Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix had been presented with a coverlet full of coins. Others had given corn and jerkins for him to distribute among his men. Marquesia de Lanatar had given all her belongings to her granddaughter Philippa, Pierre-Roger’s wife.
Bertrande looked around at the silent faces and offered a silent prayer for her mother. Alais had chosen Rixende’s garments carefully. The dark green dress and a red cloak, the edges and hem embroidered with an pattern of blue and green squares and diamonds and yellow flowers. Her mother had explained it was the image of the cloak she’d on her wedding day in the capela Santa-Maria in the Chateau Comtal. Alais was sure her sister Oriane would remember it, despite the passage of years.
As a precaution, Alais had also made a small sheepskin bag to be held against the red cloak, a copy of the chemise in which each of the books of the Labyrinth Trilogy were stored. Bertrande had helped to fill it with fabric and sheets of parchment so that, from a distance at least, it would deceive. She didn’t understand entirely the point of these preparations, only that they mattered. She had been delighted to be allowed to help.
Bertrande reached out and took Sajhe’s hand.
The leaders of the Cathar Church, Bishop Bertrand Marty and Raymond Aiguilher, both old men now, stood quietly in their dark blue robes. For years, they had served their ministry from Montsegur, travelling from the citadel, preaching the word and delivering comfort to credentes in the isolated villages of the mountains and the plains. Now they were ready to lead their people into the fire.
“Mama will be all right,” Bertrande whispered, trying to reassure herself as much as him. She felt Rixende’s arm on her shoulder.
“I wish you were not…”
“I have made my choice,” Rixende said quickly. “I choose to die in my faith.”
“What if Mama is taken?” whispered Bertrande.
Rixende stroked her hair. “There is nothing we can do but pray.”
Bertrande felt tears well up in her eyes when the soldiers reached them. Rixende held out her wrists to be shackled. The boy shook his head. Having not expected so many to choose death, they had not brought enough chains to secure them all.
Bertrande and Sajhe watched in silence as Rixende and the others walked through the Great Gate and began their last descent of the steep, winding mountain path. The red of Alais’ cloak stood out among the subdued browns and greens, bright against the grey sky.
Led by Bishop Marty, the prisoners began to sing. Montsegur had fallen, but they were not defeated. Bertrande wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She had promised her mother to be strong. She would do her best to keep her word.
Down below on the meadows of the lower slopes, stands had been erected for the spectators. They were full. The new aristocracy of the Midi, French barons, collaborators, Catholic legates and Inquisitors, invited by Hugues des Arcis, the Seneschal of Carcassonne. All had come to see “justice‘ done after more than thirty years of civil war.
Guilhem pulled his cloak hard about him, taking care not to be recognised. His face was known after a lifetime fighting the French. He could not afford to be taken. He glanced around.
If his information was right, somewhere in this crowd was Oriane. He was determined to keep her away from Alais. Even after all this time, just the thought of Oriane moved him to anger. He clenched his fists, wishing he could act now. That he did not have to dissemble or wait, just put a knife in her heart as he should have done thirty years before. Guilhem knew he had to be patient. If he tried something now, he’d be cut down before he’d even had the chance to draw his sword.
He ran his eyes along the rows of spectators until he saw the face he was looking for. Oriane was sitting at the middle of the front row. There was nothing of the southern lady left in her. Her clothes were expensive in the more formal and elaborate style of the north. Her blue velvet cloak was trimmed in gold with a thick ermine collar around the neck and hood and matching winter gloves. Although her face was still striking and beautiful, it had grown thin and was spoiled by its hard and bitter expression.
There was a young man with her. The likeness was strong enough for Guilhem to guess he must be one of her sons. Louis, the eldest, he’d heard had joined the Crusade. He had Oriane’s colouring and black curls, with his father’s aquiline profile.
There was a shout. Guilhem turned round to see the line of prisoners had reached the foot of the mountain and were now being driven towards the pyre. They walked quietly and with dignity. They were singing. Like a choir of angels, Guilhem thought, seeing the look of discomfort the sweetness of the sound brought to the faces of the spectators.
The seneschal of Carcassonne stood shoulder to shoulder with the Archbishop of Narbonne. On his sign, a gold cross was raised high in the air and the black friars and clergy moved forward to take up their position in front of the palisade.
Behind them, Guilhem could see a row of soldiers holding burning torches. They were struggling to keep the smoke from drifting over to the stands as the flames whipped and cracked in the bitter, gusting north wind.
One by one, the names of the heretics were called out. They stepped and climbed the ladders into the pyre. Guilhem felt numb with the horror of it. He hated the fact he could do nothing to stop the executions. Even if he’d enough men with him, he knew they themselves not wish it. Through force of circumstance rather than belief, Guilhem had spent much time in the company of the Bons Homes. He admired and respected them, though he could not claim to understand them.
The mounds of kindling and straw had been soaked in pitch. A few soldiers had climbed inside and were chaining the parfaits and parfaites to the central posts.
Bishop Marty began to pray.
“Payre sant, Dieu dreiturier dels bons esperits.”
Slowly, other voices joined his. The whispering grew and grew, until soon it became a roar. In the stands, the spectators exchanged embarrassed glances with one another and grew restless. This was not what they had come to see.
The Archbishop gave a hurried signal and the clergy began to sing, their black robes flapping in the wind, the psalm that had become the anthem of the Crusade. Vent Spirite Sancti, the words shouted to drown out the Cathar prayers.
The bishop stepped forward and cast the first torch onto the pyre. The soldiers followed his lead. One by one the burning brands were tossed in. The fire was slow to catch, but soon the sparks and crackles became a roar. The flames started to writhe through the straw like snakes, darting this way and that, billowing and puffing, swirling like reeds in the river.
Through the smoke, Guilhem saw something that turned his blood to ice. A red cloak, embroidered with flowers, a deep green dress, the colour of moss. He pushed his way to the front.
He couldn’t – didn’t want – to believe his eyes.
The years fell away and he saw himself, the man he had been, a young chevalier, arrogant, proud, confident, kneeling in the capela Santa-Mari. Alais was at his side. A Michaelmas wedding, lucky some said. Flowering hawthorn on the altar and the red candles flickering as they exchanged their vows.
Guilhem ran along the back of the stands, desperate to get closer, desperate to prove to himself that it was not her. The fire was hungry. The sickly smell of burning human flesh, surprisingly sweet, was floating over the spectators. The soldiers stood back. Even the clergy were forced to retreat as the furnace burned.
Blood hissed as the soles of feet split open and the bones slid out into the fire, like animals roasting on a spit. The prayers turned to screams.