Labyrinth (20 page)

“It is for this that we swallow our pride and go to make peace with my uncle,” he said quietly. “To protect all that is good and innocent and true in our way of life,
e?
And, if necessary, we shall fight for it.”

Like an ancient warrior king, Viscount Trencavel held court in the shade of the holm oak trees. He accepted all the tributes offered to him with grace and charm and dignity. He knew that this day would become a story to be treasured, woven into the life of the village.

One of the last to approach was a pretty, dark-skinned girl of five or six, with bright eyes the color of blackberries, who gave a brief curtsey and offered a posey of wild orchids, white sneezewort and meadow honeysuckle. Her hands were shaking.

Bending down to the girl’s level, Viscount Trencavel pulled a linen handkerchief from his belt and offered it to her. Even Pelletier smiled as the tiny fingers reached out timidly and took the crisp white square of cloth.

“And what is your name,
Madomaisela
,” he asked.

“Ernestine,
Messire
,” she whispered.

Trencavel nodded. “Well, Madomaisela Ernestine,” he said, plucking a pink bloom from the bunch of flowers and fixing it to his tunic, “I shall wear this for good luck. And to remind me of the kindness of the people of Puicheric.”

Only when the last of the visitors had left the camp, did Raymond-Roger Trencavel unbuckle his sword and sit down to eat. When hunger was satisfied, one by one, man and boy stretched out on the soft grass or leaned back against the trunk of a tree and dozed, their bellies full of wine and their heads thick with the afternoon heat.

Pelletier alone did not settle. Once he was certain Viscount Trencavel had no need of him for the time being, he set off to walk by the stream, desiring solitude.

Waterboatmen skated over the water and brightly colored dragon-flies skimmed the surface, shimmering, darting and slipping through the heavy air.

As soon as he was out of sight of the camp, Pelletier sat down on a blackened trunk of a fallen tree and took Harif’s letter from his pocket. He didn’t read it. He didn’t even open it, just held it tight between his forefinger and thumb, like a talisman.

He could not stop thinking of Alai’s. His thoughts rocked backward and forward like a balance. At one moment he regretted confiding in her at all. But if not Alai’s, then who? There was no one else he could trust. The next moment, he feared he had told her too little.

God willing, all would be well. If their petition to the count of Toulouse was favorably received, before the month was out, they would be returning to Carcassonne in triumph without a drop of blood being spilled. For Pelletier’s own part, he would find Simeon in Beziers and learn the identity of the “sister” of whom Harif had written.

If destiny willed it so.

Pelletier sighed. He looked out over the tranquil scene spread out before him and saw in his imagination the opposite. Instead of the old world, unchanged and unchanging, he saw chaos and devastation and destruction. The end of all things.

He bowed his head. He could not have done other than he had. If he did not return to Carcassonne, then at least he would die in the knowledge that he had done his best to protect the Trilogy. Alai’s would fulfill his obligations. His vows would become her vows. The secret would not be lost in the pandemonium of battle or left to rot in a French gaol.

The sounds of the camp stirring brought Pelletier back to the present. It was time to move on. There were many more hours of riding before sunset.

Pelletier returned Harif’s letter to his pouch and walked quickly back to the camp, aware that such moments of peace and quiet contemplation might be in short supply in the days ahead.

CHAPTER 19

When Alai’s woke again, she was lying between linen sheets, not on grass. There was a low, dull whistling in her ears, like an autumn wind echoing through the trees. Her body felt curiously heavy and weighted down, as if it didn’t belong to her. She had been dreaming that Esclarmonde was there with her, putting her cool hand on her brow to draw the fever out.

Her eyes fluttered open. Above her head was the familiar wooden canopy of her own bed, the dark blue night-curtains tied back. The chamber was suffused with the soft, golden light of dusk. The air, although still hot and heavy, carried in it the promise of night. She caught the faint aroma of freshly burned herbs. Rosemary and the scent of lavender.

She could hear women’s voices too, coarse and low, somewhere close by. They were whispering as if trying not to disturb her. Their words hissed like fat dripping from a spit onto a fire. Slowly, Alai’s turned her head on her pillow toward the noise. Alziette, the unpopular wife of the head groom, and Ranier, a sly and spiteful gossip with an uncouth, boorish husband, both troublemakers, were sitting by the empty fireplace like a pair of old crows. Her sister, Oriane, used them often for errands, but Alai’s mistrusted them and could not account for how they came to be in her room. Her father would never have allowed it.

Then she remembered. He was not here. He had gone to Saint-Gilles or Montpellier, she couldn’t quite remember. Guilhem too.

“So where were they?” Ranier hissed, her voice greedy for scandal.

“In the orchard, right down by the brook by the willow trees,” replied Alziette. “Mazelle’s oldest girl saw them go down there. Bitch that she is, she rushed straight back to her mother. Then Mazelle herself came flying into the courtyard, wringing her hands at the shame of it and how she didn’t want to be the one to tell me.”

“She’s always been jealous of your girl,
e.
Her daughters are all fat as hogs and pockmarked. The whole lot of them, as plain as pikes.” Ranier bent her head closer. “So what did you do?”

“What could I do but go and see for myself. I spotted them the moment got down there. It’s not as if they’d made much effort to conceal them-elves. I got hold of Raoul by his hair—nasty coarse brown hair he’s got— and boxed his ears. All the while he was pulling at his belt with one hand, his face red from the shame of being caught. When I turned on Jeannette, he wriggled out of my grasp and ran off without even so much as a backward glance.”

Ranier tutted.

“All the while Jeannette was wailing, carrying on, saying how Raoul loved her and wants to marry her. To hear her talk, you’d think no girl had ever had her head turned by pretty words before.”

“Perhaps his intentions are honest?”

Alziette snorted. “He’s in no position to marry,” she complained. “Five older brothers and only two of them wed. His father’s in the tavern day and night. Every last
sol
they’ve got goes straight into Gaston’s pocket.”

Alais tried to close her ears to the women’s mundane gossip. They were like vultures picking over carrion.

“But then again,” Alziette said slyly, “it was fortunate, as it turned out. if circumstances had not taken you down there, then you wouldn’t have found
her.”

Alai’s tensed, sensing the two heads turn toward the bed.

“That’s so,” agreed Ranier. “And I dare say I’ll be well rewarded when her father returns.”

Alais listened, but learned nothing more. The shadows lengthened. She drifted in and out of sleep.

By and by, a night nurse came to replace Alziette and Ranier, another of her sister’s favored servants. The noise of the woman dragging the cracked wooden pallet out from under the bed woke Alais. She heard a soft whump as the nurse lowered herself down on to the lumpy mattress, the weight of her body pushing the air out from between the dry straw stuffing. Within moments, the grunts and labored snoring, wheezing and snuffling from the foot of the bed announced she was asleep.

Alais was suddenly wide awake. Her head was full of her father’s last instruction to her. To keep safe the labyrinth board. She eased herself up into a sitting position and looked among the fragments of material and candles.

The board was no longer there.

Careful not to wake the nurse, Alais tugged open the door of the bed-side table. Its hinge was stiff from lack of use and it creaked as she eased it open. Alais ran her fingers around the edge of the bed, in case the board had slipped between the mattress and wooden frame of her bed. It was not there either.

Res
. Nothing.

She didn’t like the way her thoughts were tending. Her father had dismissed her suggestion that his identity had been discovered, but was he right?
Both the
merel
and the board had gone.

Alais swung her legs over the bed and tiptoed across the room to her sewing chair. She needed to be sure. Her cloak was draped over the back. Someone had tried to clean it, but the red embroidered hem was caked with mud, obscuring the stitching in places. It smelled of the yard or the stables, acrid and sour. Her hands came up empty, as she knew they would. Her purse was gone, the
merel With
it.

Events were moving too fast. Suddenly, the old familiar shadows seemed full of menace. She felt threats all around, even in the grunts coming from the foot of the bed.

What if my attackers are still in the chateau? What if they come back for me?

Alais quickly got dressed, picked up the
calelh
and adjusted the flame. The thought of crossing the dark courtyard alone frightened her, but she couldn’t sit in her chamber, just waiting for something to happen.

Coratge
. Courage.

Alais ran across the Cour d’Honneur to the Tour Pinte, shielding the guttering flame with her hand. She had to find Francois.

She opened the door a fraction and called his name into the darkness. There was no answer. She slipped inside.

“Francois,” she whispered again.

The lamp cast a pale yellow glow, enough to see that there was someone lying on the pallet at the foot of her father’s bed.

Putting the lamp on the ground, Alais bent down and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Straight away she snapped her arm back as if her fingers had been burned. It felt wrong.

“Francois?”

Still no reply. Alais grasped the rough edge of the blanket, counted to three, then ripped it back.

Underneath was a pile of old clothes and furs, carefully arranged to look like a sleeping figure. She felt dizzy with relief, although puzzled.

In the corridor outside a noise caught her attention. Alais snatched up the lamp and extinguished the flame, then tucked herself in the shadows behind the bed.

She heard the door creak open. The intruder hesitated, perhaps smelling the oil from the lamp, perhaps noticing the disarranged blankets. He drew his knife from its sheath.

“Who’s there?” he said. “Show yourself.”

“Francois,” said Alais with relief, stepping out from behind the curtains. “It’s me. You can put your weapon away.”

He looked more startled than she felt.

“Dame, forgive me. I didn’t realize.”

She looked at him with interest. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running. “The fault is mine, but where have you been at this hour?” she asked.

A woman, she supposed, although why he should be so embarrassed about it, she could not fathom. She took pity on him.

“In fact, Francois, it is of no matter. I’m here because you are the only person I trust to tell me what happened to me.”

The color drained from his face. “I know nothing, Dame,” he said quickly in a strangled voice.

“Come, you must have heard rumors, kitchen gossip, surely?”

“Very little.”

“Well, let us try to construct the story together,” she said, mystified by his attitude. “I remember walking back from my father’s chamber, after you had summoned me to him. Then two men came upon me. I woke to find myself in the orchard, near a stream. It was early in the day. When next I woke, it was to find myself in my own chambers.”

“Would you know the men again, Dame?”

Alais looked sharply at him. “No. It was dark and it all happened too quickly.”

“Was anything taken?”

She hesitated. “Nothing of value,” she said, uneasy in the lie. “Then I know that Alziette Baichere raised the alarm. I heard her boasting about it earlier, although I cannot for the life of me understand how she came to be sitting with me. Why not Rixende? Or any other of my women?”

“It was on Dame Oriane’s orders, Dame. She has taken personal charge of your care.”

“Did not people remark upon her concern?” she said. It was entirely out of character. “My sister is not known for such… skills.”

Francois nodded. “But she was most insistent, Dame.”

Alais shook her head. The faintest recollection sparked in her mind. A fleeting memory of being enclosed within a small space, stone not wood, the acrid stench of urine and animals and neglect. The more she tried to chase the memory down, the farther it slipped away from her.

She brought herself back to the matter in hand.

“I presume my father has departed for Montpelhier, Francois.”

He nodded. “Two days past, Dame.”

“It is Wednesday,” she murmured, aghast. She had lost two days. She frowned. “When they left, Francois, did my father not question why I was not there to bid him farewell?”

“He did, Dame, but… he forbade me wake you.”

This makes no sense.
“But what of my husband? Did Guilhem not say I never returned to our chamber that night?”

“I believe Chevalier du Mas spent the early part of the night at the forge, Dame, then attended the service of blessing with Viscount Trencavel in the chapel. He seemed as surprised by your absence as Intendant Pelletier, and besides…”

He broke off.

“Go on. Say what is in your mind, Francois. I will not blame you.”

“With your leave, Dame, I think Chevalier du Mas would not wish to appear ignorant of your whereabouts before your father.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Alai’s knew he was right. At present the ill-feeling between her husband and father was worse than ever. Alais tightened her lips, not wishing to betray her agreement.

“But they were taking such a risk,” she said, returning to the attack. “To carry out such an assault on me in the heart of the Chateau Comtal was madness enough. To compound their felony by taking me captive… How could they have hoped to get away with it?”