by Kate Mosse
Reassured by the normal, everyday life going on all around her, Alice found herself in a small, pedestrianised square. In the top right-hand corner there was a brasserie with a cyclamen-pink awning and rows of gleaming silver chairs and round tables laid out on the pavement.
Alice got the only remaining table and ordered straight away, making a concerted effort to relax. She knocked back a couple of glasses of water, then leaned back in her chair and tried to enjoy the touch of the sun on her face. She poured herself a glass of rose, added a few ice cubes, and took a mouthful. It wasn’t like her to be so easily freaked out.
But then you’re not in such great emotional shape.
All year she’d been living flat out. She’d split up with her long-term boyfriend. The relationship had been dying on its feet for years and it was a relief to be on her own, but it was no less painful for that. Her pride was battered and her heart was bruised. To forget about him, she’d worked too hard and played too hard, anything to not brood about where things had gone wrong. Two weeks in the south of France was supposed to recharge her batteries. Get her back on an even keel.
Alice pulled a face. Some holiday.
The arrival of the waiter put paid to any further self-analysis. The omelette was perfect, yellow and runny on the inside, with generous chunks of mushroom and plenty of parsley. Alice ate with a fierce concentration. Only when she was mopping up the last threads of olive oil with her bread, did she start to turn her mind to how she was going to spend the rest of the afternoon.
By the time the coffee came, Alice knew.
The Bibliothèque de Toulouse was a large, square stone building. Alice flashed her British Library Readers’ Room pass at a bored and inattentive assistant at the desk, which got her in. After getting lost on the stairs a few times, she found herself in the extensive general history section. On either side of the central aisle were long, polished wooden desks with a spine of reading lamps running along the centre of the tables. Few of the seats were occupied at this time on a hot, July afternoon.
At the far end, spanning the width of the room, was what Alice was looking for: a row of computer terminals. Alice registered at the reception desk, was given a password and allocated a workstation.
As soon as she was connected, Alice typed the word ‘labyrinth’ in the box on the search engine. The green loading bar at the bottom of the screen filled up quickly. Rather than relying on her own memory, she was confident she’d find a match for her labyrinth somewhere among all the hundreds of sites. It was so obvious she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it earlier.
Straight away, the differences between a traditional labyrinth and her memory of the image carved on the cave wall and ring were obvious. A classical labyrinth was made up of intricately connected concentric circles leading in ever decreasing circles to the centre, whereas she was pretty sure the one in the Pic de Soularac had been a combination of dead ends and straight lines which doubled back on themselves, leading nowhere. It was more like a maze.
The true ancient origins of the labyrinth symbol and mythologies associated with it were complex and difficult to trace. The earliest designs were thought to be more than 3000 years old. Labyrinth symbols had been discovered carved in wood, rock, tile or stone, as well as in woven designs or constructed into the natural environment as turf or garden labyrinths.
The first labyrinths in Europe dated from the late Bronze Age and early Iron Age, from 1200 to 500 BC, and were discovered around the early trading centres of the Mediterranean. Carvings dated between 900 and 500 BC had been found at Val Camonica in northern Italy and Pontevedra in Galicia, and in the top northwestern corner of Spain at Cabo Fisterra Finisterre. Alice looked hard at the illustration. It was more reminiscent of what she’d seen in the cave than anything else so far. She tilted her head to one side. Close, but not a match.
It made sense that the symbol would have travelled from the east with the merchants and traders from Egypt and the outer reaches of the Roman Empire, adapted and changed by its interaction with other cultures. It also made sense that the labyrinth, evidently a pre-Christian symbol, should have been hijacked by the Christian Church. Both the Byzantine and the Roman Church were guilty of absorbing much older symbols and myths into their religious orthodoxy.
Several sites were dedicated to the most famous labyrinth of them all: Knossos, on the island of Crete where, according to legend, the mythical Minotaur, half-man, half-bull, had been imprisoned. Alice skipped them, instinct telling her that line of research would take her nowhere. The only point worth noting was that Minoan labyrinthine designs had been excavated at the site of the ancient city of Avaris in Egypt, dating back to 1550 BC, as well as found in temples at Kom Ombo in Egypt and Seville.
Alice filed the information at the back of her mind.
From the twelfth and thirteenth centuries onwards, the labyrinth symbol was appearing regularly in hand-copied medieval manuscripts that circulated around the monasteries and courts of Europe, with scribes embellishing and developing illustrations, creating their own trademark designs.
By the early medieval period, a mathematically perfect eleven-circuit, twelve-wall, four-axis labyrinth had become the most popular form of all. She looked at a reproduction of the carving of a labyrinth on the wall of the thirteenth-century church of St Pantaleon in Arcera, northern Spain, and another, slightly earlier, from the cathedral of Lucca in Tuscany. She clicked on a map showing the occurrence of labyrinths in European churches, chapels and cathedrals.
That’s extraordinary.
Alice could hardly believe her eyes. There were more labyrinths in France than in the whole of Italy, Belgium, Germany, Spain, England and Ireland put together: Amiens, St Quentin, Arras, St Omer, Caen and Bayeux in northern France; Poitiers, Orléans, Sens and Auxerre in the centre; Toulouse and Mirepoix in the southwest; the list went on and on.
The most famous pavement labyrinth of all was in northern France, set in the centre of the nave of the first — and most impressive — of the gothic medieval cathedrals, Chartres.
Alice smacked her hand on the table, causing several disapproving heads to pop up around her. Of course. How stupid could she be? Chartres was twinned with her home town of Chichester, on the English south coast. In fact, her first visit abroad had been on a school trip to Chartres when she was eleven. She had vague memories of it raining all the time and standing huddled in a raincoat, cold and damp, beneath imposing stone pillars and vaults. But she had no recollection of the labyrinth.
There was no labyrinth in Chichester Cathedral, but the city was also twinned with Ravenna in Italy. Alice ran her finger across the screen until she’d found what she was looking for. Laid into the marble floor of the church of San Vitale in Ravenna was a labyrinth. According to the caption it was only a quarter of the size of the labyrinth in Chartres and dated to a much earlier period in history, perhaps as far back as the fifth century AD, but was there all the same.
Alice finished cutting and pasting the text she wanted into a word document and hit PRINT. Once it was going, she typed ‘Cathedral Chartres France’ into the search box.
Although there had been some sort of structure on the site as far back as the eighth century, she discovered the current cathedral in Chartres dated from the thirteenth century. Ever since then, esoteric beliefs and theories had attached themselves to the building. There were rumours that within its vaulting roof and elaborate stone pillars was concealed a secret of great significance. Despite the strenuous efforts of the Catholic Church, these legends and myths endured.
No one knew on whose orders the labyrinth had been built or for what purpose.
Alice selected the paragraphs she needed, and then exited.
The last page finished printing and the machine fell silent. All around people were beginning to pack up. The sour-faced receptionist caught her eye and tapped her watch.
Alice nodded and gathered her papers, then joined the line at the counter waiting to pay. The queue move
d slowly. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight fell through the high windows in Jacob’s ladders, making the particles of dust dance in the beams.
The woman in front of Alice had an armful of books to check out and seemed to have a query about each one. She let her mind focus on the worry that had been bugging her all afternoon. Was it likely that in all the hundreds of images she’d looked at, in all the hundreds and thousands of words, there hadn’t been a single exact match for the stone labyrinth at the Pic de Soularac?
Possible, but not likely.
The man behind her was standing too close, like someone on a tube train trying to read the newspaper over her shoulder. Alice turned and glared at him. He took a step back. His face was vaguely familiar.
‘Oui, merci,’ she said, as she got to the desk and paid for the printing she’d done. Nearly thirty sheets in all.
As she emerged on to the steps of the library the bells of Saint-Etienne were striking seven. She’d been in there longer than she realised.
Keen to be on her way now, Alice hurried back to where she’d parked the car on the far side of the river. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the man from the queue following her along the river walkway, keeping a safe distance. And she didn’t notice him take a phone from his pocket and make a call as she pulled out into the slow-moving traffic.
THE GUARDIANS OF THE BOOKS
CHAPTER 26
Besièrs
JULHET 1209
Dusk was falling as Alaïs reached the plains outside the town of Coursan.
She had made good speed, following the old Roman road through the Minervois towards Capestang, across the sweeping hemp fields, the canabières, and the emerald seas of barley.
Each day since setting out from Carcassonne, Alaïs had ridden until the sun became too fierce. Then she and Tatou took shelter and rested, before travelling on until dusk when the air was filled with biting insects and the cries of night jays, owls and bats.
The first night she’d found lodgings in the fortified town of Azille with friends of Esclarmonde. As she travelled further east, she saw fewer people in the fields and villages and those that she did see were suspicious, wariness showing in their dark eyes. She heard rumours of atrocities committed by renegade bands of French soldiers or by routiers, mercenaries, bandits. Each tale was more bloody, more wicked than the last.
Alaïs pulled Tatou to a walk, not sure if she should press on to Coursan or look for shelter close by. The clouds were marching fast across an increasingly angry grey sky and the air was very still. In the distance, there was the occasional rumble of thunder, growling like a bear waking from a winter sleep. Alaïs did not want to risk being caught in the open when the storm hit.
Tatou was nervous. Alaïs could feel her tendons bristling beneath her coat and twice she shied away from sudden movements of hare or fox in hedgerows at the roadside.
Ahead Alaïs could see there was a small copse of oak and ash. It wasn’t dense enough to be the natural summer habitat of larger animals, such as wild boar or lynx. But the trees were tall and generous and the tops of their branches looked to be woven tightly together, like entwined fingers, which would provide good cover. The fact there was a clear path, a winding ribbon of dry earth worn away by countless feet, suggested the wood was a popular local shortcut to the town.
Tatou shifted uneasily beneath her as a flicker of lightning momentarily lit the darkening sky. It helped her make up her mind. She would wait until the storm had passed over.
Whispering encouragement, Alaïs persuaded the mare forward into the dark green embrace of the wood.
The men had lost their quarry some time earlier. Only the threat of a storm prevented them doubling back and returning to camp.
After several weeks of riding, their pale French skin was tanned dark by the fierce southern sun. Their travelling armour and surcoats, bearing the arms of their master, lay hidden in the thicket. They hoped yet to retrieve something from their abortive mission.
A sound. The crack of a dried branch, the rolling gait of a bridled horse, the iron of its hooves striking occasional pieces of stone.
A man with a mouthful of jagged, blackened teeth crawled forward to get a better look. Some way off he could see a figure on a small, chestnut Arab threading its way through the woods. He leered. Perhaps their sortie was not going to be a waste of time after all. The rider’s clothes were plain and worth little, but a horse of that calibre would fetch a good price.
He threw a stone at his companion hidden on the other side of the track.
‘Leve-toi!’he said, jerking his head towards Alaïs. ‘Regarde.’
Would you look at that,’ he muttered. ‘Une femme. Et seule.’
‘Are you certain she’s alone?’
‘I can’t hear any others.’
The two men picked up the ends of the rope that lay across the path, concealed under the leaves, and waited for her to come to them.
Alaïs’ courage ebbed as she rode deeper into the wood.
The topsoil was damp, although the ground beneath was still hard. The leaves at the side of the path rustled beneath Tatou’s feet. Alaïs tried to concentrate on the reassuring sounds of the birds in the trees, but the hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck were standing on end. There was threat in the silence, not peace.
It is but your imagination only.
Tatou sensed it too. Without warning, something flew up out of the ground, with the sound of an arrow from a bow.
A woodcock? A snake?
Tatou reared up on her hind legs, slashing wildly at the air with her hooves and whinnying in terror. Alaïs had no time to react. Her hood flew back off her face and her arms came away from the reins as she was thrown backwards out of her saddle. Pain exploded in her shoulder as she hit the ground hard, knocking the breath clean out of her. Panting, she rolled on to her side and tried to stand. She had to try to hold Tatou before she bolted.
‘Tatou, doçament,’ she cried, staggering to her feet. ‘Tatou!’
Alaïs staggered forward, then stopped. There was a man standing in front of her on the path, blocking her way. He was smiling through blackened teeth. In his hand was a knife, its dull blade discoloured brown at the tip.
There was a movement to her right. Alaïs’ eyes darted sideways. A second man, his face disfigured by a jagged scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, was holding Tatou’s bridle and waving a stick.
‘No,’ she heard herself cry out. ‘Leave her.’
Despite the pain in her shoulder, her hand found the hilt of her sword. Give them what they want and they may yet not harm you. He took a step towards her. Alaïs drew her blade, slicing through the air in an arc. Keeping her eyes on his face, she fumbled in her purse and threw a handful of coins down on the path.
‘Take it. I have nothing else of value.’
He looked at the scattering of silver on the ground, then spat contemptuously. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took another step closer.
Alaïs raised her sword. ‘I warn you. Do not approach,’ she shouted, making a figure of eight in the air with the blade so he couldn’t get near.
‘Ligote-la,’ he ordered to the other.
Alaïs turned cold. For an instant, her courage faltered. They were French soldiers, not bandits. The stories she’d heard on her journey flashed into her mind.
Then she gathered herself and swung the sword again.
‘Come no closer,’ she shouted, her voice stiff with fear. ‘I will kill you before I — ’
Alaïs spun round and hurled herself at the second man, who had come round behind her. Screaming, Alaïs sent the stick flying from his hand. Pulling a knife from his belt, he roared and dived towards her. Grasping her sword with both hands, Alaïs plunged it down on his hand, stabbing at him like a bear at a baiting. Blood spurted from his arm.
She pulled her arms back for a second strike when stars suddenly exploded in her head, purple and white. Sh
e staggered forward at the force of the blow, then pain brought tears to her eyes as she was jerked back to her feet by her hair. She felt the cold point of a blade at her throat.
‘Putain,’ he hissed, striking her across the face with his bleeding hand.
‘Laisse tomber.’ Drop it.
Cornered, Alaïs let the sword fall from her hand. The second man kicked it away, before producing a coarse linen hood from his belt and forcing it over her head. Alaïs struggled to get free, but the sour smell of the dusty material caught in her mouth and made her cough. Still, she fought it, until a fist hit her in the stomach and she doubled over on the path.
She had no strength left to resist as they wrenched her arms behind her back and bound her wrists.
‘Reste là.’
They moved away. Alaïs could hear them going through her saddlebags, lifting the leather flaps and throwing things out on to the ground. They were talking, arguing perhaps. She found it hard to tell in their harsh language.
Why have they not killed me?
Straight away, the answer crept like an unwelcome ghost into her mind. They would have some sport first.
Alaïs struggled desperately to loosen her ties, even though she knew that if she did get her hands free, she wouldn’t get far. They’d hunt her down. They were laughing now. Drinking. They were in no hurry.
Tears of desperation sprang into her eyes. Her head fell back, exhausted, on the hard ground.
At first, Alaïs couldn’t work out where the rumbling was coming from. Then she realised. Horses. The sound of their iron hooves galloping over the plains. She pressed her ear closer to the ground. Five, maybe six horses, heading towards the wood.
In the distance, there was a growl of thunder. The storm was also getting closer. At last, there was something she could do. If she could get far enough away, then maybe she had a chance.