trees. She realised only then that the past
had so held her imagination that she'd not thought about Shelagh or Will
once.

CHAPTER 68

What are you doing?' asked Francois-Baptiste, coming into the room of
the small, anonymous chalet not far from the Pic de Soularac.
Marie-Cecile was sitting at the table with the Book of Numbers open on
a black padded book rest in front of her. She didn't look up.
'Studying the layout of the chamber.'
Francois-Baptiste sat down beside her. 'For any particular reason?'
To remind myself of the points of difference between this diagram and
the labyrinth cave itself.'
She felt him peering over her shoulder.
'Are there many?' he asked.
'A few. This,' she said, her finger hovering above the book, her red nail
varnish just visible through her protective cotton gloves. 'Our altar is here,
as marked. In the actual cave it is closer to the wall.'
'Doesn't that mean the labyrinth carving is obscured?'
She turned to look at him, surprised at the intelligence of the comment.
'But if the original guardians used the Book of Numbers for their
ceremonies, as the Noublesso Veritable did, shouldn't they be the same?'
"You would think so, yes,' she said. There is no tomb, that is the most
obvious variation, although interestingly the grave where the skeletons
were lying was in that exact position.'
'Have you heard any more about the bodies?' he asked.
She shook her head.
'So we still don't know who they are?'
She shrugged. 'Does it matter?'
'I suppose not,' he replied, although she could see her lack of interest
bothered him.
'On balance,' she continued, 'I don't think any of these things matter. It is the pattern that is significant, the path walked by the Navigataire as the
words are spoken.'
'You're confident you'll be able to read the parchment in the Book of Words}'

'Provided it dates from the same period as the other parchments, then
yes. The hieroglyphs are simple enough.'
Anticipation swept through her, so sudden, so swift, that she raised her
fingers as if a hand had wrapped itself around her throat. Tonight she
would speak the forgotten words. Tonight the power of the Grail would
descend to her. Time would be conquered.
'And if O'DonnelTs lying?' said Francois-Baptiste. 'If she doesn't have
the book? Or if Authie hasn't found it either?'
Marie-Cecile's eyes snapped open, jolted back to the present by her
son's abrasive, challenging tone. She looked at him with dislike. 'The Book of Words is there,' she said.
Angry to have her mood spoiled, Marie-Cecile closed the Book of
Numbers and returned it to its wrapper. She placed the Book of Potions on
the rest instead.
From the outside, the books looked identical. The same wooden
boards covered with leather and held together with thin leather ties.
The first page was empty apart from a tiny gold chalice in the centre.
The reverse side was blank. On the third page were the words and
pictures that also appeared around the top of the walls in the basement
chamber in the rue du Cheval Blanc.
The first letter of each of the pages following was illuminated, in red,
blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise the text ran on, one
word into the next, with no gaps showing where one thought ended and
Another began.
Marie-Cecile turned to the parchment in the middle of the book.
Interspersed between the hieroglyphs were tiny pictures of plants and
sis picked out in green. After years of study and research, reading
through the scholarship funded by the de l'Oradore fortune, her
ather had realised that none of the illustrations were relevant.
Only the hieroglyphs written on the two Grail parchments mattered.
t the rest - the words, the pictures, the colours - were there to obscure,
lent, to hide the truth.
It! there,' she said, fixing Francois-Baptiste with a fierce look. She
8ee the doubt in his face, but wisely he decided to say nothing.
, my things,' she said sharply. 'After that, check where the car's got

. moments later with her square vanity case.
i do you want it?'
there,' she said, pointing at the dressing table. Once he'd gone

out again, Marie-Cecile walked over and sat down. The outside was soft
brown leather, with her initials picked out in gold. It had been a present
from her grandfather.
She opened the lid. Inside there was a large mirror and several pockets
for brushes, beauty appliances, tissues and a pair of small gold scissors.
The make-up was held in place in the top tray in neat, organised rows.
Lipsticks, eye shadows, mascaras, kohl pencil, powder. A deeper compartment
underneath contained the three red leather jewellery boxes.
"Where are they?' she said, without turning round.
'Not far away,' Francois-Baptiste replied. She could hear the tension in
his voice.
'He's all right?'
He walked towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. 'Do you
care, Mamari?
Marie-Cecile stared at her reflection in the mirror, then at her son,
framed in the glass above her head as if posed for a portrait. His voice was
casual. His eyes betrayed him.
'No,' she replied, and saw his face relax a little. 'Just interested.'
He squeezed her shoulders, and then took his hands away.
'Alive, to answer your question. Caused trouble when they were getting
him out. They had to quieten him down a bit.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'Not too much so, I hope,' she said. 'He's no
use to me half-conscious.'
The?' he said sharply.
Marie-Cecile bit her tongue. She needed Francois-Baptiste in an
amenable mood. 'To us,' she said.

CHAPTER 69


Alice was dozing in the shade under the trees when Audric reappeared a
couple of hours later.

I've prepared us a meal,' he said.

He looked better for his sleep. His skin had lost its waxy, tight
appearance and his eyes shone bright.

Alice gathered her things and followed him back inside. Goat's cheese,
olives, tomatoes, peaches and a jug of wine were laid out on the table.
'Please. Take what you need.'

As soon as they were seated, Alice launched into the questions she'd
been rehearsing in her head. She noticed he ate little, although he drank
some of the wine.

'Did Alai's try to regain the two books stolen by her sister and husband?'
'To
reunite the Labyrinth Trilogy had been Harif s intention as soon as the threat of war first cast its shadow over the Pays d'Oc,' he said. 'Thanks
to her sister, Oriane, there was a price on Alais' head. It made it hard for her to travel. On the rare occasions she came down from the village, she went in disguise. To attempt a journey north would have been madness. Sajhe made several plans to get to Chartres. None of them was successful.'
TorAlais?'

'In part, but also for the sake of his grandmother, Esdarmonde. He felt i responsibility to the Noublesso de los Seres, as Alais did on behalf of her

her.'

./What happened to Esdarmonde?'

^!Many Bans Homes went to northern Italy. Esdarmonde was not well
to travel so far. Instead, she was taken by Gaston and his brother |H small community in Navarre, where she remained until her death a
r years later. Sajhe visited her whenever he could.' He paused. 'It was a
i of great sadness to Alais that they never saw one another again.'

what of Oriane?' asked Alice, after a while. 'Did Alais receive I of her too?'


43i


'Very little. Of more interest was the labyrinth built in the cathedral
church of Notre Dame in Chartres. Nobody knew on whose authority it
had been built or what it might mean. It was, in part, why Evreux and
Oriane based themselves there, rather than return to his estates further
north.'
'And the books themselves had been made in Chartres.'
'In truth, it was constructed to draw attention away from the labyrinth
cave in the south.'
'I saw it yesterday,' said Alice.
Was it only yesterday?
'I felt nothing. I mean, it was very beautiful, very impressive, but
nothing else.'
Audric nodded. 'Oriane got what she wanted. Guy d'Evreux took her
north as his wife. In exchange, she gave him the Book of Potions and the Book of Numbers and the pledge to keep searching for the Book of Words.'
'His wife?' Alice frowned. 'But what of--'
'Jehan Congost? He was a good man. Pedantic, jealous, humourless,
perhaps, but a loyal servant. Francois killed him on Oriane's orders.' He
paused. 'Francois deserved to die. It was a bad end, but he deserved no
better.'
Alice shook her head. 'I was going to say Guilhem,' she said.
'He remained in the Midi.'
'But did he not have expectations of Oriane?'
'He was tireless in his efforts to drive the Crusaders out. As the years
passed, he built up a large following in the mountains. At first, he offered
his sword to Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix. Later, when Viscount Trencavel's
son attempted to regain the lands stolen from his father, Guilhem fought
for him.'
'He changed sides?' said Alice, bewildered.
'No, he . . .' Baillard sighed. 'No. Guilhem du Mas never betrayed
Viscount Trencavel. He was a fool, certainly, but not, in the end, a traitor.
Oriane had used him. He was taken prisoner at the same time as
Raymond-Roger Trencavel when Carcassona fell. Unlike the Viscount,
Guilhem managed to escape.' Audric took a deep breath, as if it pained
him to admit it. 'He was not a traitor.'
'But Alai's believed him to be one,' she said quietly.
'He was the architect of his own misfortune.'
Yes, I know, but even so ... to live with such regret, knowing Alai's
thought he was as bad as--'
'Guilhem does not deserve sympathy,' Baillard said sharply. 'He

betrayed Alai's, he broke his wedding vows, he humiliated her. Yet even
so, she . . .' He broke off. 'Forgive me. It is sometimes hard to be
objective.'
Why does it upset him so much? 'He never attempted to see Alais?'
'He loved her,' Audric said simply. 'He would not have risked leading
the French to her.'
'And she, too, made no attempt to see him?'
Audric slowly shook his head. Would you have done, in her position?'
he asked softly.
Alice thought for a moment. 'I don't know. If she loved him, despite
what he'd done . . .'
'News of Guilhem's campaigns reached the village from time to time.
Alai's made no comment, but she was proud of the man he had become.'
Alice shifted in her chair. Audric seemed to sense her impatience, for
he started to talk more briskly.
'For five years after Sajhe returned to the village,' he continued, 'the
uneasy peace reigned. He, Alai's and Harif lived well. Others from
Carcassona lived in the mountains, including Alai's' former servant,
Rixende, who settled in the village. It was a simple life, but a good one.'
Baillard paused.
'In 1229, everything changed. A new king came to the French throne.
Sant-Louis was a zealous man of strong religious conviction. The continuing
heresy sickened him. Despite the years of oppression and persecution
in the Midi, the Cathar church still rivalled the Catholic Church in
authority and influence. The five Cathar bishoprics - Tolosa, Albi,
Carcassona, Agen, Razes - were more respected, more influential in many places than their Catholic counterparts.
'At first, none of this affected Alais and Sajhe. They carried on much as before. In the winter, Sajhe travelled to Spain to raise money and arms to fund the resistance. Alais remained behind. She was a skilled rider, quick her bow and sword and had great courage, taking messages to the
of the resistance in the Ariege and throughout the Sabarthes
itains. She provided refuge for parfaits and parfaites, organising food shelter and information about where and when services would take t. The patfaits were itinerant preachers for the most part, living by their i manual labour. Carding, making bread, spinning wool. They travelled
s, a more experienced teacher with a younger initiate. Usually two of course, but sometimes women.' Audric smiled. 'It was much as nonde, her friend and mentor, had once done in Carcassona.

'Excommunications, indulgences for Crusaders, the new campaign to
eradicate the heresy, as they called it, might have continued much as
before, were it not for the fact that there was a new Pope. Pope Gregoire
IX. He was no longer prepared to wait. In 1233, he set up the Holy
Inquisition under his direct control. Its task was to seek out and eradicate
heretics, wherever and by whatever means. He chose the Dominicans, the
Black Friars, as his agents.'
'I thought the Inquisition came into being in Spain? You always hear of
it in that context.'
'A common mistake,' he said. 'No, the Inquisition was founded to
extirpate the Cathars. The terror began. Inquisitors roamed from town to
town as they pleased, accusing, denouncing and condemning. There were
spies everywhere. There were exhumations, so corpses buried in holy
ground could be burned as heretics. By comparing confessions and half
confessions, the Inquisitors began to map the path of Catharism from
village, to town, to city. The Pay d'Oc began to sink beneath a vicious tide
of judicial murder. Good, honest people were condemned. Neighbour
turned, in fear, against neighbour. Every major city had an Inquisitional
Court, from Tolosa to Carcassona. Once condemned, the Inquisitors
turned their victims over to the secular authorities to be imprisoned,
beaten, mutilated or burned. They kept their hands clean. Few were
acquitted. Even those who were released were forced to wear a yellow
cross on their clothing to brand them as heretics.'
Alice had a flicker of memory. Of running through the woods to escape
the hunters. Of falling. Of a fragment of material, the colour of an
autumn leaf, floating away from her into the air.
Did I dream it?
Alice looked into Audric's face and saw such distress written there that
it turned her heart over.
'In May 1234, the Inquisitors arrived in the town of Limoux. By ill fate,
Alais had travelled there with Rixende. In the confusion - perhaps they
were mistaken for parfaites, two women travelling together - they were
arrested also and taken to Tolosa.'
This is what I have been dreading.
'They did not give their true names, so it was several days before Sajhe"
heard what had happened. He followed straight away, not caring for his
own safety. Even then, luck was not on his side. The Inquisitional
hearings were mostly held in the cathedral of Sant-Sernin, so he went
there to find her. Alais and Rixende, however, had been taken to the
cloisters of SantEtienne.'

Alice caught her breath, remembering the ghost-woman as she was
dragged away by the black-robed monks.
'I have been there,' she managed to say.
'Conditions were terrible. Dirty, brutal, demeaning. Prisoners were
kept without light, without warmth, with only the screams of other
prisoners to distinguish night from day. Many died within the walls
awaiting trial.'
Alice tried to speak, but her mouth was too dry.
'Did she . . .' she stopped, unable to go on.
'The human spirit can withstand much, but once broken, it crumbles
like dust. That is what the Inquisitors did. They broke our spirit, as surely
as the torturers split skin and bone, until we no longer knew who we
were.'
Tell me,' she said quickly.
'Sajhe was too late,' he said in a level voice. 'But Guilhem was not. He
had heard that a healer, a mountain woman, had been brought from the
mountains for interrogation and, somehow, he guessed it was Alais, even
though her name did not appear on the register. He bribed the guards to
let him through - bribed or threatened, I know not. He found Alais. She and Rixende were being held separately from everyone else, which gave him the chance he needed to smuggle her away from Sant-Etienne and out of Tolosa before the Inquisitors realised she had gone.'
'But . . .'
'Alais always believed that it was Oriane who had ordered her to be
prisoned. Certainly, they did not interrogate her.' Alice felt tears in her eyes. 'Did Guilhem bring her back to the village?' I said quickly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. 'She did come
: again?
Jaillard nodded. Eventually. She returned in agost, shortly before the Day of the Assumption, bringing Rixende with her.' The words
) out in a rush.
lem did not travel with them?'
did not,' he said. 'Nor did they meet again until . . .' He paused. Ijensed, rather than heard, him draw in his breath. 'Her daughter
six months later. Alais called her Bertrande, in memory of her iBertrand Pelletier.'

\ words seem to hang between them. r piece of the jigsaw.
and Alai's,' she whispered to herself. In her mind's eye she

could see the Family Tree spread out on Grace's bedroom floor in Salleles
d'Aude. The name alais pelletier-^w mas (1193-) picked out in red
ink. When she had looked before she hadn't been able to read the name
next to it, only Sajhe's name, written in green ink on the line below and to
the side.
'Alais and Guilhem,' she said again.
A direct line of descent running from them to me.
Alice was desperate to know what had happened in those three months
that Guilhem and Alais were together. Why had they parted again? She
wanted to know why the labyrinth symbol appeared beside Alai's' name
and Sajhe's name.
And my own.
She looked up, excitement building inside her. She was on the verge of
letting loose a stream of questions when the look on Audric's face stopped
her. Instinctively, she knew he had dwelt long enough on Guilhem.
'What happened after that?' she asked quietly. 'Did Alais and her
daughter stay in Los Seres with Sajhe and Harif?'
From the fleeting smile that appeared briefly on Audric's face, Alice
knew he was grateful for the change of subject.
'She was a beautiful child,' he said. 'Good natured, fair, always laughing,
singing. Everybody adored her, Harif in particular. Bertrande sat
with him for hours listening to his stories about the Holy Land and about
her grandfather, Bertrand Pelletier. As she grew older, she did errands for
him. When she was six, he even started to teach her to play chess.'
Audric stopped. His face grew sombre again. 'However, all the time the
black hand of the Inquisition was spreading its reach. Having defeated
the plains, the Crusaders finally turned their attention to the unconquered
strongholds of the Pyrenees and Sabarthes. Trencavel's son,
Raymond, returned from exile in 1240 with a contingent of chevaliers and
was joined by most of the nobility of the Corbieres. He had no trouble
regaining most of the towns between Limoux and the Montagne Noire.
The whole country was mobilised: Saissac, Azille, Laure, the chateaux of
Queribus, Peyrepertuse, Aguilar. But after nearly a month of fighting,
he failed to retake Carcassona. In October, he pulled back to Montreal.
No one came to his aid. In the end, he was forced to withdraw to
Aragon.'
Audric paused. 'The terror began immediately. Montreal was razed to
the ground, Montolieu too. Limoux and Alet surrendered. It was clear to
Alais, to us all, that the people would pay the price for the failure of the
rebellion.'

Baillard suddenly stopped and looked up. 'Have you been to Montsegur, Madomaisela Alice?' She shook her head. 'It is an extraordinary
place. A sacred place perhaps. Even now, the spirits linger. It is hewn out
of three sides of the mountain. God's temple in the sky.'
The safe mountain,' she said without thinking, then blushed to realise
she was quoting Baillard's own words back at him.
'Many years earlier, before the beginning of the Crusade, the leaders
of the Cathar church had asked the seigneur of Montsegur, Raymond de
Pereille, to rebuild the crumbling castellum and strengthen its fortifications.
By 1243, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, in whose household Sajhe had
trained, was in command of the garrison. Fearing for Bertrande and
Harif, Alai's felt they could no longer stay in Los Seres, so Sajhe offered
his service and they joined the exodus to Montsegur.'
Audric nodded. 'But they became visible when they travelled. Perhaps they should have separated. Alais' name was now on an Inquisitional list.'
Was Alais a Cathar?' she asked suddenly, realising that, even now, she
was not sure.
He paused. The Cathars believed that the world we can see, hear,
smell, taste and touch was created by the Devil. They believed the Devil had tricked pure spirits into fleeing God's kingdom and imprisoned them
in tunics of flesh here on Earth. They believed if they lived a good enough life and "made a good end" their souls would be released from bondage and return to God in the glory of Heaven. If not, within four days they would be reincarnated on Earth to start the cycle anew.' 1 Alice remembered the words in Grace's bible.
That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the
it is spirit.'
Audric nodded. What you must understand is that the Bons Homes
', loved by the people they served. They didn't charge for officiating at riages, naming children or burying the dead. They extracted no taxes, ied no tithes. There's a story of a parfait coming across a farmer
in the corner of his field: "What are you doing?" he asked the "Giving thanks to God for bringing forth this fine crop," the farmer The parfait smiled and helped the man to his feet: This isn't X work, but your own. For it was your hand that dug the soil in the
, who tended it".' He raised his eyes to Alice. "You understand?'
: so,' she said tentatively. They believed individuals had control 1 own lives.'
1 the constraints and limitations of the times and place in which I born, yes.'

'But did Alais subscribe to this way of thinking?' she persisted.
'Alais was like them. She helped people, put the needs of others before
her own. She did what she thought was right, regardless of what tradition
or custom dictated.' He smiled. 'Like them she believed there would be
no last judgement. She believed that the evil she saw around her could not
be of God's making, but, in the end, no. She was not. Alais was a woman
who believed in the world she could touch and see.'
What about Sajhe?'
Audric did not answer directly. 'Although the term Cathar is in
common usage now, in Alais' time believers called themselves Bons
Homes. The Inquisitional Latin texts refer to them as albigenses or heretici!
'So where does the term Cathar come from?'
'Ah, well, we cannot let the victors write our stories for us,' he said. 'It
is a term that I and others . . .' He stopped, smiling, as if sharing a joke
with himself. There are many different explanations. Perhaps that the
word catar in Occitan - cathare in French - came from the Greek katharos, meaning pure. Who can say what was intended?'
Alice frowned, realising she was missing something, but didn't know
what.
"Well, what of the religion itself then? Where did that originate? Not
France originally?'
'The origins of European Catharism lie in Bogomilism, a dualist faith
that flourished in Bulgaria, Macedonia and Dalmatia from the tenth
century onwards. It was linked with older religious beliefs - such as
Zoroastrianism in Persia or Manicheism. They believed in reincarnation.'
An idea started to take shape in her mind. The link between everything
Audric was telling her and what she already knew.
Wait and it will find you. Be patient.
'In the Palais des Arts in Lyon,' he continued, 'there is a manuscript
copy of a Cathar text of St John's Gospel, one of very few documents to
escape destruction by the Inquisition. It is written in the langue d'Oc, possession of which in those days was considered a heretical, punishable
act. Of all the texts sacred to the Bons Homes, the Gospel of John was
the most important. It is the one which lays most stress on personal,
individual enlightenment through knowledge - gnosis. Bons Homes refused to worship idols, crosses or altars - carved from the rocks and
trees of the Devil's base creation - they held the word of God in the very
highest esteem.'
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word
was God.

'Reincarnation,' she said slowly, thinking aloud. 'How could this possibly
be reconciled with orthodox Christian theology?'
'Central to the Christian covenant is the gift of everlasting life to those
who believe in Christ and are redeemed through his sacrifice on the
Cross. Reincarnation is also a form of eternal life.'
The labyrinth. The path to eternal life.
Audric stood up and walked over to the open window. As Alice stared
at Baillard's thin, upright back, she sensed a determination in him that
had not been there before.
'Tell me, Madomaisela Tanner,' he said, turning to face her. 'Do you
believe in destiny? Or is it the path we choose to follow that makes us
who we are?'
'I--' she started, then stopped. She was no longer sure what she
thought. Here in the timeless mountains, high up in the clouds, the everyday
world and values did not seem to matter. 'I believe in my dreams,' she
said in the end.
'Do you believe you can change your destiny?' he said, seeking an
answer.
Alice found herself nodding. 'Otherwise, what's the point? If we are
simply walking a path preordained, then all the experiences that make
us who we are - love, grief, joy, learning, changing - would count for
nothing.'
'And you would not stop another from making his own choices?'
'It would depend on the circumstances,' she said slowly, nervous now. \Wky?
IV 'I ask you to remember it,' he said softly. 'That is all. When the time
s, I ask you to remember this. Si es atal es atal.'
His words stirred something in her. Alice was sure she had heard them
B. She shook her head, but the memory refused to come.
^Tilings will be as they will be,' he said softly.

CHAPTER 70

'Monsieur Baillard, I--'
Audric held up his hand. 'Ben/eu,' he said, walking back to the table and
picking up the threads of the story as if there had been no interruption. 'I
will tell you everything you need to know, I give you my word of that.'
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
'It was crowded in the citadel,' he said, 'but for all that, it was a happy
time. For the first time in many years, Alais felt safe. Bertrande, now
nearly ten years old, was popular with the many children who lived in and
around the fortress. Harif, although old and frail, was also in good spirits.
He had plenty of company: Bertrande to charm him, parfaits to argue
with about the nature of God and the world. Sajhe was there at her side
for much of the time. Alais was happy.'
Alice closed her eyes and let the past come to life in her mind.
'It was a good existence and might have continued so but for one,
reckless act of vengeance. On the twenty-eighth of May 1242, Pierre
Roger de Mirepoix received word that four Inquisitors had arrived in the
town of Avignonet. The result would be more parfaits and credentes imprisoned or sent to the stake. He decided to act. Against the advice of
his sergeants, including Sajhe, he assembled a troop of eighty-five knights
from the Montsegur garrison, their numbers swelled by others who joined en route.
'They walked fifty miles to Avignonet, arriving the following day.
Shortly after the Inquisitor Guillaume Arnaud and his three colleagues
had gone to bed, someone within the house opened the locked door and
admitted them. The doors to their bedrooms were smashed open and the
four Inquisitors and their entourage were hacked to death. Seven different chevaliers claimed to have struck the first blows. It is said that
Guillaume Arnaud died with the Te Deum on his lips. What is certain is
that his Inquisitorial records were carried away and destroyed.'
'That was a good thing, surely.'
'It was the final act of provocation. The massacre brought a swift

response. The King decreed that Montsegur was to be destroyed, once
and for all. An army comprised of northern barons, Catholic inquisitors
and mercenaries and collaborators set camp at the foot of the mountain.
The siege started, but yet men and women from the Citadel still came
and went as they pleased. After five months, the garrison had lost only
three men and it seemed the siege would fail.
The Crusaders hired a platoon of Basque mercenaries, who clambered
up and pitched camp a stone's throw from the castle walls just as the bitter
mountain winter was setting in. There was no imminent danger, but
Pierre-Roger decided to withdraw his men from the outworks on the
vulnerable eastern side. It was a costly mistake. Armed with information
from local collaborators, the mercenaries succeeded in scaling the vertiginous
slope on the southeastern side of the mountain. Knifing the
sentinels, they took possession of the Roc de la Tour, a spike of stone
rising up on the easternmost point of the summit ridge of Montsegur.
They could only watch, helpless, as the catapults and mangomels were
winched up to the Roc. At the same time, on the eastern side of the
mountain, a powerful tr'ebuchet started to inflict damage on the eastern
barbican.
'At Christmas 1243, the French took the barbican. Now they were
within only a few dozen yards of the fortress. They installed a new siege
engine. The southern and eastern walls of the citadel were both within
range.'
He was turning the ring round and round on his thumb as he talked.
Alice watched and, as she did so, the memory of another man, turning
such a ring as he told her stories, floated into her mind.
'For the first time,' Audric continued, 'they had to face the possibility that Montsegur would fall.
'In the valley below, the standards and banners of the Catholic Church itnd tbiejleur-de-fys of the French King - although tattered and faded after |ten months of first heat, then rain, then snow - were still flying. The Crusader army, led by the Seneschal of Carcassona, Hugues des Arcis,
ibered between six and ten thousand. Inside were no more than a
ed fighting men.
IsAlais wanted to ..." he stopped. 'A meeting was held with the leaders
: Cathar church, Bishop Bertrand Marty and Raymond Aiguilher.'
; Cathar treasure. That's true, then? It existed?'
nodded. 'Two credentes, Matheus and Peter Bonnet, were
, for the task. Wrapped up against the bitter cold of the new year,
f strapped the treasure to their backs and stole away out of the castle

under cover of night. They avoided the sentries posted on the passable
roads that led down from the mountain through the village, and made
their way south into the Sabarthes Mountains.'

Alice's eyes flared wide. To the Pic de Soularac'

Again, he nodded. 'From there, to be taken on by others. The passes to
Aragon and Navarre were snowbound. Instead they headed for the ports
and from there sailed to Lombardy in northern Italy, where there was a
thriving, less persecuted community of Bons Homes'

What of the Bonnet brothers?'

'Matheus arrived back alone at the end of Janvier. The sentries posted
on the road this time were local men, from Camon sur l'Hers, near
Mirepoix, and they let him pass. Matheus talked of reinforcements.
How there were rumours that the new King of Aragon would come in
the spring. But, they were brave words only. By now the siege was too
tightly drawn for reinforcements to break through.'

Baillard raised his amber eyes and looked at Alice. We heard rumour
too that Oriane was travelling south, accompanied by her son and husband,
to provide reinforcements for the siege. This could only mean one
thing. That after all the years of running and hiding, finally she had
discovered that Alai's was alive. She wanted the Book of Words!

'Surely Alai's did not have it with her?'

Audric did not answer. 'In mid-February, the attackers pushed forward
yet again. On the first of March 1244, after a final attempt to dislodge the
Basques from the Roc de la Tour, a single horn sounded on the ramparts
of the ravaged stronghold.' He swallowed hard. 'Raymond de Pereille, the Seigneur of Montsegur, and Pierre-Roger of Mirepoix, commander of the
garrison, walked out of the Great Gate and surrendered to Hugues des
Arcis. The battle was over. Montsegur, the final stronghold, had fallen.'

Alice leaned back in her chair, wishing it had ended otherwise.

'It had been a harsh and freezing winter on the rocky mountainside and
in the valley below. Both sides were exhausted. Negotiations were short.
The Act of Surrender was signed the following day by Peter Amiel, the
Archbishop of Narbonne.

The terms were generous. Unprecedented, some would say. The
fortress would become the property of the Catholic Church and the
French crown, but every inhabitant of the fortress would be pardoned for
his past crimes. Even the murderers of the Inquisitors at Avignonet were
to receive pardon. The men-at-arms would be set free with only light
penances, once their crimes had been confessed to the Inquisitorial
registers. All those who abjured their heretical beliefs would be allowed


44a


to walk free, punished only by the obligation to wear a cross on their
clothes.'
'And those who would not?' said Alice.
Those who would not recant were to be burned at the stake as
heretics.'
Baillard took another sip of wine.
'It was usual, at the conclusion of a siege, to seal a bargain by handing
over hostages. They included Bishop Bertrand's brother, Raymond, the
old chevalier, Arnald-Roger de Mirepoix and Raymond de Pereille's
young son.' Baillard paused. 'What was not usual,' he said carefully, 'was
the granting of a period of two weeks' grace. The Cathar leadership asked
to be allowed to stay within Montsegur for two weeks before they came
down from the mountain. The request was granted.'
Her heart started to beat faster. 'Why?'
Audric smiled. 'Historians and theologians have argued for hundreds
of years about why the Cathars requested this stay of execution. What
needed to be done that had not already been done? The treasure was safe.
What was so important as to make the Cathars stay in that damaged and
cold mountain fortress a little longer, after all they had suffered already?'
'And why did they?'
'Because Alais was with them,' he said. 'She needed time. Oriane and her men were waiting for her at the foot of the mountain. Harif was
within the Citadel, Sajhe also, and her daughter. It was too great a risk. If they were captured, the sacrifices made by Simeon and her father and
Esclarmonde to safeguard the secret would have been for nothing.'
At last, every part of the jigsaw was in place and Alice could see the full
e, clear and vivid and bright, even though she could hardly believe it
i true.
\ Alice looked out of the window at the unchanging, enduring landscape.
{was much as it had been in the days when Alais lived here. The same
, the same rain, the same skies.
. me the truth of the Grail,' she said quietly.

CHAPTER 71
Montsegur

MAR9 1244

Alais stood on the walls of the citadel of Montsegur, a slight and solitary
figure in her thick winter cloak. Beauty had come with the passing of
the years. She was slight, but there was a grace to her face, her neck, her
bearing. She looked down at her hands. In the early morning light they
looked blue, almost transparent.
The hands of an old woman.
Alais smiled. Not old. Younger still than her father when he died.
The light was soft as the rising sun struggled to give the world back its
shape and brush away the silhouettes of the night. Alais gazed at the ragged
snow-covered peaks of the Pyrenees, rising and falling away into the pale
horizon, and the purple pine forests on the eastern flank of the mountain.
Early morning clouds were scudding over the ragged slopes of the Pic de
Sant-Bartelemy. Beyond that, she could almost see the Pic de Soularac.
She imagined her house, plain and welcoming, tucked inside the folds
of the hills. She remembered the smoke unfurling from the chimney on
cold mornings such as this. Spring came late to the mountains and this
had been a hard winter, but it wouldn't be long now. She could see its
promise in the pink blush of the sky at dusk. In Los Seres the trees would
soon be coming into bud. By April, the mountain pastures would be
covered once more with delicate blue, white and yellow flowers.
Down below Alais could make out the surviving buildings that made
up the village of Montsegur, the few huts and dwellings left standing after
ten months of siege. The ramshackle cluster of houses was surrounded by

the standards and tents of the French army, tattered pinpricks of colour
and fluttering banners, ragged around the edges. They had suffered the
same hard winter as the inhabitants of the citadel.
On the western slopes, at the foot of the mountain, stood a wooden
palisade. The besiegers had been building it for days. Yesterday, they
hammered a row of stakes up the middle, a crooked wooden spine, each
post held in place by a heap of tinder and faggots of straw. At dusk, she
had seen them prop ladders around the edges. A pyre to burn the heretics.
Alais shivered. In a few hours it would be over. She was not afraid to
die when her time came. But she'd seen too many people burn to be under
any illusion that faith would spare them pain. For those that wished it,
Alais had provided medicines to numb the suffering. Most had chosen to
walk unaided from this world to the next.
The purple stones beneath her feet were slippery with frost. Alais
traced the pattern of the labyrinth on the crisp, white ground with the
top of her boot. She was nervous. If her subterfuge worked, the quest for
the Book of Words would end. If it failed, she had gambled the lives of
those who'd given her shelter for all these years -- Esdarmonde's people, her father's people - for the sake of the Grail.
The consequences were dreadful to think about.
Alais closed her eyes and let herself fly back through the years to the
labyrinth cave. Harif, Sajhe, herself. She remembered the smooth caress
of the air on her bare arms, the flicker of the candles, the beautiful voices Spiralling in the dark. The recollection of the words as she spoke them, so
jiivid she could almost taste them on her tongue.
Alais shivered, thinking of the moment when she finally understood ['tad the incantation came from her lips as if of its own accord. That single
paoment of ecstasy, of illumination, as everything that had happened
ore and everything that was yet to come were joined uniquely, as the
descended to her.
And through her voice and her hands, to him. Alais gasped. To have lived and had such experiences.
!f A noise disturbed her. Alais opened her eyes and let the past fade. She
to see Bertrande picking her way along the narrow battlements,
i smiled and raised her hand in greeting.
er daughter was less serious by nature than Alais had been at this age.
: in looks, Bertrande was made in her image. The same heart-shaped the same direct gaze and long brown hair. But for Alais' grey hairs tthe lines around her eyes, they could almost be sisters.

The strain of waiting showed on her daughter's face.
'Sajhe' says the soldiers are coming,' she said in an uncertain voice.
Alais shook her head. They will not come until tomorrow,' she said
firmly. 'And there is still much to occupy our time between now and
then.' She took Bertrande's cold hands between hers. 'I am relying on you
to help Sajhe and to care for Rixende. Tonight especially. They need you.'
'I don't want to lose you, Mama,' she said, her lip trembling.
"You won't,' she smiled, praying it was true. 'We'll all be together again
soon. You must have patience.' Bertrande gave her a weak smile. 'That's
better. Now, come, Filha. Let us go down.'

CHAPTER 72

At dawn on Wednesday the sixteenth of March, they gathered inside the
Great Gate of Montsegur.
From the battlements, the members of the garrison watched the
Crusaders sent to arrest the Bons Homes climb the last section of the
rocky path, still slippery with frost this early in the day.
Bertrande was standing with Sajhe and Rixende at the front of the
crowd. It was very quiet. After the months of relentless bombardment,
she still had not got used to the absence of sound now the mangomels and
catapults had fallen silent.
The last two weeks had been a peaceful time. For many, the end of
their time. Easter had been celebrated. The parfaits and a few parfaites had fasted. Despite the promise of pardon for those who abjured their faith, almost half the population of the Citadel, Rixende among them, had chosen to receive the consolament. They preferred to die as Bons
Chretiens rather than live, defeated, under the French crown. Possessions had been bequeathed by those condemned to die for their faith to those
condemned to live deprived of their loved ones. Bertrande had helped
-distribute gifts of wax, pepper, salt, cloth, shoes, a purse, breeches, even a felt hat.
Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix had been presented with a coverlet full of
s. Others had given corn and jerkins for him to distribute among his
1. Marquesia de Lanatar had given all her belongings to her grand-
iter Philippa, Pierre-Roger's wife.
ifBcrtrande looked around at the silent faces and offered a silent prayer 'her mother. Alais had chosen Rixende's garments carefully. The dark
dress and a red cloak, the edges and hem embroidered with an
pattern of blue and green squares and diamonds and yellow
s. Her mother had explained it was the image of the cloak she'd
on her wedding day in the cape/a Santa-Maria in the Chateau
1. Alais was sure her sister Oriane would remember it, despite the : of years.

As a precaution, Alai's had also made a small sheepskin bag to be held
against the red cloak, a copy of the chemise in which each of the books
of the Labyrinth Trilogy were stored. Bertrande had helped to fill it
with fabric and sheets of parchment so that, from a distance at least,
it would deceive. She didn't understand entirely the point of these
preparations, only that they mattered. She had been delighted to be
allowed to help.
Bertrande reached out and took Sajhe's hand.
The leaders of the Cathar Church, Bishop Bertrand Marty and
Raymond Aiguilher, both old men now, stood quietly in their dark blue
robes. For years, they had served their ministry from Montsegur, travelling
from the citadel, preaching the word and delivering comfort to credentes in the isolated villages of the mountains and the plains. Now
they were ready to lead their people into the fire.
'Mama will be all right,' Bertrande whispered, trying to reassure herself
as much as him. She felt Rixende's arm on her shoulder.
'I wish you were not . . .'
'I have made my choice,' Rixende said quickly. 'I choose to die in my
faith.'
What if Mama is taken?' whispered Bertrande.
Rixende stroked her hair. 'There is nothing we can do but pray.'
Bertrande felt tears well up in her eyes when the soldiers reached them.
Rixende held out her wrists to be shackled. The boy shook his head.
Having not expected so many to choose death, they had not brought
enough chains to secure them all.
Bertrande and Sajhe watched in silence as Rixende and the others
walked through the Great Gate and began their last descent of the steep,
winding mountain path. The red of Alais' cloak stood out among the
subdued browns and greens, bright against the grey sky.
Led by Bishop Marty, the prisoners began to sing. Montsegur had
fallen, but they were not defeated. Bertrande wiped the tears from her
eyes with the back of her hand. She had promised her mother to be
strong. She would do her best to keep her word.

Down below on the meadows of the lower slopes, stands had been erected
for the spectators. They were full. The new aristocracy of the Midi,
French barons, collaborators, Catholic legates and Inquisitors, invited by
Hugues des Arcis, the Seneschal of Carcassonne. All had come to see
'justice' done after more than thirty years of civil war.
Guilhem pulled his cloak hard about him, taking care not to be

recognised. His face was known after a lifetime fighting the French. He
could not afford to be taken. He glanced around.
If his information was right, somewhere in this crowd was Oriane. He
was determined to keep her away from Alai's. Even after all this time, just
the thought of Oriane moved him to anger. He clenched his fists, wishing
he could act now. That he did not have to dissemble or wait, just put a
knife in her heart as he should have done thirty years before. Guilhem
knew he had to be patient. If he tried something now, he'd be cut down
before he'd even had the chance to draw his sword.
He ran his eyes along the rows of spectators until he saw the face he
was looking for. Oriane was sitting at the middle of the front row. There
was nothing of the southern lady left in her. Her clothes were expensive
in the more formal and elaborate style of the north. Her blue velvet cloak
was trimmed in gold with a thick ermine collar around the neck and hood
and matching winter gloves. Although her face was still striking and
beautiful, it had grown thin and was spoiled by its hard and bitter
expression.
There was a young man with her. The likeness was strong enough for
Guilhem to guess he must be one of her sons. Louis, the eldest, he'd
heard had joined the Crusade. He had Oriane's colouring and black curls,
with his father's aquiline profile.
There was a shout. Guilhem turned round to see the line of prisoners had reached the foot of the mountain and were now being driven towards the pyre. They walked quietly and with dignity. They were singing. Like a choir of angels, Guilhem thought, seeing the look of discomfort the sweetness of the sound brought to the faces of the spectators.
The Seneschal of Carcassonne stood shoulder to shoulder with the
Archbishop of Narbonne. On his sign, a gold cross was raised high in the
tir and the black friars and clergy moved forward to take up their position
Sin front of the palisade.
Behind them, Guilhem could see a row of soldiers holding burning
les. They were struggling to keep the smoke from drifting over to the as the flames whipped and cracked in the bitter, gusting north

One by one, the names of the heretics were called out. They stepped and climbed the ladders into the pyre. Guilhem felt numb with ^horror of it. He hated the fact he could do nothing to stop the Jtions. Even if he'd enough men with him, he knew they themselves not wish it. Through force of circumstance rather than belief,
em had spent much time in the company of the Boris Homes. He

admired and respected them, though he could not claim to understand
them.
The mounds of kindling and straw had been soaked in pitch. A few
soldiers had climbed inside and were chaining theparfaits and parfaites to
the central posts.
Bishop Marty began to pray.
'Payre sant, Dieu dreiturier dels bons esperits.'
Slowly, other voices joined his. The whispering grew and grew, until
soon it became a roar. In the stands, the spectators exchanged embarrassed
glances with one another and grew restless. This was not what they
had come to see.
The Archbishop gave a hurried signal and the clergy began to sing,
their black robes flapping in the wind, the psalm that had become the
anthem of the Crusade. Vent Spirite Sancti, the words shouted to drown
out the Cathar prayers.
The Bishop stepped forward and cast the first torch onto the pyre. The
soldiers followed his lead. One by one the burning brands were tossed in.
The fire was slow to catch, but soon the sparks and crackles became a
roar. The flames started to writhe through the straw like snakes, darting
this way and that, billowing and puffing, swirling like reeds in the
river.
Through the smoke, Guilhem saw something that turned his blood to ice. A red cloak, embroidered with flowers, a deep green dress, the colour
of moss. He pushed his way to the front.
He couldn't - didn't want - to believe his eyes.
The years fell away and he saw himself, the man he had been, a young chevalier, arrogant, proud, confident, kneeling in the capela SantaMari.
Alais was at his side. A Michaelmas wedding, lucky some said. Flowering
hawthorn on the altar and the red candles flickering as they exchanged
their vows.
Guilhem ran along the back of the stands, desperate to get closer,
desperate to prove to himself that it was not her. The fire was hungry.
The sickly smell of burning human flesh, surprisingly sweet, was floating
over the spectators. The soldiers stood back. Even the clergy were forced
to retreat as the furnace burned.
Blood hissed as the soles of feet split open and the bones slid out
into the fire, like animals roasting on a spit. The prayers turned to
screams.
Guilhem was choking, but he didn't stop. Holding his cloak across his
mouth and nose to keep out the foul, pungent, smoke, he tried to get

close to the palisade walls, but the swirling cloud of smoke obscured
everything.
Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and precise, from within the fire.
'Oriane!'
Was it Alai's' voice? Guilhem couldn't tell. Shielding his face with his
hands, he stumbled towards the noise.
'Oriane!'
This time, there was a shout from the stands. Guilhem spun round and
through a gap in the smoke, saw Oriane's face contorted with anger. She
was on her feet and gesturing wildly to the guards.
Guilhem imagined he was shouting Alais' name too, but he couldn't
risk drawing attention to himself. He had come to save her. He had come
to help her escape from Oriane, he had helped her once before.
Those three months he had spent with Alais after fleeing the Inquisitors
in Toulouse had been, quite simply, the happiest time of his life.
Alai's would not stay longer and he could not persuade her to change her
mind, nor even to tell him why she had to go. But she had said -- and
Guilhem had believed it to be true - that one day, when the horror was
over, they would once more be together.
'Mon cor,' he whispered, almost a sob.
That promise, and the memory of days together, were what had
sustained him through the ten long, empty years. Like a light in the dark.
Guilhem felt his heart crack. 'Alai's!'
Against the red cloak, the small white sheepskin package, the size of a
book, was burning. The hands that held it were no longer there. They had been reduced to bone and spitting fat and blackened flesh.
There was nothing left, he knew it.
For Guilhem, everything was silent now. There was no more noise, no more pain, nothing but a clear white expanse. The mountain had gone, the sky and the smoke and the screaming had gone. Hope had gone.
; Now, his legs could no longer hold him. Guilhem fell to his knees as
Bpair claimed him.

CHAPTER 73

Sabarthes Mountains

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

The stench brought him to his senses. A mixture of ammonia, goat
droppings, unwashed bedding and cold, cooked meat. It stuck in his
throat and made the inside of his nose burn, like smelling salts held too
close.
Will was lying on a rough cot, not much more than a bench, fixed to
the wall of the hut. He manoeuvred himself into a sitting position and
leaned back against the stone wall. The sharp edges stuck into his arms,
which were still tied behind his back.
He felt he'd done four rounds in the boxing ring. He was bruised from
head to toe where he'd been thrown against the side of the boot on the
journey. His temple was throbbing where Francois-Baptiste had struck
him with the gun. He could feel the bruise beneath the skin, hard and
angry, and the blood around the wound.
He didn't know what time it was or what day it was. Friday still?
It had been dawn when they left Chartres, maybe as early as five
o'clock. When they had got him out of the car it had been afternoon,
hot and the sun still bright. He twisted his neck to try to see his watch,
but the movement made him feel sick.
Will waited until the nausea had passed. Then he opened his eyes and
tried to get his bearings. He appeared to be in some sort of shepherd's
hut. There were bars on the small window, no bigger than the size of a
book. In the far corner there was a built-in shelf, like some sort of table,
and a stool. In the grate alongside there were the remains of a long-dead
fire, grey ash and black shavings of wood or paper. A heavy metal cooking
pot hung on a stick across the fireplace. Will could see cold fat coagulated
around the rim.
Will let himself fall back on the hard mattress, feeling the rough
blanket on his battered skin, and wondered where Alice was now.

Outside, there was the sound of footsteps, then a key in a padlock. Will
heard the metallic chink of chain being dropped on the ground, then the
arthritic creak of the door being pulled open and a voice he half-recognised.
'C'est
Fheure.' Time to go.

Shelagh was conscious of the air on her bare arms and legs and the
sensation of being moved from one place to another.
She identified Paul Authie's voice somewhere in the murmur of sound
as she was transported from the farmhouse. Then the distinctive feeling
of underground air on her skin, chill and slightly damp, the ground
sloping down. Both the men who had held her captive were there. She'd
got accustomed to the smell of them. Aftershave, cheap cigarettes, a
threatening maleness that made her muscles contract.
They had tied her legs again and her arms behind her back, pulling at
the bones in her shoulders. One eye was swollen shut. The combination
of lack of food and light and the drugs they gave her to keep her quiet
meant that her head was spinning, but she knew where she was.
Authie had brought her back to the cave. She felt the change in
atmosphere as they emerged from the tunnel into the chamber, felt the
tension in his legs as he carried her down the steps to the sunken area
where she'd found Alice unconscious on the ground.
Shelagh registered that there was a light burning somewhere, on the Altar perhaps. The man carrying her stopped. They had walked right to
H&e back of the chamber, past the limits she'd gone before. He swung ||ier down off his shoulders, a dead weight, and dropped her. She sensed
in her side as she hit the ground, but could no longer feel any

f
She didn't understand why he hadn't killed her already.
t He had his hands under her arms now and was dragging her along the
md. Grit, stones, sharp fragments of rock, cut into the soles of her
: and her exposed ankles. She was aware of the sensation of her bound
i being tied to something metal and cold, a ring or hoop sunk into
Mind,
.ling she was still unconscious, the men were talking in low

 many charges have you set?'

Jgo off at what time?' after ten. He's going to do it himself.' Shelagh could hear the

smile in the man's voice. 'Get his hands dirty for once. One press of the
button and boom\ The whole lot will go.'
'I still can't see why we had to drag her all the way up here,' he
complained. 'Much easier to leave the bitch at the farm.'
'He doesn't want her identified. In a few hours' time, half this
mountain's going to come down. She'll be buried under half a tonne of
rock.'
Finally, fear gave Shelagh the strength to fight. She pulled against her
bonds and tried to stand, but she was too weak and her legs wouldn't hold
her. She thought she heard a laugh as she sank back down to the ground,
but she couldn't be sure. She wasn't certain now what was real and what
was only happening inside her head.
'Aren't we supposed to stay with her?'
The other man laughed. 'What's she going to do? Get up and walk out
of here? I mean, Christ! Look at her!'
The light started to fade.
Shelagh heard the men's footsteps getting fainter and fainter, until
there was nothing but silence and darkness.

CHAPTER 74

'I want to know the truth,' Alice repeated. 'I want to know how the
labyrinth and the Grail are connected, if they are connected.'
The truth of the Grail,' he said. He fixed her with a look. 'Tell me, Madomaisela, what do you know about the Grail?'
The usual sort of stuff, I suppose,' she said, assuming he didn't really
want her to answer seriously.
'No, truly. I am interested to hear what you have discovered.'
Alice shifted awkwardly in her chair. 'I suppose I held to the standard
idea that it was a chalice which contained within it an elixir that gave the
gift of everlasting life.'
Alice broke off and looked self-consciously at Baillard.
'A gift?' he asked, shaking his head. 'No, not a gift.' He sighed. 'And
where do you think these stories come from in the first place?'
The Bible, I suppose. Or possibly the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps from
some other early Christian writing, I'm not sure. I've never really thought
about it in those terms before.'
Audric nodded. 'It is a common misconception. In fact, the first
versions of the story you talk about originate from the twelfth century,
pdthough there are obvious similarities with themes in classical and Celtic
literature. And in medieval France in particular.'
|. The memory of the map she'd found at the library in Toulouse
enly came into her mind.
'Like the labyrinth.'
l&He smiled, but said nothing. 'In the last quarter of the twelfth century
1 a poet called Chretien de Troyes. His first patron was Marie, one of
(laughters of Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was married to the Count
lampagne. After she died in 1181, one of Marie's cousins, Philip of e, Count of Flanders, became his patron.
etien was immensely popular in his day. He'd made his reputation
; classic stories from Latin and Greek, before he turned his skill
nposing a sequence of chivalric stories about the knights you will

know as Lancelot, Gawain and Perceval. These allegorical writings gave
birth to a tide of stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round
Table.' He paused. 'The Perceval story- Li contes delgraal- is the earliest
extant narrative of the Holy Grail.'
'But . . .' Alice started to protest. She frowned. 'Surely he can't have
made the story up? Not something like that. It can't have appeared out of
thin air.'
Again, the same half-smile appeared on Audric's face.
'When challenged to name his source, Chretien claimed that he had
acquired the story of the Grail from a book given to him by his patron,
Philip. Indeed, it is to Philip that the story of the Grail is dedicated.
Sadly, Philip died at the siege of Acre in 1191 during the Third Crusade.
As a result, the poem was never finished.'
"What happened to Chretien?'
'There is no record of him after Philip's death. He just disappeared.'
'Isn't that odd, if he was so famous?'
'It is possible his death went unrecorded,' said Baillard slowly.
Alice looked sharply at him. 'But you don't think so?'
Audric did not answer. 'Despite Chretien's decision not to complete
his story, all the same, the story of the Holy Grail took on a life of its
own. There were direct adaptations from Old French into Middle Dutch
and Old Welsh. A few years later, another poet, Wolfram von Eschenbach,
wrote a rather burlesque version, Parzival, around the year 1200. He
claimed he was not following Chretien's version but another story by an
unknown author.'
Alice was thinking hard. 'How does Chretien actually describe the Grail?'
'He is vague. He presents it as some sort of dish, rather than a chalice,
like the medieval Latin gradalis, from which comes the Old French gradal or graal. Eschenbach is more explicit. His Grail - gral - is a stone.'
'So where does the idea come from that the Holy Grail is the cup used
by Christ at the Last Supper?'
Audric pressed his fingers together. 'Another writer, a man called
Robert de Boron. He wrote a verse poem, Joseph d'Arimathie, some time
between Chretien's Percevaland 1199. De Boron not only has the Grail as
a vessel - the chalice of the Last Supper, which he refers to as the san greal
- but he also fills it with the blood taken from the Cross. In modern
French the sang real, the "true" or "royal" blood.'
He stopped and looked up at Alice.
'For the guardians of the Labyrinth Trilogy, this linguistic confusion san
grealand sang real- was a convenient concealment.'

'But the Holy Grail is a myth,' she said stubbornly. 'It cannot be true.'
The Holy Grail is a myth, certainly,' he said, holding her gaze. 'An
attractive fable. If you look closely, you will see that all these stories are
embellishments of the same theme. The medieval Christian concept of
sacrifice and quest, leading to redemption and salvation. The Holy Grail,
in Christian terms, was spiritual, a symbolic representation of eternal life
rather than something to be taken as a literal truth. That through the
sacrifice of Christ and the grace of God, humankind would live forever.'
He smiled. 'But that such a thing as the Grail exists is beyond doubt.
That is the truth contained within the pages of the Labyrinth Trilogy. It
is this that the Grail guardians, the Noublesso de los Seres, gave their lives
to keep secret.'
Alice was shaking her head in disbelief. "You're saying that the Grail is
not a Christian concept at all. That all these myths and legends are built
on a ... a misunderstanding.'
'A subterfuge rather than a misunderstanding.'
'But for two thousand years the debate has been about the existence of the Holy Grail. If now it is revealed not only that such a thing as the Grail
legends are true but . . .' Alice broke off. She found it hard to believe
what she was saying. 'It is not a Christian relic at all, I can't even begin to
imagine . . .'
The Grail is an elixir that has the power both to heal and significantly prolong life. But for a purpose. It was discovered some four thousand
ago in Ancient Egypt. And those who developed it and became
of its power realised that the secret had to be kept safe from those \io would use it for their own benefit as opposed to the benefit of others,
sacred knowledge was recorded in hieroglyphs on three separate
i of papyrus. One gave the precise layout of the Grail chamber, the
nth itself; one listed the ingredients required for the elixir to be
the third the incantation to effect the transformation of the
' into the Grail. They buried them in the caves outside the ancient
FAvaris.'
t,' she said quickly. 'When I was doing some research, trying to
1 what I had seen here, I noticed how often Egypt came up.'
nodded. The papyri are written in classical hieroglyphs - the
:" means "God's words" or "divine speech". As the great civilisapt
fell into dust and decay, the ability to read the hieroglyphs The knowledge contained in the papyri was preserved, handed
guardian to guardian, over the generations. The ability to
r incantation or summon the Grail was lost.

'This turn of events was without design, but it, in turn, added an
additional layer of secrecy,' he continued. 'In the ninth century of the
Christian era, an Arab alchemist, Abu Bakr Ahmad Ibn Wahshiyah,
decoded the secret of the hieroglyphs. Fortunately, Harif, the Navigataire, became aware of the danger and was able to confound his attempts
to share his knowledge. In those days, centres of learning were few and
communication between peoples slow and unreliable. After that, the
papyri were smuggled to Jerusalem and concealed there within underground
chambers on the Plains of Sepal.
'From the 8oos to the 1800s, no one made significant progress in
deciphering hieroglyphs. No one. Their meaning was only elucidated
when Napoleon's scientific and military expedition to North Africa in
1799 uncovered a detailed inscription in the sacred language of hieroglyphs,
in everyday demotic Egyptian of the time and Ancient Greek.
You have heard of the Rosetta Stone?'
Alice nodded.
'From that point, we feared it was only a matter of time. A Frenchman,
Jean-Francois Champollion, became obsessed with breaking the code. In
1822, he succeeded. The wonders of the ancients, their magic, their spells,
everything from funerary inscriptions to the Book of the Dead, all suddenly
could be read.' He paused. 'Now, the fact that two books of the Labyrinth
Trilogy were in the hands of those who would misuse it became a cause
for fear and concern.'
His words fell like a warning. Alice shivered. She suddenly realised
the day had faded. Outside, the rays of the setting sun had painted the
mountains red and gold and orange.
'If the knowledge was so devastating, if used for ill rather than good,
then why did Alais or the other guardians not destroy the books when
they had the chance?' she asked.
She felt Audric grow still. Alice realised she had hit to the heart of his
experience, of the story he was telling, even though she didn't understand
how.
'If they had not been needed, then yes. Perhaps that might have been a
solution.'
'Needed? Needed in what way?'
'That the Grail bestows life, the guardians have always known. You
called it a gift and,' he caught his breath, 'I understand that some might
see it so. Others might see it with different eyes.' Audric stopped. He
reached for his glass and took several mouthfuls of wine, before putting it
back on the table with a heavy hand. 'But it is life given for a purpose.'

What purpose?' she said quickly, fearful he would stop.
'Many times in the past four thousand years, when the need to bear
witness has been strong, the power of the Grail has been summoned. The
great, long-lived patriarchs of the Christian Bible, the Talmud, the Koran
are familiar to us. Adam, Jacob, Moses, Mohammad, Methuselah.
Prophets whose work could not be accomplished in the usual span
allotted to men. They each lived for hundreds of years.'
'But these are parables,' protested Alice. 'Allegories.'
Audric shook his head. They survived for centuries precisely so that
they could speak of what they had witnessed, bear testimony to the truth
of their times. Harif, who persuaded Abu Bakr to conceal his work
revealing the language of Ancient Egypt, lived to see the fall of Montsegur.'
'But that's five hundred years.'
'They lived,' Audric repeated simply. 'Think of the life of a butterfly,
Alice. An entire existence, so brilliant, but lasting just one human day. An
entire lifetime. Time has many meanings.'
Alice pushed her chair back and walked away from the table, no longer
knowing what she felt, what she could believe.
She turned. 'The labyrinth symbol I saw on the wall of the cave, on the
ring you wear - this is the symbol of the true Grail?'
He nodded.
'And Alais? She knew this?'
'At first, like you, she was doubtful. She did not believe in the truth
contained within the pages of the Trilogy, but she fought to protect them
out of love for her father.'
'She believed Harif was more than five hundred years old?' she
persisted, no longer trying to keep the scepticism out of her voice.
'Not at first, no,' he admitted. 'But over time, she came to see the truth. lAnd when her time came, she found she was able to speak the words,
stand the words.'
Alice came back to the table and sat down. 'But why France? Why the papyri brought here at all? Why not leave them where they B?'
if Audric smiled. 'Harif took the papyri to the Holy City in the tenth ' of the Christian era and had them hidden near the Plains of Sepal. nearly a hundred years, they were safe, until the armies of Saladin
. on Jerusalem. He chose one of the guardians, a young Christian
called Bertrand Pelletier, to carry the papyri to France.' t'father.

Alice realised she was smiling, as if she had just heard news of an old
friend.
'Harif realised two things,' Audric continued. 'First, that the papyri
would be safer kept within the pages of a book, less vulnerable. Second,
that because rumours of the Grail were starting to circulate through the
courts of Europe, how better to hide the truth than beneath a layer of
myth and fable.'
'The stories of the Cathars possessing the Cup of Christ,' said Alice,
suddenly understanding.
Baillard nodded. 'The followers of Jesus the Nazarene did not expect
him to die on the Cross, yet he did. His death and resurrection helped
give birth to stories of a sacred cup or chalice, a grail that gave everlasting
life. How these were interpreted at the time, I cannot say, but what is
certain is that the crucifixion of the Nazarene gave birth to a wave of
persecution. Many fled the Holy Land, including Joseph of Arimathea
and Mary Magdalene, who sailed for France. They brought with them, it
is said, knowledge of an ancient secret.'
The Grail papyri?'
'Or treasure, jewels taken from the Temple of Solomon. Or the cup
that Jesus the Nazarene had drunk from at the Last Supper in which his
blood had been gathered as he hung upon the Cross. Or parchments,
writings, evidence that Christ had not died crucified but yet lived, hidden
in the mountains of the desert for a hundred years and more with a small
elect band of believers.'
Alice stared dumbstruck at Audric, but his face was a closed book and
she could read nothing in it.
That Christ did not die on the Cross,' she repeated, hardly able to
believe what she was saying.
'Or other stories,' he said slowly. 'Some claimed that it was at
Narbonne, rather than Marseilles, that Mary Magdalene and Joseph of
Arimathea had landed. For centuries it has been common belief that
something of great value was hidden somewhere in the Pyrenees.'
'So it was not the Cathars who possessed the secret of the Grail,' she
said, putting the pieces together in her mind, 'but Alais. They gave her
sanctuary.'
A secret hidden behind a secret. Alice sat back in her chair, running
back over the sequence of events in her mind.
'And now the labyrinth cave has been opened.'
'For the first time in nearly eight hundred years, the books can be
brought together once more,' he said. 'And although you, Alice, do not

know if you should trust me or dismiss what I say as the delusional
ramblings of an old man, there are others who do not doubt.' Alais believed in the truth of the Grail.
Deep inside, beyond the limits of her conscious thought, Alice knew he
spoke the truth. It was her rational self that found it hard to accept.
'Marie-Cecile,' she said heavily.
'Tonight, Madame de l'Oradore will go to the labyrinth cave and
attempt to summon the Grail.'
Alice felt a wave of apprehension sweep over her.
'But she can't,' she said quickly. 'She doesn't have the Book of Words. She doesn't have the ring.'
'I fear she realises the Book of Words must still be within the chamber.'
'Is it?'
'I do not know for sure.'
'And the ring? She doesn't have that either.' She dropped her eyes to
his thin hands laid flat on the table.
'She knows I will come.'
'But, that's crazy,' she exploded. 'How can you even contemplate going
anywhere near her?'
'Tonight she will attempt to summon the Grail,' he said in his low, level voice. 'Because of that, they know I will come. I cannot let that
happen.'
Alice banged her hands on the table. "What about Will? What about
Shelagh? Don't you care about them? It won't help them if you are taken
as well.'
'It is because I care about them - about you, Alice - that I will go. I
Ifeelieve Marie-Cecile intends to force them to participate in the cere
any. There must be five participants, the Navigataire and four others.'
*Marie-Cecile, her son, Will, Shelagh and Authie?'
|r'No, not Authie. Another.'
i Then who?'
|He avoided the question. 'I do not know where Shelagh or Will are rt' he said, as if thinking aloud, 'but I believe we will find they are to the cave at nightfall.'
ho, Audric?' Alice repeated, firmer this time.
he did not answer. He rose to his feet, walked to the window ilosed the shutters, before turning to face her. "We should go.'
was frustrated, nervous, bewildered, and most of all frightened.
, at the same time, she felt she had no choice, thought of Alais' name on the Family Tree, separated by eight

hundred years from her own. She pictured the symbol of the labyrinth,
connecting them across time and space.
Two stories woven into one.
Alice picked up her belongings and followed Audric out into the
remains of the fading day.

CHAPTER 75
Montsegur

MAR9 1244

In their hiding place beneath the citadel, Alai's and her three companions
tried to blot out the agonised sound of the torture. But the shouts of pain
and the horror penetrated even the thick rock of the mountain. The cries
both of the dying and the survivors slid like monsters into her refuge.
Alais prayed for Rixende's soul and for its return to God, for all her
friends, good men and women, for the pity of it. All she could hope was that her plan had worked.
Only time would tell if Oriane had been deceived into thinking Alais and the Book of Words had been consumed by the fires. So great a risk.
Alais, Harif and their guides were to remain in their stone tomb until
..nightfall and the evacuation of the citadel was completed. Then, under Sxover of darkness, the four fugitives would make their way down the
cipitous mountain paths and head for Los Seres. If their luck held, she
Id be home by dusk tomorrow.
(They were in clear breach of the terms of the truce and surrender,
were caught, retribution would be swift and brutal, Alai's had abt. The cave was barely more than a fold in the rock, shallow and
to the surface. If soldiers searched the citadel thoroughly, they were
i to be discovered.
i bit her lip at the thought of her daughter. In the darkness, she felt reach for her hand. His skin was dry and dusty, like the desert

'Bertrande is strong,' he said, as if he knew what distressed her. 'She is
like you, e} Her courage will hold. Soon, you will be together again. It's
not long to wait.'
'But she's so young, Harif, too young to witness such things. She must
be so frightened . . .'
'She is brave, Alai's. Sajhe too. They will not fail us.'
If I knew you were right. . .
In the dark, her heart wracked with doubt and fear of what was to
come, Alais sat dry-eyed, waiting for the day to pass. The anticipation,
not knowing what was happening up above, was almost more than
she could bear. The thought of Bertrande's pale, white face continued to
haunt her.
And the screaming of the Bons Homes as the fire took them went on in
her head for a long time after the last victim had fallen silent.

A huge cloud of acrid black smoke was hovering like a storm cloud over
the valley, blotting out the day.
Sajhe held Bertrande's hand tightly as they walked through the Great
Gate and out of the castle that had been their home for nearly two years.
He'd locked his pain deep inside his heart, in a place where the Inquisitors
could not reach it. He would not grieve for Rixende now.
He could not fear for Alai's now. He must concentrate on protecting
Bertrande and seeing them both safely returned to Los Seres.
The Inquisitors' tables were ready at the bottom of-the slopes. The
process was to start immediately, in the shadow of the pyre. Sajhe
recognised Inquisitor Ferrier, a man loathed throughout the region for
his rigid adherence to both the spirit and the letter of ecclesiastical law.
He slipped his eyes to the right where Ferrier's partner stood. Inquisitor
Duranti was no less feared.
He held Bertrande's hand tighter.
When they got on to the flatter ground, Sajhe realised they were
dividing the prisoners up. Old men, members of the garrison and boys
were being sent one way, the women and children another. He felt a flash
of fear. Bertrande was going to have to face the Inquisitors without him.
She sensed the change in him and looked up, frightened, into his face.
What's happening? What are they going to do to us?'
'Brava, they are interrogating the men and the women separately,' he
said. 'Don't worry. Answer their questions. Be brave and stay exactly
where you are until I come for you. Don't go anywhere, with anyone else,
you understand? No one else at all.'

"What will they ask me?' she said in a small voice.
^Your name, your age,' Sajhe replied, going over the details she was to
hold in her mind one more time. 'I'm known as a member of the garrison,
but there is no reason for them to associate us together. When they ask you, say you do not know your father. Give Rixende as your mother
and tell them you have lived all your life here at Montsegur. Whatever
happens, do not mention Los Seres. Can you remember all this?'
Bertrande nodded.
'Good girl.' Then, trying to reassure her, he added: 'My grandmother
used to give me messages to take for her when I was no older than you are
now. She used to make me repeat them back several times until she was
sure I was word perfect.'
Bertrande gave a thin smile. 'Mama says your memory is terrible. Like a
sieve, she says.'
'She's right,' he said, then grew serious again. 'They might also ask you
some questions about the Boris Homes and what they believe. Answer as
honestly as you can. That way, you are less likely to contradict yourself.
There's nothing you can tell them they won't already have heard from
someone else.' He hesitated and added one last reminder. 'Remember. Do
not mention Alai's or Harif at all.'
Bertrande's eyes filled with tears. "What if the soldiers search the
citadel and find her?' she said, her voice rising in panic. What will they
do if they find them?'
'They won't,' he replied quickly. 'Remember, Bertrande. When the
Inquisitors have finished with you, stay exactly where you are. I will come
and find you as soon as I can.'

Sajhe barely had time to finish his sentence when a guard jabbed him in the back and forced him further down the hill towards the village. Bertrande was sent in the opposite direction.
He was taken to a wooden pen, where he saw Pierre-Roger de
Mirepoix, the commander of the garrison. He had already been interrogated.
It was a good sign to Sajhe's mind, a courtesy. It suggested the
; of the surrender were being honoured and the garrison were being ated as prisoners of war, not criminals.
As he joined the crowd of soldiers waiting to be called forward, Sajhe
his stone ring from his thumb and concealed it beneath his aes. He felt strangely naked without it. He had rarely removed it
Harif bestowed it upon him twenty years before.
if* The interrogations were taking place inside two separate tents. The

friars were waiting with yellow crosses to attach to the backs of those who'd
been found guilty of fraternising with heretics, and then the prisoner was
taken to a secondary holding area beyond, like animals at a market.
It was clear they did not intend to release anyone until everybody, from
the oldest to the youngest, had been questioned. The process could take
days.

When Sajhe's turn came, he was allowed to walk unaccompanied into the
tent. He stopped before Inquisitor Ferrier and waited.
Ferrier's waxen face expressed nothing. He demanded Sajhe's name,
his age, his rank and his home town. The goose quill scratched over the
parchment.
'Do you believe in Heaven and Hell?' he said abruptly.

'I do.'
'Do you believe in Purgatory?'
'I do.'
'Do you believe the Son of God was made perfect Man?'
'I'm a soldier, not a monk,' he replied, keeping his eyes to the ground.
'Do you believe a human soul has only one body in which, and with
which, it will be resurrected?'
The priests say that it is so.'
'Have you ever heard anyone say that swearing oaths is a sin? If so,
who?'
This time, Sajhe raised his eyes. 'I have not,' he said defiantly.
'Come now, sergeant. You've served in the garrison for more than a
year and yet do not know that heretici refuse to swear oaths?'
'I serve Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Inquisitor. I heed not the words of
others.'
The interrogation continued for some time, but Sajhe stayed faithful to
his role as a simple soldier, pleading ignorance of all matters of scripture
and belief. He incriminated no one. Claimed to know nothing.
In the end, Inquisitor Ferrier had no choice but to let him go.
It was only late afternoon, but already the sun was setting. Dusk was
creeping back into the valley, stealing the shape from things and covering
everything with black shadows.
Sajhe was sent to join a group of other soldiers who had already been
interrogated. Each of them had been given a blanket, a hunk of stale
bread and a cup of wine. He could see such kindness had not been
extended to the civilian prisoners.

As the day gathered to a close, Sajhe's spirits fell further.
Not knowing if Bertrande's ordeal was over -- or even where in the vast
camp she was being held -- was eating away at his mind. The thought of
Alai's, waiting, watching the fading of the light, her anxiety growing as
the hour of departure approached, filled him with apprehension, all the
worse for being unable to do anything to help.
Restless and unable to settle, Sajhe' got up to stretch. He could feel the
damp and chill seeping into his bones and his legs were stiff from sitting
still for so long.
'Assis,' growled a guard, tapping him on the shoulder with his pike.
He was about to obey, when he noticed movement higher up the mountain.
There was a search party making its way towards the rocky outcrop
where Alais, Harif and their guides were hidden. The flames from their
torches flickered, throwing shadows against the bushes shivering in the
wind.
Sajhe's blood turned cold.
They had searched the castle earlier and found nothing. He had
thought it was over. But it was clear they were intending to search the
undergrowth and the labyrinth of paths that led around the base of
the citadel. If they went much further in that direction, it would bring
them to precisely the point where Alais would emerge. And it was almost
dark.
Sajhe started to run towards the perimeter of the compound.
'Hey!' the guard shouted. 'Didn't you hear what I said? ArreteF
Sajhe ignored him. Without thinking about the consequences, he
vaulted the wooden fence and pounded up the slope, towards the search party. He could hear the guard calling for reinforcements. His only
< thought was to draw attention away from Alais.
The search party stopped and looked to see what was going on.
Sajhe shouted, needing to turn them from spectators to participants.
tie by one, they turned. He saw confusion in their faces turn to aggres
1.
They were bored and cold, itching for a fight.
|Sajhe had just enough time to realise his plan had worked as a fist was en into his stomach. He gasped for breath and doubled over. Two of
I Soldiers held his arms behind him as the punches came at him from all
3ns. The hilts of their weapons, boots, fists, the onslaught was
s. He felt the skin beneath his eye split. He could taste blood on
je and at the back of his throat as the blows continued to rain

now did he accept how seriously he'd misjudged the situation.

He'd thought only of drawing attention away from Ala'is. An image of
Bertrande's pale face, waiting for him to come, slipped into his mind as a
fist connected with his jaw and everything went black.

CHAPTER 76

Oriane had devoted her life to her quest to retrieve the Book of Words.
Quite soon after returning to Chartres after the defeat of Carcassonne,
her husband lost patience with her failure to secure the prize he had paid
for. There was never love between them and, when his desire for her
faded, his fist and his belt replaced conversation.
She endured the beatings, all the time devising ways in which she
would be revenged on him. As his land and wealth increased, and his
influence with the French king grew, his attention was drawn to other
prizes. He left her alone. Free to resume her quest, Oriane paid informers and employed a network of spies in the Midi, all hunting down information.
Only
once had Oriane come close to capturing Alais. In May 1234
Oriane had left Chartres and travelled south to Toulouse. When she
arrived at the cathedral of Saint-Etienne, it was to discover the guards had been bribed and her sister had disappeared again, as if she had never been.
Oriane was determined not to make the same mistake again. This time,
when a rumour had surfaced about a woman, of the right age, the right
description, Oriane had come south with one of her sons under cover of the Crusade.
This morning she thought she had seen the book burn in the purple light of dawn. To be so close and yet to fail had sent her into a rage that neither her son Louis nor her servants could assuage. But during the "Course of the afternoon, Oriane had started to revise her interpretation of (fthe morning's events. If it was Alais she had seen -- and she was even
ioning that - was it likely she would allow the Book of Words to burn
1 an Inquisitional pyre?
Oriane decided not. She sent her servants out into the camp for lation and learned that Alais had a daughter, a girl of nine or ten, father was a soldier serving under Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix. did not believe her sister would have entrusted so precious an

object to a member of the garrison. The soldiers would be searched. But a
child?
Oriane waited until it was dark before making her way to the area
where the women and children were being held. She bought her passage
into the compound. No one questioned or challenged her. She could feel
the disapproving looks from the Black Friars as she passed, but their ill
judgement did not move her.
Her son, Louis, appeared in front of her, his arrogant face flushed. He
was always too desperate for approval, too eager to please.
'Oui?' she snapped. 'Qu'est-ce que to veuxT
'IIy a unefille que vous devez voir, Maman.'
Oriane followed him to the far side of the enclosure, where a girl lay
sleeping a little apart from the others.
The physical resemblance to Alais was striking. But for the passage of
years, Oriane could be looking at her sister's twin. She had the same look
of fierce determination, the same colouring as Alai's at the same age.
'Leave me,' she said. 'She will not trust me with you standing here.'
Louis' face fell, irritating her even more. 'Leave me,' she repeated,
turning her back on him. 'Go prepare the horses. I have no need of you
here.'
When he'd gone, Oriane crouched down and tapped the girl on the
arm.
The girl woke immediately and sat up, her eyes bright with fear.
Who are you?'
'Una amiga,' she said, using the language she had abandoned thirty
years ago. 'A friend.'
Bertrande didn't move. 'You're French,' she said stubbornly, staring at
Oriane's clothes and hair. *You weren't in the citadel.'
'No,' she said, trying to sound patient, 'but I was born in Carcassona,
just like your mother. We were children together in the Chateau Comtal.
I even knew your grandfather, Intendant Pelletier. I'm sure Alais has
talked often of him.'
'I'm named for him,' she said promptly.
Oriane hid a smile. Well, Bertrande. I've come to get you away from
here.'
The girl frowned. 'But Sajhe told me to stay here until he came for me,'
she said, a little less cautiously. 'He said not to go with anyone else.'
'Sajhe said that, did he?' Oriane said, smiling. "Well, he said to me that
you were good at looking after yourself, that I should give you something
to persuade you to trust me.'

Oriane held out the ring she had stolen from her father's cold hand. As
she expected, Bertrande recognised it and reached for it.
'Sajhe gave you this?'
'Take it. See for yourself.'
Bertrande turned the ring, examining it thoroughly. She stood up.
"Where is he?'
'I don't know,' she said, frowning furiously. 'Unless . . .'
'Yes?' Bertrande looked up at her.
'Do you think he meant you should go home?'
Bertrande thought for a moment. 'He might,' she said doubtfully.
'Is it far?' asked Oriane casually.
'A day on horseback, perhaps more at this time of year.'
'And does this village have a name?' she said lightly.
'Los Seres,' Bertrande replied, 'although Sajhe told me not to tell the
Inquisitors.'
The Noublesso de los Seres. Not just the name of the Grail guardians but
the place where the Grail would be found. Oriane had to bite her tongue
to stop herself laughing.
'Let us get rid of this to start with,' she said, leaning over and pulling
the yellow cross from Bertrande's back. We don't want anyone to
guess that we're runaways. Now, do you have anything to bring with
you?'
If the girl had the book with her, there was no need to go any further.
The quest would end here.
Bertrande shook her head. 'Nothing.'
'Very well, then. Quietly now. We don't want to attract attention.'
The girl was still cautious, but as they walked through the sleeping
compound, Oriane talked about Alais and the Chateau Comtal. She
was charming, persuasive and attentive. Little by little, she won the girl
over.
Oriane slipped another coin into the guard's hand at the gate, then led
IBertrande to where her son was waiting at the outskirts of the camp with
: soldiers on horseback and a covered cart already prepared.
i 'Are they coming with us?' Bertrande said, suddenly suspicious.
Oriane smiled as she lifted the child into the caliche. We need to be
ected from bandits on the journey, don't we? Sajhe would never
me if I let anything happen to you.'
Bertrande was settled, she turned to her son.
lat about me?' he said. 'I want to accompany you.' I need you to stay here,' she said, restless now to be gone. Tou, if you

have not forgotten, are part of the army. You cannot simply disappear. It
will be easier and quicker for us all if I go alone.'
'But--'
'Do as I say,' she said, keeping her voice low so Bertrande could not
hear. 'Look after our interests here. Deal with the girl's father as discussed.
Leave the rest to me.'

All Guilhem could think about was finding Oriane. His purpose in
coming to Montsegur had been to help Alais and to keep Oriane from
harming her. For nearly thirty years, he'd watched over her from afar.
Now Alais was dead, he had nothing to lose. His desire for revenge had
grown year by year. He should have killed Oriane when he had the
chance. He would not let this opportunity pass by.
With the hood of his cloak pulled down over his face, Guilhem slipped
through the Crusaders camp, until he saw the green and silver of Oriane's
pavilion.
There were voices inside. French. A young man giving orders.
Remembering the youth sitting beside Oriane in the stalls, her son,
Guilhem pressed himself against the flapping side of the tent and
listened.
'He's a soldier in the garrison,' Louis d'Evreux said in his arrogant
voice. 'Goes by the name of Sajhe de Servian. The one who created the
disturbance earlier. Southern peasants,' he said with contempt. 'Even
when they're treated well, they behave like animals.' He gave a sharp
laugh. 'He was taken to the enclosure near the pavilion of Hugues des
Arcis, away from the other prisoners in case he incited any more trouble.'
Louis dropped his voice so Guilhem could barely hear. This is for you,'
he said. Guilhem heard the clinking of coins. 'Half now. If the peasant's
still alive when you find him, remedy the situation. The rest when the job
is done.'
Guilhem waited until the soldier came out, then slipped in through the
unguarded opening.
'I told you I did not want to be disturbed,' he said abruptly, without
turning round. Guilhem's knife was at his throat before the man had a
chance to call out.
'If you make a sound, I'll kill you,' he said.
'Take what you want, take what you want. Don't harm me.'
Guilhem cast his eyes around the opulent tent, at the fine carpets and
warm blankets. Oriane had achieved the wealth and status she'd always
desired. He hoped it had not brought her happiness.

'Tell me your name,' he said in a low, savage voice.
'Louis d'Evreux. I don't know who you are, but my mother will--'
Guilhem jerked his head back. 'Don't threaten me. You sent your
guards away, remember? There's no one to hear you.' He pressed the
blade harder against the boy's pale northern skin. Evreux went completely
still. 'That's better. Now. Where is Oriane? If you do not answer, I will
cut your throat.'
Guilhem felt him react at the use of Oriane's name, but fear loosened
his tongue. 'She's gone to the women's compound,' he gabbled.
'For what purpose?'
'In search of... a girl.'
'Don't waste my time, nenon,' he said, jerking his neck back again.
What manner of girl? Why does she matter to Oriane?'
The child of a heretic. My mother's . . . sister,' he said, as if the word
was poison in his mouth. 'My aunt. My mother wished to see the girl for
herself.'
'Alai's,' Guilhem whispered in disbelief. 'How old is this child?'
He could smell the fear on Evreux's skin. 'How do I know? Nine,
ten.'
'And the father? Did he die too?'
Evreux tried to move. Guilhem increased the pressure around his neck
and turned the blade so the tip was pressing beneath Evreux's left ear,
ready.
'He's a soldier, one of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix's men.'
Guilhem straight away understood. 'And you've sent one of your men to make sure he doesn't live to see the sun rise,' he said.
The blade of Guilhem's dagger flashed as it caught the light from the candle.
Who are you?'

Guilhem ignored him. Where is Lord Evreux? Why is he not here?'
' 'My father is dead,' he said. There was no grief in his voice, only a sort
boastful pride Guilhem could not understand. 'I am master of the
: estates now.'
Guilhem laughed. 'Or, most likely, your mother is.'
The boy flinched as if he had been struck.
fell me, Lord Evreux,' he said with contempt, stressing the word,
: does your mother want with the girl?'
lat does it matter? She's the child of heretics. They should've them all.' lem felt Evreux's regret at his momentary loss of control the

instant the words were spoken, but it was too late. Guilhem flexed his
arm and dragged his knife from ear to, ear, slitting the youth's throat.
'Per lo Miegjorn] he said. For the Midi.
The blood gushed in spurts on to the fine carpets along the line of the
cut. Guilhem released his hold and Evreux fell forward.
'If your servant comes back quickly, you may live. If not, you had better
pray your God will forgive your sins.'
Guilhem pulled his hood back over his head and ran out. He had to
find Sajhe de Servian before Evreux's man did.

The small group jolted its uncomfortable way through the cold night.
Already, Oriane regretted deciding to take the caleche. They would
have been quicker on horseback. The wooden wheels banged and scraped
against the flints and the hard, icy ground.
They avoided the main routes in and out of the valley where roadblocks
were still in place, heading south for the first few hours. Then as the
winter dusk gave way to the black of night, they turned to the south east.
Bertrande was asleep, her cloak pulled up over her head to keep out the
biting wind that whipped under the bottom of the hangings erected over
the cart. Oriane had found her endless chatter irritating. She'd plagued
her with questions about life in Carcassonne in the old days, before the
war.
Oriane fed her biscuits, sugar loaf and spiced wine, with a sleeping
draught strong enough to knock a soldier out for days. Finally, the child
stopped talking and fell into a deep sleep.

Wake up!'
Sajhe could hear someone talking. A man. Close by.
He tried to move. Pain shot through every part of his body. Blue
flashes sparked behind his eyes.
Wake up!' The voice was more insistent this time.
Sajhe flinched as something cold was pressed against his bruised face,
soothing his skin. Slowly, the memory of the blows beating down on his
head, his body, everywhere, came crawling back.
Was he dead?
Then he remembered. Someone shouted, further down the slope,
yelling at the soldiers to stop. His assailants, caught out suddenly, stepping
back. Someone, a commander, shouting orders in French. Being
dragged down the mountain.
Not dead perhaps.

Sajhe tried to move again. He could feel something hard against his
back. He realised his shoulders were pulled tight behind him. He tried
to open his eyes, but found one was swollen shut. His other senses were
heightened in response. He was aware of the movements of the horses,
stamping their hooves on the ground. He could hear the voice of the wind
and the cries of nightjars and a solitary owl. These were sounds he
understood.
'Can you move your legs?' the man asked.
Sajhe was surprised to find he could, although it ached cruelly. One of
the soldiers had stamped on his ankle when he was lying on the ground.
'Can you manage to ride?'
Sajhe watched the man go behind him to cut the ropes binding his
arms to the post, and realised there was something familiar about him.
Something he recognised in his voice, the turn of his head.
Sajhe staggered to his feet.
To what do I owe this kindness?' he said, rubbing his wrists. Then,
suddenly, he knew. Sajhe saw himself as an eleven year-old boy again,
climbing the walls of the Chateau Comtal and along the battlements,
looking for Alais. Listening at the window to hear laughter floating on
the breeze. A man's voice, talking and teasing.
'Guilhem du Mas,' he said slowly.
Guilhem paused and looked with surprise at Sajhe. 'Have we met,
friend?'
*You would not remember,' he said, barely able to look him in the face. Tell me, amic,' he stressed the word. "What do you want with me?'
'I came to . . .' Guilhem was nonplussed by his hostility. 'You are Sajhe
de Servian?'
What of it?'
'For the sake of Alais, whom we both . . .' Guilhem stopped and imposed himself. 'Her sister, Oriane, is here, with one of her sons. Part "the Crusader army. Oriane has come for the Book.'
I Sajhe stared. 'What book?' he said belligerently. iGuilhem pressed on regardless. 'Oriane learned that you had a daughShe's taken her. I don't know where they're heading, but they left the
just after dusk. I came to tell you and offer my help.' He stood up. I if you don't want it . . .'
i felt the colour drain from his face. Wait!' he cried. [you want to get your daughter back alive,' Guilhem continued /, 'I suggest you put your grievance against me to one side, whati cause.'

Guilhem held out his hand to help Sajhe to his feet.
'Do you know where Oriane is likely to have taken her?'
Sajhe stared at the man he had spent a lifetime hating, then for the sake of Alais and his daughter, took the outstretched hand.
'She has a name,' he said. 'She's called Bertrande.'

CHAPTER 77

Pic de Soularac

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

Audric and Alice climbed the mountain in silence.
Too much had been said for any more words to be needed. Audric was
breathing heavily, but he kept his eyes trained on the ground at his feet
and did not once falter.
'It can't be much further,' she said, as much to herself as to him.
'No.'
Five minutes later, Alice realised they had come at the site from the
opposite side to the car park. The tents had all gone, but there was
evidence of their recent occupancy with the brown, dried-out patches of ground and the odd random piece of rubbish. Alice noticed a trowel and a tent peg, which she picked up and put in her pocket.
They kept climbing, turning up to the left, until they arrived at the
yboulder Alice had dislodged. It was lying on its side below the entrance to
: chamber, exactly where it had fallen. In the ghostly white light of the yn it looked like the head of a fallen idol. Was it really only Monday?
i Baillard stopped and leaned back against the boulder to catch his breath.
There's not much further to go,' she said, wanting to reassure him. 'I'm y. I should have warned you it was so steep.'
ric smiled. 'I remember,' he said. He took her hand. His skin felt c-thin. "When we get to the cave, you will wait until I say it is safe to
1 after me. You must promise me you will stay hidden.'
don't think it's a good idea for you to go in alone,' she said ornly. 'Even if you're right and they don't come until after dark, you
I get trapped. I wish you'd let me help you, Audric. If I come in with
; can help you find the book. It will be quicker with two, easier. We in and out in minutes. Then we can both hide out here and see appens.'

'Forgive me, but it is better for us to separate.'
'I really don't see why, Audric. Nobody knows we're here. We should
be quite safe,' she said, even though she felt far from it.
"You are very brave, Madomaisela,' he said softly. 'As she was. Alais
always put the safety of others before her own. She sacrificed much for
those she loved.'
'No one's sacrificing anything,' Alice said sharply. Fear was making her
nervous. 'And I still don't understand why you wouldn't let me come
earlier. We could have come to the chamber when it was still light and
not run the risk of being caught.'
Baillard behaved as if she had not spoken.
'You telephoned Inspector Noubel?' he asked.
There is no point arguing. Not now.
'Yes,' she sighed heavily. 'I said what you told me to say.'
'Ben,' he said softly. 'I understand you think I am being unwise, Madomaisela, but you will see. All must happen at the right time, in the
right order. There will be no truth else.'
'Truth?' she repeated. "You've told me all there is to know, Audric.
Everything. Now my only concern is to get Shelagh - and Will - out of
here in one piece.'
'Everything?' he said softly. 'Is such a thing possible?'
Audric turned and looked up at the entrance, a small black opening in
the expanse of rock. 'One truth may contradict another,' he murmured.
'Now is not then.' He took her arm. 'Shall we complete the last stage of
our journey?'he said.
Alice glanced quizzically at him, wondering at the mood that had
overtaken him. He was calm, thoughtful. A kind of passive acceptance
had descended over him, while she was very nervous, frightened at all the
things that could go wrong, terrified Noubel would be too late, scared
that Audric would turn out to be mistaken.
What if they're already dead?
Alice pushed the thought from her mind. She couldn't afford to think
like that. She had to keep believing that everything was going to be all
right.
At the entrance, Audric turned and smiled at her, his speckled amber
eyes sparkling in anticipation.
'What is it, Audric?' she said quickly. 'There's something,' she broke
off, unable to find the word she wanted. 'Something . . .'
'I have been waiting a long time,' he said softly.
Waiting? To find the Book?'

He shook his head. 'For redemption,' he said.
'Redemption? But for what?' Alice was astonished to realise she had
tears in her eyes. She bit her lip to stop herself breaking down. 'I don't
understand, Audric,' she said, her voice cracking.
'Pas a pas se va luenh,' he said. "You saw these words in the chamber
carved at the top of the steps?'
Alice looked at him surprise. Yes, but how did--'
He held out his hand for the torch. 'I must go in.'
Battling her conflicting emotions, Alice handed it to him without
another word. She watched him walk down the tunnel, waiting until the
last pinprick of light had disappeared, before turning away.
The cry of an owl nearby made her jump. The slightest sound seemed
magnified a hundred times over. There was malignancy in the darkness.
The trees looming around her, the awesome shadow of the mountain
itself, the way the rocks seemed to be taking on unfamiliar, threatening
shapes. In the distance she thought she heard the sound of a car on a road
somewhere down in the valley.
Then the silence came surging back.
Alice glanced at her watch. It was nine-forty.

I At a quarter to ten, two powerful car headlights swept into the car park at
: foot of the Pic de Soularac.
Paul Authie killed the engine and got out. He was surprised to find
icois-Baptiste wasn't there waiting for him. Authie glanced up in the
ion of the cave with a sudden flash of alarm that they might already
. the chamber.
dismissed the thought. His nerves were starting to get to him.
: and Domingo had been there until an hour ago. If Marie-Cecile
' son had turned up, he'd have heard about it.
{is hand went to the control box in his pocket, set to detonate the
and already counting down. There was nothing he had to do. lit. And watch. ie felt for the cross around his neck and started to pray.
id in the woods that bordered the car park caught his attention. (Opened his eyes. He could see nothing. He went back to the car the headlamps on full beam. The trees leaped out of the \ ft him, stripped of colour.
ed his eyes and looked again. This time, he detected move: dense undergrowth.
8Baptiste?'

No one answered. Authie could feel the short hairs on the back of his
neck standing on end. cWe haven't got the time for this,' he shouted into
the darkness, injecting a tone of irritation into his voice. 'If you want the
Book and the ring, come out here where I can see you.'
Authie started to wonder if he'd misjudged the situation.
'I'm waiting,' he called out.
This time, he heard something. He suppressed a smile as a figure
started to take shape among the trees.
'Where's O'Donnell?'
Authie nearly laughed at the sight of Francois-Baptiste walking towards
him, wearing a jacket several sizes too large for him. He looked
pathetic.
'You're alone?' he said.
'None of your fucking business,' he said, coming to a halt on the edge
of the woods. "Where's Shelagh O'Donnell?'
Authie jerked his head in the direction of the cave. 'She's already up
there waiting for you, Francois-Baptiste. Thought I'd save you the
bother.' He gave a short laugh. 'I don't think she'll give you any trouble.'
'What about the Book?'
'In there too.' He shot the cuffs on his shirt. 'The ring as well. All
delivered as promised. On time.'
Francois-Baptiste gave a sharp laugh. 'Gift-wrapped too, I suppose,' he said sarcastically. You don't expect me to believe you've just left them up
there?'
Authie looked at him with contempt. 'My task was to retrieve the Book
and the ring, which is what I've done. I've also returned your - what shall
we call her - your spy, at the same time. Call it philanthropy on my part.'
He narrowed his eyes. "What Madame de l'Oradore chooses to do with
her is her business.'
Doubt flickered across the boy's face.
'All out of the goodness of your heart?'
'For the Noublesso Veritable] Authie said mildly. 'Or have you not yet
been invited to join? I imagine being merely her son makes no difference.
Go and have a look. Or is your mother already up there getting ready?'
Francois-Baptiste darted a glance at him.
'Did you think she hadn't told me?' Authie took a step towards him.
'Do you think I don't know what she does?' He could feel the anger rising
in him. 'Have you see her, Francois-Baptiste? Have you seen the ecstasy
on her face when she speaks those obscene words, those blasphemous
words? It's an offence against God!'

'Don't you dare talk about her like that!' he said, his hand moving to
his pocket.
Authie laughed. 'That's right. Ring her. She'll tell you what to do.
What to think. Don't do anything without asking her first.'
He turned away and started to walk back to the car. He heard the
release of the safety catch seconds before it registered what it was. In
disbelief, Authie spun round. He was too slow. He heard the snap of the
bullets, one, two in quick succession.
The first went wide. The second hit him in the thigh. The bullet went
straight through, shattering the bone, and out the other side. Authie went
down, screaming, as the shock of the pain went through him.
Francois-Baptiste was walking towards him, the gun held straight
in front of him with both hands. Authie tried to crawl away, leaving
a trail of blood behind him on the gravel, but the boy was upon him
now.
For a moment, their eyes met. Then Francois-Baptiste fired again.

Alice jumped.
The sound of the shots cut through the still mountain air. It bounced
off the rock and reverberated around her.
Her heart started to race. She couldn't work out where the shots had
come from. At home, she'd know it was only a farmer shooting rabbits or
crows.
It didn't sound like a shotgun.
She jumped down to the ground, as quietly as she could, and peered
: into the darkness to where she thought the car park was. She heard a  door slam shut. Now, she could pick out the sound of human voices,
; carried on the air. What's Audric doing in there?
rThey were a long way off, but she could sense their presence on the
itain. Alice heard the occasional sound of a pebble as their feet
ed gravel and stones from the path. The crack of a twig.
lice edged closer to the entrance, sending desperate glances towards
as if, by sheer force of will, she could conjure Audric out of the

f doesn't he come?
ric?' she hissed. There's someone coming. Audric?' ling but silence. Alice peered into the darkness of the tunnel
; out before her and felt her courage waver.

But you have to warn him.
Praying she'd not left it too late, Alice turned and ran down towards
the labyrinth chamber.

CHAPTER 78

Los Seres

MAR9 1244

Despite Sajhe's injuries, they made good time, following the line of the
river south from Montsegur. They travelled light and rode hard, stopping
only to rest and water the horses, using their swords to break the ice.
Guilhem saw immediately that Sajhe's skills exceeded his own.
He knew a little of Sajhe's past, how he had carried messages from the
farfaits to the isolated and far-flung villages of the Pyrenees and delivered
intelligence to the rebel fighters. It was clear the younger man knew every
passable valley and ridge, and every concealed track in the woods, gorges
ji And the plains.
p At the same time, Guilhem was aware of Sajhe's fierce dislike, aligh
he said nothing. It was like the burning sun beating down on the
of his neck. Guilhem knew Sajhe's reputation as a loyal, brave and
Miourable man, ready to die fighting for what he believed in. Despite his
nosity, Guilhem could see why Alais would love this man and have a
with him, even though the thought was like a knife through his

1 was with them. There was no new snowfall during the night. The (ring day, the nineteenth of March, was bright and clear, with few
1 and little wind.
and Guilhem arrived in Los Seres at dusk. The village was
in a small, secluded valley and, despite the cold, there was the
of spring in the air. The trees on the outskirts of the village

were dotted with tight green and white. The earliest spring flowers
peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks as they rode up the
track that led to the small cluster of houses. The village seemed deserted,
abandoned.
The two men dismounted and led their horses the final distance into
the centre of the village. The sound of their iron shoes striking against the
flint and stone of the hard earth echoed loudly in the silence. A few wisps
of smoke floated carefully from one or two of the houses. Eyes peered
suspiciously out through the slits and cracks of the shutters, then darted
quickly away. French deserters were uncommon this high in the mountains,
but not unheard of. Usually, they brought trouble.
Sajhe tethered his horse beside the well. Guilhem did likewise, then
followed him as he walked through the centre of the village to a small
dwelling. There were tiles missing from the roof and the shutters were in
need of repair, but the walls were strong. Guilhem thought it wouldn't
take much to bring the house back to life.
Guilhem waited while Sajhe pushed the door. The wood, swollen by
the damp and stiff from disuse, juddered on its hinges, then creaked open
enough for Sajhe to get in.
Guilhem followed, feeling the damp, tomb-like air on his face, numbing
his fingers. A mound of leaves and mulch was piled up against the
wall opposite the door, clearly blown in by the winter winds. There were
fingers of ice on the inside of the shutters and, like a ragged fringe, at the
bottom of the sill.
The remains of a meal sat on the table. An old jug, plates, cups and a
knife. There was a film of mould on the surface of the wine, like green
weed on the surface of a pond. The benches were neatly tucked against
the wall.
This is your home?' Guilhem asked softly.
Sajhe nodded.
'When did you leave?'
'A year ago.'
In the centre of the room, a rusted cooking pot hung suspended over
a pile of ash and charred wood that had long since burned itself out.
Guilhem watched with pity as Sajhe leaned over and straightened the
lid.
At the back of the house, there was a tattered curtain. He lifted it
to reveal another table with two chairs set on either side. The wall was
covered with rows of narrow, almost empty shelves. An old pestle and
mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars, covered in dust, were all

that had been left behind. Above the shelf small hooks had been set into
the low ceiling from which a few dusty bunches of herbs still hung. A
petrified sprig of fleabane and another of blackberry leaves.
'For her medicines,' he said, taking Guilhem by surprise. He stood still,
his hands folded in front of him, not wanting to interrupt Sajhe's
recollections.
'Everybody came to her, men as well as women. When they were sick
or their spirits were troubled, to keep their children healthy through the
winter. Bertrande . . . Ala'is let her help with the preparations and deliver
packages to the houses.'
Sajhe faltered, then fell silent. Guilhem was aware of the lump in his
own throat. He too remembered the bottles and jars with which Alais had
filled their chamber in the Chateau Comtal, the silent concentration with
which she had worked.
Sajhe let the curtain drop from his hand. He tested the rungs of the
ladder, then cautiously climbed to the upper platform. Here, rotten with
mildew and soiled by animals, was a pile of old blankets and rotten straw,
all that remained of where the family had slept. A single candlestick, with
the remains of wax, stood beside the bedding, the tell-tale smoke marks
spread like a stain up the wall behind it.
Guilhem couldn't bear to witness Sajhe's grief any longer and went
outside to wait. He had no right to intrude.
Some time later, Sajhe reappeared. His eyes were red, but his hands
were steady and he walked purposefully towards Guilhem, who was
standing at the highest point of the village, looking to the west.
*When does it grow light in the morning?' he said as Sajhe drew level.
The two men were a similar height, although the lines on Guilhem's face and the flecks of grey in his hair betrayed he was fifteen years closer ito the grave.
The sun rises late in the mountains at this time of year.'
^ Guilhem was silent for a moment. What do you want to do?' he said,
ting Sajhe's right to dictate things from here.
j| "We must stable the horses, then find somewhere for ourselves to sleep.
of they will be here before morning.'
fou don't want ..." Guilhem started, looking towards the house.
Jo,' he said quickly. 'Not there. There's a woman who will give us and shelter for the night. Tomorrow, we should move further up
jntain and set up camp somewhere near the cave itself to wait for

think Oriane will bypass the village?'

'She will guess where Alai's has concealed the Book of Words. She's had
time enough to study the other two Books over these past thirty years.'
Guilhem glanced sideways at him. 'Is she right? Is it still there in the
cave?'
Sajhe ignored him. 'I don't understand how Oriane persuaded Bertrande
to go with her,' he said. 'I told her not to leave without me. To
wait until I came.'
Guilhem said nothing. There was nothing he could say to allay Sajhe's
fears. The younger man's anger quickly burned itself out.
'Do you think Oriane has brought the other two Books with her?' he
said suddenly.
Guilhem shook his head. 'I imagine the Books are safe in her vaults
somewhere in Evreux or Chartres. Why would she risk bringing them
here?'
'Did you love her?'
The question took Guilhem by surprise. 'I desired her,' he said slowly.
'I was bewitched, flushed with my own importance, I . . .'
'Not Oriane,' Sajhe said abruptly, 'Alais.'
Guilhem felt as if an iron band had fixed itself round his throat.
'Alais,' he whispered. For a moment, he stood locked in his memories,
until the force of Sajhe's intense gaze brought him back to the cold
present.
'After . . .' he faltered. 'After Carcassona fell, I saw her only once. For
three months, she stayed with me. She had been taken by the Inquisitors,
and--'
'I know,' Sajhe" shouted, then his voice seemed to collapse. 'I know of
it.'
Mystified by Sajhe's reaction, Guilhem kept his eyes straight ahead. To
his own surprise, he realised he was smiling.
"Yes.' The word slipped from between his lips. 'I loved her more than
the world. I just did not understand how precious a thing love is, how
fragile until I had crushed it in my hands.'
'It's why you let her be. After Tolosa, and she returned here?'
Guilhem nodded. 'After those weeks together, God knows it was hard
to stay away. To see her, just once more ... I had hoped, when this
was all over, we might be ... But, obviously, she found you. And now
today . . .'
Guilhem's voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes, making them smart
in the cold. Beside him, he felt Sajhe shift. For a moment, there was a
different quality to the atmosphere between them.

'Forgive me. That I should break down before you.' He took a deep
breath. 'The bounty Oriane put on Alai's' head was substantial, tempting
even for those who had no reason to wish her harm. I paid Oriane's spies
to pass false information. For nigh on thirty years it helped keep her safe.'
Guilhem stopped again, the image of the burning Book against the
blackened red cloak slipping, like an unwelcome guest, into his mind.
'I did not know her faith was so strong,' he said. 'Or that her desire to
keep the Book of Words from Oriane would drive her to such steps.'
He looked at Sajhe, trying to read the truth written in his eyes.
'I would that she had not chosen to die,' he said simply. 'For you, as the
man she chose, and me, as the fool who had her love and lost it.' He
stumbled. 'But most for the sake of your daughter. To know Alai's--'
Why are you helping us?' Sajhe interrupted. Why did you come?'
'To Montsegur?'
Sajhe shook his head, impatient. 'Not Montsegur. Here. Now.'
'Revenge,' he said.

CHAPTER 79

Alai's woke with a jolt, stiff and cold. A delicate purple light swept across
the grey and green landscape at dawn. A gentle white mist tiptoed through
the gulleys and crevices of the mountainside, silent and still.
She looked to Harif. He was sleeping peacefully, his fur-lined cloak
drawn up to his ears. He'd found the day and night they had spent
travelling hard.
The silence was heavy over the mountain. Despite the cold in her
bones and her discomfort, Alais relished the solitude after the months of
desperate overcrowding and confinement within Montsegur. Careful not
to disturb Harif, she stood up and stretched, then reached into one of
the saddlebags to break off a piece of bread. It was as hard as wood. She
poured herself a cup of thick red mountain wine, which was almost too
cold to taste. She dipped the bread to soften it, then ate quickly, before
preparing food for the others.
She hardly dared think about Bertrande and Sajhe and where they
might be at this moment. Still in the camp? Together or apart?
The call of a screech owl returning from his night's hunting split
the air. She smiled, soothed by the familiar sounds. Animals rustled
in the undergrowth, sudden flurries of claws and teeth. In the woodlands
of the valleys lower down, wolves howled their presence. It served to
remind her that the world went on the same, its cycles changing with the
seasons, without her.
She roused the two guides and told them food was ready, then led the
horses to the stream and broke the ice with the hilt of her sword so they
could drink.
Then, when the light strengthened, she went to wake Harif. She
whispered to him in his own language and put her hand gently on his
arm. He often woke in distress these days.
Harif opened his hooded brown eyes, faded now with age.
'Bertrande?'
'It's Alais,' she said softly.

Harif blinked, confused to find himself on this grey mountainside.
Alais imagined he had been dreaming of Jerusalem again, the curve and
sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful, his
travels across the endless sea of the desert.
In the years they had spent in one another's company, Harif had told
her of the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the
food, the terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun. He had told her stories
of how he had used the long years of his life. He had talked of the
Prophet and the ancient city of Avaris, his first home. He had told her
stories about her father in his youth, and the Noublesso.
As she looked down at him, his olive skin grey with age, his once black
hair white, her heart ached. He was too old for this struggle. He had seen
too much, witnessed too much, for it to finish so harshly.
Harif had left his last journey too late. And Alais knew, although he
had never said so, that only thoughts of Los Seres and Bertrande gave
him the strength to keep going.
'Alais,' he said quietly, adjusting to his surroundings. Yes.'
'It won't be much longer,' she said, helping him to his feet. We're
nearly home.'

Guilhem and Sajhe talked little as they sat huddled in the shelter of the
mountain out of reach of the vicious claws of the wind.
Several times, Guilhem tried to initiate conversation, but Sajhe's
taciturn responses defeated him. In the end he gave up trying and withdrew
into his own private world, as Sajhe had intended.
He was sick in conscience. He'd spent a lifetime first envying Guilhem,
then hating him, and finally learning to forget about him. He had taken
I: 'Guilhem's place at Alais' side, but never in her heart. She had remained
it to her first love. It had endured, despite absence and silence.
Sajhe knew of Guilhem's courage, his fearless and long struggle to
the Crusaders from the Pays d'Oc, but he did not want to find
elf liking Guilhem, admiring him. Nor did he want to feel pity for
He could see how he grieved for Alais. His face spoke of deep loss,
Sajhe could not bring himself to speak. But he hated himself for
: doing so.
' waited all day, taking it in turns to sleep. Close to dusk a sudden
of crows took flight lower down the slopes, flying up into the air
; from a dying fire. They wheeled and hovered and cawed, beating
: air with their wings, eone's coming,' said Sajhe, immediately alert.

He peered out from behind the boulder, which was perched on the
narrow ledge above the entrance to the cave, as if placed there by some
giant hand.
He could see nothing, no movement lower down. Cautiously, Sajhe
came out of his hiding place. Everything ached, everything was stiff, a
combination of the after-effects of the beating and inactivity. His hands
were numb, the raw knuckles red and cracked. His face was a mass of
bruises and ragged skin.
Sajhe lowered himself over the rocky ledge and dropped to the ground.
He landed badly. Pain shot up from his injured ankle.
'Pass me my sword,' he said, holding up his arm.
Guilhem handed him the weapon, then came down and joined him as
he stood looking out over the valley.
There was a burst of distant voices. Then, faintly in the fading light,
Sajhe saw a thin wraith of smoke winding up through the sparse cover of
the trees.
He looked to the horizon, where the purple land and the darkening sky
met.
They're on the southeastern path,' he said, 'which means Oriane's
avoided the village altogether. From that direction, they won't be able
to come any further with the horses. The terrain is too rough. There
are gulleys with sheer drops on both sides. They'll have to continue on
foot.'
The thought of Bertrande, so close by, was suddenly too much to bear.
'I'm going down.'
'No!' Guilhem said quickly, then more quietly. 'No. The risk is too
great. If they see you, you'll put Bertrande's life in danger. We know
Oriane will come to the cave. Here, we have the element of surprise.
We must wait for her to come to us.' He paused. 'You must not blame
yourself, friend. You could not have prevented this. You serve your
daughter by holding fast to our plan.'
Sajhe shook Guilhem's hand from his arm.
"You don't have any idea what I'm feeling,' he said, his voice shaking
with fury. 'How dare you presume to know me?'
Guilhem put up his hands in mock surrender. 'I'm sorry.'
'She's only a child.'
'How old is she?'
'Nine,' he replied abruptly.
Guilhem frowned. 'So old enough to understand,' he said, thinking
aloud. 'So even if Oriane did persuade her, rather than force her, to leave

the camp, it's likely by now Bertrande will realise something's wrong. Did
she know Oriane was in the camp? Does she even know she has an aunt?'
Sajhe nodded. 'She knows Oriane is no friend to Alais. She would not
have gone with her.'
'Not if she knew who she was,' agreed Guilhem. 'But if she didn't?'
Sajhe thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'Even then, I can't
believe she would go with a stranger. We were clear that she had to wait
for us--'
He broke off, realising he had nearly given himself away, but Guilhem
was following his own train of thought. Sajhe gave a sigh of relief.
'I think we will be able to deal with the soldiers after we have rescued
Bertrande,' Guilhem said. 'The more I think about it, the more likely I
think it is that Oriane will leave her men in the camp and continue on
alone with your daughter.'
Sajhe started to listen. 'Go on.'
'Oriane has waited more than thirty years for this. Concealment is as
natural to her as breathing. I don't think she'll risk anybody else knowing
the precise location of the cave. She would not want to share the secret
and since she believes no one, except her son, knows she is here, she will not be expecting any opposition.'
Guilhem paused. 'Oriane is--' He broke off. 'To gain possession of the
Labyrinth Trilogy Oriane has lied, murdered, betrayed her father and her
sister. She has damned herself for the Books.'
'Murdered?'
'Her first husband, Jehan Congost, certainly, although it was not her hand that wielded the knife.'
'Francois,' murmured Sajhe", too soft for Guilhem to hear. A shaft of I memory, the screaming, the desperate thrashing of the horse's hooves as
. and beast were sucked down into the boggy marsh. 'And I've always believed she was responsible for the death of a woman  dear to Alais,' Guilhem continued. 'Her name is lost to me this far the event, but she was a wise woman who lived in the Ciutat. She it Alais everything, about medicines, healing, how to use nature's
i for good.' He paused. 'Alais loved her.'
: was obstinacy that had stopped Sajhe revealing his identity. It was lacy and jealousy that prevented him confiding anything of his life i Alais.
londe did not die,' he said, no longer able to dissemble. em went very still.
it?' he said. 'Does Alais know this?'

Sajhe nodded. "When she fled from the Chateau Comtal, it was to
Esclarmonde - and her grandson - that Alais turned for help. She left--'
The sound of Oriane's sharp voice, authoritative and cold, interrupted
the conversation. The two men, mountain fighters both, dropped down to
the ground. Without a sound, they drew their swords and took up their
positions close to the entrance of the cave. Sajhe concealed himself behind
a section of rock slightly below the entrance, Guilhem behind a ring of
hawthorn bushes, their spiked branches sharp and menacing in the dusk.
The voices were getting nearer. They could hear the soldiers' boots,
armour and buckles, as they clambered over the flint and stone of the
rocky path.
Sajhe felt as if he was taking every step with Bertrande. Every moment
stretched an eternity. The sound of the footsteps, the echo of the voices,
repeating over and over again yet never appearing to get any closer.
Finally, two figures emerged from the cover of the trees. Oriane and
Bertrande. As Guilhem had thought, they were alone. He could see
Guilhem staring at him, warning him not to move yet, to wait until
Oriane was in striking distance and they could get Bertrande safely away.
As they got closer, Sajhe clenched his fists to stop himself roaring out
in anger. There was a cut on her cheek, red against her white frozen face.
Oriane had tied a rope around Bertrande's neck, which ran down her back
to her hands bound at the wrists behind her waist. The other end was in
Oriane's left hand. In her right, she had a dagger, which she used to jab
Bertrande in the back to keep her moving.
Bertrande was walking awkwardly and stumbled often. He narrowed
his eyes and saw that, beneath her skirts, her ankles were tied together.
The loose measure of rope between them allowed no more than a stride.
Sajhe forced himself to remain still, waiting, watching until they
reached the clearing that lay directly beneath the cave.
Tou said it was beyond the trees.'
Bertrande murmured something too quiet for Sajhe to hear.
'For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth,' Oriane said.
'It's in there,' Bertrande said. Her voice was steady, but Sajhe could
hear the terror behind it and his heart contracted.
The plan was to ambush Oriane at the mouth of the cave. He was to
concentrate on getting Bertrande out of Oriane's reach, Guilhem on
disarming Oriane before she had the chance to use the knife.
Sajhe looked at Guilhem who nodded, to let him know he was ready.
'But you mustn't go in,' Bertrande was saying. 'It's a sacred place. No
one but the Guardians can enter.'

'Is that so,' she jeered. 'And who is going to stop me? You?' A look of
bitterness came down over her face. Toil are so like her, it disgusts me,'
she said, jerking the rope around her neck so Bertrande cried out in pain.
'Alai's was always telling everyone what to do. Always thought herself
better than everyone else.'
'That's not true,' shouted Bertrande, brave despite the hopelessness of
her situation. Sajhe willed her to stop. At the same time, he knew Alais
would be proud of her courage. He was proud of her courage. She was so
much her parents' child.
Bertrande had started to cry. 'It's wrong. You mustn't go in. It will not
allow you to enter. The labyrinth will protect its secret, from you or
anyone who seeks it wrongly.'
Oriane gave a short laugh. They are just stories to frighten stupid little
children like you.'
Bertrande held her ground. 'I will not take you any further.'
Oriane raised her hand and struck her, sending her flying back against
the rock. A red mist filled Sajhe's head. In three or four strides he threw
himself down upon Oriane, a visceral roar issuing from deep inside his
chest.
Oriane reacted too quickly, pulling Bertrande to her feet and holding
the knife to her throat.
'How disappointing. I thought my son might have coped with so
simple a matter. You were already captive - or so I was told - but no
matter.'
Sajhe' smiled at Bertrande, trying to reassure her despite the hope;
lessness of their situation.
'Drop your sword,' Oriane said calmly, 'or I will kill her.'
I'm sorry I disobeyed you, Sajhe,' Bertrande cried, 'but she had your
5. She told me you'd sent her to fetch me.'
'Not my ring, brava,' Sajhe said. He let his sword fall. It fell with a
avy clatter on the hard ground.
jjji That's better. Now come out here where I can see you. That will do.
[>.' She smiled. 'All on your own?'
ajhe said nothing. Oriane flattened the blade against Bertrande's
t, and then nicked her skin beneath her ear. Bertrande cried out as
, of blood trickled down her neck, like a red ribbon against her pale

: her go, Oriane. It's not her you want, but me.'

i sound of Alais' voice, the mountain itself seemed to draw breath.

A spirit? Guilhem couldn't tell.
He felt his breath had been sucked from his body, leaving him hollow
and weightless. He did not dare move from his hiding place for fear of
setting the apparition to flight. He looked at Bertrande, so like her
mother, then down the slope to where Alai's, if it was she, was standing.
A fur hood framed her face and her riding cloak, dirty from the
journey, skimmed the white, hoary ground. Her hands, warm within
leather gloves, were folded in front of her.
'Let her go, Oriane.'
Her words broke the spell.
'Mama,' cried Bertrande, desperately reaching out her arms.
'It cannot be ..." Oriane said, narrowing her eyes. 'You died. I saw you
die.'
Sajhe lunged toward Oriane and tried to grab Bertrande, but he wasn't
quick enough.
'Don't come closer,' she shouted, recovering herself. She dragged
Bertrande back towards the mouth of the cave. 'I swear, I'll kill her.'
'Mama!'
Alais took another step forward. 'Let her go, Oriane. Your quarrel is
with me.'
There is no quarrel, sister. You have the Book of Words. I want it. C'est pas difficile.'
'And once you have it?'
Guilhem was transfixed. He still dared not believe the evidence of his
eyes, that this was Alais, as he had dreamed her in his imagination so
often, in his waking hours and when he lay down to sleep.
A movement caught his attention, the glint of steel, of helmets. Guilhem
peered. Two soldiers were creeping up behind Alais through the heavy
scrub. Guilhem glanced to his left at the sound of a boot against the rock.
'Seize them!'
The soldier nearest to Sajhe grabbed his arms and held him fast, as the
others broke cover. Quick as lightning, Alai's drew her sword and spun
round, slicing the blade into the closest soldier's side. He fell. The other
soldier lunged at her. Sparks flew as the blades clashed, right, left.
Alais had the advantage of the higher ground, but she was smaller and
weaker.
Guilhem leaped from his hiding place and ran towards her, just as she
stumbled and lost her footing. The soldier lunged, stabbing the inside of
her arm. Alai's screamed and dropped the sword, clutching at the wound
with her glove to staunch the blood.

'Mama!'
Guilhem launched himself the last few steps and thrust his sword into
the soldier's stomach. Blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes bulged
with shock, then he fell.
He did not have time to draw breath.
'Guilhem!' Alais shouted. 'At the rear.'
He spun round to see two more soldiers running up the slopes. With a
roar, he withdrew his sword and charged at them. The blade sliced down
through the air as he drove them back, striking randomly, mercilessly,
first one, then the other.
He was the better swordsman, but he was outnumbered.
Sajhe was now bound and on his knees. One of the soldiers stayed
guard, the point of his knife at Sajhe's neck, as the other came to help
subdue Guilhem. He came within striking distance of Alais. Although
she was losing blood fast, she managed to draw a knife from her belt and
with her remaining strength, drove it with force between her assailant's
legs. He screamed as the blade sank itself into the top of his thigh.
Blindsided with pain, he lashed out. Guilhem saw Alais fly back and
hit her head against the rock. She tried to stand, but she was disorientated,
and staggering, and her legs gave out. She sank to the
ground, blood flowing from the cut on her head.
The dagger still embedded in his leg, the soldier lumbered towards
Guilhem, like a bear in a baiting pit. Guilhem stepped back to get out of his way and skidded on the slippery ground, sending stones skeetering down the hillside. It gave the two others the opportunity they needed to
jump him and pin him, face down, on the ground.

He felt his ribs snap as a boot connected with his side. He jerked in  agony as they kicked him again. He could taste blood in his mouth.
There was no sound from Alais. She didn't appear to be moving at all.
Then he heard Sajhe shout. Guilhem lifted his head just as the soldier
jck Sajhe sideways with the flat of his sword, knocking him senseless.
Oriane had disappeared into the cave, taking Bertrande with her. KWith a roar, Guilhem summoned every last bit of strength left in him, hurled himself to his feet, sending one of the soldiers flying backi down the hill. He grasped his sword and drove it into the throat of man left standing, as Alais staggered to her knees and stuck the
t the back of the leg with his own knife. The howl of pain died in jat.
aem realised everything had fallen silent.
? a moment, he just stared at Alais. Even now, Guilhem was terrified

to believe the evidence of his eyes for fear she would be taken away from
him again. Then he held out his hand.
Guilhem felt her fingers entwine with his. He felt her skin, torn and
battered, like his, cold like he was. Real.
'I thought--'
'I know,' she said quickly.
Guilhem didn't want to let her go, but the thought of Bertrande called
him back.
'Sajhe's hurt,' he said, striding up the slope towards the entrance. 'You
help him. I'm going after Oriane.'
Alai's bent down to check Sajhe, then immediately ran to catch him up.
'He's unconscious only,' she said. 'You stay. Tell him what's happened.
I have to find Bertrande.'
'No, it's what she wants. She'll force you to reveal where you've
concealed the Book, then she'll kill you both. I've a better chance of
bringing your daughter out alive without you, can't you see?'
'Our daughter,' she said.
Guilhem heard the words, although he could make no sense of them.
His heart started to race.
'Alais, what--?' he started to say, but she had ducked under his arm
and was already running down the tunnel into the darkness.

CHAPTER 80

Ariege

FRIDAY 8 JULY, 2OO5

They've gone to the cave,' shouted Noubel, slamming down the receiver,
'of all the stupid--'
Who?'
'Audric Baillard and Alice Tanner. They've taken it into their heads
that Shelagh O'Donnell is being held at the Pic de Soularac and are on
their way there. She said someone else was there too. An American,
William Franklin.'
'Who's he?'
'No idea,' said Noubel, grabbing his jacket from the back of the door and lumbering out into the corridor.
Moureau followed him. "Who was it on the phone?'
The front desk. They took the message from Dr Tanner at nine o'clock,
ently, but "didn't think I'd want to be disturbed in the middle of an
ogation!" Nimporte quoiV Noubel mimicked the nasal voice of the
it sergeant.
Both men automatically glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was ten
en.
|fWhat about Braissart and Domingo?' said Moureau, with a glance the corridor to the interview rooms. Noubel's hunch had been
It. The two men had been arrested not far from Authie's ex-wife's
ause. They'd been heading south towards Andorra.
' can wait.'
threw open the door to the car park, sending it flying back I the fire escape. They hurried down the metal stairs to the tarmac.
I you get anything out of them?'
;,' said Noubel, jerking open the car door, slinging his jacket on
. seat. He forced himself in behind the steering wheel. 'Silent as
e, the pair of them.'

'More frightened of their boss than you,' said Moureau, slamming his
door. 'Any word on Authie?'
'Nothing. He went to Mass earlier in Carcassonne. No sign of him
since them.'
'The farmhouse?' suggested Moureau, as the car jumped forward towards
the main road. 'Has the search team reported in yet?'
'No.'
Noubel's phone started to ring. Keeping his right hand on the wheel,
he stretched into the back seat, releasing a smell of stale sweat from under
his arms. He dropped the jacket in Moureau's lap and made frantic
gestures while Moureau fished through his pockets.
'Noubel, ouiT
His foot slammed down on the brake, sending Moureau flying forward
in his seat. 'Putainl Why in the name of Christ am I only hearing about
this now! Is anybody inside?' He listened. When did it start?' The line
was bad and Moureau could hear the signal breaking. 'No, no! Stay there.
Keep me in touch.'
Noubel tossed his phone on the dashboard, turned the siren on and
accelerated towards the motorway.
'The farm's on fire,' he said, putting his foot to the floor.
'Arson?'
The nearest neighbour's half a kilometre away. He claims to have
heard a couple of loud explosions, then saw the flames and called
the firefighters. By the time they'd arrived, the fire had already taken
hold.'
'Is there anybody in there?' said Moureau anxiously.
'They don't know,' he said grimly.

Shelagh was drifting in and out of consciousness.
She had no idea how long it had been since the men had gone. One
by one her senses were shutting down. She was no longer aware of
her physical surroundings. Arms, legs, body, head, she felt as if she
was floating, weightless. She wasn't aware of heat or of cold, nor the
stones and dirt beneath her. She was cocooned in her own world. Safe.
Free.
She wasn't alone. Faces floated into her mind, people from the past and
present, a procession of silent images.
The light seemed to be growing stronger again. Somewhere, just out of
her line of vision, there was a juddering white beam of light, sending
dancing shadows running up the walls and across the rocky roof of the

cave. Like a kaleidoscope, the colours were shifting and changing shape
before her eyes.
She thought she could see a man. Very old. She felt his cold, dry hands
on her brow, skin as dry as tracing paper. His voice telling her it was
going to be all right. That she was safe now.
Now Shelagh could hear other voices, whispering in her head,
murmuring, speaking softly, caressing her.
She felt black wings at her shoulder, cradling her tenderly, like a child.
Calling her home.
Then, spoiling it, another voice.
Turn round.'

Will realised the roaring was inside his head, the sound of his own blood
pumping in his ears, thick and heavy. The sound of the bullets reverberating
again and again in his memory.
He swallowed hard and tried to catch his breath. The pungent smell of
the leather in his nose and mouth was too strong. It turned his stomach.
How many shots had he heard? Two? Three?
His two bodyguards got out. Will could hear them talking, arguing
with Francois-Baptiste perhaps. Slowly, careful not to draw attention, he
levered himself up a little on the back seat of the car. In the light of the
headlights, he could see Francois-Baptiste standing over Authie's dead
body, arm hanging by his side, the gun still in his hand. It looked as
if someone had thrown a can of red paint over the door and bonnet
|of Authie's car. Blood, tissue and shards of bone. What remained of
lAuthie's skull.
The nausea rose in his throat. Will swallowed again. Forced himself to
looking. Francois-Baptiste started to bend down, hesitated, then
sickly turned back instead.
'Even though the repeated doses of the drug had left his arms and legs
esponsive, Will felt his body stiffen. He dropped back on the seat,
efiil at least they hadn't put him back in the claustrophobic box in the
: of the car.
ie door closest to his head was jerked open and Will felt the familiar
ed hands on his arms and neck, dragging him across the seat and
; him on to the ground.
night air was cool on his face and bare legs. The robe they'd
i him in was long and wide, although tied at the waist. Will felt
cious, vulnerable. And terrified.
Id see Authie's body lying motionless on the gravel. Next to it,

tucked behind the front wheel of the car, he could see a tiny red light
blinking on and off.
'Portez-le jusqu'a la grotte! Francois-Baptiste's voice drew Will back. 'Vous nous attendez dehors. En face de I'ouverture.' He paused. 'II est dixheures
moins cinq maintenant. Nous allons rentrer clans quarante, peutetre
cinquante minutes'
Nearly ten o'clock. He let his head hang as the man took hold beneath
his arms. As they started to drag him up the slope towards the cave, he
wondered if he'd still be alive at eleven.

'Turn round,' Marie-Cecile repeated.
A harsh, arrogant voice, Audric thought. He stroked his hand once
more across Shelagh's head, and then slowly he drew himself to his full
height. His relief at finding her alive had been short-lived. She was in a
very bad condition. Without medical help soon, Audric feared she would
die.
'Leave the torch there,' Marie-Cecile ordered him. 'Come down here
where I can see you.'
Slowly, Audric turned round and stepped down from behind the altar.
She was holding an oil lamp in one hand, a pistol in the other. His first
thought was how alike they were. The same green eyes, the black hair
curling around the beautiful, austere face. With the gold headdress and
necklace, the amulets circling her upper arms and her lean, tall body
encased in the white robe, she looked like an Egyptian princess.
*You have come alone, Dame?'
'I hardly think it necessary to be accompanied everywhere I go, Monsieur, besides . . .'
He dropped his eyes to the gun. You do not think I will trouble you,'
he nodded. 'I am old, after all, oc?' Then he added: 'But also you do not
want anyone else to hear.'
A suggestion of a smile crossed her lips. 'Strength lies in secrecy.'
'The man who taught you that is dead, Dame.'
Pain sparked in her eyes. 'You knew my grandfather?'
'I knew of him,' he replied.
'He taught me well. Never confide in anyone. Never trust anyone.'
'A lonely way to live, Dame.'
'I do not find it so.'
She had moved round, circling him like an animal stalking its prey,
until she had her back to the altar and he was standing in the centre of the
chamber, near a dip in the ground.

The grave, he thought. The grave where the bodies were found.
"Where is she?' Marie-Cecile demanded.
He did not answer. 'You are much like your grandfather. In character,
your features, your persistence. Also, like him, you are misguided.'
Anger flickered across her face. 'My grandfather was a great man. He
honoured the Grail. He devoted his life to the quest to find the Book of
Words, the better to understand.'
'Understand, Dame? Or exploit?'
'You don't know anything about him.'
'Ah, but I do,' he said softly. 'People do not change so very much.' He
hesitated. 'And he was so close, was he not?' he continued, dropping his
voice even further. 'A few kilometres further to the west and it would
have been him who found the cave. Not you.'
'It makes no difference now,' she said fiercely. 'It belongs to us.'
The Grail belongs to no one. It is not something that can be owned or
manipulated or bargained with.'
Audric stopped. In the light of the oil lamp burning on the altar he
looked straight into her eyes.
'It would not have saved him,' he said.
From across the chamber, he heard her draw her breath.
'The elixir heals and extends life. It would have kept him alive.'
'It would have done nothing to save him from the illness stripping the
flesh from his bones, Dame, any more than it will give you what you
desire.' He paused. The Grail will not come for you.'
She took a step towards him. You hope it will not, Baillard, but you're not sure. For all your knowledge, all your research, you do not know what will happen.'
"You are mistaken.'
This is your chance, Baillard. After all your years of writing, studying,
; wondering. Like me, you have devoted your lifetime to this. You want to liee this done as much as I do.'
'And if I refuse to cooperate?'
I* She gave a sharp laugh. 'Come now. You hardly need to ask. My son
1 kill her, you know that. How he does so - and how long it takes - is
> to you.'
pDespite the precautions he'd taken, a shiver ran down his spine. ied Alice stayed where she was, as she had promised, there was no
i for alarm. She was safe. It would be over before she realised what
I happening.
lories of Alais - Bertrande too - rushed unbidden into his mind.

Their impetuous nature, their reluctance to ever obey an order, their
foolhardy courage.
Was Alice made of the same metal?
'Everything is ready,' she said. 'The Book of Potions and the Book of
Numbers are here. So if you will just give me the ring and tell me where
the Book of Words is concealed . . .'
Audric forced himself to concentrate on Marie-Cecile, not Alice.
Why are you certain it is still in the chamber?'
She smiled. 'Because you are here, Baillard. Why else would you come?
You want to see the ceremony performed, just once before you die. You
will put on the robe,' she shouted, suddenly impatient. She gestured with
the gun to the piece of white material sitting at the top of the steps. He
shook his head and, for a fraction of a second, he saw doubt in her face.
'Then you will get me the Book.'
He noticed that three small, metal rings had been sunk into the floor of
the lower section of the chamber. And he remembered that it was Alice
who discovered the skeletons in the shallow grave.
He smiled. Soon, he would have the answers he sought.

'Audric,' Alice whispered, feeling her way down the tunnel.
Why doesn't he answer?
She felt the ground sloping down beneath her feet as before. It seemed
further this time.
Ahead, in the chamber, she could see a faint glow of yellow light.
'Audric,' she called again, her fears growing.
She walked faster, covering the last few metres at a run, until she burst
into the chamber and then stopped dead.
This cannot be happening.
Audric was standing at the foot of the steps. He was wearing a long
white robe.
I remember this.
Alice shook the memory from her head. Audric's hands were tied in
front of him and he was tethered to the ground, like an animal. On the far
side of the chamber, lit by an oil lamp flickering on the altar, was Marie
Cecile de l'Oradore.
'That's far enough, I think,' she said.
Audric turned, regret and sorrow in his eyes.
'I'm so sorry,' she whispered, realising she had ruined everything. 'But I
had to warn you . . .'
Before Alice had realised what was happening, someone had grabbed

her from behind. She screamed and kicked out, but there were two of
them.
It happened like this before.
Then someone called her name. Not Audric.
A wave of nausea swept over her and she started to fall.
'Catch her, you idiots,' Marie-Cecile shouted.

CHAPTER 81

Pic de Soularac

MAR 1244

Guilhem couldn't catch Alais. She was already too far ahead.
He staggered down the tunnel in the dark. Pain pierced his side where
his ribs were cracked, stopping him breathing easily. Alais' words reeling
in his head and fear hardening in his chest kept him going.
The air seemed to be getting colder, chill, as if the life was being
sucked out of the cave. He didn't understand. If this was a sacred place,
the labyrinth cave, why did he feel in the presence of such malevolence?
Guilhem found himself standing on a natural stone platform. A couple
of wide, shallow steps directly in front led down to an area where the
ground was flat and smooth. A calelh was burning on a stone altar, giving
a little light.
The two sisters were standing facing one another, Oriane still holding
the knife to Bertrande's throat. Alai's was completely still.
Guilhem ducked down, praying Oriane had not seen him. As quietly as
he could, he started to edge around the wall, hidden in the shadows, until
he was close enough to hear and see what was happening.
Oriane tossed something down on the ground in front of Alais.
'Take it,' she shouted. 'Open the labyrinth. I know the Book of Words is
concealed here.'
Guilhem saw Alais' eyes widen in surprise.
'Did you never read the Book of Numbers} You astound me, sister. The
explanation is there for the key.'
Alais hesitated.

The ring, with the merel inserted in it, unlocks the chamber within the
heart of the labyrinth.'

Oriane jerked Bertrande's head back, so the skin on her neck was
pulled tight. The blade glinted in the light.

'Do it now, sister.'

Bertrande cried out. The noise seemed to run right through Guilhem's
head like a knife. He looked at Alais, frowning, her bad arm hanging
uselessly at her side.

'Let her go first,' she said.

Oriane shook her head. Her hair had come unbound and her eyes were
wild, obsessive. Holding Alais' gaze, slowly, with deliberation, she made a
small incision on Bertrande's neck.

Bertrande cried again as blood began to trickle down her neck.

The next cut will be deeper,' Oriane said, her voice shaking with
hatred. 'Get the Book.'

Alais bent down and picked up the ring, then walked to the labyrinth.
Oriane followed, dragging Bertrande with her. Alais could hear her
daughter's breath coming faster and faster and she was losing consciousness,
staggering with her feet still tied.

For a moment, she stood, her thoughts spiralling back in time to the
moment when first she had seen Harif perform the same task.

Alais pressed her left hand on the rough stone labyrinth. Pain shot
up her damaged arm. She needed no candle to see the outline of the
Egyptian symbol of life, the ankh as Harif had taught her to call it. Then,
shielding her actions from Oriane with her back, she inserted the ring
into a small opening at the base of the central circle of the labyrinth,
directly in front of her face. For Bertrande's sake, she prayed it would
work. Nothing had been spoken; nothing had been prepared as it
should have been. The circumstances could not be more different from the only other time she had stood as a supplicant before the labyrinth of stone.

'Di ankh djet,' she murmured. The ancient words felt as ashes in her fiouth. There was a sharp click, like a key in a lock. For a moment,
ig seemed to happen. Then, from deep in the wall, there was the
of something shifting, stone against stone. Then Alais moved and,
j the half-light, Guilhem saw that a compartment had been revealed at

J very centre of the labyrinth. A book lay inside.

i it to me,' ordered Oriane. 'Put it there, on the altar.'
Is did as she was told, never taking her eyes from her sister's face.
: her go now. You don't need her any more.'


SOS


'Open it,' shouted Oriane. 'I want to make sure you're not deceiving
me.'
Guilhem edged closer. Shimmering in gold on the first page was a
symbol he had never seen before. An oval, more like a tear in shape, set
atop a kind of cross, like a shepherd's crook.
'Keep going,' said Oriane. 1 want to see it all.'
Alais' hands were shaking as she turned the pages. Guilhem could see a
mixture of strange drawings and lines, row after row of tightly drawn
symbols covering the entire sheet.
'Take it, Oriane,' said Alai's, struggling to keep her voice steady. 'Take
the book and give me back my daughter.'
Guilhem saw the blade glint. He realised what was going to happen
the instant before it did, that Oriane's jealousy and bitterness would lead
her to destroy everything Alai's loved or valued.
He threw himself at Oriane, knocking her sideways. He felt his cracked
ribs give and he nearly passed out with the pain, but he'd done enough to force her to loosen her hold on Bertrande.
The knife dropped from her hand and skidded away out of sight, in the
shadows behind the altar. Bertrande was thrown forward in the collision.
She screamed, and banged her head on the corner of the altar. Then, she
was still.
'Guilhem, take Bertrande,' Alais screamed at him. 'She's hurt, Sajhe's
hurt. Help them. There's a man called Harif waiting in the village. He
will help you.'
Guilhem hesitated.
'Please, Guilhem. Save her!'
Her last words were lost as Oriane staggered to her feet, the knife in
her hand, and launched herself at Alais. The blade sliced into her already
damaged arm.
Guilhem felt as if his heart was being ripped in two. He didn't want to
leave Alai's to face Oriane alone, but he could see Bertrande lying white
and still on the ground.
'Please, Guilhem. Go!'
With a last backward glance at Alais, he picked up their daughter in his
wounded arms, and ran, trying not to see the blood pouring from the cut.
He realised it was what Alais wanted him to do.
As he staggered clumsily across the chamber, Guilhem heard a rumbling
sound, like thunder trapped in the hills. He stumbled, assumed it
was his legs unable to hold him. He moved forward again, clearing the
top of the steps and going back into the tunnel. He slipped on the loose

stones, his legs and arms burning with pain. Then he realised the ground
was moving, shaking. The earth beneath his feet was trembling.
His strength was almost gone. Bertrande was motionless in his arms
and seemed heavier with every step he took. The noise was getting louder
as he plunged on. Chunks of rock and dust began to fall from the roof,
plummeting down around him.
Now he could feel the cold air coming to meet him. A few more steps
and he had emerged into the grey dusk.

Guilhem ran to where Sajhe lay unconscious, but breathing steadily.
Bertrande was deathly white, but she was starting to whimper and stir
in his arms. He laid her down on the ground beside Sajhe", then ran to
each of the dead soldiers in turn and ripped their cloaks from their backs
to make a covering. Then he tore his own cloak from his neck, sending
his silver and copper buckle flying into the dirt. He folded it beneath
Bertrande's head for a pillow.
He paused to kiss his daughter on the forehead.
'Fi/ba,' he murmured. It was the first, and the last, kiss he would ever
give her.
There was an enormous crack from within the cave, like lightning after
thunder. Guilhem ran back into the tunnel. The noise was overwhelming
in the confined space.
He realised there was something hurtling out of the darkness towards
him.
'A spirit ... a face,' Oriane was gibbering, her eyes crazed with fear. 'A
face in the centre of the labyrinth.'
Where is she?' he shouted, grabbing her arm. What have you done to
Alais?'
Oriane was covered in blood, her hands, her clothes.
'Faces in the . . . the labyrinth.'
Oriane screamed again. Guilhem spun round to see what was behind (him, but could see nothing. In that moment, Oriane plunged the knife uto his chest.
He knew she had dealt him a mortal blow. Instantly, he felt death ing possession of his limbs. He watched her running from him
. clouds, his eyes darkening. He felt revenge die in him too. It no  mattered.
le ran out into the grey light of the passing day, while Guilhem led blind down into the chamber, desperate to find Alais in the
i of rock and stone and dust.

He found her lying in a small depression in the ground, her fingers
wound round the bag that had held the Book of Words, the ring clutched in
her hand.
'Mon cdr,y he whispered.
Her eyes flickered open at the sound of his voice. She smiled and
Guilhem felt his heart turn over.
'Bertrande?'
'She's safe.'
'Sajhe?'
'He will live too.'
She caught her breath. 'Oriane . . .'
'I let her go. She's badly hurt. She will not get far.'
The final flame in the lamp, still burning on the altar, guttered and
died. Alais and Guilhem did not notice as they lay in one another's arms.
They were not aware of the darkness or the peace that descended over the
chamber. They knew nothing but each other.

CHAPTER 82


Pic de Soularac


FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5


The thin robe provided little protection from the damp chill of the
chamber. Alice shivered as she slowly turned her head.

To her right was the altar. The only light came from an old-fashioned
oil lamp, standing in its centre, sending shadows running up the sloping
walls. It was enough to see the symbol of the labyrinth on the rock
behind, large and imposing in the confined space.

She sensed there were other people nearby. Alice looked down to her
right and nearly cried out loud as she caught her first sight of Shelagh.
She was lying curled up on the stone floor like an animal, thin, lifeless,
defeated, the evidence of her mistreatment on her skin. Alice couldn't see
whether or not she was breathing. Please God let her still be alive.
Alice slowly became accustomed to the flickering light. She turned her
head slightly and saw Audric in the same place as before. He was still
tethered by the rope to a ring set in the floor. His white hair formed a
kind of halo around his head. He was as still as a statue carved on a tomb.

As if he could sense her eyes on him, he caught her eye, and smiled.
, Forgetting for a moment that he must be angry with her for charging
it in when she'd promised to stay outside, she gave a weak smile. Just like Shelagh said. Then she realised something was different about him. She lowered her

i to Audric's hands, fanned out against the white of the robe. The ring is missing.

I .'Shelagh's here,' she whispered under her breath. You were right.' >He nodded.
j(.?We have to do something,' she hissed.

le gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and glanced to the
lide of the chamber. She followed his gaze.


5O9


Will!' she whispered in disbelief. Relief rushed through her, and
something else, followed by pity for the state of him. His hair was
matted with dried blood, one of his eyes was swollen and he could see
cuts on his face, his hands.

But he's here. With me.

At the sound of her voice, Will opened his eyes. He peered into the
darkness. Then, as he saw her, recognised her, a half-smile came to his
battered lips.

For a moment, they stared at each other, holding one another's gaze.

Mon Cor. My love. The realisation gave her courage.

The mournful howl of the wind in the tunnel intensified, mixed now
with the murmur of a voice. A monotonous chant, not quite singing.
Alice couldn't work out where it was coming from. Fragments of oddly
familiar words and phrases echoed through the cave until the air was
saturated with the sound: montanhas, mountains; Noblesa, nobility; libres, books; graal, grail. Alice started to feel dizzy, intoxicated by the words
that clamoured like the bells of a cathedral in her head.

Just as she thought she could take no more, the chanting stopped.
Quickly, quietly, the melody faded away, leaving nothing but a memory.

A single voice floated into the watchful silence. A woman's voice, clear
and precise.


In the beginning of time,
In the land of Egypt,
The master of secrets,
Gave words and scripts.


Alice tore her eyes from Will's face and turned towards the sound. Marie
Cecile appeared from the shadows behind the altar like an apparition. As
she stood before the labyrinth, her green eyes, painted with black and
gold, sparkled like emeralds in the flickering lamp. Her hair, held back
from her face by a golden band with a diamond motif on the forehead,
shone like jet. Her elegant arms were bare, except for matching amulets of
twisted metal.

She was carrying the three books, one on top of the other, in her hands.
She placed them in a row on the altar, beside a plain, earthenware bowl.
As she reached out to adjust the position of the oil lamp on the altar,
Alice registered, almost without realising it, that Marie-Cecile was wearing
Audric's ring on her left thumb.

It looks wrong on her hand.


5io


Alice found herself immersed deep in a past she did not remember.
The vellum should be dry and brittle to the touch, like dying leaves on the
tree in autumn. But she could almost feel the leather ties between her
own fingers, soft and flexible, even though they ought to be stiff through
the long years of disuse, as if the memory was written in her bones and
blood. She remembered how the covers shimmered, shifted colour under
the light.

She could see the image of a tiny gold chalice, no bigger than a ten
pence piece, shining like a jewel on the heavy cream parchment. On the
following pages, lines of ornate script. She heard Marie-Cecile speaking
into the gloom and, at the same time, behind her eyes she saw the red and
blue and yellow and gold letters. The Book of Potions.

Images of two-dimensional figures, animals and birds flooded into
her head. She could picture a sheet of parchment, thicker than the other
pages but different - translucent, yellow. It was papyrus, the weave of
the leaves apparent. It was covered with identical symbols as at the beginning
of the book, except this time tiny drawings of plants, numbers and
measurements were interspersed between them.

She was thinking of the second book now, the Book of Numbers. On the
first page was a picture of the labyrinth itself, rather than a chalice.
Without realising she was doing so, Alice looked around the chamber
once more, this time seeing the space through different eyes, unconsciously
verifying its shape and proportions.

She looked back to the altar. Her memory of the third book was the
strongest. Shimmering in gold on the first page was the ankh, the ancient
Egyptian symbol of life, familiar now the world over. Between the
I leather-covered wooden boards of the Book of Words were blank pages,
IJUce a white guard surrounding the papyrus buried in the centre of the |book. The hieroglyphs were dense and unyielding. Row after row of
atly drawn symbols covered the entire sheet. There were no splashes
F colour, no indication of where one word ended and the next began.
Concealed within this was the incantation. Alice opened her eyes and sensed Audric looking at her.

look of understanding flashed between them. The words were
; back to her, slipping quietly from the dusty corners of her mind. t was momentarily transported out of herself, for a fraction of a second, ting down on the scene from above.

it hundred years ago Alais had said these words. And Audric had I them. i truth will make us free.


5


Nothing had changed, yet she was suddenly no longer afraid.

A sound from the altar drew her attention. The stillness passed and the
world of the present came rushing back. And, with it, fear.

Marie-Cecile took up the earthenware bowl, small enough to cup
between her hands. From beside it she took a small knife with a dull
worn blade. She raised her long, white arms above her head.

'Dintrar,' she called. Enter.

Francois-Baptiste stepped from the darkness of the tunnel. His eyes
swept around his surroundings like a searchlight, skimming over Audric,
then Alice, then coming to rest on Will. Alice saw the triumph on the
boy's face and knew that Francois-Baptiste had inflicted the injuries on
Will.

Til not let you hurt him this time.

Then his gaze moved on. He paused a moment at the sight of the three
books laid out in a row on the altar, surprised or relieved, Alice couldn't
tell, then his eyes came to rest on the face of his mother.

Despite the distance, Alice could feel the tension between them.

A flicker of a smile played across Marie-Cecile's face as she stepped
down from the altar, the knife and the bowl in her hands. Her robe
shimmered like spun moonshine in the flickering light of the candles as
she moved through the chamber. Alice could smell the subtle trace of her
perfume in the air, light beneath the heavy aroma of burning oil in the
lamp.

Francois-Baptiste too started to move. He came down the steps until
he was standing behind Will.

Marie-Cecile stopped in front of him and whispered something to
Will, too quiet for Alice to hear. Although Francois-Baptiste's smile
stayed in place, she saw the anger in his face as he leaned forward, lifted
Will's bound hands and offered his arm to Marie-Cecile.

Alice flinched as Marie-Cecile made a single incision between Will's
wrist and elbow. He winced and she could see the shock in his eyes, but he made no sound.

Marie-Cecile held the bowl to catch five drops of blood.

She repeated the process with Audric, then came to a halt in front of
Alice. She could see the excitement in Marie-Cecile's face as she traced
the point of the blade along the white underside of Alice's arm, along the
line of the old wound. Then with the precision of a surgeon with a
scalpel, she inserted the knife into the skin and pressed the tip down,
slowly, until her scar split open again.

The pain took her by surprise, an ache, not a sharp sensation. Alice felt


5"


warm at first, then quickly cold and numb. She stared mesmerised by
the drops of blood falling, one by one, into the oddly pale mixture in the
bowl.

Then it was over. Francois-Baptiste released her and followed his
mother towards the altar. Marie-Cecile repeated the procedure with her
son, then positioned herself between the altar and the labyrinth.

She placed the bowl in the centre and drew the knife across her own
skin, watching as her own blood trickled down her arm.

The mingling of bloods.

A flash of understanding went through Alice. The Grail belonged to
all faiths and none. Christian, Jew, Moslem. Five guardians, chosen for
their character, their deeds, not their bloodline. All were equal.

Alice watched Marie-Cecile reach forward and slip something out
from between the pages of each of the books in turn. She held up the
third one. A sheet of paper. No, not paper, papyrus. As Marie-Cecile
held it up to the light, the weave of the reeds was clear. The symbol was
clear.

The ankh, the symbol of life.

Marie-Cecile lifted the bowl to her lips and drank. When it was empty,
she replaced the bowl with both hands and looked out over the chamber
until she had fixed Audric with her gaze. It seemed to Alice she was
challenging him to make her stop.

Now she pulled the ring from her thumb and turned to the stone
labyrinth, disturbing the hushed air. As the lamplight flickered behind
her, sending shadows leaping up the walls, Alice saw, in the shadows in
the carved rock, two shapes that she had never before noticed.

Hidden within the outline of the labyrinth, the shadow of the shape of
the ankh and the outline of a cup were clearly identifiable.

Alice heard a sharp click, as if a key was being inserted into a lock. For
a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, from deep in the wall, there
was the noise of something shifting, stone against stone.

Marie-Cecile stepped back. Alice saw that a small opening a little
bigger than the books had been revealed at the centre of the labyrinth. A
[compartment.

Words and phrases sprang into her mind, Audric's explanation and her
i investigations all mixed up together.

At the centre of the labyrinth is enlightenment, at the centre lies
BrStanding. Alice thought about the Christian pilgrims walking the tin de Jerusalem in the nave of Chartres Cathedral, walking the ever
easing spirals of the labyrinth in search of illumination.


w


Here, in the Grail labyrinth, the light - literally - was at the heart of
things.

Alice watched as Marie-Cecile took the lantern from the altar and
hung it in the above. It was a perfect fit. Straight away it brightened
and the chamber was flooded with light.

Marie-Cecile lifted a papyrus from one of the books on the altar and
slid it into a slot at the front of the alcove. A little of the lamplight was
lost and the cave darkened.

She spun round and stared at Audric, her words breaking the spell.

*You said I would see something,' she shouted.

He raised his amber eyes to hers. Alice willed him to remain silent, but
she knew he would not. For reasons she did not understand, Audric was
determined to let the ceremony run its course.

The true incantation is revealed only when the three papyri are laid
one on top of the other. Only then, in the play of light and shadow, will
the words that must be spoken, rather than the words that must be silent,
be revealed.'

Alice was shivering. She understood the cold was inside her, as if her
body warmth was bleeding out of her, but she couldn't control herself.
Marie-Cecile turned the three parchments around in her fingers.

'Which way round?'

'Release me,' Audric said in his calm, quiet voice. 'Release me, then
take up your position in the centre of the chamber. I will show you.'

She hesitated, then nodded to FrancoisBaptiste.

'Maman, je ne pense--'

'Do what you're told,' she snapped.

In silence, Francois-Baptiste sliced through the rope holding Audric to
the floor, then stepped back.

Marie-Cecile reached behind her and picked up the knife.

'If you do anything,' Marie-Cecile said, pointing it at Alice, as Audric
walked slowly up the chamber, I'll kill her. Understand?' She gestured to
where Francois-Baptiste was standing by Will. 'Or he will.'

'I understand.'

He darted a glance at Shelagh lying motionless on the floor, then
whispered to Alice. 'I am right?' he whispered, suddenly doubtful. 'The
Grail will not come to her?'

Although Audric was looking at her, Alice felt he was asking his
question of somebody else. Someone with whom he had already shared
this experience.


5H


Despite herself, Alice found she knew the answer. She was certain. She
smiled, giving him the reassurance he needed.

'It will not come,' she said under her breath.

'What are you waiting for?' Marie-Cecile shouted.

Audric stepped forward.

'You must take each of the three papyri,' he said, 'then place them in
front of the flame.'

You do it.'

Alice watched him take the three translucent sheets and arrange them
in his hands, then carefully insert the papyri. For a moment the flame
burning in the alcove guttered and seemed to fade. The cave became very
dark, as if the lights had been dimmed.

Then, as her eyes adjusted to the increased gloom, Alice saw that now
only a handful of hieroglyphs remained, illuminated in a pattern of light
and dark that followed the lines of the labyrinth. All unnecessary words
had been veiled. 'Di ankh djet..." The words were clear in her mind. 'Di
ankh djet,' she said out loud, then the rest of the phrase, translating in her
mind the ancient words she spoke.

'In the beginning of time, in the land of Egypt, the master of secrets,
gave words and scripts. Gave life.'

Marie-Cecile turned on Alice.

You read the words,' she said, striding towards her and grabbing her
arm. 'How do you know what they mean?'

'I don't. I don't know.'

Alice tried to pull away, but Marie-Cecile jerked her forwards towards
the point of the knife, so close that Alice could see the brown stains on the worn blade. Her eyes closed and she repeated the phrase.

'Di ankh djet..."


Everything seemed to happen at once.
Audric launched himself at Marie-Cecile. 'Maman!'

Will took advantage of Francois-Baptiste's lapse in concentration. He
his leg back and kicked him in the small of the back. Taken by prise, the boy fired his pistol into the roof of the cave as he fell,
ugly loud in the confined space. Instantaneously, Alice heard the
: smash into the solid rock of the mountain and ricochet across the


larie-Cecile's hand flew to her temple. Alice saw the blood pouring sn her fingers. She swayed on her feet a moment, then collapsed.


5X5


'Maman!' Fran9ois-Baptiste was already on his feet and running. The
gun skidded away across the ground towards the altar.
Audric snatched up Marie-Cecile's knife and cut through Will's bonds
with surprising strength, then placed the knife in his hand.
'Release Alice.'
Ignoring him, Will dashed across the chamber to where FrancoisBaptiste
was on his knees cradling Marie-Cecile in his arms.
'Non, maman. Ne t'en vas pas. Ecoute-moi, maman, reveilletoi.'
Will took hold of the shoulders of the boy's oversized jacket and
slammed his head down on to the rough stone floor. Then he ran to
Alice and started to hack at the rope binding her.
'Is she dead?'
'I don't know.'
'What about--'
He kissed her, quickly, on the lips, and then shook her hands free of
the rope.
'Francois-Baptiste will be out long enough for us to get the hell out,' he
said.
'Get Shelagh, Will,' she said, pointing urgently. 'I'll help Audric'
Will lifted Shelagh's depleted frame in his arms and started to walk
towards the tunnel. Alice ran to Audric.
The Books,' she said urgently. We've got to take them before they
come round.'
He was standing looking down on the inert bodies of Marie-Cecile and
her son.
'Audric, quick,' Alice repeated. We have to get out of here.'
'I was wrong to involve you in this,' he said softly. 'My desire to know,
to fulfil a promise I once made and failed to keep, has left me blind to
other considerations. Selfish. I thought too much of myself.'
Audric put his hand on one of the Books.
"You asked why Alais did not destroy it,' he said suddenly. The answer
is, I wouldn't let her. So we devised a plan to deceive Oriane. Because of
that, we came back to the chamber. The cycle of dying, of sacrifice,
continued. If had not been for that, then perhaps . . .'
He walked round to where Alice was trying to get the papyri from the
lamp. 'She would not have wanted this. Too many lives lost.'
'Audric,' she said desperately, 'we can talk about this later. Now, we
must get them out. This is what you have been waiting for, Audric.
The chance to see the Trilogy reunited again. We can't leave them for
her.'

'I still don't know,' he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. What
happened to her at the end.'
The oil in the lamp was nearly out, but the gloom was lifted little by
little as Alice pulled out the first, then the second, then finally the last of
the papyri.
'I have them,' she said, spinning round. She scooped up the books from
the altar and thrust them at Audric.
'Bring the books. Come on.'
Almost dragging Audric with her, Alice picked their way across the
gloom of the chamber towards the tunnel. They had stumbled over
the dip in the ground where the skeletons had been found, when, from
the darkness behind them, there was a loud crack, then the sound of rock
shifting, then another two muffled bangs, in quick succession.

Alice threw herself to the ground. It wasn't the sound of the gun again,
but a different sort of noise altogether. A rumbling from deep within the
earth.
Adrenalin kicked in. Desperately, she crawled forward, holding the
papyri in her teeth and praying that Audric was behind her. The material
of the robe caught between her legs, slowing her down. Her arm was
bleeding profusely and she couldn't put any weight on it, but she managed
to get to the bottom of the steps.
Alice was aware of a rumbling sound now, but she could afford to turn
round. Her fingers had just found the letters carved at the top, when a
voice rang out.
'Stop right there. Or I will shoot him.'
Alice froze.
It cannot be her. She was shot. I saw her fall.
Turn round. Slowly.'
Slowly, Alice pulled herself to her feet. Marie-Cecile was standing in front of the altar, unsteady on her feet. Her robe was splattered with blood and her headdress had come off, leaving her hair wild and untamed around her face. In her hand she had Francois-Baptiste's gun. It was pointed straight at Audric.
"Walk slowly back towards me, Dr Tanner.'
Alice realised that the ground was shifting. She felt the tremor vibratup through her feet and legs, a low rumbling deep in the ground,
; stronger and more insistent every second.
larie-Cecile suddenly seemed to hear it too. Confusion momentarily
1 her face. Another thump shook the chamber. This time there was

no doubt it was an explosion. A blast of cold air swept through the cave.
Behind Marie-Cecile, the lantern started to shake as the stone labyrinth
cracked open and started to fragment.
Alice ran back to Audric. The ground was fracturing in two, crumbling
beneath her as solid stone and ages-old earth started to split apart. Debris
rained down on her from every corner as she jumped to avoid the holes
that were opening up all around.
'Give them to me!' Marie-Cecile shouted, turning the gun towards
Alice. 'Do you really think I'm going to let her take these from me?'
Her words were swallowed by the sounds of falling rock and stone as
the chamber collapsed in on itself.
Audric got to his feet and spoke for the first time.
'Her?' he said. 'No, not Alice.'
Marie-Cecile spun round to see what Audric was looking at.
She screamed.
In the darkness Alice could see something. A glow, a white glow,
almost like a face. In terror, Marie-Cecile swung the gun back to Alice.
She hesitated, then pulled the trigger. Long enough for Audric to move
between them.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Alice screamed. Audric sank to his knees. The force of the shot
propelled Marie-Cecile backwards and she lost her balance. Her fingers
clawed at the air, grasping, desperate, as she slipped into the vast chasm
that had opened up in the ground.
Audric was lying on the ground, blood spreading out from the bullet
hole in the middle of his chest. His face was the colour of paper and she
could see the blue veins beneath the thin veneer of skin.
We've got to get out of here,' she cried. 'There might be another
explosion. It could come down at any moment.'
He smiled. 'It is over, Alice,' he said softly. 'A la perfin. The Grail has
protected its secrets, as it did before. It would not let her take what she
wanted.'
Alice was shaking her head. 'No, the cave was mined, Audric,' she said.
'There might be another bomb. We have to get out.'
There will be no more,' he said. There was no doubt in his voice. 'It
was the echo of the past.'
Alice could see it hurt him to speak. She lowered her head to his.
There was a gentle rattling in his chest and his breathing was shallow and
faint. She tried to staunch the bleeding, but she could see it was hopeless.

'I wanted to know how she spent her final moments. You understand? I
couldn't save her. She was trapped inside and I couldn't get to her.' He
gasped in pain. Took another gulp of air.
'But this time . . .'
Finally, Alice accepted what she had instinctively known from the
moment she had walked into Los Seres and seen him standing in the
doorway of the little stone house in the folds of the mountain.
This is his story. These are his memories.
She thought of the family tree, so lovingly and painstakingly compiled.
'Sajhe,' she said. You are Sajhe'.'
For a moment, life flicked in his amber eyes. A look of intense pleasure
flooded his dying face.
When I woke, Bertrande was beside me. Someone had covered us with
cloaks to keep the cold out--'
'Guilhem,' said Alice, knowing it was true.
'There was a terrible thundering. I saw the stone ledge above the
entrance collapse. The boulder was sent crashing to the ground in a
welter of stone and flint and dirt, trapping her inside. I couldn't get to
her,' he said, his voice trembling. To them.'
Then it stopped. Everything was suddenly quiet, still.
'I didn't know,' he said again in anguish. 'I had given my word to Alais
if anything happened to her I would ensure the Book of Words was safe,
but I didn't know. I didn't know if Oriane had the Book or where she
was.' His voice faded to a whisper. 'Nothing.'
'So the bodies I found were Guilhem and Alais,' she said, a statement,
not a question.
Sajhe nodded. We found Oriane's body a little way down the hillside.
The Book was not with her. Only then did I know.'
'They died together saving the Book. Alais wanted you to live, Sajhe.
To live and care for Bertrande, your daughter in every way but one.'
He smiled. 'I knew you would understand,' he said. The words slipped
from between his lips like a sigh. 'I have lived too long without her. Every
day I felt her absence. Every day I wished I had not been cursed, to be
forced to live my life, while all those whom I love grow old and die. Alais,
Bertrande . . .'
He broke off. Her heart ached for him.
*You must not feel guilty any longer, Sajhe. Now you know what
happened, you must forgive yourself.'
Alice could feel him slipping from her.
Keep him talking. Don't let him go to sleep.

'There was a prophecy,' he said, 'that in the lands of the Pays d'Oc, in
our times, one would be born whose destiny was to bear witness to the
tragedy that overtook these lands. Like those before me - like Abraham,
Methuselah, Harif -1 did not wish it. But I accepted it.'
Sajhe gasped for breath. Alice drew him closer, cradling his head in her
arms. When?' she tried to say. Tell me.'
'Alais summoned the Grail. Here. In this very chamber. I was twenty
five years old. I had returned to Los Seres, believing my life was about to
change. I believed I could woo Alais and be loved by her.'
'She did love you,' Alice said fiercely.
'Harif taught her to understand the ancient language of the Egyptians,'
he continued, smiling. 'It seems that some trace of that knowledge lives
yet in you. Using the skills Harif had taught her and from her knowledge
of the parchments, we came here. Like you, when the time came, Alai's
knew what to say. The Grail worked through her.'
'How . . .' Alice stumbled. What happened?'
1 remember the smooth touch of the air on my skin, the nicker of the
candles, the beautiful voices spiralling in the dark. The words seemed to
flow from her lips, hardly spoken. Alais stood before the altar, Harif with
her.'
'There must have been others.'
There were, but . . . you will think it strange, but I can hardly remember.
All I could see was Alais. Her face, rapt in concentration, a slight line
between her eyes where she frowned. Her hair flowed down her back like
a sheet of water. I saw nothing but her, was aware of nothing but her. She
held the cup in her hands and spoke the words. Her eyes flew open in a
single moment of illumination. She gave the cup to me and I drank.'
His eyelids were fluttering open and shut rapidly, like the beating of a
butterfly's wings.
'If your life was such a burden to you, why did you carry on without
her?'
'Perquef he said with surprise. Why? Because it was what Alais
wanted. I had to live to tell the story of what happened to the people of
these lands, here within these mountains and the plains. To make sure
that their story did not die. That is the purpose of the Grail. To help
those to bear witness. History is written by the victorious, the liars, the
strongest, the most determined. Truth is found most often in the silence,
in the quiet places.'
Alice nodded. You did this, Sajhe. You made a difference.'
'Guilhem de Tudela wrote a false record of the Crusade against us for

the French. La Chanson de la Croisade, he called it. When he died, an
anonymous poet, one who was sympathetic to the Pays d'Oc instead,
completed it. La Canso. Our story.'

Despite everything, Alice found herself smiling.

'Los mots, vivents,' he whispered. Living words. 'It was the beginning. I
vowed to Alais I would speak the truth, write the truth, so that future
generations would know of the horror that once was done in the lands in
their name. That they were remembered.'

Alice nodded.

'Harif understood. He had walked the lonely path before me. He had
travelled the world and seen how words were twisted and broken and
turned into lies. He too lived to bear witness.' Sajhe drew in his breath.
'He lived for only a short time after Alais, although he was more than
eight hundred years old when he died. Here, in Los Seres, with Bertrande
and me at his side.'

'But where have you lived, all these years? How have you lived?'

'I watched the green of spring give way to the gold of summer, the
copper 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? If I had known 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? I have survived this long life with emptiness in
my heart, an emptiness that over the years has spread and spread until it
became bigger than my heart itself'

'She loved you, Sajhe,' she said, softly. 'Not in the way you loved her,
but truly and deeply.'

A look of peace had come over his face. 'Es vertat. Now I know it.'

'If...'

Another flurry of coughing overtook him. This time, specks of blood
bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Alice wiped them away with the hem
of her robe.

He struggled to sit. 'I have written it all down for you, Alice. My last
testament. It is waiting for you in Los Seres. In Alais' house, where we lived, which now I pass to you.'

In the distance, Alice thought she heard the sound of sirens piercing the still night of the mountain.
They're nearly here,' she said, keeping her grief in check. 'I said they'd come. Stay with me. Please don't give up.'

Sajhe shook his head. 'It is done. My journey is ended. Yours is just

inning.'


s


Alice smoothed his white hair away from his face.
'I am not her,' she said softly. 'I am not Alai's.'
He gave a long, soft sigh. 'I know. But she lives on in you . . . and you
in her.' He stopped. Alice could see how much it hurt him to talk. 'I wish
we could have had longer, Alice. But to have met you, to have shared
these hours with you. It is more than ever I hoped.'
Sajhe fell silent. The last vestiges of colour drained from his face, from
his hands, until there was nothing left.
A prayer, one spoken a long time ago, came to her mind.
'Payre sant, Dieu drey tuner de tons speritz.' The once familiar words fell
easily from her lips. 'Holy Father, legitimate God of good spirits, grant us
to know what Thou knowest, and to love what Thou lovest.'
Biting back her tears, Alice held him in her arms while his breathing
became lighter, softer. Finally, it stopped altogether.

EPILOGUE

Los Seres

SUNDAY 8 JULY 2OOJ

It is eight o'clock in the evening. The end of another perfect summer's
day.
Alice walks over to the wide, casement window and opens the shutters
to let in the slanting orange light. A slight breeze skims her bare arms.
Her skin is the colour of hazelnuts and her hair is tied in a single plait
down her back.
The sun is low now, a perfect red circle in the pink and white sky. It
casts huge black shadows across the neighbouring peaks of the Sabarthes
Mountains, like swathes of material laid out to dry. From the window she
can see the Col des Sept Freres and behind it the Pic de St Bartelemy.
It is two years to the day that Sajhe died.
At first, Alice found it hard to live with the memories. The sound of
the gun in the claustrophobic chamber; the trembling of the earth; the
white face in the darkness; the look on Will's face as he burst into the
chamber with Inspector Noubel.
Most of all, she was haunted by the memory of the light fading in
Audric's eyes - Sajhe, as she learned to think of him. It was peace she saw
in them at the end, not sorrow, but it has not made her pain any the less.
But the more Alice learned, the more the terrors that held her locked
in those final moments began to fade. The past lost its power to hurt her.
She knows Marie-Cecile and her son were killed by the falling rock,
both lost to the mountain itself in the earthquake. Paul Authie was found
where Francois-Baptiste had shot him, the timer detonating the four
charges ticking relentlessly down to zero beside his dead body. An
Armageddon of his own making.
As that summer turned into autumn, autumn to winter, Alice began to
recover, with Will's help. Time is doing its work. Time and the promise
of a new life. Gradually, the painful memories are fading. Like old

photographs, half remembered and indistinct, they gather dust in her
mind.

Alice sold her flat in England and together with the proceeds from the
sale of her aunt's house in Salleles d'Aude, she and Will came to Los
Seres.

The house where Alai's once lived with Sajhe, Bertrande and Harif is
now their home. They have added to it, made it suitable for modern
living, but the spirit of the place is unaltered.

The secret of the Grail is safe, as Alais had intended it should be,
hidden here in the timeless mountains. The three papyri, torn from their
medieval books, lie buried under the rock and stone.

Alice understands that she was destined to finish what had been left
unfinished eight hundred years before. She also understands, as Alais
did, that the real Grail lies in the love handed down from generation to
generation, the words spoken by father to son, mother to daughter. The
truth lies all about us. In the stones, in the rocks, in the changing pattern
of the mountain seasons.

Through the shared stories of our past, we do not die.

Alice does not believe she can put it into words. Unlike Sajhe, she is
not a spinner of tales, a writer. She wonders if perhaps it is beyond words.
Call it God, call it faith. Perhaps the Grail is too great a truth to be
spoken or tied down in time and space and context by so slippery a thing
as language.

Alice puts her hands on the ledge and breathes in the subtle smells of
evening. Wild thyme, broom, the shimmering memory of heat on the
stones, mountain parsley and mint, sage, the scents of her herb garden.

Her reputation is growing. What started as a sequence of private
favours, supplying herbs to the restaurants and neighbours in the villages,
has become a profitable business. Now, most of the hotels and shops in
the area, even as far away as Foix and Mirepoix, carry a range of their
products, with the distinctive Epice Pelletier et Fille label. The name of her
ancestors, reclaimed now as her own.

The hameau, Los Seres, is not yet on the map. It is too small. But soon
it will be. Benleu.

In the study below, the keyboard has fallen silent. Alice can hear Will
moving about in the kitchen, getting plates from the dresser and bread
from the pantry. Soon, she will go down. He will open a bottle of wine
and they will drink while he cooks.

Tomorrow, Jeanne Giraud will come, a dignified, charming woman
who has become part of their lives. In the afternoon, they will go to the


5*4


nearest village and lay flowers at a monument in the square, which
commemorates the celebrated Cathar historian and Resistance fighter,
Audric S. Baillard. On the plaque, there is an Occitan proverb, chosen by
Alice.

'Pas a pas se va luenh.'

Later, Alice will walk alone into the mountains where a different
plaque marks the spot where he lies beneath the hills, as he always
wanted. The stone simply reads sajhe.

It is enough that he is remembered.

The Family Tree, Sajhe's first gift to Alice, hangs on the wall in the study. Alice has made three changes. She has added the date of Alais' and Sajhe's deaths, separated by eight hundred years.

She added Will's name to hers and the date of their marriage.

At the very end, where the story is continuing still, she's added a line:

SAJHESSE GRACE FARMER PELLETIER, 2$ February 200/.

Alice smiles and walks over to the cot where their daughter is stirring.
Her pale, sleepy toes twitch as she starts to wake. Alice catches her breath
as her daughter opens her eyes.

She plants a murmuring kiss on the top of her daughter's head and
begins a lullaby in the old language, handed down from generation to
generation.


Bona nueit, bona nueit. . .
Braves amics, pica miejanueit
Calfinir velhada
Ejos laflassada


One day, Alice thinks, Sajhesse might sing it to a child of her own.

Holding her daughter in her arms, Alice walks back to the window,
thinking of all the things she will teach her. The stories she will tell her of the past and of how things came to be.

Alai's no longer comes to her in her dreams. But as Alice stands in the lading light looking out over the ancient peaks and crests of the moun,
tains and valleys that stretch further than her eye can see, she feels the ||>resence of the past all around her, embracing her. Spirits, friends, ghosts ifvho hold out their hands and whisper of their lives, share their secrets rith her. They connect her to all those who have stood here before - and [those yet to come - dreaming of what life might hold.
I In the distance, a white moon is rising in the speckled sky, promising ather fine day tomorrow.


'4w


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


Many friends and colleagues have given support, advice and help during
the course of the writing of Labyrinth. It goes without saying that any
mistakes, in either fact or interpretation, are mine and mine alone.

My agent, Mark Lucas, was brilliant throughout and gave not only
fantastic editorial feedback but copious yellow stickers! Thanks, too, to
everyone else at LAW for their hard work and to everybody at I LA,
especially Nicki Kennedy, who was patience personified and helped make
the process such fun.

At Orion, I've been very lucky to have worked with Kate Mills, whose
light editorial touch, efficiency and thoughtfulness has made this publication
so very enjoyable; and Genevieve Pegg; I'd also like to thank
Malcolm Edwards and Susan Lamb, who started the whole thing off, not
to mention the hard work, enthusiasm and energy of the marketing,
publicity and sales teams, in particular Victoria Singer, Emma Noble and
Jo Carpenter.

Both Bob Elliott and Bob Clack, of the Chichester Rifle Club, gave
fascinating advice and information about firearms; as did Professor
Anthony Moss on medieval warfare.

At the British Library in London, Dr Michelle Brown, Curator of
Illuminated Manuscripts, provided invaluable information about medieval
manuscripts, parchments and book-making in the thirteenth century;
Dr Jonathan Phillips, Senior Lecturer in Medieval History, Royal Holloway,
University of London, very kindly read the typescript and gave
excellent advice. I'd also like to thank all those who helped at the
Bibliotheque de Toulouse and at the Centre National d'Etudes Cathares
in Carcassonne.

I'd like to thank all those who have worked with us on the creative
reading and writing website - www.mosselabyrinth.co.uk - based on the
historical research and process of writing Labyrinth over the past couple
of years, especially Nat Price and Jon Horodal.


526


I'm very grateful to my friends for their tolerance about my longtime
obsessions with the Cathars and Grail legends. In Carcassonne, I'd particularly
like to thank Yves and Lydia Guyou for their insights into
Occitan music and poetry and for introducing me to many of the writers
and composers whose work has so inspired me; and Pierre and Chantal
Sanchez for their support and friendship over many years. In England, I'd like to mention Jane Gregory, whose enthusiasm way-back-when was so
important; Maria Rejt, for being such a great teacher in the first place; as
well as Jon Evans, Lucinda Montefiore, Robert Dye, Sarah Mansell, Tim
Bouquet, Ali Perrotto, Malcolm Wills, Kate and Bob Hingston and
Robert and Maria Pulley.

Most of all, my thanks go to my family. My mother-in-law, Rosie
Turner, not only introduced us to Carcassonne in the first place, but
while I was writing provided day-to-day help, practical support and
companionship well beyond the call of duty. My love and thanks to
my parents, Richard and Barbara Mosse, for always being proud and to
my sisters, Caroline Matthews and Beth Huxley, and her husband Mark,
for all their support.

Most important, my love and gratitude to my children, Martha and
Felix, for their steadfast support and faith. Martha was relentlessly upbeat,
positive and encouraging, never doubting that I would finish in the
end! Felix not only shared my passion for medieval history, but talked me
through the finer points of medieval weapons and siege warfare and made
brainy suggestions! I cannot thank either of them enough.

Finally, to Greg. His love and support - not to mention his intellectual,
practical and editorial help - made all the difference. As it always does
and always has.


.Hi,'


SELECTED GLOSSARY OF OCCITAN WORDS


agost August

ambans wooden galleries built for defence around battlements ben good

benvenguda welcome bonjorn hello cadefalcs brattices caliche an open carriage calelh oil lamp coratge courage defora outside deman tomorrow dintrar enter dofament softly faitilhier a witch faratjals pastures filha daughter

gata a cat (type of siege engine) graal grail Janvier January julhet July libres books Lo Ciutat the Cite Lo Miegjorn the Midi marf March menina grandmother meravelhos miraculous merce thank you molin blatter a wheat mill montanhas mountains Na Madame/Mrs


5a8


nenon baby

noblessa nobility

oc yes

oustaou home

paire father

pan de blat wheat bread

panier basket

Payre Sant Holy Father

payrola cauldron

pec idiot

perfin at last

perilhos danger

res nothing

Senher Sir/Mr

sir/an d'arms sergeant at arms

sbrre sister

trouvere troubadour

vueg empty


OTHER TERMS


Guignolet a Languedocien homebrewed alcoholic aperitif

Mangomel, Cat, Trebuchet, Catapult all forms of medieval siege engines

Michelmas Christmas

Passiontide Easter

Prime the first religious office of the day (about dawn/five o'clock in the

morning)

Rocade the ring road in Toulouse Tierce mid afternoon Toussaint All Saints Day, i November Vespre final religious office of the day (about seven o'clock)


J


SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY


A History of the Crusades -- S Runciman, Cambridge University Press,

3 volumes, 1951-1954

Belibaste -- Henri Gougaud, Editions du Seuil, 1982 Carcassonne in my Heart - Claude Marti, Loubatieres, 1999 Cathars - Yves Rouquette, Loubatieres, 1998 Cholera -- Joseph Delteil, Grasset, 1923

Crusader: by Horse to Jerusalem -- Tim Severin, Hutchinson, 1989 Eleanor ofAquitaine - Alison Weir, Jonathan Cape, 1999 La Canso: 1209-1219 Les Croisades Contre le Sud - edition by Claude

Marti, Loubatieres, 1994

La Religion Cathare - Michel Roquebert, Loubatieres, 1986 La Religion des Cathares - Jean Duvernoy, Mouton, 1976 La Vie Quotidienne des Cathares au Xllle Siecle - Rene Nelli, Hachette,

1989

La Vrai Visage du Catharisme - Anne Brenon, Loubatieres, 1997 Pays cathares - Georges Serrus, Loubatieres, 1996 Les Cathares - Rene Nelli, Ouest-France, 1993 Les Femmes Cathares - Anne Brenon, Perrin, 1992 Massacre at Montsegur - Zoe Oldenburg, Weidenfeld &, Nicolson, 1997 Montaillou: Cathars and Catholics in a French Village - Emmanuel Le Roy

Ladurie, Penguin, 1990 Parzival- Wolfram von Eschenbach translated by A. T. Hatto, Penguin,

1980

The Albigensian Crusade - Jonathan Sumption, Faber and Faber, 1999 The Crusades ioqs-iiyy - J P Phillips, Longman, 2002 The Fourth Crusade - J P Phillips, Cape, 2004 The Gospel of John - Claus Westermann translated by Siegfried S Schatz
mann,
Hendrickson, 1998 The Keys of Egypt: The Race to Read the Hieroglyphs - Lesley 8c Roy

Adkins, HarperCollins, 2000


530


The Story of the Grail (Perceval) - Chretien de Troyes, Yale University
Press, 1999 The Yellow Cross: The Story of the Last Cathars 1290-1329 - Rene" Weis,
Penguin, aooi

For a comprehensive list of titles and source material - or to add your own recommended reading -- please visit wwiv.mosselabyrinth.co.uk

