“Do you believe a human soul has only one body in which, and with which, it will be resurrected?”
“The priests say that it is so.”
“Have you ever heard anyone say that swearing oaths is a sin? If so, who?”
This time, Sajhe raised his eyes. “I have not,” he said defiantly.
“Come now, sergeant. You’ve served in the garrison for more than a year and yet do not know that heretici refuse to swear oaths?”
“I serve Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Inquisitor. I heed not the words of others.”
The interrogation continued for some time, but Sajhe stayed faithful to his role as a simple soldier, pleading ignorance of all matters of scripture and belief. He incriminated no one. Claimed to know nothing.
In the end, Inquisitor Ferrier had no choice but to let him go.
It was only late afternoon, but already the sun was setting. Dusk was creeping back into the valley, stealing the shape from things and covering everything with black shadows.
Sajhe was sent to join a group of other soldiers who had already been interrogated. Each of them had been given a blanket, a hunk of stale bread and a cup of wine. He could see such kindness had not been extended to the civilian prisoners.
As the day gathered to a close, Sajhe’s spirits fell further.
Not knowing if Bertrande’s ordeal was over – or even where in the vast camp she was being held – was eating away at his mind. The thought of Alais, waiting, watching the fading of the light, her anxiety growing as the hour of departure approached, filled him with apprehension, all the worse for being unable to do anything to help.
Restless and unable to settle, Sajhe“ got up to stretch. He could feel the damp and chill seeping into his bones and his legs were stiff from sitting still for so long.
“Assis,” growled a guard, tapping him on the shoulder with his pike.
He was about to obey, when he noticed movement higher up the mountain.
There was a search party making its way towards the rocky outcrop where Alais, Harif and their guides were hidden. The flames from their torches flickered, throwing shadows against the bushes shivering in the wind.
Sajhe’s blood turned cold.
They had searched the castle earlier and found nothing. He had thought it was over. But it was clear they were intending to search the undergrowth and the labyrinth of paths that led around the base of the citadel. If they went much further in that direction, it would bring them to precisely the point where Alais would emerge. And it was almost dark.
Sajhe started to run towards the perimeter of the compound.
“Hey!” the guard shouted. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Arrete!”
Sajhe ignored him. Without thinking about the consequences, he vaulted the wooden fence and pounded up the slope, towards the search party. He could hear the guard calling for reinforcements. His only thought was to draw attention away from Alais.
The search party stopped and looked to see what was going on.
Sajhe shouted, needing to turn them from spectators to participants. One by one, they turned. He saw confusion in their faces turn to aggression. They were bored and cold, itching for a fight.
Sajhe had just enough time to realise his plan had worked as a fist was driven into his stomach. He gasped for breath and doubled over. Two of the soldiers held his arms behind him as the punches came at him from all directions. The hilts of their weapons, boots, fists, the onslaught was relentless. He felt the skin beneath his eye split. He could taste blood on his tongue and at the back of his throat as the blows continued to rain down.
Only now did he accept how seriously he’d misjudged the situation.
He’d thought only of drawing attention away from Ala’is. An image of Bertrande’s pale face, waiting for him to come, slipped into his mind as a fist connected with his jaw and everything went black.
CHAPTER 76
Oriane had devoted her life to her quest to retrieve the Book of Words.
Quite soon after returning to Chartres after the defeat of Carcassonne, her husband lost patience with her failure to secure the prize he had paid for. There was never love between them and, when his desire for her faded, his fist and his belt replaced conversation.
She endured the beatings, all the time devising ways in which she would be revenged on him. As his land and wealth increased, and his influence with the French king grew, his attention was drawn to other prizes. He left her alone. Free to resume her quest, Oriane paid informers and employed a network of spies in the Midi, all hunting down information.
Only once had Oriane come close to capturing Alais. In May 1234 Oriane had left Chartres and travelled south to Toulouse. When she arrived at the cathedral of Saint-Etienne, it was to discover the guards had been bribed and her sister had disappeared again, as if she had never been.
Oriane was determined not to make the same mistake again. This time, when a rumour had surfaced about a woman, of the right age, the right description, Oriane had come south with one of her sons under cover of the Crusade.
This morning she thought she had seen the book burn in the purple light of dawn. To be so close and yet to fail had sent her into a rage that neither her son Louis nor her servants could assuage. But during the course of the afternoon, Oriane had started to revise her interpretation of the morning’s events. If it was Alais she had seen – and she was even questioning that – was it likely she would allow the Book of Words to burn on an Inquisitional pyre?
Oriane decided not. She sent her servants out into the camp for information and learned that Alais had a daughter, a girl of nine or ten, whose father was a soldier serving under Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix. Oriane did not believe her sister would have entrusted so precious an object to a member of the garrison. The soldiers would be searched. But a child?
Oriane waited until it was dark before making her way to the area where the women and children were being held. She bought her passage into the compound. No one questioned or challenged her. She could feel the disapproving looks from the Black Friars as she passed, but their ill judgement did not move her.
Her son, Louis, appeared in front of her, his arrogant face flushed. He was always too desperate for approval, too eager to please.
“Oui?‘ she snapped. ”Qu’est-ce que tu veux?“
“ll y a une fille que vous devez voir, Maman.”
Oriane followed him to the far side of the enclosure, where a girl lay sleeping a little apart from the others.
The physical resemblance to Alais was striking. But for the passage of years, Oriane could be looking at her sister’s twin. She had the same look of fierce determination, the same colouring as Alais at the same age.
“Leave me,” she said. “She will not trust me with you standing here.”
Louis’ face fell, irritating her even more. “Leave me,” she repeated, turning her back on him. “Go prepare the horses. I have no need of you here.”
When he’d gone, Oriane crouched down and tapped the girl on the arm.
The girl woke immediately and sat up, her eyes bright with fear.
“Who are you?”
“Una amiga,” she said, using the language she had abandoned thirty years ago. “A friend.”
Bertrande didn’t move. “You’re French,” she said stubbornly, staring at Oriane’s clothes and hair. *You weren’t in the citadel.“
“No,” she said, trying to sound patient, “but I was born in Carcassona, just like your mother. We were children together in the Chateau Comtal. I even knew your grandfather, Intendant Pelletier. I’m sure Alais has talked often of him.”
“I’m named for him,” she said promptly.
Oriane hid a smile. Well, Bertrande. I’ve come to get you away from here.“