Labyrinth (22 page)

Alais wished she did not have to return to her chamber, but she had no choice. Carefully stepping over Francois, she made her way across the courtyard and back into the living quarters. There was no one about.

Oriane’s faithful shadow, Guirande, was sleeping on the floor outside her sister’s chamber as Alais tiptoed past, her pretty, pouting face slack in sleep.

The silence that met her as she entered her room told her that the nurse was no longer there. She had presumably woken to find her gone and taken herself off.

Alais set to work, wasting no time. The success of her plan depended on her ability to deceive everyone into believing she was too weak to venture far from home. No one within the household could know that her destination was Montpellier.

She took from her wardrobe her lightest hunting dress, the tawny red of a squirrel’s pelt, with pale, stone-colored fitted sleeves, generous under the arm, which tapered to a diamond-shaped point. She tied a thin leather belt around her waist, to which she attached her eating knife and her
borsa,
winter hunting purse.

Alais pulled up her hunting boots to just below her knees, tightened the leather laces around the top, to hold a second knife, then adjusted the buckle, and put on a plain brown hooded cloak with no trim.

When she was dressed, Alais took a few precious gemstones and jewelry from her casket, including her sunstone necklace and turquoise ring and choker. They might be useful in exchange or to buy safe passage or shelter, particularly once she was beyond the borders of Viscount Trencavel’s lands.

Finally, satisfied she had forgotten nothing, she retrieved her sword from its hiding place behind the bed where it had lain, untouched, since her marriage. Alais held the sword firmly in her right hand and raised it in front of her face, measuring the blade against the flat of her hand. It was still straight and true, despite lack of use. She carved a figure of eight in the air, reminding herself of its weight and character. She smiled. It felt right in her hand.

Alais crept into the kitchen and begged barley bread, figs, salted fish, a tablet of cheese and a flagon of wine from Jacques. He gave her much more than she needed, as he always did. For once, she was grateful for his generosity.

She roused her servant, Rixende, and whispered a message for her to deliver to Dame Agnes that Alais was feeling better and would join the ladies of the household in the
Solar
after Tierce. Rixende looked surprised, but made no comment. Alais disliked this part of her duties and usually begged to be excused whenever possible. She felt caged in the company of women and was bored by the inconsequential tapestry talk. However, today it would serve as perfect proof that she was intending to return to the chateau.

Alais hoped she would not be missed until later. If her luck held, only when the chapel bell tolled for Vespers would they realize she had not come home and raise the alarm.

And by then I will be long gone.

“Do not go to Dame Agnes until after she has broken fast, Rixende,” she said. “Not until the first rays of the sun strike the west wall of the courtyard, is that clear?
Oc?
Before that, if anyone comes searching for me—even my father’s manservant—you may tell them that I have gone to ride in the fields beyond Sant-Miquel.”

The stables were in the northeastern corner of the courtyard between the Tour des Casernes and the Tour du Major. Horses stamped the ground and pricked up their ears at her approach, whinnying gently, hoping for hay. Alais stopped at the first stall and ran her hand over the broad nose of her old gray mare. Her forelock and withers were flecked with coarse white hairs.

“Not today, my old friend,” she said. “I couldn’t ask so much of you.”

Her other horse was in the stall next door. The six-year-old Arab mare, Tatou, had been a surprise wedding gift from her father. A chestnut, the color of winter acorns, with a white tail and mane, flaxen fetlocks and white spots on all four feet. Standing as high as Alais’ shoulders, Tatou had the distinctive flat face of her breed, dense bones, a firm back and an easy temperament. More important, she had stamina and was very fast.

To her relief, the only person in the stables was Amiel, the eldest of the farrier’s sons, dozing in the hay in the far corner of the stalls. He scrambled to his feet when he saw her, embarrassed to be caught sleeping.

Alais cut short his apologies.

Amiel checked the mare’s hooves and shoes, to be sure she was fit to ride, then lifted down an undercloth and, at Alais’ request, a riding rather than hunting saddle, then a bridle. Alais could feel the tightness in her chest. She jumped at the slightest sound from the courtyard, spinning round when she heard a voice.

Only when he was done did Alais produce the sword from beneath her cloak.

“The blade is dull,” she said.

Their eyes met. Without a word, Amiel took the sword and carried it to the anvil in the forge. The fire was burning, stoked all night and all day by a succession of boys barely big enough to transport the heavy, spiky bundles of brushwood from one side of the smithy to the other.

Alais watched as sparks flew from the stone, seeing the tension in Amiel’s shoulders as he brought the hammer down on to the blade, sharpening, flattening and rebalancing.

“It’s a good sword, Dame Alais,” he said levelly. “It will serve you well, although… I pray God you will not have need of it.”

She smiled. “
leu tanben
.” Me too.

He helped her mount and led her across the courtyard. Alais’ heart was in her mouth that she would be seen at this last moment and her plan would ruined.

But there was no one and soon they reached the Eastern Gate.

“God speed, Dame Alais,” whispered Amiel, as Alais pressed a
sol
into his hand. The guards opened the gates and Alais urged Tatou forward across the bridge and out into the early morning streets of Carcassonne, her heart thudding. The first challenge was over.

As soon as she was clear of the Porte Narbonnaise, Alais gave Tatou her head.

Libertat
. Freedom.

As she rode toward the sun rising in the east, Alais felt in harmony with the world. Her hair brushed back off her face and the wind brought the color back to her cheeks. As Tatou galloped over the plains, she wondered if this was how the soul felt as it left the body on its four-day journey to heaven. This sense of God’s Grace, this transcendence, of all base creation stripping away everything physical, until nothing but spirit remained?

Alais smiled. The
parfaits
preached that the time would come when all souls would be saved and all questions answered in heaven. But for now she was prepared to wait. There was too much to accomplish yet on earth for her to think of leaving it.

With her shadow streaming out behind her, all thoughts of Oriane, of the household, all fear faded. She was free. At her back, the sand-colored walls and towers of the Cite grew smaller and smaller, until they disappeared altogether.

CHAPTER 22

Toulouse

TUESDAY, 5 JULY 2005

At Blagnac airport in Toulouse, the security official paid more attention to Marie-Cecile de l’Oradore’s legs than the passports of the other passengers.

She turned heads as she walked across the expanse of austere gray and white tiles. Her symmetrical black curls, her tailored red jacket and skirt, her crisp white shirt. Everything marked her out as someone important, someone who did not expect to stand in line or be kept waiting.

Her usual driver was waiting at the arrivals gate, conspicuous in his dark suit among the crowd of relatives and holidaymakers in T-shirts and shorts. She smiled and inquired after his family as they walked to the car, although her mind was on other things. When she turned on her mobile, there was a message from Will, which she deleted.

As the car moved smoothly into the stream of traffic on the
rocade
that ringed Toulouse, Marie-Cecile allowed herself to relax. Last night’s ceremony had been exhilarating as never before. Armed with the knowledge that the cave had been found, she had felt transformed, fulfilled by the ritual and seduced by the power inherited from her grandfather. When she had lifted her hands and spoken the incantation she had felt pure energy flowing through her veins.

Even the business of silencing Tavernier, an initiate who’d proved unreliable, had been accomplished without difficulty. Provided no one else talked—and she was sure now they would not—there was nothing to worry about. Marie-Cecile hadn’t wasted time giving him the chance to defend himself. The transcripts provided of the interviews between him and a journalist were evidence enough, so far as she was concerned.

Even so. Marie-Cecile opened her eyes.

There were things about the business that concerned her. The way Tavernier’s indiscretion had come to light; the fact that the journalist’s notes were surprisingly concise and consistent; the fact that the journalist, herself, was missing.

Most of all she disliked the coincidence of the timing. There was no reason to connect the discovery of the cave at the Pic de Soularac with an execution already planned—and subsequently carried out—in Chartres, yet in her mind they had become linked.

The car slowed. She opened her eyes to see the driver had stopped to take a ticket for the autoroute. She tapped on the glass.
“ Pour le peage,”
she said, handing him a fifty-euro note rolled between manicured fingers. She wanted no paper trail.

Marie-Cecile had business to attend to in Avignonet, about thirty kilometers southeast of Toulouse. She’d go on to Carcassonne from there. Her meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock, although she intended to arrive earlier. How long she stayed in Carcassonne depended on the man she was going to meet.

She crossed her long legs and smiled. She was looking forward to seeing if he lived up to his reputation.

CHAPTER 23

Carcassonne

Just after ten o’clock, the man known as Audric Baillard walked out of the SNCF station in Carcassonne and headed toward the town. He was slight and cut a distinguished, if old-fashioned, figure in his pale suit. He walked fast, holding a tall wooden walking stick like a staff between his thin fingers. His Panama hat shielded his eyes from the glare.

Baillard crossed the Canal du Midi and passed the magnificent Hotel du Terminus, with its ostentatious art deco mirrors and swirling decorative iron doors. Carcassonne had changed a great deal. There was evidence of it all around him as he made his way down the pedestrian street that cut through the heart of the Basse Ville. New clothing shops,
patisseries,
bookshops and jewelers. There was an air of prosperity. Once more, it was a destination. A city at the center of things.

The white paved tiles of Place Carnot shone in the sun. That was new. The magnificent nineteenth-century fountain had been restored, its water sparklingly clean. The square was dotted with brightly colored cafe chairs and tables. Baillard glanced toward Bar Felix and smiled at its familiar, shabby awnings under the lime trees. Some things, at least, remained unchanged.

He walked up a narrow, bustling side street that led to the Pont Vieux. The brown heritage signs for the fortified medieval Cite were another indication of how the place had transformed itself from Michelin guide
“vaut le detour”
to international tourist destination and UNESCO world heritage site.

Then he was out into the open and there it was. Baillard felt, as he always did, the sharp pang of homecoming, even though it was no longer the place he had known.

A decorative railing had been set across the entrance to the Pont Vieux to keep out the traffic. Time was that a man had to squash himself against the wall to avoid the stream of camper vans, caravans, trucks and motorbikes that had chugged their way across the narrow bridge. Then, the stonework had borne the scars of decades of pollution. Now, the parapet was clean. Perhaps a little too clean. But the battered stone Jesus was still hanging on his cross like a rag doll, halfway across the bridge, marking the boundary between the Bastide Sant-Louis and the fortified old town.

He pulled a yellow handkerchief from his top pocket and carefully wiped his face and forehead beneath the rim of his hat. The edges of the river far below him were lush and tended, with sand-colored paths winding through the trees and bushes. On the north bank, set among sweeping lawns, there were well-tended flower beds, filled with huge, exotic flowers. Well-dressed ladies sat on the metal benches in the shade of the trees, looking down over the water and talking, while their small dogs panted patiently beside them, or snapped at the heels of the occasional jogger.

The Pont Vieux led straight into the Quartier de la Trivalle, which had been transformed from a drab suburb into the gateway to the medieval Cite. Black wrought-iron railings had been set at intervals along the pavements to stop cars from parking. Fiery orange, purple and crimson pansies trailed out of their containers like hair tumbling down a young girl’s back. Chrome tables and chairs glittered outside the cafes and twisted copper-topped lamps had elbowed aside the old, workaday streetlights. Even the old iron and plastic guttering, which leaked and cracked in the heavy rain and heat, had been replaced by sleek, brushed-metal drainpipes with ends shaped like the mouths of angry fish.

The
boulangerie
and
alimentation generate
had survived, as had the Hotel du Pont Vieux, but the
boucherie
now sold antiques and the haberdashers was a new age emporium, dispensing crystals, tarot cards and books on spiritual enlightenment.

How many years had it been since last he was here? He’d lost count.

Baillard turned right into rue de la Gaffe and saw the signs of creeping gentrification here too. The street was only just wide enough for a single car, more an alleyway than a road. There was an art gallery on the corner— La Maison du Chevalier—with two large arched windows protected by metal bars, like a Hollywood portcullis. There were six painted wooden shields on the wall and a metal ring by the door for people to tie their dogs where once they tethered horses.