What had led Harif to choose her father as the guardian of the Book of Words?
Deep in thought, Alais lit the lamp and went to her nightstand. She took out some parchment, ink and a quill. Pelletier had been determined his daughters should be taught to read and write, having learned the value of these things in the Holy Land. Oriane cared only for accomplishments appropriate to a lady of the household – dancing, singing, falconry and embroidery. Writing was, as she never stopped staying, for old men and priests. Alais, however, had grasped the opportunity with both hands. She had been quick to learn and, although there were few opportunities for her to use her skills, she held them close to her.
Alais spread her writing materials on the table. She didn’t understand the parchment, nor could she hope to replicate the exquisite workmanship, colours and style. But she could at least make a copy while she had the chance.
It took her some time, but at last she was finished and laid the parchment copy on the table to dry. Then, aware of how her father might return to the Chateau Comtal at any moment with the Book of Words, Alais quickly turned her attention to concealing the book as her father had suggested.
Her favourite red cloak was no good. The material was too delicate and the hem bulged. Instead she picked a heavy brown cloak. It was a winter garment, intended to be worn for hunting, but that couldn’t be helped.
With expert fingers, Alais unpicked the passementerie at the front until she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze the book inside. Next, she took the thread Sajhe had brought her from the market, which exactly matched the colour of the material, and sewed the book in place at the back, secure.
Alais held the cloak up and swung it over her shoulders. It was uneven at present but, once she had her father’s book too, it would be better balanced.
She had only one more task to accomplish. Leaving the cloak draped over the chair, Alais went back to the table to see if the ink was dry. Mindful that she could be interrupted at any moment, she folded the parchment and slipped it inside a lavender posy. She stitched the opening shut, so that no one could come upon it by accident, then placed it back under her pillow.
Alais looked around, satisfied with what she had accomplished, and started to clear up her sewing materials.
There was a knock at the door. Alais rushed to open it, expecting to see her father. Instead, she found Guilhem standing on the threshold, unsure of his welcome. The familiar half smile, the little boy lost eyes.
“May I come in, Dame?” he asked softly.
Her instinct was to throw her arms about him. Caution held her back.
Too much had been said. Too little forgiven.
“May I?”
“It is your chamber also,” she said lightly. “I would not deny you admittance.”
“So formal,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I would that pleasure not duty made you answer thus.”
“I am…” she hesitated, thrown off balance by the intense longing sweeping through her. “I am happy to see you, Messire.”
“You look tired,“ he said, reaching to touch her face.
How easy it would be to give in. To give all of herself to him.
She closed her eyes, almost feeling his fingers moving over her skin. A caress, as light as a whisper and as natural as breathing. Alais imagined herself leaning towards him, letting him hold her up. His presence made; her dizzy, made her feel weak.
I cannot. Must not.
Alais forced open her eyes and took a step back. “Don’t,” she whispered. please don’t.“
Guilhem took her hand and held it between his. Alais could see he was nervous.
“Soon… unless God intervenes, we will face them. When the time’s, Alzeu, Thierry, the others, we all will ride out. And might not return.”
“Yes,” she said softly, wishing some of the life would return to his face.
“Since our return from Besiers, I have behaved ill towards you, Alais, without cause or justification. I’m sorry for it and have come to ask your forgiveness. Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things – things – that I regret.”
Alais held his gaze but, unsure of how she felt, did not trust herself to speak.
Guilhem moved closer. “But you are not displeased to see me.”
She smiled. “You have been absent from me so long, Guilhem, I hardly know what to feel.”
“Do you wish me to leave you?”
Alais felt tears spring into her eyes, which gave her the courage to stand firm. She did not want him to see her cry.
“I think it would be best.” She reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a handkerchief, which she pressed into his hand. “There is yet time for things to be right between us.”
Time is the one thing that we do not have, little Alais,“ he said gently.
“But, unless God or the French allow it, I will come again tomorrow.”
Alais thought of the books and of the responsibility resting on her shoulders. How soon she would be leaving. I might never see him more. Her heartstrings cracked. She hesitated, and then embraced him fiercely, as if to imprint his outline on hers.
Then, as swiftly as she had taken him, she let him go.
We are all in God’s hands,“ she said. ”Now, please leave, Guilhem.“
Tomorrow?“
We will see.“
Alais stood like a statue, hands clasped in front of her to stop them from shaking, until the door had shut and Guilhem was gone. Then, lost in thought, she wandered slowly back to the table, wondering what had driven him to come. Love? Regret? Or something else?
CHAPTER 46
Simeon glanced up at the sky. Grey clouds jostled for position, obscuring the sun. He had journeyed some distance from the Cite already, but wanted to get back to his lodgings before the storm hit.
Once he reached the outskirts of the woods that separated the plains outside Carcassonne from the river, he slowed his pace. He was out of breath, too old to travel so far on foot. He leaned heavily against his staff and loosened the neck of his robe. It was not so far now. Esther would have a meal waiting for him, perhaps a little wine. The thought restored him. Perhaps Bertrand was right? Perhaps it would be over by spring.
Simeon did not notice the two men who stepped out behind him on the path. He was not aware of the raised arm, the club coming down on his head, until he felt the blow and the darkness took him.
By the time Pelletier arrived at the Porte Narbonnaise, a crowd had already formed.
“Let me through,” he shouted, pushing everyone out of his way until he reached the front. A man was slumped on all fours on the ground. Blood was flowing from a cut on his forehead.
Two men-at-arms towered above him, their pikes pointed at his neck. The man was evidently a musician. His tabor was punctured and his pipe had been snapped in two and tossed aside, like bones at a feast.
What in the name of Sant-Foy is going on?“ Pelletier demanded. ”What is this man’s offence?“
“He did not stop when ordered to do so,” the older of the soldiers lied. His face was a patchwork of scars and old wounds. “He has no authorization”
Pelletier crouched down beside the musician. “I am Bertrand Pelletier, Intendant to the Viscount. What is your business in Carcassona?”
The man’s eyes flickered open. “Intendant Pelletier?” he murmured, clutching Pelletier’s arm.
“It is I. Speak, friend.”
“Besiers es presa.” Beziers is taken.
Close by, a woman stifled a cry and clasped her hand to her mouth.
Shocked to his core, Pelletier found himself on his feet again.
“You,” he commanded, “fetch reinforcements to relieve you here and help get this man to the Chateau. If he does not regain his speech through your ill treatment, it will be the worse for you.” Pelletier spun to the crowd. “Mind my words well,” he shouted. “No citizen is to speak of what you have witnessed here. We will know soon enough the truth of the matter.”