by K. M. Grant
Ten minutes later, he returned to the hall. The guests were expectant. Aimery stood on a barrel.
“I’m sorry,” he announced. “We were to stage a mock siege, with Greek fire and catapults, but the troupe hasn’t arrived. It’s too bad.” There were groans of disappointment.
“Never mind!” He was loud and bluff. “There’ll be other parties! Eat, drink! Troubadours, play up, play up.” He ran around, filling tankards himself, and after a few slow minutes, the party continued. Berengar was sitting down, totally bemused.
Yolanda, having gotten no information from her father, was tugging at Aimery’s sleeve. “What’s happened? Please, you must tell me.”
“The cellars are empty,” he told her.
“Empty!” She could not stop her smile.
“Empty.” He looked at her quizzically. “Be thankful for that, Yolanda.”
“Oh, I am.” His expression was so odd. He should be furious. He kept looking at her but he would say nothing more.
When she could, she ran out into the courtyards. Their emptiness was eerie. She ran to the cellar entrance, but hesitated before descending the steps. She felt Hugh behind her.
“Do you want to go down?” he asked. “They really are empty.”
She shook her head. All she wondered now was when Raimon would come back for her.
It was dawn before the revelers, slack-jawed and mumbling, collapsed into the rushes and slept. A thoroughly frustrated Brees was waiting for Yolanda in her room, and when she took off the silver dress and threw it into a corner, he seized it at once. Yolanda wished him joy of it. She would never, ever wear it again. As far as she was concerned, the dress and Aimery’s toast meant nothing. It was only when she lay down that she remembered she had not said good night to her father.
When everybody was settled, Aimery went to Berengar, who was still sitting in the hall in exactly the same place, and told him what the weary rider had told him. He opened his hand and when Berengar saw what was enclosed, he let out a loud moan and his heart, strained to the breaking point since the day Girald arrived, began to crack. He leaned hard on Aimery to get into his chamber, and bumped into the table as though, amid the light, his own world had suddenly turned dark. He fell onto his bed and Aimery had to lift his feet. Servants ran for the chateau’s herbalist.
“Horrible, horrible,” the count was gasping, although Aimery didn’t know whether at the news or the pain. Nevertheless, he bent down and whispered something else into his father’s ear.
This time, Berengar’s moan made his bed hangings tremble. “It’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Berengar tried and failed to grip his son’s hand. “I don’t understand the world anymore, Aimery.” His face was twisted in mortal agony. His left side was in spasm.
“I’m not sure you’ve ever understood it, Father. You have to be a part of it to understand it. You’ve just ignored it.”
The herbalist arrived, took one look, and shook his head. “You’d better send for Simon Crampcross,” he said. The servants began to wail and a momentary flash of pity crossed Aimery’s face. He sent for Yolanda and then heard his name.
“Father?” He leaned over, close up, so that his father would be able to see him.
“Do what is right,” the old man said.
“I’ll do what is best,” Aimery replied. It was, at least in his eyes, the truth.
16
After the Party
Aimery waited until the sun was high before, with a bell rung loudly and continuously, he forced the insensible partygoers to haul themselves up, hawking and spitting and regretting the wine. Pages ran with cold water and twigs with which their masters could pick bits of last night’s dinner from their teeth. Aimery himself was already freshly laundered, as was Hugh. They came and sat on the dais.
Yolanda came, dragging one foot after another, her eyes hollow with sleeplessness. She had been with her father to the end. He had not recognized her, but it seemed to her that two expressions had vied for a last supremacy over his face: one of relief that all was over and the other of supreme regret. When, just as the candles in his chamber were being renewed, he drew his last breath, she was not sure which expression made her cry the most.
Aimery, who had sat with her until after dawn, nodded at her in acknowledgment of their loss. Then he turned to the matter in hand.
“My friends,” he said, “I have something truly abominable to tell you. Earlier this morning, three messengers came here to Castelneuf. The news they bore is shocking.” He stopped. “So shocking that my father’s heart could not withstand it. A few hours ago, he died.”
There was a groan, and many of the knights fell to their knees. The servants were already openly weeping. Aimery gave a short and pretty eulogy, as was expected, then he paused and waited for the knights to stand up again.
“Now I must tell you what I told my father. While we were celebrating my sister’s birthday and betrothal, our uncle, Inquisitor Girald, and six fellow inquisitors, were being murdered.” There was quite a different noise, a clatter as knights felt for their swords. Aimery held up his hand. “My uncle lies at this moment in a pool of his own blood. He was dragged from sleep, and cut down while on his knees. The weapons used were not just spears and daggers, but axes and maces. By the time the murderers had finished, our uncle was only recognizable by this.” Yolanda, who had heard none of this before, clapped her hands over her mouth as Aimery opened his hand and picked something out between two fingers. It was what he had shown to his father: a small object, blotted with blood and hair, but still unmistakable. It was Girald’s ring. When the knights roared, though his father lay dead only yards away, Aimery did not stop them.
Hours later, after the old count had been properly laid out in the hall in his best surcoat with candles at head and foot and Simon Crampcross muttering by his side, Hugh told Yolanda that it was Raimon who had been arrested for Girald’s murder. At first, she had laughed in a kind of exhausted hysteria. They were sitting in the hall, still all set up for Girald’s court but with its menace gone. Now it was simply dingy. Then she had cried and finally taken a deep shuddering breath.
“That can’t possibly be true,” she said. Aimery came in. Hugh nodded at him and he repeated it.
“I’m sorry, Yola,” Aimery said.
Now she was angry. “You know perfectly well that Raimon—that he was—was killed at the bear hunt. You saw for yourself.”
“Let’s not pretend, not anymore, Yola. Raimon wasn’t killed at the bear hunt.”
She bit her lip.
Aimery sat down beside her. “We know Raimon killed Uncle Girald because”—there was the smallest of pauses—“Galahad and Bors were found at Avignonet, outside the tavern in which Girald was staying.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The horses Hugh gave you, that you gave to Raimon, were found there.”
“But I didn’t—”
“It’s not the time for lies. We all know he took the horses, and anyway,” he stopped again, for this was the last moment to change his mind—he had a glimmer, perhaps, of regret but he didn’t change it—“Raimon was captured riding away from Avignonet. The knights who brought Girald’s ring brought him with them. Raimon had the ring in his pouch. I’m sorry, Yola. I didn’t want to tell you, and certainly not today. But that’s the truth.”
The shock silenced Yolanda. “Where is he?”
“Come,” said Aimery quite gently, “I’ll show him to you.” She followed blindly. She couldn’t and wouldn’t believe that Raimon was a murderer. He had been here, freeing the prisoners. He had. Who else would have freed them? Yet she had not seen him and she kept hearing in her head Raimon telling her that Girald didn’t deserve to live. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe that he had picked up an axe and killed her uncle in cold blood. Aimery was telling her how sorry he was. She wanted to scream.
Alain already had Raimon in the courtyard. Stiff and hunched, he stagg
ered, much as a boy might who, unused to heavy riding, has been many hours in an unfamiliar saddle. Alain held him before them, Raimon’s face to the wall, and though Aimery was quite genuinely sorry for what would now happen, he could not be sorry that this boy who had proved himself such a persis tent nuisance, would, at last and this time for always, shortly be an obstacle no longer.
Yolanda tried to speak, but Aimery cut her off, and though she protested loudly, Hugh hurried her away.
That day Raimon was taken to Foix for trial and the judge hardly bothered to wait until the end of the process to pass sentence. There was no point. Raimon had been caught at the site of the inquisitor’s murder; he had admitted, in front of the late inquisitor and witnesses, to having taken part, with a Cathar perfectus, in his mother’s consolation, and, what was more, he had deliberately discarded his prescribed heretic’s tabard. There was only one fit punishment: the pyre. Raimon was asked if, for mercy’s sake, he would express horror or remorse at his crime. He would not.
In fact, Raimon said nothing at all throughout the proceedings. He turned himself into ice. Whatever he said would make no difference, except, perhaps, to incriminate his father. One of the witnesses swore he heard the name Belot shouted at Avignonet. No doubt he had. It was ironic that he was the only witness who was probably telling the truth.
But though he could freeze out almost everything, he could not freeze out Yolanda and one image haunted him: the glassiness in her eyes when he had been dragged into the dock. True, it had been the day she buried her father, but she really thought he might be guilty. He could not allow himself to think about that, nor about whether, had he been with his father and the White Wolf when they came upon Girald, he would have added his blows to theirs. Nor about whether Girald’s murder was his fault. He could not be sorry the inquisitor was dead, but such a death! Not a clean thrust with a sword, but axes and maces. That was not death, it was butchery. He tried to banish all that and think only of Parsifal and the Flame. They were his last hope now. So quickly had everything turned to dust.
After he was sentenced, many cruel days were spent debating where he should be burned in Foix for convenience, at Toulouse as an example to all, or at Castelneuf.
Up in the hills, Parsifal waited too. The Flame told him nothing, but he knew what he must do.
It was finally decided—claimed, indeed, as an act of mercy—that Raimon’s pyre should be built at Castelneuf and he was transported back, bound and shackled, bearing a heretic’s tabard once again and kept in a heavily guarded cart by the river on the town side of the bridge.
When the pyre was built—there had been no volunteers, so Simon Crampcross had had to threaten people with eternal damnation if they did not respond to the summons—Aimery went to inspect it. Children were playing around it, but Aimery backed quickly away. He had never seen anyone die like that and decided that he would watch it be lit and then retreat. He ordered Hugh to keep Yolanda away. “Take her to Paris at once and marry her. Nice clothes, a baby or two, and all those Parisian amusements will help her get over it. After a month or two, she’ll have forgotten us all. When things are better settled, she can come back to visit.” He fiddled with his beard and plucked imaginary pieces of straw from the cuffs of his tunic as he spoke, not even convincing himself.
Hugh had some sympathy. “I suppose this is really necessary?”
Aimery stopped fiddling. “You know it is, Hugh, and when you get to Paris, don’t forget to tell King Louis that the new count of the Amouroix knows his Catholic duty,” he said. “This is not just a murderer but a heretic that we’re burning.”
“He’s already heard,” Hugh told him. “As my wedding present, as a compliment to your sister and the county of Amouroix, he’s made me Seneschal of Carcassonne. Your sister will be married to a man of real power.”
Aimery gave a grim smile.
Yolanda refused, point blank, to leave before the execution was carried out. She had sent letters to the judge begging for a reprieve, and couldn’t believe the judge wouldn’t grant one. Hugh did not argue, just ordered her things to be packed up—not many of them, she would have her own seamstress in Paris—and frowned when he contemplated Brees, padding around like a sultry lion. Now was a bad time to get rid of the dog, although a clean break with the past might be best for Yolanda in the long run.
By the time the execution day dawned, Yolanda had almost stopped living. She watched her things being packed with no apparent emotion. What did she care about things anymore? She had not eaten for days. She passed Hugh in the courtyard with Galahad and Bors, two luggage wagons, and an armed escort in the des Arcis colors. They were waiting for her. They would have to wait longer. She would not go yet. She made straight for the chateau gate. It was closed and two soldiers would not move at her order. She turned to Hugh. “Do you hate me?” she asked.
“What a question. You know I don’t.”
“Order them to let me out.”
“I can’t do that. Believe me, you don’t want to go down there. You can’t help your friend now.”
“Let me out.” She could feel a wail rising from within her and tried to strangle it, but could not strangle all of it. With a huge effort she turned it into words. “He must know I’m there. Please. He’s got no one else. After that, I don’t care what happens.”
Hugh considered this and his tone was very reasonable. “Look, I can’t let you go. I promised. But I do have an idea. Send Brees. Raimon will see him and know you’ve sent him because you couldn’t go yourself.”
“I need to go myself.”
“Don’t you see that that would pain Raimon more than anything?”
“No. No it wouldn’t. How dare you say it would. You don’t know him.”
“No, but I know what I would prefer if I were him.”
Yolanda argued, but Hugh was unbending, and at last, in despair, and telling Hugh she would never forgive him, she sent Brees with a servant. The dog went obediently but reluctantly, straining backward then forward as he tried to understand what Yolanda meant him to do. After he had gone, acutely regretting handing him over, she began to berate Hugh, then herself. She was beyond reason and only when the bells began to toll, warning of a soul about to be sent to heaven or hell, did she stop.
At once, Hugh brought Galahad to her. “Mount now, my dear. It really is best to be away.” He lifted her into the saddle. The bells tolled on and on.
Hugh mounted himself, waiting impatiently until he thought the roads would be cleared. He didn’t want to wait until the pyre was lit, for he thought the sight and the smell might cause Yolanda irreparable damage. They must be away before there was any sign of smoke. The whole cavalcade trotted out, with himself holding firmly onto Galahad’s rein. Though the horses slithered down the hill, he pushed them on. They must hurry.
The streets were deserted and they saw nobody until the bottom of the hill, where there was a small logjam of people. Here they were delayed. Raimon was still crossing the bridge. He should have been well past here by now, but the sight of the boy stepping forward with as much desperate eagerness as the shackles allowed, as if he were proud to die, had transformed him from piteous prisoner into heroic martyr. Everyone was pressing forward trying to touch him, or at least touch the hem of his tunic, and some women who had gotten to the pyre early to get a good place tried to push back across the bridge to fetch pots so that after the fire, they, like their wiser neighbors, could gather up the warm ashes and keep them as relics.
Hugh exclaimed with annoyance and drew his sword, using the flat of it to forge a path. When that proved impossible, he tried to turn Galahad around and take Yolanda back to the chateau. The horse was willing enough, but in the press of people, he grew alarmed and lost his footing and Yolanda, sitting like a rag doll, was pitched off. Hugh grabbed her, missed, and she vanished under a rolling carpet of bodies. Shouting to his squires, Hugh leaped off himself and tried to fish her out, but she was now so firmly knitted into the crowd that she was as
impossible to untangle as a small thread in a giant knot. At first, trampled and kicked, she lay prone and uncaring. It was only when she heard Hugh’s voice calling her name that she was galvanized and began to fight using elbows and fists. First she got herself onto all fours and then upright.
“Let me through! I must get through!” Some people, when they saw who she was, tried to help her, others ignored her. It didn’t much matter, for the crowd was so tight, she made very little progress. Crushed and bruised, she nevertheless kept going. She would get to Raimon. She would. She didn’t care if he had murdered her uncle. She just wanted him to know she was with him and would always be with him. Yet even fighting like a cat she couldn’t get close to him. The bridge was too narrow. There was no room to move.
At last, there was no option but to climb onto the parapet. It was narrow, the stones were damp, and the river ran blackly beneath, but she used the shoulders of the people below to steady herself. That was better. One foot, then the other. One foot, then the other. Now she was moving. Before the bridge end she was calling to him. “Raimon! Raimon!”
But he would only look forward. He could not look around. If he did, his courage might fail him and that must not happen. He must think of nothing. That was the only way he could manage.
Yolanda stopped calling. “Come down,” an old man urged, but she wouldn’t do that either. Instead, she began to sing. She sang the “Song of the Flame.” She began in quite a small voice, but it would not stay small. The second time she sang the song, it was much stronger and more beautiful, and the third time it was too loud for beauty and too insistent to be ignored. She sang not to cheer or to comfort, she sang to gather up everything she and Raimon had had and everything they might have had. She sang not just for him and for herself, but for a whole world coming to an end.