“Forgive me. That I should break down before you.” He took a deep breath. “The bounty Oriane put on Alais’ head was substantial, tempting even for those who had no reason to wish her harm. I paid Oriane’s spies to pass false information. For nigh on thirty years it helped keep her safe.”
Guilhem stopped again, the image of the burning book against the blackened red cloak slipping, like an unwelcome guest, into his mind.
“I did not know her faith was so strong,” he said. “Or that her desire to keep the Book of Words from Oriane would drive her to such steps.”
He looked at Sajhe, trying to read the truth written in his eyes.
“I would that she had not chosen to die,” he said simply. “For you, as the man she chose, and me, as the fool who had her love and lost it.” He stumbled. “But most for the sake of your daughter. To know Alais-”
“Why are you helping us?” Sajhe interrupted. Why did you come?“
“To Montsegur?”
Sajhe shook his head, impatient. “Not Montsegur. Here. Now.”
“Revenge,” he said.
CHAPTER 79
Alais woke with a jolt, stiff and cold. A delicate purple light swept across the grey and green landscape at dawn. A gentle white mist tiptoed through the gulleys and crevices of the mountainside, silent and still.
She looked to Harif. He was sleeping peacefully, his fur-lined cloak drawn up to his ears. He’d found the day and night they had spent travelling hard.
The silence was heavy over the mountain. Despite the cold in her bones and her discomfort, Alais relished the solitude after the months of desperate overcrowding and confinement within Montsegur. Careful not to disturb Harif, she stood up and stretched, then reached into one of the saddlebags to break off a piece of bread. It was as hard as wood. She poured herself a cup of thick red mountain wine, which was almost too cold to taste. She dipped the bread to soften it, then ate quickly, before preparing food for the others.
She hardly dared think about Bertrande and Sajhe and where they might be at this moment. Still in the camp? Together or apart?
The call of a screech owl returning from his night’s hunting split the air. She smiled, soothed by the familiar sounds. Animals rustled in the undergrowth, sudden flurries of claws and teeth. In the woodlands of the valleys lower down, wolves howled their presence. It served to remind her that the world went on the same, its cycles changing with the seasons, without her.
She roused the two guides and told them food was ready, then led the horses to the stream and broke the ice with the hilt of her sword so they could drink.
Then, when the light strengthened, she went to wake Harif. She whispered to him in his own language and put her hand gently on his arm. He often woke in distress these days.
Harif opened his hooded brown eyes, faded now with age.
“Bertrande?”
“It’s Alais,” she said softly.
Harif blinked, confused to find himself on this grey mountainside. Alais imagined he had been dreaming of Jerusalem again, the curve and sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful, his travels across the endless sea of the desert.
In the years they had spent in one another’s company, Harif had told her of the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the food, the terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun. He had told her stories of how he had used the long years of his life. He had talked of the Prophet and the ancient city of Avaris, his first home. He had told her stories about her father in his youth, and the Noublesso.
As she looked down at him, his olive skin grey with age, his once black hair white, her heart ached. He was too old for this struggle. He had seen too much, witnessed too much, for it to finish so harshly.
Harif had left his last journey too late. And Alais knew, although he had never said so, that only thoughts of Los Seres and Bertrande gave him the strength to keep going.
“Alais,” he said quietly, adjusting to his surroundings. “Yes.”
“It won’t be much longer,” she said, helping him to his feet. “We’re nearly home.”
Guilhem and Sajhe talked little as they sat huddled in the shelter of the mountain out of reach of the vicious claws of the wind.
Several times, Guilhem tried to initiate conversation, but Sajhe’s taciturn responses defeated him. In the end he gave up trying and withdrew into his own private world, as Sajhe had intended.
He was sick in conscience. He’d spent a lifetime first envying Guilhem, then hating him, and finally learning to forget about him. He had taken Guilhem’s place at Alais’ side, but never in her heart. She had remained constant to her first love. It had endured, despite absence and silence.
Sajhe knew of Guilhem’s courage, his fearless and long struggle to the Crusaders from the Pays d’Oc, but he did not want to find himself liking Guilhem, admiring him. Nor did he want to feel pity for him. He could see how he grieved for Alais. His face spoke of deep loss, Sajhe could not bring himself to speak. But he hated himself for not doing so.
They waited all day, taking it in turns to sleep. Close to dusk a sudden flurry of crows took flight lower down the slopes, flying up into the air like ash from a dying fire. They wheeled and hovered and cawed, beating the air with their wings.
“Someone’s coming,” said Sajhe, immediately alert.
He peered out from behind the boulder, which was perched on the narrow ledge above the entrance to the cave, as if placed there by some giant hand.
He could see nothing, no movement lower down. Cautiously, Sajhe came out of his hiding place. Everything ached, everything was stiff, a combination of the after-effects of the beating and inactivity. His hands were numb, the raw knuckles red and cracked. His face was a mass of bruises and ragged skin.
Sajhe lowered himself over the rocky ledge and dropped to the ground. He landed badly. Pain shot up from his injured ankle.
“Pass me my sword,” he said, holding up his arm.
Guilhem handed him the weapon, then came down and joined him as he stood looking out over the valley.
There was a burst of distant voices. Then, faintly in the fading light, Sajhe saw a thin wraith of smoke winding up through the sparse cover of the trees.
He looked to the horizon, where the purple land and the darkening sky met.
They’re on the southeastern path,“ he said, ”which means Oriane’s avoided the village altogether. From that direction, they won’t be able to come any further with the horses. The terrain is too rough. There are gulleys with sheer drops on both sides. They’ll have to continue on foot.“
The thought of Bertrande, so close by, was suddenly too much to bear.
“I’m going down.”
“No!” Guilhem said quickly, then more quietly. “No. The risk is too great. If they see you, you’ll put Bertrande’s life in danger. We know Oriane will come to the cave. Here, we have the element of surprise. We must wait for her to come to us.” He paused. “You must not blame yourself, friend. You could not have prevented this. You serve your daughter by holding fast to our plan.”
Sajhe shook Guilhem’s hand from his arm.
“You don’t have any idea what I’m feeling,” he said, his voice shaking with fury. “How dare you presume to know me?”
Guilhem put up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s only a child.”
“How old is she?”
“Nine,” he replied abruptly.
Guilhem frowned. “So old enough to understand,” he said, thinking aloud. “So even if Oriane did persuade her, rather than force her, to leave the camp, it’s likely by now Bertrande will realise something’s wrong. Did she know Oriane was in the camp? Does she even know she has an aunt?”