by Kate Mosse
The sky was now a pale blue, the colour of forget-me-nots. Alaïs knew she must have been gone for some time. But as she watched the golden sunlight dancing on the surface of the water and felt the breath of the wind on her skin, she was reluctant to return to the busy, noisy streets of Carcassonne and the crowded spaces of the household. Telling herself a few moments more couldn’t hurt, Alaïs lay back on the grass and closed her eyes.
The sound of a bird screeching overhead woke her.
Alaïs sat up with a start. As she looked up through the quilt of dappled leaves, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then everything flooded back.
She scrambled to her feet in a panic. The sun was now high in a sky empty of clouds. She’d been gone too long. By now, she was sure to have been missed.
Rushing to pack her things away as quickly as possible, Alaïs gave her muddy tools a cursory wash in the river and sprinkled water over the strips of linen to keep the cuttings moist. She was about to turn away when her eye was caught by something tangled in the reeds. It looked like a tree stump or a log. Alaïs 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. Alaïs 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. Alaïs 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. Alaïs 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.
Alaïs 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, Alaïs thought her heart had stopped beating. Then shock and fear hit her in equal measure. She spun round and started to run back through the water, sliding, slipping in the mud, instinct telling her to put as much distance as possible between her and the body. Already she was soaking from the waist down. Her dress, swollen and heavy with water, tangled itself around her legs, nearly pulling her under.
The river seemed twice as wide as before, but she kept going, making it to the safety of the bank before nausea overwhelmed her and she was violently sick. Wine, undigested bread, river water.
Half-crawling, half-dragging herself on all fours, she managed to pull herself higher up, before collapsing on the ground in the shadows of the trees. Her head was spinning, her mouth was dry and sour, but she had to get away.
Alaïs tried to stand, but her legs felt hollow and wouldn’t hold her. Trying not to cry, she wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking hand, 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 with desperate fingers, Alaïs managed to push her filthy feet into her slippers. Then, abandoning everything else, she started to run back through the woods, as if the Devil himself was at her heels.
The heat hit Alaïs the moment she emerged from the trees into the open marshland. The sun pinched at her cheeks and neck, taunting her. The heat had brought out the biting insects and mosquitoes in swarms above the stagnant pools which flanked the path, as Alaïs stumbled forwards, on through the inhospitable landscape.
Her exhausted legs screamed in protest and her breath burned ragged in her throat and chest, but she kept running, running. All she was conscious of was the need to get as far away from the body as possible and to tell her father.
Rather than going back the way she’d come, which might be locked, Alaïs instinctively headed for Sant-Vicens and the Porte de Rodez, which connected the suburb to Carcassonne.
The streets were busy and Alaïs had to push her way through. The hum and buzz of the world coming to life got louder and louder, more intrusive, the closer she came to the entrance into the Cite. Alaïs tried to stop her ears and think only of getting to the gate. Praying her weak legs would not give way, Alaïs 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, Alaïs 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. Alaïs 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 Alaïs 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. Alaïs 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, Alaïs 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
Intendant Pelletier was in one of the storerooms in the basements next to the 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 Pe
lletier had served Viscount Trencavel for more than eighteen 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 of Intendant — steward — to the nine-year-old Raymond-Roger, heir to 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 his liking. What he had found was a boy old beyond his years, grieving for the loss of his parents and struggling to cope with the responsibility thrust on his young shoulders.
Bertrand had been with Viscount Trencavel ever since, first within the household of Raymond-Roger’s guardian, Bertrand of Saissac, then under the protection of the Count of Foix. When Raymond-Roger reached his majority and returned to the Château Comtal to take up his rightful place as Viscount of Carcassonne, Béziers and Albi, Pelletier had been at his side.
As steward, Pelletier was responsible for the smooth running of the household. He concerned himself also with administration, justice and the levying of taxes carried out on the Viscount’s behalf by the Consuls who ran the affairs of Carcassonne between them. More significantly, he was the Viscount’s acknowledged confidant, advisor and friend. His influence was second to none.
The Chateau Comtal was full of distinguished guests and more were arriving each day. The seigneurs of the most important châteaux within the Trencavel lands and their wives, as well as the most valiant, most celebrated chevaliers of the Midi. The finest minstrels and troubadours had been invited to the traditional Summer Joust to celebrate the Feast Day 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, François. ‘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. ‘I can’t work with such a disturbance.’
‘Messire.’
François 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. Alaïs. Something had happened.
Pelletier crossed the room and threw open the door.
Alaïs came hurtling down the stairs as if a pack of dogs was at her heels, with François hurrying behind.
At the sight of her father’s grizzled presence among the casks of wine and ale, she cried out with relief. She threw herself into his arms and buried her tear-stained face in his chest. The familiar, comforting smell of him made her want to cry again.
‘What in the name of Sant Foy is going on? What’s happened to you? Are you hurt? Tell me.’
She could hear the alarm in his voice. She pulled back a little and tried to speak, but the words were trapped in her throat and would not come. ‘Father, I — ’
His eyes were alive with questions as he took in at a glance her dishevelled appearance and stained clothes. He looked over her head to François for an explanation.
‘I found Dame Alaïs like this, Messire.’
‘And she said nothing about the cause of this . . . the reason for her distress?’
‘No, Messire. Only that she must be taken to you without delay.’
‘Very well. Leave us now. I’ll call if I need you.’
Alaïs heard the door shut. Then she felt the heavy touch of her father’s arm around her shoulder. He steered her over to the bench that ran along one side of the cellar and sat her down.
‘Come, Filha,’ he said in a softer voice. He reached down and pushed a strand of hair off her face. ‘This isn’t like you. Tell me what has happened.’
Alaïs made another attempt to get herself under control, hating the anxiety and concern she was causing him. She rubbed her smeared cheeks with the handkerchief he held out and dabbed her red eyes.
‘Drink this,’ he said, putting a cup of wine into her hands, before sitting down beside her. The ancient wood bowed and creaked under his weight. ‘François has gone. There’s nobody here but us. You must stop this and tell me what has happened to distress you so. Is it Guilhem? Has he done something to upset you? Because if he has, then I give you my word that I will — ’
‘It’s nothing to with Guilhem, Paire,’ Alaïs said quickly. ‘It’s nothing to do with anybody . . .’
She glanced up at him, then dropped her eyes again, embarrassed, humiliated to sit before him in such a state.
‘Then what?’ he persisted. ‘How can I help if you will not tell me what has happened?’
She swallowed hard, feeling guilty and shocked. She didn’t know how to start.
Pelletier took her hands in his. ‘You’re trembling, Alaïs.’ 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.’
Alaïs 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, è.’
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, Alaïs. 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.
Alaïs 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 wh
at I thought was a bundle of clothes in the water, good quality cloth. In fact — ’ Alaïs 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?’
Alaïs 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 close.’ 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 words with deliberation. ‘No one has interfered with you in any way? Hurt you?’
That she understood his meaning was clear from the way her colour rose quickly in her cheeks.
‘No ill has come to me other than my pride being damaged and . . . the loss of your goodwill.’
She watched the relief wash over her father’s face. He smiled and, for the first time since the conversation had started, it reached his eyes.
‘Well,’ he said, breathing out slowly. ‘Overlooking, for the time being, your recklessness, Alaïs, the fact you disobeyed me . . . leaving that aside, you did the right thing by telling me of this.’ He reached out and took her hands, his giant clasp encompassing her small, thin fingers. His skin felt like tanned leather.
Alaïs smiled, grateful for the reprieve. ‘I am sorry, Paire. I meant to keep my promise, it’s just that — ’
He waved the apology away. ‘We will say no more about it. As for the unfortunate man, there’s nothing to be done. The thieves will be long gone. They’re hardly likely to stay around and risk discovery.’