Marie-Cecile’s eyes snapped open, jolted back to the present by her son’s abrasive, challenging tone. She looked at him with dislike. “The Book of Words is there,” she said.
Angry to have her mood spoiled, Marie-Cecile closed the Book of Numbers and returned it to its wrapper. She placed the Book of Potions on the rest instead.
From the outside, the books looked identical. The same wooden boards covered with leather and held together with thin leather ties.
The first page was empty apart from a tiny gold chalice in the centre. The reverse side was blank. On the third page were the words and pictures that also appeared around the top of the walls in the basement chamber in the rue du Cheval Blanc.
The first letter of each of the pages following was illuminated, in red, blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise the text ran on, one word into the next, with no gaps showing where one thought ended and Another began.
Marie-Cecile turned to the parchment in the middle of the book.
Interspersed between the hieroglyphs were tiny pictures of plants and symbols picked out in green. After years of study and research, reading through the scholarship funded by the de l’Oradore fortune, her grandfather had realised that none of the illustrations were relevant.
Only the hieroglyphs written on the two Grail parchments mattered. All the rest – the words, the pictures, the colours – were there to obscure, to ornament, to hide the truth.
“It’s there,” she said, fixing Francois-Baptiste with a fierce look. She could see the doubt in his face, but wisely he decided to say nothing. “Fetch my things,” she said sharply. “After that, check where the car’s got to.”
He returned moments later with her square vanity case.
“Where do you want it?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing at the dressing table. Once he’d gone out again, Marie-Cecile walked over and sat down. The outside was soft brown leather, with her initials picked out in gold. It had been a present from her grandfather.
She opened the lid. Inside there was a large mirror and several pockets for brushes, beauty appliances, tissues and a pair of small gold scissors. The make-up was held in place in the top tray in neat, organised rows. Lipsticks, eye shadows, mascaras, kohl pencil, powder. A deeper compartment underneath contained the three red leather jewellery boxes.
“Where are they?” she said, without turning round.
“Not far away,” Francois-Baptiste replied. She could hear the tension in his voice.
“He’s all right?”
He walked towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Do you care, Maman?
Marie-Cecile stared at her reflection in the mirror, then at her son, framed in the glass above her head as if posed for a portrait. His voice was casual. His eyes betrayed him.
“No,” she replied, and saw his face relax a little. “Just interested.”
He squeezed her shoulders, and then took his hands away.
“Alive, to answer your question. Caused trouble when they were getting him out. They had to quieten him down a bit.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Not too much so, I hope,” she said. “He’s no use to me half-conscious.”
“Me?” he said sharply.
Marie-Cecile bit her tongue. She needed Francois-Baptiste in an amenable mood. “To us,” she said.
CHAPTER 69
Alice was dozing in the shade under the trees when Audric reappeared a couple of hours later.
“I’ve prepared us a meal,” he said.
He looked better for his sleep. His skin had lost its waxy, tight appearance and his eyes shone bright.
Alice gathered her things and followed him back inside. Goat’s cheese, olives, tomatoes, peaches and a jug of wine were laid out on the table.
“Please. Take what you need.”
As soon as they were seated, Alice launched into the questions she’d been rehearsing in her head. She noticed he ate little, although he drank some of the wine.
“Did Alais try to regain the two books stolen by her sister and husband?”
“To reunite the Labyrinth Trilogy had been Harif’s intention as soon as the threat of war first cast its shadow over the Pays d’Oc,” he said. “Thanks to her sister, Oriane, there was a price on Alais’ head. It made it hard for her to travel. On the rare occasions she came down from the village, she went in disguise. To attempt a journey north would have been madness. Sajhe made several plans to get to Chartres. None of them was successful.”
“For Alais?”
“In part, but also for the sake of his grandmother, Esclarmonde. He felt a responsibility to the Noublesso de los Seres, as Alais did on behalf of her father.”
“What happened to Esclarmonde?”
“Many Bons Homes went to northern Italy. Esclarmonde was not well to travel so far. Instead, she was taken by Gaston and his brother to a small community in Navarre, where she remained until her death a few years later. Sajhe visited her whenever he could.” He paused. “It was a source of great sadness to Alais that they never saw one another again.”
“And what of Oriane?” asked Alice, after a while. “Did Alais receive news of her too?”
“Very little. Of more interest was the labyrinth built in the cathedral church of Notre Dame in Chartres. Nobody knew on whose authority it had been built or what it might mean. It was, in part, why Evreux and Oriane based themselves there, rather than return to his estates further north.”
“And the books themselves had been made in Chartres.”
“In truth, it was constructed to draw attention away from the labyrinth cave in the south.”
“I saw it yesterday,” said Alice.
2›Was it only yesterday? 2›
“I felt nothing. I mean, it was very beautiful, very impressive, but nothing else.”
Audric nodded. “Oriane got what she wanted. Guy d’Evreux took her north as his wife. In exchange, she gave him the Book of Potions and the Book of Numbers and the pledge to keep searching for the Book of Words.”
“His wife?” Alice frowned. “But what of-”
“Jehan Congost? He was a good man. Pedantic, jealous, humourless, perhaps, but a loyal servant. Francois killed him on Oriane’s orders.” He paused. “Francois deserved to die. It was a bad end, but he deserved no better.”
Alice shook her head. “I was going to say Guilhem,” she said.
“He remained in the Midi.”
“But did he not have expectations of Oriane?”
“He was tireless in his efforts to drive the Crusaders out. As the years passed, he built up a large following in the mountains. At first, he offered his sword to Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix. Later, when Viscount Trencavel’s son attempted to regain the lands stolen from his father, Guilhem fought for him.”
“He changed sides?” said Alice, bewildered.
“No, he…” Baillard sighed. “No. Guilhem du Mas never betrayed Viscount Trencavel. He was a fool, certainly, but not, in the end, a traitor. Oriane had used him. He was taken prisoner at the same time as Raymond-Roger Trencavel when Carcassona fell. Unlike the viscount, Guilhem managed to escape.” Audric took a deep breath, as if it pained him to admit it. “He was not a traitor.”
“But Alais believed him to be one,” she said quietly.
“He was the architect of his own misfortune.”
“Yes, I know, but even so… to live with such regret, knowing Alais thought he was as bad as-”
“Guilhem does not deserve sympathy,” Baillard said sharply. “He betrayed Alais, he broke his wedding vows, he humiliated her. Yet even so, she…” He broke off. “Forgive me. It is sometimes hard to be objective.”
2›Why does it upset him so much? 2›