Labyrinth

CHAPTER 45

Alais pushed open the door to her chamber and ran in.

“Guilhem?”

Even though she needed solitude and had no expectation it would be otherwise, she still was disappointed to find the room empty.

Alais locked the door, unhooked her purse from her waist, laid it on the table and removed the book from its protective covering. It was the size of a lady’s psalter. The outer wooden boards were covered with leather, completely plain and a little worn at the corners.

Alais undid the leather ties and let the book fall open in her hands, like a butterfly displaying its wings. The first page was empty apart from a tiny chalice in gold leaf in the centre, sparkling like a jewel on the heavy cream parchment. It was no bigger than the pattern that appeared on her father’s ring or the merel she’d had so briefly in her possession.

She turned the page. Four lines of black script looked up at her, written in an ornate and elegant hand. Around the edges were pictures and symbols, a repeated pattern like a running stitch around the hem of a cloak. Birds, animals, figures with long arms and sharp fingers. Alais caught her breath.

These are the faces and figures of my dreams.

One by one, she turned the pages. Each was covered with lines of I black script, with nothing on the reverse side. She recognised words of Simeon’s language, although she didn’t understand it. Most of the book was written in her own language. The first letter of each new page was illuminated, in red, blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise they were plain. No illustrations in the margins, no other letters picked out within the body of the text and the words following on one from the other with few gaps or indications to show where one thought ended and another began.

Alais reached the parchment concealed in the centre of the book. It was thicker and darker than the pages surrounding it, goatskin rather than vellum. Rather than symbols or illustrations, there were only a few words, accompanied by rows of numbers and measurements. It looked like some sort of a map.

She could just pick out tiny arrows pointing in different directions. A few of them were gold, but mostly they were black.

Alais tried reading the page from the top from left to right, but that didn’t make sense and she came to a dead end. Next she tried deciphering the page from bottom to top, right to left, like a stained-glass window in a church, but that didn’t make sense either. Finally she read alternate lines or picked out words from every third line, but still understood nothing.

Look beyond the visible images to the secrets concealed beneath.

She thought hard. To each guardian according to their skills and knowledge.

Esclarmonde had her ability to heal and cure, so to her Harif had entrusted the Book of Potions. Simeon was a scholar of an ancient Jewish system of numbers, to him the Book of Numbers.

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?