Labyrinth (55 page)

Alais could see the guards had stopped Esclarmonde’s litter. Clutching a kerchief over his mouth, Gaston was explaining his mother was very ill.

The guard pulled back the curtain and immediately stepped back. Alais hid a smile. She had sewed rotting meat into a pig’s bladder and wrapped stained, bloodied bandages around her feet.

The guard waved them through.

Sajhe was several families behind, travelling with Senher and Na Couza and their six children, who had similar colouring. She had rubbed dirt into his hair to darken it too. The only thing she could not disguise were his eyes, so he was under strict instruction not to look up if he could help it.

The line lurched forward once more. It’s my turn. They’d agreed she would pretend not to understand if anyone spoke to her.

2>Toi! Paysan. Qu’est-ce que tu portes la?“ 2>

She kept her head down, resisting the temptation to touch the strapping around her body.

2>“Eh, toi!” 2>

The pike cut through the air and Alais braced herself for a blow that never came. Instead, the girl in front of her was knocked to the ground.

She scrambled in the dirt for her hat. She raised her frightened face to her accuser.

“Canhot.”

What’s she say?“ the guard muttered. ”I can’t understand a word they say.“

“
Chien
. She’s got a puppy.”

Before any of them knew what was happening, the soldier had hauled the dog out of her arms and run it through with his spear. Blood splattered over the front of the girl’s dress.

“Allez! Vite.”

The girl was too shocked to move. Alais helped her to her feet and encouraged her to keep moving, steering her through the gate, fighting the impulse to turn around and check on Sajhe. Soon, she was out.

Now I see them.

On the hill overlooking the gate were the French barons. Not the leaders, who Alais presumed were waiting until the evacuation was over before making their entrance into Carcassonne, but knights wearing the colours of Burgundy, Nevers and Chartres.

At the end of the row, closest to the path, a tall, thin man sat astride a powerful grey stallion. Despite the long southern summer, his skin was still as white as milk. Beside him was Francois. Next to him, Alais recognised Oriane’s familiar red dress.

But not Guilhem.

Keep walking, keeping your eyes fastened on the ground.

She was so close now that she could smell the leather of the saddles and bridles of the horses. Oriane’s eyes seemed to be burning into her.

An old man, with sad eyes full of pain, tapped her on the arm. He needed help on the steep slope. Alais gave him her shoulder. It was the luck she needed. Looking to all the world like a grandson and grand father, she passed directly beneath Oriane’s gaze without being recognised.

The path seemed to last forever. Finally, they reached the shaded area at the bottom of the slope where the ground levelled out and the woods and marshes began. Alais saw her companion reunited with his son and daughter-in-law, then detached herself from the main crowd and slipped into the trees.

As soon as she was out of sight, Alais spat the stones from her mouth.

The inside of her cheeks were raw and dry. She rubbed her jaw, trying to ease the discomfort. She took her hat off and ran her fingers through her stubbly hair. It felt like damp straw, prickly and uncomfortable on the back of her neck.

A shout at the gate drew her attention.

No, please. Not him.

A soldier was holding Sajhe by the scruff of the neck. She could see him kicking, trying to get free. He was holding something in his hands. A small box.

Alais’s heart plummeted. She couldn’t risk going back up, so was powerless to do anything. Na Couza was arguing with the soldier, who struck her round the head, sending her sprawling back into the dirt. Sajhe took his chance. He wriggled out of the man’s grasp and scrambled down the slope. Senher Couza helped his wife to her feet.

Alais held her breath. For a moment, it seemed as if it was going to be all right. The soldier had lost interest. But then Alais heard a woman shouting. Oriane was shouting and pointing at Sajhe, ordering the guards to stop him.

She’s recognised him.

Sajhe might not be Alais, but he was the next best thing.

There was an immediate outburst of activity. Two of the guards set off down the slopes after Sajhe, but he was a fast runner, sure-footed and confident. Weighted down by their weapons and armour, they were no match for an eleven-year-old boy. Silently, Alais urged him on, watching as he darted this way and that, jumping and leaping over the uneven patches of ground, until he reached the cover of the woods.

Realising she was about to lose him, Oriane sent Francois to follow.

His horse thundered down the track, slipping and skidding on the steep, dry earth, but he covered the ground quickly. Sajhe hurtled into the undergrowth, Francois hard on his heels.

Alais realised Sajhe was heading for the boggy marshland where the Aude split into several tributaries. The ground was green and looked like a meadow in spring, but it was lethal underneath. Local people stayed away.

Alais pulled herself up into a tree for a better view. Francois either didn’t realise where Sajhe was going or didn’t care, because he spurred his horse on. He’s gaining on him. Sajhe stumbled and nearly lost his footing, but he managed to keep running, zigzagging through the thicket, leading them through blackberry bushes and thistles.

Suddenly, Francois let out a howl of anger, which turned immediately to alarm. The sinking mud had wrapped itself around the hind legs of his horse. The terrified animal was baying, flailing its legs. Every desperate attempt only hastened its descent into the treacherous mud.

Francois threw himself from the saddle and tried to swim to the edges of the bog, but his body sank lower and lower, clawed down into the mud, until only the tips of his fingers could be seen.

Then, there was silence. It seemed to Alais as if even the birds had stopped singing. Terrified for Sajhe, she dropped down to the ground, just as he came back into view. He was ashen faced, his bottom lip trembling with exertion, and he was still clutching the wooden box.

“I led him into the marsh,” he said.

Alais put her hand on his shoulder. “I know. That was clever.”

“Was he a traitor too?”

She nodded. “I think that was what Esclarmonde was trying to tell us.” Alais pursed her lips together, glad her father had not lived to know it was Francois who had betrayed him. She shook the thought from her mind. “But what were you thinking, Sajhe? Why on earth were you carrying this box? It almost got you killed.”

“
Menina
told me to keep it safe.”

Sajhe“ stretched his fingers across the bottom of the box until he was able to press both sides at once. There was a sharp dick, then he turned the base, to reveal a flat, concealed drawer. He reached in and pulled out a piece of cloth.

“It’s a map.
Menina
said we would need it.”

Alais understood immediately. “She doesn’t mean to come with us,” she said heavily, fighting the tears welling up in her eyes.

Sajhe shook his head.

“But why didn’t she tell me?” she said, her voice shaking. “Could she not trust me?”

“You would not have let her go.”

Alais let her head fall back against the tree. She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of her task. Without Esclarmonde she didn’t know how she could find the strength to do what was required of her.

As if he could read her mind, Sajhe said: “I’ll look after you. And it won’t be for long. When we have given the
Book of Words
to Harif, we will come back and find her.
Si es atal es atal.
‘ Things will be as they will be.

“That we should all be as wise as you.”

Sajhe flushed. “This is where we have to go,” he said, pointing at the map. “It doesn’t appear on any map, but
Menina
calls the village Los Seres.”

Of course
. Not just the name of the guardians, but also a place.

“You see?” he said. “In the Sabarthes Mountains.”

Alais nodded. “Yes, yes,” she said. “At last, I think I do.”

THE RETURN TO THE MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER 63

Sabarthes Mountains

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

Audric Baillard sat at a table of dark, highly-polished wood in his house in the shadow of the mountain.

The ceiling in the main room was low and there were large square tiles on the floor the colour of red mountain earth. He had made few changes.

This far from civilisation, there was no electricity, no running water, no cars or telephones. The only sound was the ticking of the clock marking time.

There was an oil lamp on the table, extinguished now. Next to it was a glass tumbler, filled almost to the brim with Guignolet, filling the room with the subtle scent of alcohol and cherries. On the far side of the table there was a brass tray holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine, unopened, as well as a small wooden platter of savoury biscuits covered with a white linen cloth.

Baillard had opened the shutters so he could see the sunrise. In spring, the trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight silver and white buds and yellow and pink flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks. By this late in the year, there was little colour left, only the grey and green of the mountain in whose eternal presence he had lived for so long.

A curtain separated his sleeping quarters from the main room. The whole of the back wall was covered with narrow shelves, almost empty now. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars. Also books, both those written by him, and the great voices of Cathar history - Delteil, Duvernoy, Nelli, Marti, Brenon, Rouquette. Works of Arab philosophy sat side by side with translations of ancient Judaic texts, monographs by authors ancient and modern. The rows of paperbacks, incongruous in such a setting, filled the space once occupied by medicines and potions and herbs.

He was prepared to wait.

Baillard raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply.

And if she did not come? If he never learned the truth of those final hours?

He sighed. If she did not come, then he would be forced to take the last steps of his long journey alone. As he had always feared.

CHAPTER 64

By the time dawn broke, Alice was a few kilometres north of Toulouse.

She pulled into a service station and drank two cups of hot, sweet coffee to steady her nerves.

Alice read the letter once more. Posted in Foix on Wednesday morning.

A letter from Audric Baillard giving directions to his house. She knew it was genuine. She recognised the black spidery writing.

She felt she had no choice but to go.

Alice spread the map on the counter, trying to work out precisely where she was heading. The
hameau
where Baillard lived didn’t appear on the map, although he’d mentioned enough landmarks and names of nearby towns for her to work out the general area.

He was confident, he said, that Alice would know the place when she saw it.

As a precaution, and one she realised she should have taken earlier, Alice exchanged her hire car at the airport for one of a different colour and make, just in case they were looking for her, then continued her journey south.

She drove past Foix towards Andorra, and then through Tarascon before following Baillard’s directions. She turned off the main road at Luzenac and went through Lordat and Bestiac. The landscape changed. lit reminded Alice of the slopes of the Alps. Small mountain flowers, long grass, the houses like Swiss chalets.

She passed a sprawling quarry, like a huge white scar gouged into the side of the mountain. Towering electricity pylons and thick black cabling the winter ski resorts dominated the skyline, black against the summer blue sky.

Alice crossed the river Lauze. She was forced to shift down into second as the road got steeper and the bends tighter. She was starting to feel sick from the constant doubling back, when she suddenly found herself in a small village.

There were two shops and a cafe with a couple of tables and chairs sitting outside on the pavement. Deciding it would good to check she was still heading the right way, Alice went into the cafe. The air inside was thick with smoke and hunched, mulish men with weather-beaten faces and blue overalls lined the counter.

Alice ordered coffee and ostentatiously put her map on the counter.

Dislike of strangers, particularly women, meant no one spoke to her for a while, but finally she managed to strike up a conversation. No one had heard of Los Seres, but they knew the area and gave what help they could.

She drove higher, gradually getting her bearings. The road became a track, and then finally petered out altogether. Alice parked the car and got out. Only now, standing in the familiar landscape, her nose filled with the smells of the mountain, did she realise that she had in fact doubled back on herself and was actually on the far side of the Pic de Soularac.

Alice climbed to the highest point and shielded her eyes. She identified the
etang
de Tort, a distinctively shaped tarn the men in the bar had told her to look out for. Close by was another expanse of water known locally as the Devil’s Lake.

Finally, she orientated herself to the Pic de Saint-Barthelemy, which stood between the Pic de Soularac and Montsegur itself.

Straight ahead, a single track wound up through the green scrub and brown earth and bright yellow broom. The dark green leaves of the box were fragrant and sharp. She touched the leaves and rubbed the dew between her fingers.

Alice climbed for ten minutes. Then, the path opened into a clearing, and she was there.

A single-storied house stood alone, surrounded by ruins, the grey stone camouflaged against the mountain behind. And in the doorway stood a man, very thin and very old, with a shock of white hair, wearing the pale suit she remembered from the photograph.

Alice felt her legs were moving of their own accord. The ground levelled out as she walked the last few steps towards him. Baillard watched in silence and was completely still. He did not smile or raise his hand in greeting. Even when she drew close, he did not speak or move. He never took his eyes from her face. They were the most startling colour.

Amber mixed with autumn leaves.

Alice stopped in front of him. At last, he smiled. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, transforming the crevices and lines of his face.

“Madomaisela Tanner,” he said. His voice was deep and old, like the wind in the desert. “
Benvenguda
. I knew you would come.” He stood back to let her enter. “Please.”

Nervous, awkward, Alice ducked under the lintel and stepped through the door into the room, still feeling the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was trying to commit every feature to memory.

“Monsieur Baillard,” she said, then stopped.

She was unable to think of anything to say. His delight, his wonder that she had come - mixed with his faith that she would - made ordinary conversation impossible.

“You resemble her,” he said slowly. “There is much of her in your face.”

“I’ve only seen photos, but I thought so too.”

He smiled. “I did not mean Grace,” he said softly, then turned away, as if he had said too much. “Please, sit down.”

Alice glanced surreptiously around the room, noticing the lack of modern equipment. No lights, no heating, nothing electronic. She wondered if there was a kitchen.

“Monsieur Baillard,” she started again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I was wondering… how did you know where to find me?”

Again, he smiled. “Does it matter?”

Alice thought about it and realised it did not.

“Madomaisela Tanner, I know about the Pic de Soularac. I have one question I must ask you before we go any further. Did you find a book?”

More than anything, Alice wanted to say she had. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “He asked me about it too, but I didn’t see it.”

“He?”

She frowned. “A man called Paul Authie.”

Baillard nodded his head up and down. “Ah, yes,” he said, in such a way that Alice felt she didn’t need to explain.

“You found this, though, I believe?”

He lifted his left hand and placed it on the table, like a young girl showing off an engagement ring, and she saw to her astonishment he was wearing the stone ring. She smiled. It was so familiar, even though she’d seen it for a few seconds at most.

She swallowed hard. “May I?”

Baillard removed it from his thumb. Alice took it and turned it over’t her fingers, again discomforted by the intensity of his gaze.

“Does it belong to you?” she heard herself asking, although she feared , say yes and all that that might mean.

He paused. “No,” he said in the end, “although I had one like it once.”

“Then who did this belong to?”

“You do not know?” he said.

For a split second, Alice thought she did. Then the spark of understanding disappeared and her mind was clouded once more.

“I’m not sure,” she said uncertainly, shaking her head, “but it lacks this, I think.” She pulled the labyrinth disc from her pocket. “It was with the family tree at my aunt’s house.” She handed it to him. “Did you send it to her?”

Baillard did not answer. “Grace was a charming woman, well educated and intelligent. During the course of our first conversation we discovered we had several interests in common, several experiences in common.”

“What is it for?” she asked, refusing to be deflected.

“It’s called a
merel
. Once there were many. Now, only this one remains.”

She watched in amazement as Baillard inserted the disc into the gap in the body of the ring. “
Aqui
. There.” He smiled and put the ring back on his thumb.

“Is that decorative only or does it serve some purpose?”

He smiled, as if she had passed some sort of test. “It is the key that is needed,” he said softly.

“Needed for what?”

Again, Baillard did not answer. “Alais comes to you sometimes when you are sleeping, does she not?”

She was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. She didn’t know how to react.

We carry the past within us, in our bones, in our blood,“ he said. ”Alais has been with you all of your life, watching over you. You share many qualities with her. She had great courage, a quiet determination, as do you. Alais was loyal and steadfast as, I suspect, are you.“ He stopped and smiled at her again. ”She, too, had dreams. Of the old days, of the beginning. Those dreams revealed her destiny to her, although she was reluctant to accept it, as yours now light your way.“

Alice felt as if the words were coming at her from a long distance, as if they were nothing to do with her or Baillard or anybody, but had always existed in time and space.

“My dreams have always been about her,” she said, not knowing where her words were taking her. “About the fire, the mountain, the book. This mountain?” He nodded. “I feel she’s trying to tell me something. Her face has grown clearer these past few days, but I still can’t hear her speak.” She hesitated. “I don’t understand what she wants of me.”

“Or you of her, perhaps,” he said lightly. Baillard poured the wine and handed a glass to Alice.

Despite the earliness of the hour, she took several mouthfuls, feeling the liquid warming her as it slid down her throat.

“Monsieur Baillard, I need to know what happened to Alais. Until I do, nothing will make sense. You know, don’t you?”

A look of infinite sadness came over him.

“She did survive,” she said slowly, fearing to hear the answer. “After Carcassonne… they didn’t… she wasn’t captured?”

He placed his hands flat on the table. Thin and speckled brown with age, Alice thought they resembled the claws of a bird.

“Alais did not die before her time,” he said carefully.

That doesn’t tell me…“ she started to say.

Baillard held up his hand. “At the Pic de Soularac events were set in motion that will give you - give us - the answers we seek. Only through understanding the present, the truth of the past will be known. You seek your friend,
oc
?

Again, Alice was caught out by the way Baillard jumped from one subject to another.

“How do you know about Shelagh?” she said.

“I know about the excavation and what happened there. Now your friend has disappeared. You are trying to find her.”

Deciding there was no point trying to work out how or what he knew, Alice replied.

“She left the site house a couple of days ago. No one’s seen her since. I know her disappearance is connected with the discovery of the labyrinth.” She hesitated. “In fact, I think I know who might be behind it all. At first, I thought Shelagh might have stolen the ring.”

Baillard shook his head. Yves Biau took it and sent it to his grandmother, Jeanne Giraud.“

Alice’s eyes widened as another part of the jigsaw slotted into place. “Yves and your friend work for a woman called Madame de l’Oradore.” He paused. “Fortunately, Yves had second thoughts. Your friend too, perhaps.”

Alice nodded. “Biau passed me a telephone number. Then I discovered Shelagh had called the same number. I found out the address and when I didn’t get any answer, I thought I should go and see if she was there. It led out to be the house of Madame de l’Oradore. In Chartres.”

“You went to Chartres?” Baillard said, his eyes bright. “Tell me. Tell me. at did you see?”

He listened in silence until Alice had finished telling him about everything she’d seen and overheard.

“But this young man, Will, he did not show you the chamber?”

Alice shook her head. “After a while, I started to think that maybe it didn’t really exist.”

“It exists,” he said.

“I left my rucksack behind. It had all my notes about the labyrinth in it, the photograph of you with my aunt. It will lead her straight to me.” She paused. “That’s why Will went back to get it for me.”

“And now you fear something has happened to him also?”

“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Half the time, I’m frightened for him. The rest of the time, I think he’s probably all tied up in it as well.”

“Why did you feel you could trust him in the first instance?”

Alice looked up, alerted by the change in his tone. His usually benign gentle expression had vanished.

“Do you feel you owe him something?”

“Owe him something?” Alice repeated, surprised by his choice of words. “No, not that. I barely know him. But, I liked him, I suppose. I felt comfortable in his company. I felt…”

“
Que
? What?”

“It was more the other way round. It sounds crazy, but it was if he felt he owed me. Like he was making up to me for something.”

Without warning, Baillard pushed his chair back and walked to the window. He was clearly in a state of some confusion.

Alice waited, not understanding what was going on. At last, he turned to face her.

“I will tell you Alais’ story,” he said. “And through the knowing of it, we will perhaps find the courage to face what lies ahead. But know this, Madomaisela Tanner. Once you have heard it, you will have no choice but to follow the path to its end.”

Alice frowned. “It sounds like a warning.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Far from it. But we must not lose sight of your friend. From what you overheard, we must assume her safety is guaranteed until this evening at least.”

“But I don’t know where the meeting’s supposed to take place,” she said.

“Francois-Baptiste didn’t say. Only tomorrow night at nine-thirty.”

“I can guess,” Baillard said calmly. “By dusk we will be there, waiting for them.” He glanced out of the open window at the rising sun. “That gives us some time to talk.”

“But what if you’re wrong?”

Baillard shrugged. We must hope I am not.“

Alice was quiet for a moment. “I just want to know the truth,” she said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded.

He smiled. “
Ieu tanben‘
, he said. Me too.

CHAPTER 65

Will was aware of being dragged down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, then along the concrete corridor through the two doors. His head was hanging forward. The smell of incense was less strong, although it still hung, like a memory, in the hushed subterranean gloom.

At first, Will thought they were taking him to the chamber and that they would kill him. A memory of the block of stone at the foot of the tomb, the blood on the floor, flashed into his mind. But, then he was being bumped over a step. He felt the fresh air of early morning on his face and he realised he was outside, in some sort of alley that ran along the back of rue du Cheval Blanc. There were the early morning smells of burned coffee beans and rubbish, the sounds of the garbage truck not far off. Will realised this was how they must have got Tavernier’s body away from the house and down to the river.