“In the meantime, Sajhe thought little about the village. Morsels of news about Alais reached Mirepoix from time to time, brought by shepherds or paifaits, but she did not visit. Thanks to her sister Oriane, Alais was a fugitive with a price on her head. Harif sent money to purchase Sajhe a hauberk, a palfrey, armour and a sword. He was dubbed when he was only fifteen.” He hesitated. “Shortly after that, he went to war. Those who had thrown in their lot with the French, hoping for clemency, switched allegiance, including the Count of Toulouse. This time when he called on his liege lord, Pedro II of Aragon, Pedro accepted his responsibilities and in January 1213 rode north. Together with the Count of Foix, their combined forces were large enough to inflict significant damage on de Montfort’s depleted forces.
“In September 1213, the two armies, north against south, came face to face at Muret. Pedro was a brave leader and a skilled strategist, but the attack was badly mismanaged and, in the heat of battle, Pedro was slain. The South had lost its leader.”
Baillard stopped. “Among those fighting for independence was a chevalier from Carcassona. Guilhem du Mas.” He paused. “He acquitted himself well. He was well liked. Men were drawn to him.”
An odd tone had entered his voice, admiration, mixed with something else Alice could not identify. Before she could think more of it, Baillard continued. “On the twenty-fifth day of June, 1218, the wolf was slain.”
“The wolf?”
He raised his hands. “Forgive me. In the songs of the time, for example the Canso de lo Crosada, de Montfort was known as the wolf. He was killed besieging Tolosa. He was hit on the head by stone from a catapult, it said, operated by a woman.” Alice couldn’t help herself smiling. “They carried his body back to Carcassona and saw him buried in the northern manner. His heart, liver, stomach, were taken to Sant-Cerni and the bones to Sant-Nasari to be buried beneath a gravestone, which now hangs on the wall of the south transept of the Basilica.” He paused. “Perhaps you noticed it on your visit to the Ciutat?
Alice blushed. “I… I found that I could not enter the Cathedral,” she admitted. Baillard looked quickly at her, but said nothing more about the stone.
“Simon de Montfort’s son, Amaury, succeeded him, but he was not the commander his father was and, straight away, he began to lose the lands his father had taken. In 1224, Amaury withdrew. The de Montfort family relinquished their claim to the Trencavel lands. Sajhe was free to return home. Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix was reluctant to allow him to leave, but Sajhe had…”
He broke off, then stood up and wandered some way from her down the hill. When he spoke, he did not turn.
“He was twenty-six,” he said. “Alais was older, but Sajhe”… he had hopes. He looked on Alais with different eyes, no longer the brother to the sister. He knew they could not marry, for Guilhem du Mas still lived, but he dreamed, now he had proved himself, that there could be more between them.“
Alice hesitated, then went to stand beside him. When she placed her hand on his arm, Baillard jolted, as if he had forgotten she was there at all.
“What happened?” she said quietly, feeling oddly anxious. She felt as if she was somehow eavesdropping, as if it was too intimate a story to be shared.
“He gathered his courage to speak.” He faltered. “Harif knew. If Sajhe had asked his advice, he would have given it. As it was, he kept his counsel.”
“Perhaps Sajhe knew he wouldn’t wish to hear what Harif had to say.”
Baillard gave a half-smile, sad. “Benleu.” Perhaps. Alice waited.
“So…” she prompted, when it was clear he was not going to continue. “Did Sajhe tell her what he felt?”
“He did.”
“Well?” said Alice quickly. “What did she say?”
Baillard turned and looked at her. “Do you not know?” he said, almost in a whisper. “Pray God that you never know what it is like to love, like that, without hope of that love being returned.”
Alice sprang to Alais’ defence, crazy as it was.
“But she did love him,” she said firmly. “As a brother. Was that not enough?”
Baillard turned and smiled at her. “It was what he settled for,” he replied. “But enough? No. It was not enough.”
He turned and started to walk back towards the house. “Shall we?” he said, formal again. “I am a little hot. You, Madomaisela Tanner, must be tired after your long journey.”
Alice noticed how pale, how exhausted he suddenly looked and felt guilty. She glanced at her watch and saw they’d been talking for longer than she’d realised. It was nearly midday.
“Of course,” she said quickly, offering him her arm. They walked slowly back to the house together.
“If you will excuse me,” he said quietly, once back inside. “I must sleep a while. Perhaps you should rest also?”
“I am tired,” she admitted.
When I awake, I will prepare food, then I will finish the story. Before dusk falls and we turn our mind to other things.“
She waited until he had walked to the back of the house and drawn the curtain behind him. Then, feeling strangely bereft, Alice took a blanket for a pillow and went back outside.
She settled herself under the trees. She realised only then that the past had so held her imagination that she’d not thought about Shelagh or Will once.
CHAPTER 68
What are you doing?“ asked Francois-Baptiste, coming into the room of the small, anonymous chalet not far from the Pic de Soularac.
Marie-Cecile was sitting at the table with the Book of Numbers open on a black padded book rest in front of her. She didn’t look up.
“Studying the layout of the chamber.”
Francois-Baptiste sat down beside her. “For any particular reason?”
“To remind myself of the points of difference between this diagram and the labyrinth cave itself.”
She felt him peering over her shoulder.
“Are there many?” he asked.
“A few. This,” she said, her finger hovering above the book, her red nail varnish just visible through her protective cotton gloves. “Our altar is here, as marked. In the actual cave it is closer to the wall.”
“Doesn’t that mean the labyrinth carving is obscured?”
She turned to look at him, surprised at the intelligence of the comment.
“But if the original guardians used the Book of Numbers for their ceremonies, as the Noublesso Veritable did, shouldn’t they be the same?”
“You would think so, yes,” she said. There is no tomb, that is the most obvious variation, although interestingly the grave where the skeletons were lying was in that exact position.“
“Have you heard any more about the bodies?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“So we still don’t know who they are?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” he replied, although she could see her lack of interest bothered him.
“On balance,” she continued, “I don’t think any of these things matter. It is the pattern that is significant, the path walked by the Navigataire as the words are spoken.”
“You’re confident you’ll be able to read the parchment in the Book of Words?”
“Provided it dates from the same period as the other parchments, then yes. The hieroglyphs are simple enough.”
Anticipation swept through her, so sudden, so swift, that she raised her fingers as if a hand had wrapped itself around her throat. Tonight she would speak the forgotten words. Tonight the power of the Grail would descend to her. Time would be conquered.
“And if O’Donnell’s lying?” said Francois-Baptiste. “If she doesn’t have the book? Or if Authie hasn’t found it either?”