by Kate Mosse
‘Christians believe that, at the final reckoning, we shall all be reunited at one unique moment of apocalypse. Such belief is fundamental to many faiths, in fact. To our modern minds, this idea is strange. Dismissed as magic or superstition or fairy tale. But to those who have walked this earth before us, down the generations, such concourse between this world and the next was seen as natural, evident.’
‘But what, precisely, does the Codex promise?’ she said again.
‘That, in times of great need, in times of great hardship, there is an army of spirits that can be called upon to intercede in the affairs of men.’
‘Ghosts, do you mean? But that’s impossible!’
‘The dead are all around us, Sandrine,’ Baillard said in his soft, measured voice. ‘You know this. You feel your father close to you here, do you not?’
‘Yes, but that’s different . . .’
‘Is it?’
She stopped, not sure what she was trying to say. Was it different or the same? Her dreams were filled with ghosts, memories. She sometimes thought she saw her father on the turn of the stairs, the outline of him in his chair by the fireplace.
‘Has this . . .’ She hesitated, working out how to frame the question. ‘Has this army ever been called upon before?’
‘Once,’ Baillard replied. ‘Only once.’
‘When?’ she said quickly.
‘In these lands,’ he said. ‘In Carcassonne.’
For an instant Sandrine thought she could hear the words beyond the words, feel the presence of an older system of belief that lay beneath the tangible world she saw around her.
‘The spirits of the air . . .’ she murmured. ‘Dame Carcas?’
She spoke without thinking, and as she did so, Sandrine experienced a moment of sudden illumination. In that one instant, she thought she understood. Saw it all clearly, the ineffable pattern of things, the past and present woven together in many dimensions, in colour vivid and sure. But before she could catch hold of the memory, the moment had passed. She looked up and saw Baillard was staring at her.
‘You do understand,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t know, I thought I did . . .’ She hesitated, not sure what she felt. ‘But even if the Codex did survive and is here, somewhere, waiting to be found . . .’ She stopped again. ‘Our enemies are real, and this . . .’
Now it was Baillard’s turn to hesitate. ‘The war is far from over,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Here in France, in the world beyond our borders, I fear the worst is yet before us. Decisions are being made that are beyond human comprehension. But . . .’ He paused. ‘Evil has not yet won. We have not yet passed the point of no return. If we can find the Codex – and understand the words it contains, harness them to our needs – then there might still be a chance.’
Sandrine looked at him with despair. ‘England fights on, I know, but we have lost, Monsieur Baillard. France is defeated. People – even in Carcassonne, in Coustaussa – seem to be prepared to accept that.’
Baillard looked suddenly older. The skin on his face seemed stretched tighter, pale and transparent, a record of all the things he had seen and done.
‘They do not think they have a choice,’ he said softly. ‘But I do not believe Hitler and his collaborators will be satisfied with what they have, whatever compromises Pétain has offered. And that, filha, will be when the real battle will begin.’
‘The Nazis will cross the line,’ she said, a statement not a question. ‘They will occupy the Midi.’
Baillard nodded. ‘This status quo will not hold for much longer. And that is when possession of the Codex, for good or ill, could make – will make – the difference. Between certain failure and the slightest possibility of victory.’
‘A ghost army,’ Sandrine whispered.
Baillard nodded. ‘One that has not walked for more than a thousand years.’
‡
Codex XI
‡
GAUL
COUZANIUM
AUGUST AD 342
Arinius emerged from his stone shelter to another perfect morning. A gentle wind whispered in the air and the dawn sky was an endless pale blue. All around him the colours of summer were now painted bright. Yellow Ulex gallii, its scent gentle in the dawn, the tiny pink heads of orchids blinking out from between the grasslands. Three days had passed since the storm, and, although he sensed a change in the air, a hint of more rain to come, there was not a cloud to be seen.
He turned to face the sun. Arinius no longer kneeled to pray, but rather stood with his arms outstretched and his face lifted to heaven. He thought of his brother monks observing Lauds in the cool grey spaces of the community in Lugdunum and did not envy them their confinement.
‘In the morning, Lord, I offer you my prayer.’
He no longer needed the tolling of the bell in the forum to remind him of his obligations. Now, after his months alone with God, Arinius spoke words of his own devising. He gave thanks for the new day, for his safe delivery through the storm, for the sanctuary of the gentle and hospitable land in which he found himself.
‘Amen,’ he said, making the sign of the cross with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Amen.’
When his offices were over, Arinius went back inside to fetch his bag. He broke his fast with the victuals he had purchased in Couzanium: a portion of wheaten bread ground with millet, a handful of walnuts, washed down with the posca infused with the memory of the wine he had bought from the merchant. The iridescent glass glinted in the morning sunlight, reflecting blue and green and silver.
The young monk sat and looked out across the valley. At the earth slashed through with red iron ore on the hills on the far side of the river, the expanse of grassland and woods. The land was evidently rich with fruit and nuts and, last night’s storm notwithstanding, it seemed to be a tranquil place to rest a while. To prepare for the final stage of his journey into the mountains.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Arinius decided to prepare his writing materials. He did not want to carry his tools into the mountains, only those things he would need for the journey. He got out the square of spun wool he had purchased in the travelling market in Couzanium and spread the yellow-white yarn flat on the ground. Grasping the iron handle of his hunting knife, he began to cut the fabric into squares.
It was hard and repetitive work. He felt the sweat pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat and on the back of his neck. The muscles at the top of his arm and in his shoulders began to complain, to ache. From time to time he paused to add another cut section to the pile, before returning to the diminishing square of fabric.
Finally, he had finished. He stood up to stretch his legs, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He drank the last of the posca, ate another portion of bread, then gathered his basket to go out in search of the materials he required for the next stage of the operation. In the community in Lugdunum, Arinius had been taught to create a form of ink, a mixture of iron salt and nutgall, and a gum from pine resin. He hoped in this valley to be able to find everything he needed. The liquid looked blue-black when it was first used, but quickly faded to a pale brown. He also needed to find the right sort of feather to fashion a crude reed pen. In the past he had tried crow’s feathers and those of geese, but through trial and error had discovered that blackbirds’ feathers were the easiest to use.
With the Codex still carried beneath his tunic, and his leather bag over his shoulder once more, Arinius ventured out into the valley to find what he needed.
‡
Chapter 70
COUSTAUSSA
AUGUST 1942
Sandrine took the shopping list Monsieur Baillard had written and cycled down to Couiza. The storm had cleared the air and the morning was fresh and pleasant. A few clouds, the trees green and glistening on the horizon, the sky an endless blue. The sort of day one remembers.
Marieta seemed none the worse for her ordeal, but Sandrine wanted to let Marianne know what had happened all the same
. By ten o’clock she was again standing in a slow-moving queue in the post office. Although the phone rang in the rue du Palais, no one answered. It meant she would have to try again.
On her way out, she stopped in front of the poster. Raoul’s face stared blindly at her. Stay away, she whispered under her breath, even though before she’d been desperate for him to come to Coustaussa.
‘Villainous-looking creature,’ a woman said.
‘Do you think so?’ replied Sandrine, keeping her voice steady.
She went to each of the shops in turn, then pushed her heavily laden bicycle home, past gardens filled with vegetables beneath wire cages guarded by old women. No one grew flowers any more, only food to eat. Past the electricity substation. The door was ajar, revealing the white porcelain shields protecting the connectors on the upper storey, like a row of upturned vases.
It was hotter now and there was little shade on the steepest part of the hill. Sandrine turned over in her mind the many things Monsieur Baillard had told her. While he was talking, she had accepted everything he said without question. Now, in the bright light of a summer’s morning, the whole conversation seemed like a dream.
A ghost army?
Of course she didn’t believe it was real, couldn’t believe it was real. But did he? Sandrine wasn’t sure.
Even after a few hours’ acquaintance, she understood how Monsieur Baillard gave the same weight to stories of antiquity as he did to those things that had happened yesterday or the day before that. But whatever he believed, the consequences of the hunt for the Codex, on both sides, were real enough.
She cleared the crest of the hill, then stopped and looked around, casting her eye to each of the four points of the compass. Rennes-les-Bains to the south-east, Couiza to the west, the turrets and towers of Carcassonne many kilometres to the north, out of sight. And ahead, Coustaussa. From this distance, everything looked as it always had. She’d been to Paris once, to Toulouse and to Narbonne, but no further than that. These were the foundations on which her life was built.
If Monsieur Baillard was right and the Nazis crossed the line, the tranquillity of the valley would be lost for ever. Of the Aude. She would not let that happen. She would fight to stop it happening.
‘Live free or die,’ she said, remembering the placard the old veteran had carried at the Bastille Day demonstration.
It seemed a lifetime ago. Sandrine understood what was at stake now. She understood what it meant to resist. Whether she was here in Coustaussa, or back in Carcassonne with Marianne and Suzanne. With Raoul.
Last night she had listened and listened to what Monsieur Baillard was telling her. Now her mind buzzed with questions, like flies in a jar, one question above all others. Monsieur Baillard had said the Codex had been called upon once before. More than a thousand years ago.
Was it true? And if it was, what had happened to the Codex over the intervening years? Lost again? Now to be found once more? Despite the heat of noon, Sandrine felt goosebumps prickling on her skin.
‘Vivre libre ou mourir,’ she repeated.
Chapter 71
LIMOUX
Raoul Pelletier ran his hands over his chin, uncomfortable in the heat. He’d not shaved since leaving Carcassonne because the beard and moustache disguised the shape of his face. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do, especially since he’d seen a poster asking for information, with a huge reward being offered. He’d been expecting it for weeks, was surprised that it was the first he’d seen. Although he looked different after three weeks of living rough, if someone put their mind to it, he’d be recognised. So far as he knew, at least there hadn’t been anything on the wireless since the end of July.
Raoul was sitting in the café by Les Halles in Limoux, with a clear view of the front door of the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon. Local résistants used the hotel as a safe house and he had been told there was someone who might give him a ride south. The man he was looking out for was Spanish, a comrade of Ramón with whom he’d stayed in Roullens three weeks ago.
He had bought the morning edition of La Dépêche. It was a Pétainist publication, but it served his purpose. He flicked through the paper, glancing up at the door to the hotel, which remained stubbornly closed. As he looked back down, his attention was drawn by a STOP PRESS item on the inside back page.
TRAGIC CLIMBING ACCIDENT
It is with great regret that we report that the body of a local man, identified as Monsieur Antoine Déjean – originally of Tarascon – has been found in a gully to the north of the village of Larnat, in Ariège.
Raoul turned cold. From the moment he’d found Sandrine clutching Antoine’s necklace at the river, he had expected this. But the black and white reality of it still hit him.
Monsieur Déjean’s body was discovered by a poacher, who alerted the appropriate authorities. Retired Inspecteur Pujol, formerly of the gendarmerie in Foix, hypothesised that the young man had lost his footing and fallen. The extent of his injuries were such that it appeared he had died instantly some weeks previously. When asked if Monsieur Déjean might have been investigating the caves for some illegal purpose, Inspecteur Pujol replied in the negative. ‘Although it is the case that Lombrives caves and other adjacent sites have become the unfortunate focus for unscrupulous treasure-hunters and cultists, there is no evidence to suggest that Monsieur Déjean was involved with any such group.’
Raoul glanced up again. No one was going in or out of the hotel. He continued reading.
Monsieur Déjean, who was unmarried, was a resident of Carcassonne and worked for Artozouls, the hunting and fishing suppliers. The funeral will be held at ten o’clock on Wednesday 19 August at the Église de la Daurade, Tarascon. No flowers by request.
In his pocket, Raoul’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief containing the tiny bottle he’d retrieved from Antoine’s apartment. It had become an habitual action on his part, a talisman almost.
At last, he heard the door of the hotel open and a dark-haired man, matching the description of the man he was waiting for, came out. Raoul dropped the newspaper on the table, quickly crossed the street and fell into step beside him.
‘Le temps est bouché à l’horizon.’
The slightest nod, to indicate that the password had been heard and accepted.
‘Where do you need to go, compañero?’ the Spaniard replied, without breaking his stride.
‘Banyuls,’ Raoul began to say, then he stopped. The newspaper article changed things. He was now convinced that Leo Coursan – with Laval’s help – was responsible for Antoine’s abduction and murder. If he was right, Sandrine was in danger. His intention had been to stay as far away from her as possible, not to drag her into his situation. But now he realised he couldn’t leave.
‘On second thoughts, Coustaussa,’ he said.
‘I can take you to Couiza. Two kilometres from there?’
‘Sí gracias.’
The man nodded. ‘Red van at end of alley. BONFILS on the side. We leave in fifteen minutes.’
CARCASSONNE
‘Did you know about this, Laval?’ said Authié, pushing the copy of La Dépêche towards him.
‘I’ve seen it, sir.’
‘What the hell’s Bauer playing at? How could he be so incompetent as to dispose of the body where it would be found so soon?’
‘There have been storms in the Haute Vallée, perhaps that caused a mud slide. Disturbed the grave.’
Authié realised it was close to where de l’Oradore’s excavation had been three years previously. Was that deliberate or another unfortunate coincidence?
‘What’s Bauer got to say about it?’ he demanded.
‘I have not spoken to him,’ Laval said in a level voice.
Authié stared at his deputy, hearing something in his tone, then dropped his eyes back to the newspaper.
‘Who’s this Inspector Pujol?’
‘A retired local policeman.’
‘One of ours?’
Lava
l shook his head. ‘The opposite, sir. Sympathies are with the partisans.’
‘Why was he called rather than a serving officer?’
‘The locals trust him. They don’t like the authorities. A place like Tarascon, people stick to their own kind.’
‘Like the Middle Ages. It’s ridiculous,’ Authié snapped. He looked back at the article. ‘According to this, the death’s being treated as a climbing accident. Do people believe that?’
‘From what little I’ve been able to gather. Do you want me to go back to Tarascon, sir?’
Authié considered. ‘On balance, it’s a good idea,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll put someone else on surveillance of the Vidal house for the time being. What’s happening there?’
‘It continues the same, sir. The tall woman, Suzanne Peyre, is often there. Mademoiselle Vidal spends most of her time at the Croix-Rouge in rue de Verdun, then returns home in the evenings. No sign of the younger girl or the housekeeper.’
‘Lucie Ménard?’
‘I haven’t seen her at all.’
Authié glanced again at the paper. ‘Go to Tarascon today, Laval. Report back as soon as you can. I intend to go myself on Wednesday, but I want information before that.’
‘Wednesday?’
‘The funeral,’ he said impatiently. ‘It will be a good opportunity to take the measure of things for myself.’ He paused again, then raised his eyes and looked at Laval standing on the other side of the desk. ‘As regards Bauer, I think the arrangement has run its course. Not until after Wednesday, but then I need you to act. You understand me?’
Laval met his gaze. ‘Yes, sir.’
COUIZA
The Tramontana was stirring up the dust outside the railway station when Raoul walked into Couiza. He couldn’t see any police checking papers, but even so he didn’t want to risk going into the station to ask for directions to Coustaussa. But road signs had been taken down in 1939, and he didn’t want to waste his time striking out in the wrong direction. He noticed the door to the tabac on the far side of the square was open.