by Alys Clare
He did as she commanded.
On the very last page, there was neither writing nor any illustration. Instead, there was a strange pattern of marks, odd little black dots, each with a tail that went either up or down. The marks were set out in careful lines, and the lines covered the whole page. Beneath the marks there were symbols. As he studied the lines, it seemed to him that somehow the symbols related to the marks…
He heard a snatch of music, if indeed music was what it was. Sounds, anyway, such beautiful sounds, in a pattern that stopped his heart and then set it beating in a different way. He was filled with a joy so vast that he felt his solid, earthbound body could not contain it.
The sounds ceased. He gave an involuntary sound — a groan? A sigh of ecstasy? All strength left him, and he slumped to the ground.
He was awake. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. Tentatively, he flexed his arms and legs, trying to see if he had been hurt. Everything seemed fine. He opened his eyes and, very carefully, sat up.
Alazais sat in her high chair, dark, immobile, mysterious, like the statue of some ancient goddess from man’s infancy. On her face was a look of bliss. As he looked more closely — for he wondered if she had died — he saw there were tears on her thin cheeks, glistening in the light from the fire.
After a while she opened her eyes and looked down at him. ‘You have done it, Ninian de Courtenay,’ she said softly. ‘Against all expectations, you have found me and brought to me what I so desperately needed. May you be blessed with a long and happy life, for you have done a deed far greater than you can know.’
‘What have I done?’ he demanded wildly. ‘I have never seen that book before, and I had no idea I was carrying it! What is it? Where does it come from?’
But she held out her hand, and abruptly he fell silent. ‘Sleep,’ she intoned. ‘Sleep now, for your journey has been long and hard, and your heart is sore with sorrow. Sleep, be healed, and tomorrow we shall talk.’
Her hand waved above his head in a careful dance of precise movements. His eyelids drooped, and he slipped down on to the floor. His last waking awareness was of hands as gentle as a mother’s tucking the sheepskins more closely around him.
TWENTY
Shortly after his return to the House in the Woods, and after he and Helewise had enjoyed to the full the family’s relieved welcome, Josse set out for Tonbridge to see Gervase de Gifford.
He found the sheriff at home. With a glance at Sabin, occupied with her young daughter as she supervised the girl’s efforts to grind some tiny seeds in a pestle, Gervase led Josse outside. He strode across to a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard and, under a weak late autumn sun, the two men sat down.
‘Olivier de Brionne is dead,’ Josse said. ‘He died on the road south through France, and I surmise he was hunting for Ninian to silence him.’ He outlined his reasoning, and Gervase nodded.
‘You are sure that this dead man was in truth Olivier?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I’m sure,’ Josse replied. ‘The description fitted and, besides, the wounds matched those Olivier had. One was badly infected, and I guess that was what killed him.’
Gervase nodded. ‘Poor Beatrice,’ he murmured. ‘Both sons gone, her daughter mistress of her own establishment, and a witless dotard her only company.’
Josse bowed his head. Aye, he thought, poor Beatrice. In the midst of his own worries and sorrows, he had forgotten hers.
‘Ninian is safe, then, from pursuit?’ Gervase said after a moment. ‘The king no longer wishes to hunt him down, and Olivier is dead.’
‘Aye,’ Josse said heavily. ‘I was for going on after him to tell him so, but Helewise-’ Abruptly, he stopped. He had acknowledged she was right, but still his decision pained him.
‘Helewise persuaded you otherwise,’ Gervase supplied. ‘Well, Josse, I have to say I agree with her. France is a very large country, and the south is in turmoil.’
‘So I am told,’ Josse said gruffly. Turning to Gervase and fixing him with an intent stare, he went on, ‘And yet you sent Ninian to the Midi.’
Gervase looked down at his hands. He was silent for some time, then he spoke. ‘Josse, there is something I must tell you. I deeply regret that I sent Ninian into danger, but hear me out, I beg you, before you judge me.’
Josse grunted his permission. Gervase was, after all, an old and trusted friend, and Josse was a fair man.
After a short pause, Gervase began to speak. ‘You may not remember, Josse, but once before, years ago, I spoke to you of my mother.’
Josse tried to remember, and soon the few facts he had been told came to him ‘Aye, I do recall that you mentioned her. She-’ Suddenly, his head shot up as the details of that long-ago conversation flooded into his mind. And he thought he began to understand.
Deliberately lowering his voice, he leaned closer to Gervase and said, ‘Your mother is a Cathar. She lives in the Midi with others of her faith, and you told me she wished you would join them, although that is not your wish. You heard what is happening to the Cathars of the Languedoc, and your burning need was to send word to your mother. I understand that, but, Gervase, it sticks in my throat that you used Ninian as your messenger.’
Gervase bowed his head. ‘I accept your rebuke, Josse,’ he said humbly. ‘May I, though, finish what I have to say?’
‘Aye,’ Josse grunted.
Again, there was a pause as Gervase sought for the right words. Then: ‘The Cathars are besieged down there in the south, but the wise among them knew what would sooner or later happen and made plans. They organized a network of… agents? Spies? I do not know what you would call them. These brave men and women are by no means all Cathars, at least not overtly; many are, as I understand it, merely friends and supporters who do not believe that the crusade is right or just. Despite their isolation, the southern Cathars manage to send word to the outside world, via this secret network that conveys messages in and out of the Midi.’
‘And you received such a message from your mother?’
Gervase smiled. ‘I did, although I already knew both that she needed me and what she wanted me to do, for she had — oh, Josse, you will, I fear, find this hard to believe.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Josse said wryly.
‘I heard her voice,’ Gervase said in a whisper. ‘I was asleep, or possibly on the point of waking, and I thought I heard her speak. I was at first afraid, for I know she is hundreds of miles away, and then all at once wide awake. And in my mind there was just the one thought, which, no matter how unlikely it is, I believe my mother put there.’
Fascinated despite himself, Josse breathed, ‘What was the thought?’
‘She was in dire need of a certain object, whose whereabouts she was aware were known to me. She wanted me to locate it and send it to her.’
‘A magical object?’ Josse asked. ‘A weapon? Something to help them in their struggle to defend themselves?’
Gervase shrugged. ‘I do not know. I do not think so, unless this thing has powers that it keeps hidden.’ He turned to Josse. ‘But you know of it. You tell me.’
‘I know of it? But-’
Then he remembered.
He recalled how, long ago, a worried young nun had brought to him an object of mysterious origin that she had found somewhere it had no place to be. He recalled looking at it with her, both of them full of wonder. And he remembered what had happened to that object.
And memory swiftly brought another realization.
‘There is no band of robbers, is there, Gervase?’ he asked softly. ‘You requested the meeting with Dominic because you thought the thing you sought so urgently was still at New Winnowlands, where I told you I had hidden it. Having somehow ascertained from him that his valuable possessions included no such thing, you turned to me. When did you take it from its hiding place? When you pretended to hear voices and sent me hurrying off?’
Gervase made himself meet Josse’s eyes. His were full of shame. ‘Yes.’
> Slowly, Josse shook his head. ‘Did it matter so very much, Gervase, that you had to lie to me and trick me?’
‘I am sorry, Josse, but it did. And, before you ask, I could not take you into my confidence, for already I suspected that Ninian might have to flee because of the crime he was accused of. Had I revealed the secret to you, you’d have known why I suggested my mother’s house as a destination for Ninian and you would have protested.’
‘I wouldn’t if I-’
‘You would, Josse. You would have said, quite rightly, that I was using Ninian’s desperation for my own ends, making use of the fact that he had to run for his life to get this precious book to my mother.’
Gervase was right, and Josse knew it.
After some time, Josse said, ‘Why does your mother want the book?’
‘I asked myself the same question to begin with,’ Gervase replied, ‘before the full message reached me. Once I had her written words, I began to understand.’
‘She wrote to you?’ Josse could scarcely believe it. ‘Did she not fear to put you and your family in danger? This war against the Cathars may well spread, and if you were known to be sympathizers-’
Gervase laid a hand on his arm. ‘She wrote in code, Josse. I would be surprised if anyone not knowing the key would ever break it.’
‘I see. Go on, then. Tell me about this book.’
Gervase looked up into the pale blue sky, as if searching for inspiration. ‘It — as far as I understand it, the Cathars believe they were brought to earth out of their spiritual existence, and that they will return to that paradise when they die. They try to recall what it was like to live in spirit, but it is difficult. Some of them claim to remember a magical, heavenly strain of music, which they say is the sound of angel song. One or two men with a rare ability wrote down this music, just as a monk writes down plainsong.’
‘And that — that music — was in the book?’
Slowly, Gervase nodded.
Josse was confounded. ‘But I still do not comprehend the importance of it!’ he protested. ‘What difference can a snatch of music make to people who face being hunted out of existence?’
Gervase’s face worked, but he kept himself under control. Belatedly aware how tactlessly he had spoken — Gervase’s mother was one of those preparing for a terrible fate! — he began to apologize.
‘No, Josse, you speak the truth,’ Gervase said heavily. ‘As to why the music means so much, can you not guess?’
Josse thought hard, but he could not. ‘No,’ he said shortly.
‘They are probably going to die,’ Gervase murmured. ‘Perhaps it is simply that they wish to remind themselves that, beyond the sword, or the flames, a beautiful, perfect world is waiting for them.’
Josse put a hand to his face and rubbed hard at his eyes. Then, clearing his throat a couple of times, he said, ‘Ninian agreed, then, to take the book?’
‘He doesn’t know he bears it. That day I came to warn you that the king had ordered me to hunt for Ninian, I spoke to you in private outside and then I went into the stables alone to fetch my horse. Ninian’s pack stood ready, as you had told me it did, and I slipped the book right down into the bottom of it.’
‘If he doesn’t know he carries it, how will he be able to give it to your mother?’ Josse demanded.
Gervase smiled. ‘She will know he has it, even if he does not. Besides — ’ he lowered his voice until it seemed to Josse he was speaking more to himself — ‘the book wants to go home.’
Alys Clare
The Rose of the World
Postscript
Deep winter 1210-1211
N inian was fast becoming a mountain man. The snows were deep in the Pyrenees, and the fugitive population had consequently relaxed a little. Not entirely — never that — but enough to spend the short days out in the open air, speaking to each other in normal voices rather than skulking in corners and whispering, always afraid that enemy eyes and enemy ears were near.
The village, like all the mountain villages, was cut off and would remain so until the snows melted in the spring. Simon de Montfort’s army was far away, and it was very unlikely that even the most fanatical of his spies would find a way up the treacherous slopes.
Ninian had done his best to put his homesickness and his yearning for his loved ones aside. It was easier here than it had been on the road, for many of his new companions were also far from those they loved. Many were separated from their parents, spouses and children by something far more permanent than mere distance, for so many had already been killed that most households mourned at least one kinsman.
These Cathars were good people; there was really no other word that described them better. Their lives were hard, and they worked long hours; many of them were weavers, working at looms set up in their own tiny homes. There were few luxuries, and the winter was cold and deep, but Ninian never heard anyone complain. Far from it, for the people in the main were light-hearted and quick to laugh.
Their faith was clearly a fundamental part of them. It filled them with a quiet joy and gave them the strength to put up with hardship. He did not understand the nature of the book he had brought with him, and he was at a loss to understand how it had got into his bag. Had Josse put it there? He did not know. What he did know, because Alazais had told him, was that it somehow reminded them of the bliss from which they had come and to which they yearned to return. In that time of danger, when all their lives were under threat, he thought he could begin to appreciate what that meant.
Despite their eagerness to answer his questions, nobody tried to make him join them. Not all of them were what they called Perfects, by which they meant those ‘pure ones’ who had taken the ultimate vow. Many referred to themselves as adherents, which seemed to mean people sympathetic to the Cathar faith who did not yet feel ready to give up the earthly things of the flesh.
Ninian was fast growing to respect the Cathars. Some of them he thought he loved. Alazais continued to treat him like a son, and, lonely for his own kin, he responded. And there were others to whom he swiftly grew close because they had known Josse. One of them, a woman, had even known Ninian’s mother.
He met her one day when she made the difficult journey through the snow to Alazais’s village specially to meet him. Pointing to a barely visible scar on her forehead, she told him that Joanna had rescued her from an unspeakable fate and, at grave risk to herself and to her little girl — Meggie, Ninian realized with a pang — had cared for her and helped her to safety. He thought the woman said that Joanna had even killed a man to save her, but the woman spoke the language with a strong accent and he might have been mistaken.
When the woman got up to leave, she took Ninian in her arms, hugged him tightly to her and said, ‘Your mother I love. You, too, are good, like her.’
He understood sufficient about the general situation to know that war was coming and that the Cathars would be relentlessly pursued all the time the king and the pope had men to send after them. The elders — both men and women achieved respected elder status in the community — had explained to him how the people were defending themselves, and as far as Ninian could tell, their plan consisted mainly of constructing strong fortresses high in the inaccessible upper reaches of the mountains.
Nobody said much about fighting.
Ninian knew how to fight. He had spent his youth learning the skills of a knight. Now, at last, he began to see a purpose to those long years in training. He had tentatively suggested to Alazais and the other Perfects in the village that he could teach the men the things he knew, and they had accepted his offer with grave thanks.
‘We do not want to kill,’ one of the Perfects, a tall, skeletal old man had said sadly to Ninian. ‘It is not right. But if armies come against our womenfolk and children, intent on burning down our homes and sending us into the flames, it is best that some of us at least can fight them off.’
The long winter was now passing more quickly for Ninian, busy as he was with
his school of would-be warriors. Just like young men anywhere flung together for any length of time, there was plenty of fun alongside the serious business of learning to kill. Ninian found he was enjoying himself and, often at the end of a satisfyingly hard day, he would be aching with laughter as well as sore from physical work.
For hours, even days, at a time he would have said that he was happy. Little Helewise came to him in his dreams, and sometimes he woke longing for her so acutely that the fierce desire spilled out of him. He told one of his trainee fighters about her; the young man could not manage the English version of her name and thought she was called Eloise. Gradually, Ninian came to think of her by that name too.
The other person who seemed to haunt him was Meggie. On occasions he thought he heard her call out to him, and once he had a vision of her desperately trying to tell him something. He told himself it was probably his imagination.
There was nothing to be done but stay where he was. He could not have left the mountains yet even if he wanted to, for the ways down to the valleys were still impassable and the community was cut off. Besides, he had left England because he was wanted for murder and would probably hang if they had caught him.
Sometimes, in the midst of his new life, it was quite hard to recall what had driven him out of the old one.
Despite his feelings for his new companions and his deep respect for their faith, he knew he did not want to join the community. He would defend them if the enemy came, for they were his friends. But if he was honest with himself — and Josse had always taught him he must be — then he had to admit that their fight was not his fight.
One afternoon, when the ice and snow began to ease their iron fist, Ninian went off by himself up the track that led out of the village and towards the peak that rose up behind it, where he now knew there was a fortress. The day was fine, and the sun was out, glittering on the snow and making such brilliant reflections that it hurt the eyes. Ninian needed to be alone, for he had to think.