Labyrinth (12 page)

Pas a pas, se va luenh.

The chair creaked as Pelletier leaned sharply back. It was no more than he expected. Harif’s instructions were clear. He asked no more than Pelletier had once sworn to give. But yet, he felt as if his soul had been sucked out of his body leaving only a hollow space.

The pledge he had given to guard the books had been made willingly, but in the simplicity of youth. Now, at the end of his middle years, it was more complicated. He had fashioned a different life for himself in Carcassonne. He had other allegiances, others he loved and served.

Only now did he realize how completely he’d persuaded himself that the moment of reckoning would not come in his lifetime. That he would never be forced to choose between his loyalty and responsibility to Viscount Trencavel and his obligation to the
Noublesso.

No man could serve two masters with honor. If he did as Harif commanded, it would mean abandoning the viscount at the hour of his greatest need. Yet every moment he stayed at Raymond-Roger’s side, he would be failing in his duty to the
Noublesso.

Pelletier read the letter again, praying for a solution to present itself. This time, certain words, certain phrases stood out:
“Your brother awaits you in Besiers.”

Harif could only mean Simeon. But in Beziers? Pelletier lifted the goblet to his lips and drank, tasting nothing. How strange that Simeon had come so forcefully into his mind today, after many years of absence.

A twist of fate? Coincidence? Pelletier believed in neither. Yet how to account for the dread that had swept through him when Alais had described the body of the man lying murdered in the waters of the Aude? There was no reason to imagine it would be Simeon, yet he’d been so certain.

And this: “
your sister in Carcassona
.”

Puzzled, Pelletier traced a pattern in the light surface of dust on the wooden table with his finger. A labyrinth.

Could Harif have appointed a woman as a guardian? Had she been here in Carcassonne, under his nose, all this time? He shook his head. It could not be.

CHAPTER 9

Alais stood at her window, waiting for Guilhem to return. The sky over Carcassonne was a deep, velvet blue, casting a soft mantle over the land. The dry, evening wind from the north, the
Cers,
was blowing gently down from the mountains, rustling the leaves on the trees and the reeds on the banks of the Aude, bringing the promise of fresher air along with it.

There were pinpricks of light shining in Sant-Miquel and Sant-Vicens. The cobbled streets of the Cite itself were alive with people eating and drinking, telling stories and singing songs of love and valor and loss. Around the corner from the main square, the fires of the blacksmith’s forge still burned.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Alais had rubbed her teeth with herbs to make them whiter and basted a small sachet of forget-me-nots into the neck of her dress for perfume. The chamber was filled with a sweet aroma of burning lavender.

The Council had ended some time ago and Alais had expected Guilhem to come or at least to send word to her. Fragments of conversation drifted up from the courtyard below like wisps of smoke. She caught a glimpse of her sister Oriane’s husband, Jehan Congost, as he scuttled across the courtyard. She counted seven or eight
chevaliers
of the household and their
ecuyers,
rushing purposefully to the forge. Earlier, she’d noticed her father reprimanding a young boy who had been hanging around the chapel.

Of Guilhem there was no sign.

Alais sighed, frustrated at having confined herself to her chamber for nothing. She turned back to face the room, wandering randomly from table to chair and back again, her restless fingers looking for something to do. She stopped in front of her loom and stared at the small tapestry she was working on for Dame Agnes, a complicated bestiary of wild creatures and birds with sweeping tails that slithered and clawed their way up a castle wall. Usually, when the weather or her responsibilities in the household kept her confined indoors, Alais found solace in such delicate work.

Tonight she couldn’t settle to anything. Her needles sat untouched at her frame, the thread Sajhe had given her unopened beside it. The potions she’d prepared earlier from the angelica and comfrey were neatly labeled and stored in rows on a wooden shelf in the coolest and darkest part of the room. She’d picked up and examined the wooden board until she was sick of the sight of it and her fingers sore with tracing the pattern of the labyrinth over and over. Waiting, waiting.

“
Es totjorn lo meteis
,” she murmured. Always the same song.

Alais walked over to the glass and peered at her reflection. A small, serious heart-shaped face with intelligent brown eyes and pale cheeks looked back at her, neither plain nor beautiful. Alais adjusted the neckline of her dress, as she’d seen other girls do, trying to make it more fashionable. Perhaps if she sewed a piece of lace to…

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Perfin
. At last. “I’m here,” she called out.

The door opened. The smile slid from her face.

“Francois. What is it?”

“Intendant Pelletier requests your presence, Dame.”

“At this hour?”

Francois shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“He is waiting on you in his chamber. I think there is some need of haste, Alais.”

She glanced at him, surprised by his use of her name. She had never known him to make such a mistake before. “Is something the matter?” she asked quickly. “Is my father unwell?”

Francois hesitated. “He is much… preoccupied, Dame. He would be glad of your company presently.”

She sighed. “I seem to have been out of step all day.”

He looked puzzled. “Dame?”

“Never mind, Francois. I’m just out of sorts tonight. Of course I will come, if my father wishes it. Shall we go?”

In her room at the opposite end of the living quarters, Oriane was sitting in the center of her bed with her long, shapely legs curled under her.

Her green eyes were half closed, like a cat’s. There was a self-satisfied smile on her face as she allowed the comb to be pulled through her tumbling black curls. From time to time, she felt the lightest touch of its bone teeth on her skin, delicate and suggestive.

“This is very… soothing,” she said.

A man was standing behind her. He was naked to the waist and there was the faintest sheen of sweat between his broad, strong shoulders. “Soothing, Dame?” he said lightly. “That was not quite my intention.”

She could feel his warm breath on her neck as he leaned forward to gather the hair from her face, and then laid it in a twist against her back.

“You are very beautiful,” he whispered.

He began to massage her shoulders and neck, gently at first, then more firmly. Oriane bowed her head, as his skillful hands traced the outline of her cheekbones, her nose, her chin, as if he was committing her features to memory. From time to time, they slid lower, to the soft, white skin at her throat.

Oriane raised one of his hands to her mouth and licked the ends of his fingers with her tongue. He drew her back against him. She could feel the heat and weight of his body, could feel the proof of how much he wanted her pressing against her back. He turned her round to face him and parted her lips with his fingers, then slowly began to kiss her.

She paid no attention to the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, until somebody started to bang on the door.

“Oriane!” called a shrill, peevish voice. “Are you there?”

“It’s Jehan!” she muttered under her breath, more annoyed than alarmed by the interruption. She opened her eyes. “I thought you said he wouldn’t be back yet.”

He looked toward the door. “I didn’t think he would be. When I left them, it looked as if he would be occupied with the viscount for some time. Is it locked?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Won’t he think that strange?”

Oriane shrugged. “He knows better than to enter without invitation. Nevertheless, you had better conceal yourself.” She gestured to a small alcove behind a tapestry that hung on the far side of the bed. “Don’t worry,” she smiled, seeing the expression on his face. “I’ll get rid of him as quickly as I can.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

She put her hands around his neck and pulled him down to her, close enough for him to feel her eyelashes brush against his skin. He stirred against her.

“Oriane?” whined Congost, his voice rising higher every time he spoke. “Open the door this instant!”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” she murmured, bending to kiss the man’s chest and his firm stomach, a little lower. “Now, you must disappear. Even
he
won’t remain outside forever.”

Once she was sure her lover was safely hidden, Oriane tiptoed over to the door, turned the key in the lock without making a sound, then ran back to the bed and arranged the curtains around her. She was ready to enjoy herself.

“Oriane!”

“Husband,” she replied petulantly. “There’s no need for all this noise. It
is
open.”

Oriane heard fumbling, then the door open and bang shut. Her husband bustled into the room. She heard the clip of metal on wood as he put his candle down on the table.

“Where are you?” he said irritably. “And why is it so dark in here? I am in no mood for games.”

Oriane smiled. She stretched back against the pillows, her legs slightly apart and her smooth, bare arms draped above her head. She wanted nothing left to his imagination.

“I’m here, Husband.”

“The door was not open when first I tried it,” he was saying irritably, as he purled back the curtains, then fell speechless.

“Well, you can’t have been… pushing… hard enough,” she said.

Oriane watched his face turn white, then red as puce. His eyes bulged in his head and his mouth hung open as he gaped at her high, full breasts and her dark nipples, her unbound hair fanned out around her on the pillow like a mass of writhing snakes, the curve of her small waist and soft swell of her stomach, the triangle of wiry, black hair between her thighs.

“What do you think you are doing?” he screeched. “Cover yourself up immediately.”

“I was asleep, Husband,” she replied. “You woke me.”

“I woke you? I
woke
you,” he spluttered. “You were sleeping like… like this?”

“It is a hot night, Jehan. Can I not be allowed to sleep as I wish, in the privacy of my own chamber?”

“Anyone could have come in and seen you like this. Your sister, your serving woman, Guirande. Anyone!”

Oriane slowly sat up and looked defiantly at him, winding a strand of her hair between her fingers. “Anyone?” she said sarcastically. “I dismissed Guirande,” she said coolly. “I had no further need of
her
services.”

She could see he desperately wanted to turn away, but could not. Desire and disgust were running in equal measure through his dried-up blood.

“Anyone could have come in,” he said again, although less confidently.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Although nobody has. Except for you, Husband, of course.” She smiled. It was the look of an animal about to strike. “And now, since you are here, perhaps you can tell me where you have been?”

“You know where I’ve been,” he snapped. “In Council.”

She smiled. “In Council? All this time? The Council broke up well before it was dark.”

Congost flushed. “It is not your place to challenge me.”

Oriane narrowed her eyes. “By Sant Foy, you’re a pompous man, Jehan. ”It’s not your place…“” The mimicry was perfect and both men winced at the cruelty of it. “Come on, Jehan, tell me where you’ve been? Discussing
affairs
of state, maybe? Or have you been with a lover perhaps,
e
Jehan? Do you have a lover hidden away in the chateau somewhere?”

“How dare you speak to me like that. I—”

“Other husbands tell their wives where they have been. Why not you? Unless, as I say, there is a good reason not to.”

Congost was shouting now. “Other husbands should learn to hold their tongues. It’s not women’s business.”

Oriane moved slowly across the bed toward him.

“Not women’s business,” she said. “Is that so?”

Her voice was low and full of spite. Congost knew she was making sport with him, but did not understand the rules of engagement. He never had.

Oriane shot out her hand and pressed the telltale bulge beneath his tunic. With satisfaction, she saw the panic and surprise in his eyes as she began to move her hand up and down.

“So, Husband,” she said contemptuously. “Tell me what you do consider to be the business of women? Love?” She pushed harder. “This? What would you call it, sex?”

Congost sensed a trap, but he was mesmerized by her and didn’t know what to say or do. He couldn’t stop himself leaning toward her. His wet lips were flapping like a fish’s mouth and his eyes screwed tight. He might despise her, but she could still make him want her, just like every other man, ruled by what hung between his legs, for all his reading and writing. She despised him.

Abruptly, she withdrew her hand, having got the reaction she wanted. “Well, Jehan,” she said coldly. “If you have nothing you are prepared to tell me, then you might as well go. You are of no use to me here.”

Oriane saw something in him snap, as if all the disappointments and frustrations he’d ever suffered in his life were flashing through his mind. Before she knew what was happening, he had hit her, hard enough to send her sprawling back on the bed.

She gasped in surprise.

Congost was motionless, staring down at his hand as if it had nothing to do with him.

“Oriane, I—”

“You are pathetic,” she screamed at him. She could taste blood in her mouth. “I told you to go. So go. Get out of my sight!”

For a moment, Oriane thought he was going to try to apologize. But when he raised his eyes, she saw hate, not shame, in them. She breathed a sigh of relief. Things would play out as she had planned.

“You disgust me,” he was shouting, backing away from the bed. “You’re no better than an animal. No, worse than a beast, for you know what you are doing.” He snatched up her blue cloak, which was lying wantonly on the floor, and threw it at her face. “And cover yourself up. I don’t want to find you like this when I get back, flaunting yourself like a whore.”

When she was sure he had gone, Oriane lay back on the bed and pulled her cloak up over her, a little shaken but exhilarated. For the first time in four years of marriage, the stupid, feeble, weak old man her father had forced her to take as a husband had actually succeeded in surprising her. She had intended to provoke him, certainly, but she’d not expected him to strike her. And so hard. She ran her fingers over her skin, which was still smarting from the blow. He had meant to hurt her. Perhaps there would be a mark? That might be worth something. Then she could show her father what his decision had brought her to.

Oriane brought herself up short with a bitter laugh. She wasn’t Alais. Only Alais mattered to their father, for all his attempts to conceal it. Oriane was too like their mother, in looks and character, for his liking. As if he would care in the slightest if Jehan beat her half to death. He’d assume she deserved it.

For a moment, she allowed the jealousy she kept hidden, from all but Alais, to leak out from behind the perfect mask of her beautiful, unreadable face. Her resentment at her lack of power, her lack of influence, her disappointment. What value had her youth and beauty when she was tied to a man with no ambition and no prospects, a man who had never even lifted a sword? It wasn’t fair that Alais, the younger sister, should have all the things that she wanted and yet was denied. Things that should be hers by right.

Oriane twisted the material between her fingers, as if it was Alais’ pale skinny arm she was pinching. Plain, spoiled, indulged Alais. She squeezed tighter, seeing in her mind’s eye a purple bruise spreading across her skin.

“You shouldn’t taunt him.”

Her lover’s voice cut through the silence. She had almost forgotten that he was there.

“Why not?” she said. “It’s the only enjoyment I have from him.”

He slipped through the curtain and touched her cheek with his fingers. “Did he hurt you? He’s left a mark.”

She smiled at the concern in his voice. How little he really knew her. He saw only what he wanted to see, an image of the woman he thought she was.

“It’s nothing,” she replied.

The silver chain at his neck brushed her skin as he bent down to kiss her. She could smell his need to possess her. Oriane shifted position, allowing the blue material to fall away from her like water. She ran her hands over his thighs, the skin pale and soft compared to the golden brown of his back and arms and chest, then raised her eyes higher. She smiled. He had waited long enough.

Oriane leaned forward to take him in her mouth, but he pushed her back on the bed and knelt down beside her.

“So what enjoyment do you wish for from me, my lady?” he said, gently parting her legs. “This?”

She murmured as he bent forward and kissed her. “Or this?”

His mouth crept lower, to her hidden, private space. Oriane held her breath as his tongue played across her skin, biting, licking, teasing.

“Or this, maybe?” She felt his hands, strong and tight around her waist as he pulled her to him. Oriane wrapped her legs around his back.

“Or maybe this is what you really want?” he said, his voice straining with desire as he plunged deep inside her. She groaned with satisfaction, scratching her nails down his back, claiming him.

“So your husband thinks you’re a whore, does he,” he said. “Let us see if we can prove him right.”

CHAPTER 10

Pelletier paced the floor of his chamber, waiting for Alai’s.

It was cooler now, but there was sweat on his broad forehead and his face was flushed. He should be down in the kitchens supervising the servants, making sure everything was in hand. But he was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. He felt he was standing at a crossroads, paths stretching out in every direction, leading to an uncertain future. Everything that had gone before in his life, and everything that was yet to come, depended on what he decided to do now.

What was taking her so long?

Pelletier tightened his fist around the letter. Already he knew the words off by heart.

He turned away from the window and his eye was caught by something bright, glinting in the dust and shadows behind the door frame. Pelletier bent down and picked it up. It was a heavy silver buckle with copper detail, large enough to be the fastening for a cloak or a robe.

He frowned. It wasn’t his.

He held it to a candle to get a better look. There was nothing distinctive about it. He’d seen a hundred just like it for sale in the market. He turned it over in his hands. It was of good enough quality, suggesting someone of comfortable rather than wealthy circumstances.

It couldn’t have been here long. Francois tidied the room each morning and would have noticed if it had been there then. No other servants were allowed in and the room had been locked all day.

Pelletier glanced around, looking for other signs of an intruder. He felt uneasy. Was it his imagination or were the objects on his desk slightly out of place? Had his bed coverings been disarranged? Everything alarmed him tonight.

“Paire?”

Alai’s spoke softly, but she startled him all the same. Hastily, he pushed the buckle into his pouch. “Father,” she repeated. “You sent for me?”

Pelletier collected himself. “Yes, yes, I did. Come.”

“Will there be anything else,
Messire
?” asked Francois from the doorway.

“No. But wait outside in case I have need of you.”

He waited until the door was shut, then beckoned Alais to take a seat at the table. He poured her a cup of wine and refilled his own, but did not settle.

“You look tired.”

“I am a little.”

“What are people saying of the Council, Alais?”

“No one knows what to think,
Messire.
There are so many stories. Everyone prays that things are not as bad as they seem. Everyone knows that the viscount rides for Montpelhier tomorrow, accompanied by a small entourage, to seek audience with his uncle, the count of Toulouse.” She raised her head. “Is it true?”

He nodded.

“Yet it is also claimed that the tournament will go ahead.”

“Also true. It is the viscount’s intention to complete his mission and return home within two weeks. Before the end of July certainly.”

“Is the viscount’s mission likely to succeed?”

Pelletier did not answer but just continued to pace up and down. His anxiety was spreading to her.

She took a gulp of wine for courage. “Is Guilhem one of the party?”

“Has he not informed you himself?” he said sharply.

“I’ve not seen him since the Council adjourned,” she admitted.

“Where in the name of Sant-Foy is he?” Pelletier demanded.

“Please just tell me yes or no.”

“Guilhem du Mas has been chosen, although I have to say that it is against my wishes. The viscount favors him.”

“With reason,
Paire
,” she said quietly. “He is a skilled
chevalier
.”

Pelletier leaned across and poured more wine into her goblet. “Tell me, Alais, do you trust him?”

The question caught her off guard, but she answered without hesitation. “Should not all wives trust their husbands?”

“Yes, yes. I would not expect you to answer otherwise,” he said dismissively, waving his hand. “But did he ask you what had happened this morning at the river?”

“You commanded me to speak of it to no one,” she said. “Naturally, I obeyed you.”

“As I trusted you to keep your word,” he said. “But, still, you have not quite answered my question. Did Guilhem ask where you’d been?”

“There has not been the opportunity,” she said defiantly. “As I told you, I have not seen him.”

Pelletier walked over to the window. “Are you scared that war will come?” he said, his back to her.

Alais was disconcerted by the abrupt change of subject, but replied without skipping a beat.

“At the thought of it, yes,
Messire,”
she replied cautiously. “But surely it won’t come to that?”

“No, it might not.”

He placed his hands on the window ledge, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to her presence. “I know you think my question impertinent, but I asked it for a reason. Look deep into your heart. Weigh your answer carefully. Then, tell me the truth. Do you trust your husband? Do you trust him to protect you, to do right by you?”

Alais understood the words that mattered lay unsaid and hidden somewhere beneath the surface, but she feared to answer. She did not want to be disloyal to Guilhem. At the same time, she could not bring herself to lie to her father.

“I know he does not please you,
Messire,”
she said steadily, “although I do not know what he has done to offend you—”

“You know perfectly well what he does to offend me,” Pelletier said impatiently. “I’ve told you often enough. However, my personal opinion of du Mas, for good or ill, is neither here nor there. One can dislike a man and yet see his worth. Please, Alais. Answer my question. A very great deal depends on it.”

Images of Guilhem sleeping. Of his eyes, dark as lodestone, the curve of his lips as he kissed the intimate inside of her wrist. Memories so powerful they made her dizzy.

“I cannot answer,” she said eventually.

“Ah,” he sighed. “Good. Good. I see.”

“With respect,
Paire,
you see nothing,” Alais flared up. “I have said nothing.”

He turned round. “Did you tell Guilhem I had sent for you?”

“As I said, I have not seen him and… and it is not right that you should question me in this manner. To make me choose between loyalty to you and to him.” Alais moved to rise. “So unless there is some reason you require my presence,
Messire,
at this late hour, I beg you give me leave to withdraw.”

Pelletier made to calm the situation. “Sit down, sit down. I see I have offended you. Forgive me. It was not my intention.”

He held out his hand. After a moment, Alais took it.

“I do not mean to speak in riddles. My hesitation is… I need to make things clear in my own mind. Tonight I received a message of great significance, Alai’s. I have spent the past few hours trying to decide what to do, weighing the alternatives. Even though I thought I had resolved on one course of action and sent for you, nonetheless doubts remained.”

Alai’s met his gaze. “And now?”

“Now my path lies clear before me. Yes. I believe I know what I must do.”

The color drained from her face. “So war is coming,” she said, her voice suddenly soft.

“I think it inevitable, yes. The signs are not good.” He sat down. “We are caught up in events far bigger than we have the power to control, for all our attempts to persuade ourselves otherwise.” He hesitated. “But there is something more important than this, Alai’s. And if things go ill for us in Montpelhier, then it is possible I might never have an opportunity to… to tell you the truth.”

“What can be more important than the threat of war?”

“Before I speak further, you must give me your word that everything I tell you tonight will remain between us.”

“Is this why you asked about Guilhem?”

“In part, yes,” he admitted, “although that was not the whole reason. But, first, give me your assurance that nothing I tell you will go outside of these four walls.”

“You have my word,” she said, without hesitation.

Again, Pelletier sighed, but this time she heard relief not anxiety in his voice. The die was cast. He had made his choice. What remained was determination to see things through whatever the consequences.

She drew closer. The light from the candles danced and flickered in her brown eyes.

“This is a story,” he said, “that begins in the ancient lands of Egypt several thousand years ago. This is the true story of the Grail.”

Pelletier talked until the oil in the lamps had burned out.

The courtyard below had fallen silent, as the revelers had taken themselves off to sleep. Alai’s was exhausted. Her fingers were white and there were purple shadows, like bruises, beneath her eyes.

Pelletier too had grown old and tired as he talked.

“In answer to your question, you do not have to do anything. Not yet, perhaps not ever. If our petitions tomorrow are successful, it will give me the time and opportunity I need to take the books to safety myself as I am bound to do.”

“But if they are not,
Messire
? What if something happens to you?”

Alais broke off, fear catching in her throat.

“All may yet be well,” he said, but his voice was dead.

“But if it is not?” she insisted, refusing to be soothed. “What if you do not return? How will I know when to act?”

He held her gaze for a moment. Then he searched in his pouch until he’d found a small package of cream-colored cloth.

“If something happens to me, you will receive a token like this.”

He laid the package on the table and pushed it toward her.

“Open it.”

Alais did as she was told, unfolding the material section by section until she had revealed a small disc of pale stone with two letters carved on it. She held it up to the light and read the letters aloud.

“NS?

“For
Noublesso de los Seres
.”

“What is it?”

“A
mere,.
a secret token, which is passed between thumb and forefinger. It has another, more important purpose also, although you need not know of it. It will indicate to you if the bearer is to be trusted.” Alais nodded. “Now turn it over.”