Some way off, a horn was blowing sharp and shrill in the crisp December air, proclaiming that the hounds were on the trail of a wolf. She knew it was December, a special month. She knew she was happy.
Then, the light changed.
Now she was alone in a part of the forest she did not recognize. The trees were taller and more dense, their bare branches black and twisted against the white, snow-laden sky, like dead men’s fingers. Somewhere behind her, unseen and threatening, the dogs were gaining on her, excited by the promise of blood.
She was no longer the hunter, but the quarry.
The forest reverberated with a thousand thundering hooves, getting closer and closer. She could hear the baying of the huntsmen now. They were shouting to one another in a language she did not understand, but she knew they were looking for her.
Her horse stumbled. Alice was thrown, falling forward out of the saddle and down to the hard, wintry ground. She heard the bone in her shoulder crack, then searing pain. She looked down in horror. A piece of dead wood, frozen solid like the head of an arrow, had pierced her sleeve and impaled her arm.
With numb and desperate fingers, Alice pulled at the fragment until it came loose, closing her eyes against the aching pain. Straight away, the blood started to flow, but she couldn’t let that stop her.
Staunching the bleeding with the hem of her cloak, Alice scrambled to her feet and forced herself on through the naked branches and petrified undergrowth. The brittle twigs snapped under her feet and the ice-cold air pinched her cheeks and made her eyes water.
The ringing in her ears was louder now, more insistent, and she felt faint. As insubstantial as a ghost.
Suddenly, the forest was gone and Alice found herself standing on the edge of a cliff. There was nowhere left to go. At her feet was a sheer drop to a wooded precipice below. In front of her were the mountains, capped with snow, stretching as far as the eye could see. They were so close she felt she could almost reach out and touch them.
In her sleep, Alice shifted uneasily.
Let me wake up. Please.
She struggled to wake up, but she couldn’t. The dream held her too tightly in its coils.
The dogs burst out of the cover of the trees behind her, barking, snarling. Their breath clouded the air as their jaws snapped, drools of spit and blood hanging from their teeth. In the gathering dusk, the tips of the huntsmen’s spears glinted brightly. Their eyes were filled with hate, with excitement. She could hear them whispering, jeering, taunting her.
“Heretique, heretique.”
In that split second, the decision was made. If it was her time to die, it would not be at the hands of such men. Alice lifted her arms wide and jumped, commending her body to the air.
Straight away, the world fell silent.
Time ceased to have any meaning as she fell, slowly and gently, her green skirts billowing out around her. Now she realized there was something pinned to her back, a piece of material in the shape of a star. No, not a star but a cross. A yellow cross. Kouelle. As the unfamiliar word drifted in and then out of her mind, the cross came loose and floated away from her, like a leaf dropping from a tree in autumn.
The ground came no nearer. Alice was no longer afraid. For even as the dream images started to splinter and break apart, her subconscious mind understood what her conscious mind could not. That it was not her- Alice-who fell, but another.
And this was not a dream, but a memory. A fragment from a life lived a long, long time ago.
CHAPTER 17
Carcassona
JULHE I209
Twigs and leaves cracked as Alais shifted position.
There was a rich smell of moss, lichen and earth in her nose, her mouth. Something sharp pierced the back of her hand, the tiniest jab that immediately began to sting. A mosquito or an ant. She could feel the poison seeping into her blood. Alais moved to brush the insect away. The movement made her retch.
Where am I?
The answer, like an echo. Defora. Outside.
She was lying facedown on the ground. Her skin was clammy, slightly chill from the dew. Daybreak or dusk? Her clothes, tangled around her, were damp. Taking it slowly, Alais managed to lever herself into a sitting position, leaning against the trunk of a beech tree to keep herself steady.
Docament. Softly, carefully.
Through the trees at the top of the slope she could see the sky was white, strengthening to pink on the horizon. Flat clouds floated like ships becalmed. She could make out the black outlines of weeping willows. Behind her were pear and cherry trees, drab and naked of color this late in the season.
Dawn, then. Alais tried to focus on her surroundings. It seemed very bright, blinding, even though there was no sun. She could hear water not far off, shallow and moving lazily over the stones. In the distance, the distinctive kveck-kveck of an eagle owl coming back from his night’s hunting.
Alais glanced down at her arms, which were marked with small, angry red bites. She examined the scratches and cuts on her legs too. As well as insect bites, her ankles were ringed with dried blood. She held her hands up close to her face. Her knuckles were bruised and sore. Lines of rust-red streaks between the fingers.
A memory. Of being dragged, arms trailing along the ground.
No, before that.
Walking across the courtyard. Lights in the upper windows.
Fear pricked the back of her neck. Footsteps in the dark, the callused hand across her mouth, then the blow.
Perilhos. Danger.
She raised her hand to her head and then winced as her fingers connected with the sticky mass of blood and hair behind her ear. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the memory of the hands crawling over her like rats. Two men. A commonplace smell, of horses, ale and straw.
Did they find the merel?
Alai’s struggled to stand. She had to tell her father what had happened. He was going to Montpellier, that much she could remember. She had to speak with him first. She tried to get up, but her legs would not hold her. Her head was spinning again and she was falling, falling, slipping back into a weightless sleep. She tried to fight it and stay conscious, but it was no use. Past and present and future were part of an infinite time now, stretching out white before her. Color and sound and light ceased to have any meaning.
CHAPTER 18
With a final, anxious glance back over his shoulder, Bertrand Pelletier rode out of the Eastern Gate at Viscount Trencavel’s side. He could not understand why Alai’s had not come to see them off.
Pelletier rode in silence, lost in his own thoughts, hearing little of the inconsequential chatter going on around him. His spirits were troubled at her absence from the Cour d’Honneur to see them off and wish the expedition well. Surprised, disappointed too, if he could bring himself to admit it. He wished now he had sent Francois to wake her.
Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets were lined with people waving and cheering. Only the finest horses had been chosen. Palfreys whose resilience and stamina could be relied upon, as well as the strongest geldings and mares from the stables of the Chateau Comtal picked for speed and endurance. Raymond-Roger Trencavel rode his favorite bay stallion, a horse he’d trained himself from a colt. Its coat was the color of a fox in winter and on its muzzle was a distinctive white blaze, the exact shape, or so it was said, of the Trencavel lands.
Every shield displayed the Trencavel ensign. The crest was embroidered on every flag and the vest each chevalier wore over his traveling armor. The rising sun glanced off the shining helmets, swords and bridles. Even the saddlebags of the pack horses had been polished until the grooms could see their faces reflected in the leather.