by Kate Mosse
Marieta’s cousin Antoine, a simple boy, but clear enough in his mind to know right from wrong, saw a man he recognised, a belt in his hand. He was the father of one of the children who had been taken. His face was twisted in bitterness and grief.
Without understanding or stopping to think, Antoine threw himself forward, hurling his arms around the man’s neck, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Antoine was heavy and he was strong, but he did not know how to fight. Within seconds he found himself on his back. He threw up his hands, but he was too slow.
The belt struck him across the face, the metal clasp of the buckle driving into his open eye. Antoine’s world turned red.
Constant stood at the foot of the stairs, holding his hand up to shield his face against the heat and soot, waiting as his man ran across the hall to report.
‘They are not here,’ he panted. ‘I have searched everywhere. It seems they left with an old man and the housekeeper some quarter of an hour ago.’
‘On foot?’
He nodded. ‘I found this, Monsieur. In the drawing room.’
Victor Constant took it in his trembling hand. It was a Tarot card, an image of a grotesque devil with two lovers chained at its feet. He tried to focus, the smoke taking his vision from him. As he looked, it seemed that the demon was moving, twisting as if under a burden. The lovers came to resemble Vernier and Isolde.
He rubbed his painful eyes with his gloved fingers, then an idea came to him.
‘When you have settled Gélis, leave this Tarot card with the body. It will confuse matters, if nothing else. The whole of Coustaussa knows the girl was there.’
The manservant nodded. ‘And you, Monsieur?’
‘Help me to the carriage. A child, a woman and an old man? I do not believe they can have gone far. In point of fact, I think it is more likely they will be hiding somewhere within the grounds. The estate is steeply wooded. There is only one place they are likely to be.’
‘And them?’The servant jerked his head in the direction of the mob.
The sounds of screaming were rising in crescendo as the battle reached its zenith. Soon the looting would begin. Even if the boy did escape tonight, there would be nothing for him to come back to. He would be destitute.
‘Leave them to it,’ he said.
CHAPTER 96
It was hard going in the dark once they got to the woods. Louis-Anatole was a strong boy and Monsieur Baillard, despite his age, was surprisingly fast on his feet, but all the same they made slow progress. They had brought a lamp, but it was unlit for fear of drawing the mob’s attention.
Léonie found that her feet knew the path she had so long avoided to the sepulchre. As she walked, climbing uphill, her long black cape stirred up the fallen autumn leaves, damp underfoot. She thought of all the journeys she had made around the estate - the glade with the wild juniper, the clearing where Anatole had fallen; the tombs of her brother and Isolde, side by side on the promontory on the far side of the lake - and her heart wept at the thought that she might never see any of it again. Having so long felt confined by her narrow existence, now the time had come to leave, she did not wish to go. The rocks, the hills, the copses, the wooded pathways, she felt as if each was seamed into the structure of the person she had become.
‘Are we nearly there, Tante Léonie?’ said Louis-Anatole in a small voice, after they had been travelling some quarter of an hour. ‘My boots are pinching me.’
‘Almost,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘Be careful not to slip.’
‘Do you know,’ he said, in a voice that gave the lie to his words, ‘I am not in the least afraid of spiders.’
They arrived at the clearing and slowed their pace. The avenue of yews Léonie remembered from her first visit seemed more knotted by time and the canopy less penetrable than before.
Pascal was waiting. Two weak lamps on the sides of the gig spluttered in the cold air and the horses stamped their metal hooves on the hard ground.
‘What place is this, Tante Léonie?’ said Louis-Anatole, curiosity for the moment driving away his fear. ‘Are we still within our grounds?’
‘We are. This is the old mausoleum.’
‘Where they bury people?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Why are Papa and M’man not buried here?’
She hesitated. ‘Because they prefer to be outside, among the trees and the flowers. They lie together by the lake, remember?’
Louis-Anatole frowned. ‘So they can hear the birds?’
Léonie smiled. ‘That’s right.’
‘Is that why have you never brought me here?’ he said, stepping forward to approach the door. ‘Because there are ghosts here?’
Léonie threw out her hand and grabbed him. ‘There is no time, Louis-Anatole.’
His face fell. ‘Can I not go inside?’
‘Not now.’
‘Are there spiders?’
‘There might be, but since you are not afraid of spiders, you would not mind.’
He nodded, but he had turned quite pale. ‘We’ll come back another day. When it is light.’
‘That is an excellent idea,’ she said.
She felt Monsieur Baillard’s hand on her arm.
‘We cannot delay any longer,’ said Pascal. ‘We must cover as much distance as we can before Constant realises we are not within the house.’ He bent down and swung Louis-Anatole into the gig. ‘So, pichon, you are ready for a midnight adventure?’
Louis-Anatole nodded.
‘It’s a long way.’
‘Further than the Lac de Barrenc?’
‘Even further than that,’ replied Pascal.
‘I shall not mind,’ Louis said. ‘Marieta will play with me?’
‘She will.’
‘Tante Léonie will tell me stories.’
The adults cast stricken glances at one another. In silence, Monsieur Baillard and Marieta climbed into the carriage, with Pascal settled on the driver’s seat.
‘Come on, Tante Léonie,’ Louis-Anatole said.
Léonie closed the carriage door with a sharp snap. ‘Keep him safe.’
‘You do not have to do this,’ Baillard said quickly. ‘Constant is a sick man. It is possible that time and the natural run of things will bring this vendetta to an end, and soon. If you wait, it might be all this will pass of its own volition.’
‘It is possible, yes,’ she replied fiercely. ‘But I cannot take that risk. It might be three years, five, even ten. I cannot allow Louis-Anatole to grow up under such a shadow, always wondering, always looking out into the darkness. Thinking there is someone out there, waiting, to cause him harm.’
A memory of Anatole looking down at the street from their old apartment in the rue de Berlin. Another, of Isolde’s haunted face gazing ever out at the horizon, seeing danger in the smallest thing.
‘No,’ she said more firmly. ‘I will not have Louis-Anatole live such a life.’ She smiled. ‘It has to end. Now, tonight, here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You believe this too, Sajhë.’
For a moment, in the flickering light of the lamp, their eyes met. Then, he nodded.
‘I will return the cards to their ancient place,’ he said quietly, ‘when the boy is safe and there are no eyes to see me.
You may trust me with that.’
‘Tante Léonie?’ said Louis-Anatole again, a little more anxiously.
‘Petit, there is something I must do,’ she said, keeping her voice level, ‘which means I cannot come with you at this moment. You will be quite safe with Pascal and Marieta and Monsieur Baillard.’
His face crumpled as he reached out his arms to her, instinctively understanding this was more than a temporary separation.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘I don’t want to leave you, Tante. I won’t leave you.’
He threw himself across the seat and hurled his arms around Léonie’s neck. She kissed him and stroked his hair, then firmly detached herself from him.
‘No!’ the little boy shouted, str
uggling.
‘Be good for Marieta,’ she said, the words catching in her throat. ‘And look after Monsieur Baillard and Pascal.’
Stepping back, she slapped her hand on the side of the carriage. ‘Go,’ she cried. ‘Go.’
Pascal cracked the whip and the gig jerked forward. Léonie tried to close her ears to the sound of Louis-Anatole’s voice calling out for her, crying, getting fainter as he was carried away.
When she could no longer hear the rattle of the wheels over the hard, frosty ground, she turned and walked up to the door of the ancient stone chapel. Blinded by tears, she grasped the metal handle. She hesitated, half turning and looking back over her shoulder. In the distance was an intense orange glow, filled with sparks and clouds of smoke, grey against the black night sky.
The house was burning.
She hardened her resolve. She turned the handle, pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold into the sepulchre.
CHAPTER 97
The chill, heavy air rushed to meet her.
Slowly Léonie let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. She pulled the box of matches from her pocket, opened the glass door of the lamp and held a flame to the wick until it caught.
The blue eyes of Asmodeus fixed themselves upon her. Léonie stepped further into the nave. The paintings on the wall seemed to pulsate and sway and move towards her as she walked slowly up towards the altar. The dust and grit on the flagstones scratched beneath the soles of her boots, loud in the silence of the tomb.
She was unsure what she should do first. Her hand stole to the cards in her pocket. In the other the leather wallet containing the pieces of folded paper, the paintings she had attempted - of herself, of Anatole, of Isolde - from which she had not wished to be parted.
She had, at last, admitted to Monsieur Baillard that after seeing the cards with her own eyes, she had returned to her uncle’s volume on several occasions, poring over the handwritten text, until she was word perfect. But still, despite this, a doubt remained over Monsieur Baillard’s explanation of how the vivid life contained within the cards, and the music carried on the wind, might work one upon the other to summon the ghosts who inhabited these ancient places.
Could it be so?
Léonie understood that it was not the cards alone, not the music, nor only the place, but the combination of all three within the boundaries of the sepulchre.
And if the myths were the literal truth, then she knew, even in the midst of her doubts, that there would be no way back. The spirits would claim her. They had tried once before - and failed - but tonight she would willingly let them take her if they would take Constant too.
And Louis-Anatole will be safe.
Suddenly a scratching sound, a tapping, made her jump. She cast her eyes round, looking for the source of the noise, then with a sigh of relief realised it was only the bare branches of a tree outside knocking against the window.
Putting the lamp on the ground, Léonie struck a second match, then several more, lighting the old tallow candles set in metal sconces on the wall. Drops of grease began to slide down the dead wicks, solidifying on the cold metal, but gradually each took and the sepulchre was filled with yellow, flickering light.
Léonie moved forward, feeling as if the eight tableaux within the apse were watching her every move. She found the space before the altar where, a generation and more before, Jules Lascombe had spelled out the name of the Domaine in letters upon the stone floor. C-A-D-E.
Without knowing if she was doing the right thing or the wrong, she took the Tarot cards from her pocket, unwrapped them and placed the whole deck in the centre of the square, her late uncle’s words reverberating in her head. Her leather wallet she placed beside the deck, undoing the ties but not taking the paintings out.
Through the power of which I would walk in another dimension.
Léonie raised her head. There was a moment of stillness then. Outside the chamber, she heard the wind moving through the trees. She listened harder. The smoke still rose undisturbed from the candles, but she thought she could almost discern the sound of music, thin notes, a high-pitched whistling as the wind threaded itself through the branches of beech woods and the avenue of yew trees. Then it came, slippery, in under the door, through the gaps between the lead and the stained glass of the windows.
There was a rushing of air and the sensation that I was not alone.
Léonie smiled, remembering the words on the page. She was not frightened, now, she was curious. And for a fleeting moment, as she looked up to the octagonal apse, she thought perhaps that she saw the face of La Force move. The faintest smile had come across the painted face. And for an instant, the girl looked precisely like her - like her own face she had painted into her copies of the Tarot images. The same copper hair, the same green eyes, the same direct gaze.
My self and my other selves, both past and yet to come, were equally present.
Around her now, Léonie was aware of movement. Spirits, or the cards come to life, she could not say. The Lovers, to her hopeful and willing eyes, so clearly taking on the beloved features of Anatole and Isolde. For a fleeting moment, Léonie thought she could recognise the features of Louis-Anatole shimmering behind the image of La Justice, sitting with her scales and a run of notes around the rim of her long skirts, the boy she knew contained within the outline of the woman on the card. Then, out of the corner of her eye, only for a second, the features of Audric Baillard - Sajhë - seemed to imprint themselves upon the young face of Le Pagad.
Léonie stood completely still, letting the music wash over her. The faces and the costumes and the landscapes seemed to move, to shift and shimmer like stars, revolving in the silver air as if held by the invisible current of music. She lost any sense of herself. Dimension, space, time, mass, all vanished now to insignificance.
The vibrations, the rustling of the air, the ghosts, she supposed, brushed against her shoulders and neck, skimmed her forehead, surrounded her, gentle, kind, but without ever really touching. A silent chaos was growing, a cacophony of noiseless whispering and sighing.
Léonie reached her arms out in front of her. She felt herself weightless, transparent, as if floating in the water, although her dress still hung red around her, the cloak black on her shoulders. They were waiting for her to join them. She turned over her outstretched hands and saw, quite clearly, the infinity symbol appear on the pale skin of her palms. Like a figure of eight.
‘Aïci lo tems s’en, va res l’eternitat.’
The words fell silver from her lips. Now, after waiting so long, there was no mistaking their meaning.
Here, in this place, time moves away towards eternity.
Léonie smiled and - with the thought of Louis-Anatole behind her, her mother and brother and aunt before her - she stepped forward into the light.
The jolting over the rough ground had caused him great discomfort, opening several of the sores on his hands and on his back. He could feel the pus seeping through the bandages.
Constant descended from the carriage.
He poked the ground with his walking stick. Two horses had stood here - and recently. The wheel ruts suggested only one carriage and appeared to lead away from, rather than towards, the sepulchre.
‘Wait here,’ he instructed.
Constant felt the curious force of the wind insinuating itself between the tightly knit trunks of the avenue of yews that led to the door of the tomb. With his free hand, he held his greatcoat tight around his throat against the strengthening currents of air. He sniffed. His sense of smell was almost gone, but he could just pick out an unpleasant odour, a peculiar mixture of incense and the malodorous scent of rotting seaweed on the shore.
Though his eyes were watering with the cold, he could see there were lights burning inside. The thought that the boy might be hiding there powered him forward. He strode ahead, paying no attention to the rushing sound, almost like water, nor to the whistling, like wind chasing down the telegraph wires or the vibrating
of the metal track as a train approaches.
It was almost like music.
He refused to be diverted by whatever tricks Léonie Vernier might or might not be attempting, with the light or smoke or sound.
Constant approached the heavy door, turned the handle. At first, it did not shift. Assuming it was bolted or furniture had been piled up as a barricade, he nonetheless tried again. This time, all at once, it opened. Constant almost lost his balance and half stepped, half fell into the sepulchre.