Labyrinth

CHAPTER 21

Alais woke as dawn slipped into the room.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember how she came to be in her father’s chamber. She sat up and stretched the sleep from her bones, waiting until the memory of the day before came back vivid and strong.

Some time during the long hours between midnight and daybreak she had reached a decision. Despite her broken night, her mind was as clear as a mountain stream. She could not sit by, passively waiting for her father to return. She had no way of judging the consequences of each day’s delay. When he had spoken of his sacred duty to the Noublesso de los Seres and the secret they guarded, he had left her in no doubt that his honor and pride lay in his ability to fulfill his vows. Her duty was to seek him out, tell him all that had happened, put the matter back in his hands.

Far better to act than do nothing.

Alais walked over to the window and opened the shutters to let in the morning air. In the distance the Montagne Noire shimmered purple in the gathering dawn, enduring and timeless. The sight of the mountains strengthened her resolve. The world was calling her to join it.

She was taking a risk, a woman traveling alone. Willful, her father would call it. But she was an excellent rider, quick and instinctive, and she had faith in her ability to outride any group of routiers or bandits. Besides, to her knowledge, there had been no attacks on Viscount Trencavel’s lands.

Alais raised her hand to the bruise at the back of her head, evidence that someone meant her harm. If it was her time to die, then far better to face death with her sword in her hand than sit waiting for her enemies to strike again.

Alais picked up her cold lamp from the table, catching her reflection in the black-streaked glass. She was pale, her skin the color of buttermilk, and her eyes glinted with fatigue. But there was a sense of purpose that had not been there before.

Alais wished she did not have to return to her chamber, but she had no choice. Carefully stepping over Francois, she made her way across the courtyard and back into the living quarters. There was no one about.

Oriane’s faithful shadow, Guirande, was sleeping on the floor outside her sister’s chamber as Alais tiptoed past, her pretty, pouting face slack in sleep.

The silence that met her as she entered her room told her that the nurse was no longer there. She had presumably woken to find her gone and taken herself off.

Alais set to work, wasting no time. The success of her plan depended on her ability to deceive everyone into believing she was too weak to venture far from home. No one within the household could know that her destination was Montpellier.

She took from her wardrobe her lightest hunting dress, the tawny red of a squirrel’s pelt, with pale, stone-colored fitted sleeves, generous under the arm, which tapered to a diamond-shaped point. She tied a thin leather belt around her waist, to which she attached her eating knife and her borsa, winter hunting purse.

Alais pulled up her hunting boots to just below her knees, tightened the leather laces around the top, to hold a second knife, then adjusted the buckle, and put on a plain brown hooded cloak with no trim.

When she was dressed, Alais took a few precious gemstones and jewelry from her casket, including her sunstone necklace and turquoise ring and choker. They might be useful in exchange or to buy safe passage or shelter, particularly once she was beyond the borders of Viscount Trencavel’s lands.

Finally, satisfied she had forgotten nothing, she retrieved her sword from its hiding place behind the bed where it had lain, untouched, since her marriage. Alais held the sword firmly in her right hand and raised it in front of her face, measuring the blade against the flat of her hand. It was still straight and true, despite lack of use. She carved a figure of eight in the air, reminding herself of its weight and character. She smiled. It felt right in her hand.

Alais crept into the kitchen and begged barley bread, figs, salted fish, a tablet of cheese and a flagon of wine from Jacques. He gave her much more than she needed, as he always did. For once, she was grateful for his generosity.

She roused her servant, Rixende, and whispered a message for her to deliver to Dame Agnes that Alais was feeling better and would join the ladies of the household in the Solar after Tierce. Rixende looked surprised, but made no comment. Alais disliked this part of her duties and usually begged to be excused whenever possible. She felt caged in the company of women and was bored by the inconsequential tapestry talk. However, today it would serve as perfect proof that she was intending to return to the chateau.

Alais hoped she would not be missed until later. If her luck held, only when the chapel bell tolled for Vespers would they realize she had not come home and raise the alarm.

And by then I will be long gone.

“Do not go to Dame Agnes until after she has broken fast, Rixende,” she said. “Not until the first rays of the sun strike the west wall of the courtyard, is that clear? Oc? Before that, if anyone comes searching for me-even my father’s manservant-you may tell them that I have gone to ride in the fields beyond Sant-Miquel.”

The stables were in the northeastern corner of the courtyard between the Tour des Casernes and the Tour du Major. Horses stamped the ground and pricked up their ears at her approach, whinnying gently, hoping for hay. Alais stopped at the first stall and ran her hand over the broad nose of her old gray mare. Her forelock and withers were flecked with coarse white hairs.

“Not today, my old friend,” she said. “I couldn’t ask so much of you.”

Her other horse was in the stall next door. The six-year-old Arab mare, Tatou, had been a surprise wedding gift from her father. A chestnut, the color of winter acorns, with a white tail and mane, flaxen fetlocks and white spots on all four feet. Standing as high as Alais’ shoulders, Tatou had the distinctive flat face of her breed, dense bones, a firm back and an easy temperament. More important, she had stamina and was very fast.

To her relief, the only person in the stables was Amiel, the eldest of the farrier’s sons, dozing in the hay in the far corner of the stalls. He scrambled to his feet when he saw her, embarrassed to be caught sleeping.

Alais cut short his apologies.

Amiel checked the mare’s hooves and shoes, to be sure she was fit to ride, then lifted down an undercloth and, at Alais’ request, a riding rather than hunting saddle, then a bridle. Alais could feel the tightness in her chest. She jumped at the slightest sound from the courtyard, spinning round when she heard a voice.

Only when he was done did Alais produce the sword from beneath her cloak.

“The blade is dull,” she said.

Their eyes met. Without a word, Amiel took the sword and carried it to the anvil in the forge. The fire was burning, stoked all night and all day by a succession of boys barely big enough to transport the heavy, spiky bundles of brushwood from one side of the smithy to the other.

Alais watched as sparks flew from the stone, seeing the tension in Amiel’s shoulders as he brought the hammer down on to the blade, sharpening, flattening and rebalancing.

“It’s a good sword, Dame Alais,” he said levelly. “It will serve you well, although… I pray God you will not have need of it.”

She smiled. “leu tanben.” Me too.

He helped her mount and led her across the courtyard. Alais’ heart was in her mouth that she would be seen at this last moment and her plan would ruined.

But there was no one and soon they reached the Eastern Gate.

“God speed, Dame Alais,” whispered Amiel, as Alais pressed a sol into his hand. The guards opened the gates and Alais urged Tatou forward across the bridge and out into the early morning streets of Carcassonne, her heart thudding. The first challenge was over.

As soon as she was clear of the Porte Narbonnaise, Alais gave Tatou her head.

Libertat. Freedom.

As she rode toward the sun rising in the east, Alais felt in harmony with the world. Her hair brushed back off her face and the wind brought the color back to her cheeks. As Tatou galloped over the plains, she wondered if this was how the soul felt as it left the body on its four-day journey to heaven. This sense of God’s Grace, this transcendence, of all base creation stripping away everything physical, until nothing but spirit remained?

Alais smiled. The parfaits preached that the time would come when all souls would be saved and all questions answered in heaven. But for now she was prepared to wait. There was too much to accomplish yet on earth for her to think of leaving it.

With her shadow streaming out behind her, all thoughts of Oriane, of the household, all fear faded. She was free. At her back, the sand-colored walls and towers of the Cite grew smaller and smaller, until they disappeared altogether.