Labyrinth

by Kate Mosse

  ‘Gaston and his brother helped.’

  Alaïs turned back to the brutalised figure on the bed. What happened to her, Sajhë?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Has she told you nothing?’

  ‘She . . .’ For the first time, his self-possession faltered.

  ‘She cannot speak . . . her tongue . . .’

  Alaïs turned white. ‘No,’ she whispered in horror, then strengthened her voice. ‘Tell me what you do know then,’ she said softly.

  For Esclarmonde’s sake, they both had to be strong.

  ‘After we heard that Besièrs had fallen, Menina was worried that Intendant Pelletier would change his mind about letting you take the Trilogy to Harif.’

  ‘She was right,’ she said grimly.

  ‘Menina knew you would try to persuade him, but thought Simeon was the only person Intendant Pelletier would heed. I didn’t want her to go,’ he wailed, ‘but she went anyway to the Jewish quartier. I followed, but because I couldn’t let her see me, I stayed back, and so I lost sight of her in the woods. I got frightened. I waited until sundown, but then imagining what she would say if she returned home and found I’d disobeyed her, I came home. That’s when I . . .’ he broke off, his amber eyes burning in his white face.

  ‘Straight away I knew it was her. She had collapsed, outside the gates. Her feet were bleeding as if she had walked a long way.’ Sajhë looked up at her. ‘I wanted to fetch you, Dame, but I didn’t dare. With Gaston’s help, I got her down here. I tried to remember what she would do, which ointments to use.’ He shrugged. ‘I did my best.’

  ‘You did excellently well,’ Alaïs said fiercely. ‘Esclarmonde will be very proud of you.’

  A movement from the bed drew their attention. They both turned back immediately.

  ‘Esclarmonde,’ said Alaïs. ‘Can you hear me? We’re both here. You’re quite safe.’

  ‘She’s trying to say something.’

  Alaïs watched her hands working frantically. ‘I think she wants parchment and ink,’ she said.

  With Sajhë’s help, Esclarmonde managed to write.

  ‘It says François, I think,’ said Alaïs, frowning.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he can help,’ she said. ‘Listen to me, Sajhë. I have bad news. Simeon is almost certainly dead. My father — my father also has died.’

  Sajhë took her hand. The gesture was so thoughtful, it brought tears to her eyes. ‘I am sorry.’

  Alaïs bit her lip to stop herself from crying. ‘So for his sake — Simeon and Esclarmonde also — I must keep my word and find my way to Harif. I have . . .’ she faltered again. ‘I regret I have only the Book of Words. Simeon’s book is gone.’

  ‘But Intendant Pelletier gave it to you.’

  ‘My sister took it. My husband admitted her to our chamber,’ she said. ‘He . . . he has given his heart to my sister. He is no longer to be trusted, Sajhë. It’s why I cannot go back to the Chateau. With my father dead, there is nothing to stop them.’

  Sajhë looked to his grandmother, then back to Alaïs.

  ‘Will she live?’ he said in a quiet voice.

  ‘Her injuries are severe, Sajhë. She’s lost the sight in her left eye, but there is no infection. Her spirit in strong. She will recover if she chooses to do so.’

  He nodded, suddenly older than his eleven years.

  ‘But I will take Esclarmonde’s book, by your leave, Sajhë.’

  For a moment, he looked as if his tears were at last going to claim him. ‘That book, also, is lost,’ he said in the end.

  ‘No!’ said Alaïs. ‘How?’

  ‘The people who did . . . they took it from her,’ he said. ‘Menina took it with her when she set out for the Jewish quartier. I saw her take it from its hiding place.’

  ‘Only one book,’ Alaïs said, close to tears herself. ‘Then we are lost. It has all been in vain.’

  For the next five days, they lived a strange existence.

  Alaïs and Sajhë took it in turns to venture up into the streets under cover of darkness. It was immediately clear that there was no way of getting out of Carcassonne unseen. The siege was unbreakable. There was a guard on every postern, every gate, beneath every tower, a solid ring of men and steel around the walls. Day and night, the siege engines bombarded the walls, so the inhabitants of the Cite no longer knew if they heard the sounds of the missiles or but the echo of them in their heads.

  It was a relief to return to the cool, damp tunnels where time stood still and there was no night or day.

  CHAPTER 61

  Guilhem stood beneath the shade of the great elm in the centre of the Cour d’Honneur.

  On behalf of the Abbot of Citeaux, the Count of Auxerre had ridden up to the Porte Narbonnaise and offered safe conduct to parley. With this surprise proposition Viscount Trencavel’s natural optimism had returned. It was evident in his face and his bearing as he addressed the household. His hope and fortitude rubbed off a little on those listening.

  The reasons behind the Abbot’s sudden change of mind were debatable. The Crusaders were making little progress, but the siege had only lasted a little over a week, which was nothing. Did the Abbot’s motive matter? Viscount Trencavel claimed not.

  Guilhem was barely listening. He was trapped in a web of his own making and could see no way out, neither through words nor the sword. He lived on a knife-edge. Alaïs had been missing for five days. Guilhem had sent discreet search parties out into the Cite and scoured the Château Comtal, but was no nearer to finding where Oriane was keeping her prisoner. He was trapped in a web of his own deceit. Too late had he realised how well Oriane had prepared the ground. If he did not do what she wanted, he would be denounced as a traitor and Alaïs would suffer.

  ‘So, my friends,’ Trencavel concluded. ‘Who will accompany me on this journey?’

  Guilhem felt Oriane’s sharp finger in his back. He found himself stepping forward. He knelt down, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and offered his service. As Raymond-Roger clasped him on the shoulder in gratitude, Guilhem burned with shame.

  ‘You have our great thanks, Guilhem. Who, now, will go with you?’

  Six other chevaliers joined Guilhem. Oriane slipped between them and bowed before the Viscount.

  ‘Messire, by your leave.’

  Congost had not noticed his wife in the mass of men. He flushed red and flapped his hands in embarrassment, as if shooing crows from a field.

  Withdraw, Dame,’ he stammered in his shrill voice. ’This is no place for you.’

  Oriane ignored him. Trencavel raised his hand and summoned her forward. ‘What is it that you want to say, Dame?’

  ‘Forgive me, Messire, honoured chevaliers, friends. . . husband. With your leave and God’s blessing, I want to offer myself as a member of this party. I have lost a father and now, it appears, a sister too. Such grief is heavy to bear. But if my husband will release me, I would like to redeem my loss and show my love for you, Messire, by this act. It is what my father would wish.’

  Congost looked as if he would like the ground to open up and swallow him. Guilhem stared at the ground. Viscount Trencavel could not hide his surprise.

  With respect, Dame Oriane, this is not a woman’s office.’

  ‘In which case, I offer myself as a willing hostage, Messire. My presence will be proof of your fair intentions, as clear an indication as any that Carcassona will abide by the conventions of the parley.’

  Trencavel considered for a moment, and then turned to Congost. ‘She is your wife. Can you spare her in our cause?’

  Jehan stuttered and rubbed his sweaty hands on his tunic. He wanted to refuse his permission, but it was clear the proposal had merit in the Viscount’s eyes.

  ‘My wishes are but the servants to yours,’ he mumbled.

  Trencavel bid her rise. ‘Your late father, my esteemed friend, would be proud of what you do today.’

  Oriane looked up at him from under her
dark lashes. ‘And with your leave, may I take François with me? He too, united as we all are in grief for my worthy father, would be glad of the chance to serve.’

  Guilhem felt the bile rising in his throat, unable to believe any of the listeners would be convinced by Oriane’s show of filial affection, but they were. Admiration showed in every face, bar her husband’s. Guilhem grimaced. He and Congost alone knew Oriane’s true worth. All others were beguiled by her beauty, her gentle words. As once he had been.

  Sickened to the bottom of his heart, Guilhem glanced to where François stood impassive, his face a perfect mask, on the outskirts of the group.

  ‘If you believe it will aid our cause, Dame,’ Viscount Trencavel replied, ‘then you have my permission.’

  Oriane curtseyed once more. ‘Thank you, Messire.’

  He clapped his hands. ‘Saddle the horses.’

  Oriane kept close to Guilhem as they rode across the devastated land to the pavilion of the Count of Nevers, where the parley was to take place. From the Cite, those with the strength to climb the walls stood in silence and watched them go.

  The moment they entered the camp, Oriane slipped away. Ignoring the lewd and rough calls of the soldiers, she followed François through the sea of tents and colours, until they found themselves in the green and silver of Chartres.

  ‘This way, Dame,’ murmured François, pointing to a pavilion set a little apart from everyone else. The soldiers stood to attention as they approached and held their pikes across the opening. One of them acknowledged François with a nod.

  ‘Tell your master that Dame Oriane, daughter of the late steward of Carcassona, is here and wishes audience with Lord Evreux.’

  Oriane was taking a terrible risk coming to him. From François, she knew of his cruelty and quick temper. She was playing for high stakes.

  ‘On what matter?’ demanded the soldier.

  ‘My lady will speak to none but Lord Evreux himself.’

  The man hesitated, then he ducked beneath the opening and disappeared into the tent. Moments later, he came out and beckoned them to follow.

  Her first sight of Guy d’Evreux did nothing to allay her fears. He had his back to her as she entered the tent. He turned and flint grey eyes burned in his pale face. His black hair was oiled back from his forehead in the French style. He had the look of a hawk about to strike.

  ‘Lady, I have heard much about you.’ His voice was calm and steady, but there was a hint of steel behind it. ‘I did not expect to have the pleasure of meeting you in person. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I hope it will be a question of what I can do for you, my lord,’ she said.

  Before she knew it, Evreux had taken hold of her wrist.

  ‘I advise you not to bandy words with me, Lady Oriane. Your peasant southern ways will do you no good here.’ Behind her, she felt François trying not to react. ‘Do you have news for me, yes or no?’ he said. ‘Speak.’

  Oriane held her nerve. ‘This is an ill way to treat one who brings you what most you desire,’ she said, meeting his gaze.

  Evreux raised his arm. ‘I could beat the information out of you, as soon as be kept waiting and save us both time.’

  Oriane held her gaze. ‘Then you will learn only part of what I have to say,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘You have invested much in your quest for the Labyrinth Trilogy. I can give you what you want.’

  Evreux stared at her a moment, then lowered his arm.

  ‘You have courage, Lady Oriane, I give you that. Whether you also have wisdom remains to be seen.’

  He clicked his fingers and a servant brought a tray of wine. Oriane’s hands were shaking too hard to risk taking a cup.

  ‘No thank you, my lord.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he said, gesturing to her to sit. ‘What is it you want, my lady?’

  ‘If I deliver to you what you seek, I wish you to take me north when you return home.’ From the look on his face, Oriane knew she had finally succeeded in surprising him. ‘As your wife.’

  ‘You have a husband,’ Evreux said, looking over her head to François for confirmation. ‘Trencavel’s scribe, I heard. Is that not the case?’

  Oriane held his gaze. ‘I regret to say my husband was killed. Struck down within the walls whilst doing his duty.’

  ‘My condolences for your loss.’ Evreux pressed his long, thin fingers together, making a church of his hands. ‘This siege could yet last years. What makes you so sure that I will return north?’

  ‘It is my belief, my Lord Evreux,’ she said, choosing her words with care, ‘that your presence here is for one purpose. If, with my assistance, you are able to conclude your business in the south speedily, I can see no reason you would wish to stay beyond your forty days.’

  Evreux gave a tight smile. ‘You have no faith in your lord Trencavel’s power to persuade?’

  ‘With all due respect to those under whose banner you march, my lord, I do not believe the revered Abbot’s intention is to conclude this engagement by diplomatic means.

  Evreux continued to stare at her. Oriane held her breath.

  ‘You play your hand well, Lady Oriane,’ he said in the end.

  She bowed her head, but did not speak. He got up and walked towards her.

  ‘I accept your proposal,’ he said, handing her a goblet.

  This time, she took it.

  ‘There is one thing more, my lord,’ she said. ‘Within Viscount Trencavel’s party is a chevalier, Guilhem du Mas. He is the husband of my sister. It would be advisable, if this is within your power, to take steps to contain his influence.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  Oriane shook her head. ‘He may yet have a part to play in our plans. But it would be advisable to limit his influence. Viscount Trencavel favours him and, with my father gone . . .’

  Evreux nodded and dispatched Frangois. ‘Now, my Lady Oriane,’ he said, as soon as they were alone. ‘No more prevarication. Tell me what you have to offer.’

  CHAPTER 62

  ‘Alaïs! Alaïs! Wake up!’

  Someone was shaking her shoulders. That was wrong. She was sitting on the bank of the river, in the peace and dappled light of her private glade. She could feel the cool water trickling between her toes, cold and fresh, and the soft touch of the sun caressing her cheek. She could taste the strong Corbières wine on her tongue and her nose was full of the intoxicating aroma of the warm white bread she lifted to her mouth.

  Beside her, Guilhem was lying asleep in the grass.

  The world was so green, the sky so blue.

  She jolted awake, to find herself still in the dank, semi-gloom of the tunnels. Sajhë was standing over her.

  ‘You must wake up, Dame.’

  Alaïs scrambled into a sitting position. What’s happened? Is Esclarmonde all right?’

  ‘Viscount Trencavel has been taken.’

  ‘Taken,’ she said in bewilderment. ‘Taken where? By whom?’

  ‘They are saying by treason. People are saying that the French tricked him into their camp, and then took him by force. Others, that he has given himself to save the Ciutat. And . . .’

  Sajhë broke off. Even in the half-light, Alaïs could see he was flushing.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They are saying Dame Oriane and Chevalier du Mas were of the Viscount’s party.’ He hesitated. ‘They, too, have not returned.’

  Alaïs got to her feet. She glanced at Esclarmonde, who was sleeping calmly. ‘She’s resting. She will be fine without us for a while. Come. We must find out what is happening.’

  They ran swiftly along the tunnel and climbed the ladder. Alaïs flung the trap door open and hauled Sajhë up after her.

  Outside, the streets were crowded, filled with bewildered people rushing aimlessly backwards and forwards.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’ she shouted at a man running by. He shook his head and kept running. Sajhë took her hand and dragged her into a small house on the opposite side o
f the street.

  ‘Gaston will know.’

  Alaïs followed him in. Gaston and his brother, Pons, rose as she entered.

  ‘Dame.’

  ‘Is it true that the Viscount has been captured?’ she asked.

  Gaston nodded. ‘Yesterday morning the Count of Auxerre came to propose a meeting between Viscount Trencavel and the Count of Nevers, in the presence of the Abbot. He went with a small entourage, your sister among them. As to what happened after that, Dame Alaïs, nobody knows. Either our lord Trencavel gave himself up of his own accord to purchase our freedom or else he was deceived.’

  ‘None has returned,’ added Pons.

  ‘Either way, there will be no fighting,’ said Gaston quietly. ‘The garrison has surrendered. The French have already taken possession of the main gates and towers.’

  ‘What!’ Alaïs exclaimed, looking in disbelief from face to face. “What are the terms of the surrender?’

  ‘That all citizens, Cathar, Jew and Catholic, will be allowed to leave Carcassona without fear of our lives, carrying nothing but the clothes we stand up in.’

  ‘There are to be no interrogations? No burnings?’

  ‘It seems not. The entire population is to be exiled, but not harmed.’

  Alaïs sank down in a chair before her legs gave way from under her.

  What of Dame Agnès?’

  ‘She and the young prince are to be given safe conduct into the custody of the Count of Foix, provided she renounces all claims on behalf of her son.’ Gaston cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry for the loss of your husband and sister, Dame Alaïs.’

  ‘Does anyone know the fate of our men?’

  Pons shook his head.

  ‘Is it a trick, think you?’ she said fiercely.

  ‘There is no way of knowing, Dame. Only when the exodus begins will we see if the French are as good as their word.’

  ‘Everyone is to leave through one gate, the Porte d’Aude to the west of the Cite at the ringing of the bells at dusk.’

  ‘It is over then,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘The Ciutat has surrendered.’