Labyrinth (26 page)

“Would you look at that,” he muttered. “
Une femme. Et seule
.”

“Are you certain she’s alone?”

“I can’t hear any others.”

The two men picked up the ends of the rope that lay across the path, concealed under the leaves, and waited for her to come to them.

Alai’s’ courage ebbed as she rode deeper into the wood.

The topsoil was damp, although the ground beneath was still hard. The leaves at the side of the path rustled beneath Tatou’s feet. Alai’s tried to concentrate on the reassuring sounds of the birds in the trees, but the hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck were standing on end. There was threat in the silence, not peace.

It is but your imagination only.

Tatou sensed it too. Without warning, something flew up out of the ground, with the sound of an arrow from a bow.

A woodcock? A snake?

Tatou reared up on her hind legs, slashing wildly at the air with her hooves and whinnying in terror. Alai’s had no time to react. Her hood flew back off her face and her arms came away from the reins as she was thrown backwards out of her saddle. Pain exploded in her shoulder as she hit the ground hard, knocking the breath clean out of her. Panting, she rolled on to her side and tried to stand. She had to try to hold Tatou before she bolted.

“Tatou,
docament”
she cried, staggering to her feet. “Tatou!”

Alai’s staggered forward, then stopped. There was a man standing in front of her on the path, blocking her way. He was smiling through blackened teeth. In his hand was a knife, its dull blade discolored brown at the tip.

There was a movement to her right. Alai’s’ eyes darted sideways. A second man, his face disfigured by a jagged scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, was holding Tatou’s bridle and waving a stick.

“No,” she heard herself cry out. “Leave her.”

Despite the pain in her shoulder, her hand found the hilt of her sword.
Give them what they want and they may yet not harm you.
He took a step toward her. Alai’s drew her blade, slicing through the air in an arc. Keeping her eyes on his face, she fumbled in her purse and threw a handful of coins down on the path.

“Take it. I have nothing else of value.”

He looked at the scattering of silver on the ground, then spat contemptuously. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took another step closer.

Alai’s raised her sword. “I warn you. Do not approach,” she shouted, making a figure of eight in the air with the blade so he couldn’t get near.

“
Ligote-la
,” he ordered to the other.

Alai’s turned cold. For an instant, her courage faltered. They were French soldiers, not bandits. The stories she’d heard on her journey flashed into her mind.

Then she gathered herself and swung the sword again.

“Come no closer,” she shouted, her voice stiff with fear. “I will kill you before I—”

Alai’s spun round and hurled herself at the second man, who had come round behind her. Screaming, Alais sent the stick flying from his hand. Pulling a knife from his belt, he roared and dived toward her. Grasping her sword with both hands, Alais plunged it down on his hand, stabbing at him like a bear at a baiting. Blood spurted from his arm.

She pulled her arms back for a second strike when stars suddenly exploded in her head, purple and white. She staggered forward at the force of the blow, then pain brought tears to her eyes as she was jerked back to her feet by her hair. She felt the cold point of a blade at her throat.

“
Putain
,” he hissed, striking her across the face with his bleeding hand.

“
Laisse-tomber
.” Drop it.

Cornered, Alais let the sword fall from her hand. The second man kicked it away, before producing a coarse linen hood from his belt and forcing it over her head. Alais struggled to get free, but the sour smell of the dusty material caught in her mouth and made her cough. Still, she fought it, until a fist hit her in the stomach and she doubled over on the path.

She had no strength left to resist as they wrenched her arms behind her back and bound her wrists.

“
Reste-ld
.”

They moved away. Alais could hear them going through her saddlebags, lifting the leather flaps and throwing things out on to the ground. They were talking, arguing perhaps. She found it hard to tell in their harsh language.

Why have they not killed me?

Straight away, the answer crept like an unwelcome ghost into her mind.
They would have some sport first.

Alais struggled desperately to loosen her ties, even though she knew that if she did get her hands free, she wouldn’t get far. They’d hunt her down. They were laughing now. Drinking. They were in no hurry.

Tears of desperation sprang into her eyes. Her head fell back, exhausted, on the hard ground.

At first, Alais couldn’t work out where the rumbling was coming from. Then she realized. Horses. The sound of their iron hooves galloping over the plains. She pressed her ear closer to the ground. Five, maybe six horses, heading toward the wood.

In the distance, there was a growl of thunder. The storm was also getting closer. At last, there was something she could do. If she could get far enough away, then maybe she had a chance.

Slowly, as quietly as possible, she started to edge her way off the path until she felt the sharp brambles against her legs. Struggling to her knees, she moved her head up and down until she managed to work the hood loose.
Are they looking?

No one shouted. Bending her neck, she shook her head from side to side, gently at first, then more vigorously, until finally the material slid off. Alai’s took a couple of deep gulps of air, then tried to get her bearings.

She was just out of their line of vision, although if they turned round and saw her gone, it would take them no time to find her. Alai’s pressed her ear to the ground once more. The riders were coming from Coursan. A party of hunters? Scouts?

A crack of thunder echoed through the wood, setting birds to flight from the highest nests. Their panicked wings beat the air, swooped and fell, before falling back into the protection of the trees. Tatou whinnied and pawed at the ground.

Praying that the gathering storm would continue to mask the sound of the riders until they were close enough, Alai’s pushed herself back into the undergrowth, crawling over the stones and twigs.

“Ohe!”

Alai’s froze. They’d seen her. She swallowed a scream as the men came running back to where she’d been lying. A clap of thunder overhead drew their eyes up, a look of fear in their faces.
They are not accustomed to the violence of our southern storms.
Even from here, she could smell the fear. Their skin was rank with it.

Taking advantage of their hesitation, Alai’s pressed on. She was on her feet now, starting to run.

She was not quick enough. The one with the scar launched himself at her, punching her in the side of the head as he brought her down.

“Heretique,
”he yelled as he scrambled on top of her, pinioning her to the ground. Alai’s tried to shake him off, but he was too heavy and her skirts were caught in the thorns of the undergrowth. She could smell the blood from his injured hand as he thrust her face down into the twigs and leaves on the ground.

“I warned you to stay still,
putain
.”

He unbuckled his belt, breathing heavily as he tossed it aside.
Pray he has not yet heard the riders.
She tried to shake him off her, but he was too heavy. She let loose a roar from her throat, anything to mask the approach of the horses.

He hit her again, splitting her lip. She could taste the blood in her mouth.

“
Putain
.”

Suddenly, different voices. “
Ara, ara! ”
Now.

Alai’s heard the twang of a bow and the flight of a single arrow through the air, then again and again as a storm of darts flew out of the evergreen shadows, splintering bark and wood where they made contact.

“Avanca! Ara, avanca!”

The Frenchman sprang up just as an arrow thudded into his chest, thick and heavy, spinning him round like a top. For a moment, he seemed to be held in the air, then he started to sway, his eyes frozen like the stone gaze of a statue. A single drop of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, and then rolled down his chin.

His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, as if in prayer, then very slowly tipped forward like a tree felled in the wood. Alais came to her senses just in time, scrambling out of his way as the body crashed heavily to the ground.

“Aval! On!

The riders rode the other Frenchman down. He had run into the woods for cover, but more arrows flew. One hit his shoulder and he stumbled. The next hit the back of his thigh. The third, in the small of his back, brought him down. His body fell forward to the ground, spasmed, then was still.

The same voice called the halt.
“Arest.
Hold fire.” At last, the hunters broke cover and came into view. “Hold your fire.”

Alais got to her feet.
Friends or men also to be feared?
The leader was wearing a cobalt-blue hunting tunic under his cloak, both of good quality. His leather boots, belt and quiver were fashioned from pale leather in the local style and his boots heavy, unmarked. He looked a man of moderate means and substance, a man of the Midi.

Her arms were still bound behind her back. She was aware that she had little advantage on her side. Her lip was swollen and bleeding and her clothes were stained.

“Seigneur,
my gratitude for this service,” she said, stiffening her voice with confidence. “Raise your visor and identify yourself, so I may know the face of my liberator.”

“Is that all the gratitude I get, Dame?” he said, doing as she asked. Alais was relieved to see he was smiling.

He dismounted and drew a knife from his belt. Alais stepped back. “To cut your ties,” he said lightly.

Alais flushed and offered her wrists. “Of course.
Merce
.”

He gave a brief bow. “Amiel de Coursan. These are my father’s woods.”

Alais gave a sigh of relief. “Forgive me my discourtesy, but I had to be sure you were not…”

“Your caution is both wise and understandable in the circumstances. And you are, Dame?”

“Alais of Carcassona, daughter to Intendant Pelletier, steward to Viscount Trencavel, and wife to Guilhem du Mas.”

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Dame Alai’s.” He kissed her hand. “Are you much hurt?”

“A few cuts and scratches only, although my shoulder pains me a little where I was thrown.”

“Where is your escort?”

Alai’s hesitated a moment. “I am traveling alone.”

He looked at her with surprise. “These are strange times to venture out without protection, Dame. These plains are overrun with French soldiers.”

“I did not intend to ride so late. I was seeking shelter from the storm.”

Alai’s glanced up, suddenly realizing that no rain had yet fallen.

“It’s just the heavens making complaint,” he said, reading her look. “A false tempest, no more.”

While Alai’s calmed Tatou, de Coursan’s men ordered the corpses to be stripped of weapons and clothing. They found their armor and ensigns hidden deeper in the wood where they had tethered their horses. De Coursan picked up the corner of material with the tip of his sword revealing, beneath a coating of mud, a flash of silver on a green background.

“Chartres,” said de Coursan with contempt. “They’re the worst. Jackals, the lot of them. We’ve had more reports of acts—”

He broke off abruptly.

Alai’s looked at him. “Reports of what?”

“It is of no matter,” he said quickly. “Shall we return to the town?”

They rode in single file to the far side of the woods and out on to the plains.

“You have some purpose in these parts, Dame Alai’s?”

“I go in search of my father, who is in Montpelhier with Viscount Trencavel. I have news of great importance that could not wait for his return to Carcassona.”

A frown fell across de Coursan’s face.

“What? What have you heard?”

“You will stay with us the night, Dame Alai’s. Once your injuries have been tended, my father will tell you what news we have heard. At dawn I will escort you myself to Besiers.”

Alai’s turned to look at him. “To Besiers,
Messire
?”

“If the rumors are true, it is in Besiers you will find your father and Viscount Trencavel.”

CHAPTER 27

Sweat dripped from his stallion’s coat as Viscount Trencavel led his men toward Beziers, thunder rolling at their heels.

Sweat foamed on the horses’ bridles and spittle flecked in the corners of their mouths. Their flanks and withers were streaked with blood where the spurs and whip drove them relentlessly on through the night. The silver moon came out from behind the torn, black clouds scudding low on the horizon, lighting up the white blaze on his horse’s nose.

Pelletier rode at the viscount’s side, his lips pursed shut. It had gone badly at Montpellier. Given the bad blood that existed between the viscount and his uncle, he had not expected the count to be easily persuaded into an alliance, despite the ties of family and seigneurial obligation that bound the two men. He had hoped, however, that the count might intercede on his nephew’s account.

In the event, he had refused even to receive him. It was a deliberate and unequivocal insult. Trencavel had been left to kick his heels outside the French camp until word came today that an audience was to be granted.

Permitted to take only Pelletier and two of his
chevaliers,
Viscount Trencavel had been shown to the tent of the abbot of Citeaux, where they were asked to disarm. This they had done. Once inside, rather than the Abbott, the viscount was received instead by two of the papal legates.

Raymond-Roger had barely been allowed to open his mouth while the legates castigated him for allowing heresy to spread unchecked through his dominions. They criticized his policy of appointing Jews to senior positions in his leading cities. They cited several examples of his turning a blind eye to the perfidious and pernicious behavior of Cathar bishops within his territories.