Labyrinth

by Kate Mosse

  Alaïs frowned. Her father’s comments had stirred something that had been lurking beneath the surface of her mind. She closed her eyes. Pictured herself standing in the chill water, transfixed by the body.

  ‘That’s the odd thing, father,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think they can have been bandits. They didn’t take his surcoat, which was beautiful and looked valuable. And he was still wearing his jewellery. Gold chains around his wrists, rings. Thieves would have stripped the body bare.’

  ‘You told me you did not touch the body,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Nor did I. But I could see his hands under the water, that’s all. Jewels. So many rings, father. A gold bracelet made from interlinking chains. Another around his neck. Why would they leave such things?’

  Alaïs broke off, as she remembered the man’s bloated, ghostly hands reaching out to touch her and, where his thumb should have been, blood and shards of white bone. Her head started to spin. Leaning back against the damp, cold wall, Alaïs made herself concentrate on the hard wood of the bench beneath her and the sour smell of the casks in her nose, until the dizziness faded.

  ‘There was no blood,’ she added. ‘An open wound, red like a piece of meat.’ She swallowed hard. ‘His thumb was missing, it was — ’

  ‘Missing?’ he said sharply. What do you mean, missing?’

  Alaïs glanced up in surprise at the shift of tone. ‘His thumb had been cut off. Sliced from the bone.’

  ‘Which hand, Alaïs?’ he said. Now there was no hiding the urgency in his voice. ‘Think. It’s important.’

  ‘I’m not — ’

  He hardly seemed to hear. Which hand?’ he insisted.

  ‘His left hand, the left, I’m sure of it. It was the side closest to me. He was facing upstream.’

  Pelletier strode across the room, bellowing for François, and threw open the door. Alaïs hurled herself to her feet too, shaken by her father’s desperate mood and bewildered as to what was going on.

  What is it? Tell me, I beseech you. Why does it matter if it was his left or his right hand?’

  ‘Prepare horses straight away, François. My bay gelding, Dame Alaïs’ grey mare and a mount for you.’

  François’s expression was as impassive as ever. ‘Very good, Messire. Are we going far?’

  ‘Only to the river.’ He gestured him to be gone. ‘Quick, man. And fetch my sword and a clean cloak for Dame Alaïs. We’ll meet you at the well.’

  As soon as François was out of earshot, Alaïs rushed to her father. He refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he walked back to the casks and, with a shaking hand, poured himself some wine. The thick, red liquid slopped over the side of the earthenware bowl and splashed all over the table, staining the wood.

  ‘Paire,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell me what this is about. Why do you have to go to the river? Surely, it cannot be a matter for you. Let François go. I can tell him where.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Then tell me, so I can understand. You can trust me.’

  ‘I must see the body for myself. Find out if — ’

  ‘Find out what?’ Alaïs said quickly.

  ‘No, no,’ he was saying, shaking his grizzled head from side to side. ‘This is not for you to . . .’ Pelletier’s voice trailed off.

  ‘But — ’

  Pelletier held up his hand, suddenly in control of his emotions again. ‘No more, Alaïs. You must be guided by me. I would that I could spare you this, but I cannot. I have no choice.’ He thrust the cup towards her. ‘Drink this. It will fortify you, give you courage.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ she protested, offended he thought her reluctance cowardice. ‘I do not fear to look on the dead. It was shock that affected me so before.’ She hesitated. ‘But, I beseech you, Messire, to tell me why — ’

  Pelletier turned on her. ‘Enough, no more,’ he shouted.

  Alaïs stepped back as if he had struck her.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said immediately. ‘I am not myself.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘No man could ask for a more loyal, a more steadfast daughter.’

  ‘Then why will you not confide in me?’

  He hesitated and, for a moment, Alaïs thought she had persuaded him to speak. Then the same, shuttered look fell down over his face again.

  ‘All you have to do is show me,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘The rest is in my hands.’

  The bells of Sant-Nasari were ringing for Tierce as they rode out of the West Gate of the Château Comtal.

  Her father rode in front, with Alaïs following behind with François. She felt wretched, both guilty that her actions had precipitated this strange change in her father and frustrated that she did not understand.

  They picked their way along the narrow, dry dirt track that zig-zagged sharply down the hill below the Cite walls, doubling back on itself over and again. When they reached the flat, they broke into a canter.

  They followed the course of the river upstream. An unforgiving sun beat down upon their backs as they rode into the marshes. Swarms of midges and black swamp flies hovered above the rivulets and puddles of torpid water. The horses stamped their hooves and switched their tails, in vain trying to stop their thin summer coats being pierced by the myriad biting insects.

  Alaïs could see a group of women washing clothes in the shaded shallows on the other bank of the river Aude, standing half in and half out of the water as they beat the material on flat grey stones. There was a monotonous rumble of wheels over the single wooden bridge that linked the marshes and villages of the north to Carcassonne and its suburbs. Others waded across the river at its lowest point, a steady stream of peasants, farmers and merchants. Some were carrying children on their shoulders, some driving herds of goats or mules, all heading for the market in the main square.

  They rode in silence. Once they moved from open ground into the shadow of the marsh willows, she found herself drifting away into her own thoughts. Calmed by the familiar motion of her horse beneath her, the singing of the birds and the endless chattering of the cicadas in the reeds, for a while Alaïs almost forgot the purpose of their expedition.

  Her apprehension returned when they reached the outskirts of the woods. Falling into single file, they threaded their way through the trees. Her father turned, briefly, and smiled at her. Alaïs was grateful for it. She was nervous now, alert, listening for the slightest sign of trouble. The marsh willows seemed to tower with malice over her head and she imagined eyes in the dark shadows, watching them pass, waiting. Every rustle in the undergrowth, every beat of a bird’s wing made her heart race.

  Alaïs hardly knew what she had expected, but when they arrived at the glade, everything was quiet and peaceful. Her panièr was standing under the trees where she’d left it, the tips of the plants poking out of the strips of linen. She dismounted and handed her reins to François, then walked towards the water. Her tools lay undisturbed, where she’d left them.

  Alaïs jumped at the touch of her father’s hand on her elbow.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Without a word, she led her father along the bank until she reached the spot. At first, she could see nothing and, for a brief moment, she wondered if it had been a bad dream. But there, floating in the water among the reeds a little further upstream than before, was the body.

  She pointed. ‘There. By the knitbone.’

  To her astonishment, rather than summoning François, her father threw off his cloak and waded into the river.

  ‘Stay there,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Alaïs sat down on the bank and drew her knees up to her chin and watched as her father ploughed into the shallows, paying no attention to the water splashing up over the tops of his boots. When he reached the body, he stopped and drew his sword. He hesitated for a moment, as if preparing himself for the worst, then, with the tip of the blade, Pelletier carefully lifted the man’s left arm up out of the water. The mutilated hand, bloated and blue, lay balanced for a moment, then sl
ithered down the silver flat of the blade towards the hilt, as if alive. Then it slipped back into the river with a dull splash.

  He sheathed his sword, bent forward and rolled the corpse over. The body bobbed violently in the water, the head lolling heavily as if it was trying to detach itself from the neck.

  Alaïs quickly turned away. She did not want to see the imprint of death on the unknown man’s face.

  Her father’s mood was very different as they rode back towards Carcassona. He was evidently relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He exchanged light-hearted remarks with François and, whenever she caught his eye, he smiled affectionately.

  Despite her exhaustion and frustration at not understanding the significance of what had taken place, Alaïs was filled with a sense of well-being too. It felt like old times, riding out with her father, when there had been time enough to enjoy one another’s company.

  As they turned away from the river and headed back up towards the Château, her curiosity finally got the better of her. Alaïs plucked up the courage to ask her father the question that had been on the tip of her tongue ever since they set out.

  ‘Did you discover what you needed to know, Paire?’

  ‘I did.’

  Alaïs waited, until it was clear that she would have to draw an explanation out of him word by word.

  ‘It wasn’t him, though, was it?’

  Her father glanced sharply at her.

  She pressed on. ‘You believed, from my description, that you might know this man? Which is why you wanted to see the body for yourself.’ Alaïs could tell from the gleam in his eyes that she was right.

  ‘I thought he might be known to me,’ he said in the end. ‘From my days in Chartres. A man dear to me.’

  ‘But he was a Jew.’

  Pelletier raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘A Jew,’ she repeated. ‘Yet a friend?’

  Silence. Alaïs persisted. ‘But it wasn’t him, this friend?’

  This time, Pelletier smiled. ‘It was not.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Alaïs was silent for a moment. She was sure her father had never mentioned such a friend. He was a good man, a tolerant man, but even so, if he had talked of such a friend in Chartres, a Jew, she would have remembered. Knowing well enough there was no point pursuing a subject against her father’s wishes, she tried a different approach.

  ‘It wasn’t robbery? I was right about that.’

  Her father seemed happy to answer this. ‘No. They intended to kill him. The wound was too deep, too deliberate. Besides, they left almost everything of value on the body.’

  ‘Almost everything?’ But Pelletier said nothing. ‘They could have been interrupted?’ she suggested, risking pushing a little further.

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Or perhaps they were seeking something particular?’

  ‘No more, Alaïs. This is neither the time nor the place.’ She opened her mouth, unwilling to let the matter drop, then shut it again. The discussion was clearly over. She would learn nothing more. Far better to wait until he was minded to talk. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

  When they were back in sight of the Western Gate, François went on ahead.

  ‘It would be advisable not to mention our expedition this morning to anyone,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Not even Guilhem?’

  ‘I cannot think your husband would be pleased to learn you had gone unaccompanied to the river,’ he said dryly. ‘Rumours spread so quickly. You should rest and try to put the whole unpleasant incident out of your mind.’

  Alaïs met his gaze with innocent eyes. ‘Of course. As you wish. I give you my word, Paire. I will speak of this to no one but you.’

  Pelletier hesitated, as if he suspected she was playing a trick on him, then smiled. ‘You are an obedient daughter, Alaïs. I can trust you, I know.’

  Despite herself, Alaïs blushed.

  CHAPTER 4

  From his vantage point on the tavern roof, the boy with the amber eyes and dark blond hair turned to see where the noise was coming from.

  A messenger was galloping up through the crowded streets of the Cite from the Porte Narbonnaise, with complete disregard for anybody who got in his way. Men were yelling at him to dismount. Women snatched their children from under the thundering hooves. A couple of unchained dogs jumped up at the horse, barking and snarling and snapping at its hind legs. The rider took no notice.

  The horse was sweating badly. Even from this distance, Sajhë could see the lines of white foam on its withers and round its mouth. He veered sharply towards the bridge that led to the Château Comtal.

  Sajhë stood up to get a better view, balanced precariously on the sharp edge of the uneven tiles, in time to see Intendant Pelletier on a powerful grey appear between the gate towers, followed by Alaïs, also on horseback. She looked upset, he thought, and wondered what had happened and where they were going. They were not dressed for hunting.

  Sajhë liked Alaïs. When she came to visit his grandmother, Esclarmonde, she talked to him, unlike many ladies of the household, who pretended he wasn’t there. They were too anxious about the potions and medicines they wanted Menina, his grandmother, to prepare for them – to reduce a fever, ease a swelling, to bring on childbirth or for affairs of the heart.

  But in all the years he’d worshipped Alaïs, Sajhë had never seen her look quite like she had just then. The boy slithered down the tawny tiles to the edge of the roof and lowered himself down, landing with a soft thump and only just avoiding a goat tethered to a lopsided cart.

  ‘Hey! Watch what you’re doing,’ a woman yelled.

  ‘I never touched it,’ he shouted, darting out of reach of her broom.

  The Cite was buzzing with the sights, smells and sounds of market day. Wooden shutters banged against stone in every thoroughfare and alley, as servants and householders opened their windows to the air before the sun became too hot. Coopers watched their apprentices rolling barrels over the cobbles, clattering and bumping and jolting, racing each other to get to the taverns before their rivals. Carts jerked awkwardly over the uneven ground, their wheels creaking and sticking from time to time as they rumbled towards the main square.

  Sajhë knew every shortcut in the Cite and he scampered in and out of the jostling arms and legs, dodging between the tapping hooves of sheep and goats, the donkeys and mules laden with goods and baskets, the pigs, lazy and slow, as they plodded their way through the streets. An older boy with an angry expression on his face was herding an unruly gaggle of geese, which honked and pecked at each other and at the bare legs of two little girls standing close by. Sajhë winked at them and tried to make them laugh. He went right up behind the ugliest bird and flapped his arms.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ shouted the boy. ‘Get away!’

  The girls laughed. Sajhë honked, just as the old, grey goose spun round, stuck its neck out and hissed viciously in his face.

  ‘Serves you right, pèc,’ said the boy. ‘Idiot.’

  Sajhë jumped back from the snapping orange beaks. ‘You should control them better.’

  ‘Only babies are scared of geese,’ the boy sneered, squaring up to Sajhë. ‘Is the baby frightened of a harmless little goose? Nenon.’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ boasted Sajhë, pointing at the girls who were now hiding behind their mother’s legs. ‘But they are. You should watch what you’re doing.’

  ‘And what’s it got to do with you, è?’

  ‘I’m just saying, you should watch out.’

  He moved closer, switching his stick at Sajhë’s face.

  ‘And who’s going to make me? You?’

  The boy was a head taller than Sajhë. His skin was a mass of purple bruises and red marks. Sajhë took a step back and held up his hands.

  ‘I said, who’s going to make me?’ repeated the boy, ready for a fight.

  Words would have given
way to fists had not an old drunk, who was slumped against the wall, woken up and started yelling at them to clear off and leave him alone. Sajhë took advantage of the diversion to slip away.

  The sun was just climbing over the higher roofs of the buildings, flooding sections of the street with slats of bright light and glinting off the horseshoe outside the door of the blacksmith’s forge. Sajhë stopped and looked in, feeling the heat from the furnace on his face even from the street.

  There was a crowd of men waiting round the forge, as well as several younger écuyers with their masters’ helmets, shields and hauberks, all of which required attention. He presumed the blacksmith in the Château was overwhelmed with too much work.

  Sajhë didn’t have the blood or the pedigree to be apprenticed, but it didn’t stop him dreaming of being a chevalier in his own colours. He smiled at one or two of the boys of his own age, but they just stared right through him, as they always did and always would.

  Sajhë turned and walked away.

  Most of the market traders were regulars and had set up in their usual places. The smell of hot fat filled Sajhë’s nose the moment he walked into the square. He loitered at a stall where a man was frying pancakes, turning them on a hot griddle. The smell of thick bean soup and warm mitadenc bread, made from half barley and half wheat, stimulated his appetite. He walked past stalls selling buckles and pots, woollen cloths, skins and leather, both local goods and more exotic belts and purses from Córdoba or further afield even, but he didn’t stop. He paused a while by a stall offering scissors for shearing sheep and knives, before moving to the corner of the square where most of the live animals were penned. There were always lots of chickens and capons in wooden cages, sometimes larks and wrens, which fluted and whistled. His favourite were the rabbits, all squashed together in a heap of brown, black and white fur.

  Sajhë walked past the stalls selling grain and salt, white meats, ale from casks and wine, until he found himself at a stand selling herbs and exotic spices. In front of the table was a merchant. Sajhë had never seen a man so tall, so black. He was dressed in long, shimmering blue robes, a shining silk turban and red and gold pointed slippers. His skin was darker even than that of the gypsies who travelled from Navarre and Aragon over the mountains. Sajhë guessed he must be a Saracen, although he’d never met one before.