The Rose of the World

by Alys Clare

  The bag was empty, and he turned back to face her. He thought she spoke to him, which was odd because her lips did not move. A voice said: look again.

  He reached his hand right down to the bottom of the bag. To his great surprise, his searching fingers located a small, hard parcel wrapped in linen.

  As he touched it, he thought that a jolt of some sort of energy flowed into his fingertips and up his arm. With a cry, he withdrew his hand.

  ‘Take it out,’ Alazaïs commanded.

  He could not disobey. Nerving himself, he took hold of the package again. This time the shock was not so severe. Curious now – dear Lord, what was this thing he had carried unknowingly all those hundreds and hundreds of miles? – he pulled it out of the bag.

  The parcel was rectangular in shape, about as long as a man’s hand and two-thirds as broad. The linen that wrapped it was yellow with age and tied with a length of twine.

  He held it out to Alazaïs, but she shook her head. Her eyes shining now, her face filled with such anguished yearning that he flinched from her, she whispered, ‘You have brought it to me. You must unwrap it.’

  He placed the package in his lap and with shaking hands untied the knotted twine. He pulled at the linen and it fell away. He stared down at what lay revealed.

  It was a book, made up of several sheets of vellum, fastened together on the left-hand side with a leather cord woven into an intricate pattern. The covers were of board, bound in thick leather into which a pattern had been stamped.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s a book,’ he said stupidly.

  ‘Open it,’ she whispered.

  He did so.

  The first page was densely covered in letters. Ninian could barely read, but he understood enough to appreciate that the words made no sense to him. Whatever language they were written in, it was one he did not know. He turned a page, then another, and sumptuously-coloured illustrations seemed to leap out at him, so vivid, so alive, that he almost thought they moved. One showed a circle of black-robed figures, arms raised, their joy so palpable that he smiled with them. He flicked on through the book and saw a strange cross; another group of people, this time apparently singing; a beautiful scene of pink and gold clouds . . .

  Then on the next page he saw a sight that made him gasp aloud. Two worlds were depicted, side by side. The light world had more of the fluffy, sunlit clouds, now inhabited by human-like figures that were vague and dreamy. The world of the dark, in hideous contrast, was a nightmare land of chaos and misery, its inhabitants wailing in torment as they tore at their hair, nature around them distorted and corrupt.

  ‘Turn the page,’ Alazaïs said sharply.

  He glanced up at her. He wondered how she had known what he was looking at since she had her eyes closed and, anyway, could not have seen the book in his lap, for his shoulder concealed it from her.

  He did as she commanded.

  On the very last page, there was neither writing nor any illustration. Instead, there was a strange pattern of marks, odd little black dots, each with a tail that went either up or down. The marks were set out in careful lines, and the lines covered the whole page. Beneath the marks there were symbols. As he studied the lines, it seemed to him that somehow the symbols related to the marks . . .

  He heard a snatch of music, if indeed music was what it was. Sounds, anyway, such beautiful sounds, in a pattern that stopped his heart and then set it beating in a different way. He was filled with a joy so vast that he felt his solid, earthbound body could not contain it.

  The sounds ceased. He gave an involuntary sound – a groan? A sigh of ecstasy? All strength left him, and he slumped to the ground.

  He was awake. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. Tentatively, he flexed his arms and legs, trying to see if he had been hurt. Everything seemed fine. He opened his eyes and, very carefully, sat up.

  Alazaïs sat in her high chair, dark, immobile, mysterious, like the statue of some ancient goddess from man’s infancy. On her face was a look of bliss. As he looked more closely – for he wondered if she had died – he saw there were tears on her thin cheeks, glistening in the light from the fire.

  After a while she opened her eyes and looked down at him. ‘You have done it, Ninian de Courtenay,’ she said softly. ‘Against all expectations, you have found me and brought to me what I so desperately needed. May you be blessed with a long and happy life, for you have done a deed far greater than you can know.’

  ‘What have I done?’ he demanded wildly. ‘I have never seen that book before, and I had no idea I was carrying it! What is it? Where does it come from?’

  But she held out her hand, and abruptly he fell silent. ‘Sleep,’ she intoned. ‘Sleep now, for your journey has been long and hard, and your heart is sore with sorrow. Sleep, be healed, and tomorrow we shall talk.’

  Her hand waved above his head in a careful dance of precise movements. His eyelids drooped, and he slipped down on to the floor. His last waking awareness was of hands as gentle as a mother’s tucking the sheepskins more closely around him.

  TWENTY

  Shortly after his return to the House in the Woods, and after he and Helewise had enjoyed to the full the family’s relieved welcome, Josse set out for Tonbridge to see Gervase de Gifford.

  He found the sheriff at home. With a glance at Sabin, occupied with her young daughter as she supervised the girl’s efforts to grind some tiny seeds in a pestle, Gervase led Josse outside. He strode across to a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard and, under a weak late autumn sun, the two men sat down.

  ‘Olivier de Brionne is dead,’ Josse said. ‘He died on the road south through France, and I surmise he was hunting for Ninian to silence him.’ He outlined his reasoning, and Gervase nodded.

  ‘You are sure that this dead man was in truth Olivier?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, I’m sure,’ Josse replied. ‘The description fitted and, besides, the wounds matched those Olivier had. One was badly infected, and I guess that was what killed him.’

  Gervase nodded. ‘Poor Béatrice,’ he murmured. ‘Both sons gone, her daughter mistress of her own establishment, and a witless dotard her only company.’

  Josse bowed his head. Aye, he thought, poor Béatrice. In the midst of his own worries and sorrows, he had forgotten hers.

  ‘Ninian is safe, then, from pursuit?’ Gervase said after a moment. ‘The king no longer wishes to hunt him down, and Olivier is dead.’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse said heavily. ‘I was for going on after him to tell him so, but Helewise—’ Abruptly, he stopped. He had acknowledged she was right, but still his decision pained him.

  ‘Helewise persuaded you otherwise,’ Gervase supplied. ‘Well, Josse, I have to say I agree with her. France is a very large country, and the south is in turmoil.’

  ‘So I am told,’ Josse said gruffly. Turning to Gervase and fixing him with an intent stare, he went on, ‘And yet you sent Ninian to the Midi.’

  Gervase looked down at his hands. He was silent for some time, then he spoke. ‘Josse, there is something I must tell you. I deeply regret that I sent Ninian into danger, but hear me out, I beg you, before you judge me.’

  Josse grunted his permission. Gervase was, after all, an old and trusted friend, and Josse was a fair man.

  After a short pause, Gervase began to speak. ‘You may not remember, Josse, but once before, years ago, I spoke to you of my mother.’

  Josse tried to remember, and soon the few facts he had been told came to him ‘Aye, I do recall that you mentioned her. She—’ Suddenly, his head shot up as the details of that long-ago conversation flooded into his mind. And he thought he began to understand.

  Deliberately lowering his voice, he leaned closer to Gervase and said, ‘Your mother is a Cathar. She lives in the Midi with others of her faith, and you told me she wished you would join them, although that is not your wish. You heard what is happening to the Cathars of the Languedoc, and your burning need was to send word to your mother. I understand tha
t, but, Gervase, it sticks in my throat that you used Ninian as your messenger.’

  Gervase bowed his head. ‘I accept your rebuke, Josse,’ he said humbly. ‘May I, though, finish what I have to say?’

  ‘Aye,’ Josse grunted.

  Again, there was a pause as Gervase sought for the right words. Then: ‘The Cathars are besieged down there in the south, but the wise among them knew what would sooner or later happen and made plans. They organized a network of . . . agents? Spies? I do not know what you would call them. These brave men and women are by no means all Cathars, at least not overtly; many are, as I understand it, merely friends and supporters who do not believe that the crusade is right or just. Despite their isolation, the southern Cathars manage to send word to the outside world, via this secret network that conveys messages in and out of the Midi.’

  ‘And you received such a message from your mother?’

  Gervase smiled. ‘I did, although I already knew both that she needed me and what she wanted me to do, for she had – oh, Josse, you will, I fear, find this hard to believe.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Josse said wryly.

  ‘I heard her voice,’ Gervase said in a whisper. ‘I was asleep, or possibly on the point of waking, and I thought I heard her speak. I was at first afraid, for I know she is hundreds of miles away, and then all at once wide awake. And in my mind there was just the one thought, which, no matter how unlikely it is, I believe my mother put there.’

  Fascinated despite himself, Josse breathed, ‘What was the thought?’

  ‘She was in dire need of a certain object, whose whereabouts she was aware were known to me. She wanted me to locate it and send it to her.’

  ‘A magical object?’ Josse asked. ‘A weapon? Something to help them in their struggle to defend themselves?’

  Gervase shrugged. ‘I do not know. I do not think so, unless this thing has powers that it keeps hidden.’ He turned to Josse. ‘But you know of it. You tell me.’

  ‘I know of it? But—’

  Then he remembered.

  He recalled how, long ago, a worried young nun had brought to him an object of mysterious origin that she had found somewhere it had no place to be. He recalled looking at it with her, both of them full of wonder. And he remembered what had happened to that object.

  And memory swiftly brought another realization.

  ‘There is no band of robbers, is there, Gervase?’ he asked softly. ‘You requested the meeting with Dominic because you thought the thing you sought so urgently was still at New Winnowlands, where I told you I had hidden it. Having somehow ascertained from him that his valuable possessions included no such thing, you turned to me. When did you take it from its hiding place? When you pretended to hear voices and sent me hurrying off?’

  Gervase made himself meet Josse’s eyes. His were full of shame. ‘Yes.’

  Slowly, Josse shook his head. ‘Did it matter so very much, Gervase, that you had to lie to me and trick me?’

  ‘I am sorry, Josse, but it did. And, before you ask, I could not take you into my confidence, for already I suspected that Ninian might have to flee because of the crime he was accused of. Had I revealed the secret to you, you’d have known why I suggested my mother’s house as a destination for Ninian and you would have protested.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I—’

  ‘You would, Josse. You would have said, quite rightly, that I was using Ninian’s desperation for my own ends, making use of the fact that he had to run for his life to get this precious book to my mother.’

  Gervase was right, and Josse knew it.

  After some time, Josse said, ‘Why does your mother want the book?’

  ‘I asked myself the same question to begin with,’ Gervase replied, ‘before the full message reached me. Once I had her written words, I began to understand.’

  ‘She wrote to you?’ Josse could scarcely believe it. ‘Did she not fear to put you and your family in danger? This war against the Cathars may well spread, and if you were known to be sympathizers—’

  Gervase laid a hand on his arm. ‘She wrote in code, Josse. I would be surprised if anyone not knowing the key would ever break it.’

  ‘I see. Go on, then. Tell me about this book.’

  Gervase looked up into the pale blue sky, as if searching for inspiration. ‘It – as far as I understand it, the Cathars believe they were brought to earth out of their spiritual existence, and that they will return to that paradise when they die. They try to recall what it was like to live in spirit, but it is difficult. Some of them claim to remember a magical, heavenly strain of music, which they say is the sound of angel song. One or two men with a rare ability wrote down this music, just as a monk writes down plainsong.’

  ‘And that – that music – was in the book?’

  Slowly, Gervase nodded.

  Josse was confounded. ‘But I still do not comprehend the importance of it!’ he protested. ‘What difference can a snatch of music make to people who face being hunted out of existence?’

  Gervase’s face worked, but he kept himself under control. Belatedly aware how tactlessly he had spoken – Gervase’s mother was one of those preparing for a terrible fate! – he began to apologize.

  ‘No, Josse, you speak the truth,’ Gervase said heavily. ‘As to why the music means so much, can you not guess?’

  Josse thought hard, but he could not. ‘No,’ he said shortly.

  ‘They are probably going to die,’ Gervase murmured. ‘Perhaps it is simply that they wish to remind themselves that, beyond the sword, or the flames, a beautiful, perfect world is waiting for them.’

  Josse put a hand to his face and rubbed hard at his eyes. Then, clearing his throat a couple of times, he said, ‘Ninian agreed, then, to take the book?’

  ‘He doesn’t know he bears it. That day I came to warn you that the king had ordered me to hunt for Ninian, I spoke to you in private outside and then I went into the stables alone to fetch my horse. Ninian’s pack stood ready, as you had told me it did, and I slipped the book right down into the bottom of it.’

  ‘If he doesn’t know he carries it, how will he be able to give it to your mother?’ Josse demanded.

  Gervase smiled. ‘She will know he has it, even if he does not. Besides –’ he lowered his voice until it seemed to Josse he was speaking more to himself – ‘the book wants to go home.’

  Postscript

  Deep winter 1210–1211

  Ninian was fast becoming a mountain man. The snows were deep in the Pyrenees, and the fugitive population had consequently relaxed a little. Not entirely – never that – but enough to spend the short days out in the open air, speaking to each other in normal voices rather than skulking in corners and whispering, always afraid that enemy eyes and enemy ears were near.

  The village, like all the mountain villages, was cut off and would remain so until the snows melted in the spring. Simon de Montfort’s army was far away, and it was very unlikely that even the most fanatical of his spies would find a way up the treacherous slopes.

  Ninian had done his best to put his homesickness and his yearning for his loved ones aside. It was easier here than it had been on the road, for many of his new companions were also far from those they loved. Many were separated from their parents, spouses and children by something far more permanent than mere distance, for so many had already been killed that most households mourned at least one kinsman.

  These Cathars were good people; there was really no other word that described them better. Their lives were hard, and they worked long hours; many of them were weavers, working at looms set up in their own tiny homes. There were few luxuries, and the winter was cold and deep, but Ninian never heard anyone complain. Far from it, for the people in the main were light-hearted and quick to laugh.

  Their faith was clearly a fundamental part of them. It filled them with a quiet joy and gave them the strength to put up with hardship. He did not understand the nature of the book he had brought with him, and he was
at a loss to understand how it had got into his bag. Had Josse put it there? He did not know. What he did know, because Alazaïs had told him, was that it somehow reminded them of the bliss from which they had come and to which they yearned to return. In that time of danger, when all their lives were under threat, he thought he could begin to appreciate what that meant.

  Despite their eagerness to answer his questions, nobody tried to make him join them. Not all of them were what they called Perfects, by which they meant those ‘pure ones’ who had taken the ultimate vow. Many referred to themselves as adherents, which seemed to mean people sympathetic to the Cathar faith who did not yet feel ready to give up the earthly things of the flesh.

  Ninian was fast growing to respect the Cathars. Some of them he thought he loved. Alazaïs continued to treat him like a son, and, lonely for his own kin, he responded. And there were others to whom he swiftly grew close because they had known Josse. One of them, a woman, had even known Ninian’s mother.

  He met her one day when she made the difficult journey through the snow to Alazaïs’s village specially to meet him. Pointing to a barely visible scar on her forehead, she told him that Joanna had rescued her from an unspeakable fate and, at grave risk to herself and to her little girl – Meggie, Ninian realized with a pang – had cared for her and helped her to safety. He thought the woman said that Joanna had even killed a man to save her, but the woman spoke the language with a strong accent and he might have been mistaken.

  When the woman got up to leave, she took Ninian in her arms, hugged him tightly to her and said, ‘Your mother I love. You, too, are good, like her.’

  He understood sufficient about the general situation to know that war was coming and that the Cathars would be relentlessly pursued all the time the king and the pope had men to send after them. The elders – both men and women achieved respected elder status in the community – had explained to him how the people were defending themselves, and as far as Ninian could tell, their plan consisted mainly of constructing strong fortresses high in the inaccessible upper reaches of the mountains.