Labyrinth

CHAPTER 58

On Viscount Trencavel’s wishes, tables had been set up in the Great Hall. Viscount Trencavel and Dame Agnes were moving between them, thanking the men for the service they had done and yet would do.

Pelletier was feeling increasingly unwell. The room was filled with the smells of burned wax, sweat, cold food and warm ale. He wasn’t sure he could stand it much longer. The pains in his stomach were getting worse and more frequent.

He tried to pull himself upright, but without warning, his legs went from under him. Clutching at the table for support, Pelletier pitched forward, sending plates and cups and meat bones flying. He felt as if there was a wild animal gnawing at his belly.

Viscount Trencavel spun round. Someone started shouting. He was aware of servants rushing to help him and someone calling for Alais.

He felt hands holding him up and moving him towards the door.

Francois’ face swam into focus, then out again. He thought he could hear Alais issuing orders, although her voice was coming from a long way away and she seemed to be speaking a language he didn’t understand.

“Alais,” he called out, reaching for her hand in the darkness.

“I’m here. We’ll get you to your chamber.”

He felt strong arms lift him, the night air on his face as he was carried through the Cour d’Honneur, then up the stairs.

They made slow progress. The spasms in his stomach were getting worse, each more violent than the last. He could feel the pestilence working in him, poisoning his blood and his breath.

“Alais…” he whispered, this time in fear.

As soon as they reached her father’s chamber, Alais sent Rixende to find Francois and collect the medicines she needed from her room. She dispatched two other servants to the kitchens for precious water.

She had her father laid on his bed. She stripped his stained outer robes and put them in a pile to be burned. Pestilence seemed to seep from the pores of his skin. The attacks of diarrhea were getting more frequent and more severe, blood and pus now making up the greater part. Alais ordered herbs and flowers to be burned to try to disguise the smell, but no amount of lavender or rosemary could mask the truth of his condition.

Rixende arrived quickly with the ingredients and helped Alais to mix the dried red whortleberries with hot water to form a thin paste. Having stripped his stained robes from him and covered him with a clean, thin sheet, Alais spooned the liquid between his pallid lips.

The first mouthful he swallowed, then immediately vomited up. She tried again. This time, he managed to swallow, although it cost him much to do so, sending his body into spasms.

Time became meaningless, moving neither fast nor slow, as Alais tried to slow the progress of the sickness. At midnight, Viscount Trencavel came to the chamber.

“What news, Dame?”

“He is very sick, Messire.

“Is there anything you need? Physicians, medicines?”

“A little more water, if it can be spared? I sent Rixende to find Francois, some time ago, but he has not returned.”

“It shall be done.”

Trencavel glanced over her shoulder to the bed. “How has the affliction taken hold so quickly?”

It is hard to say why such a disease strikes one so hard and yet passes another by, Messire. My father’s constitution was much weakened by his time in the Holy Land. He is particularly susceptible to ailments of the stomach.“ She hesitated. ”God willing, it will not spread.“

There is no doubt it is siege sickness?“ he said grimly. Alais shook her head. ”I am sorry to hear it. Send for me if there is any change in his condition.“

As the hours slid slowly one into the next, her father’s grip on life got weaker. He had moments of lucidity, when he seemed to be aware of what was happening to him. At other times, it seemed he no longer knew where or who he was.

Shortly before dawn, Pelletier’s breathing became shallow. Dozing by his side, Alais heard the change and was immediately alert.

“Filha…”

She felt his hands and his brow and knew there was not long to go. The fever had left him, leaving his skin cold.

His soul struggles to be set free.

“Help me…” he managed to say,“… to sit.”

With Rixende’s help, Alais managed to prop him up. The sickness had aged him in the course of the one night.

“Don’t speak,” she whispered. “Guard your strength.”

“Alais,” he admonished her softly. “You know my time has come.” His chest was full of splashing, rattling sounds as he struggled for breath. His eyes were hollow and ringed in yellow and pale brown blotches were forming on his hands and neck. Will you send fora parfait? He forced his sunken eyes open. “I wish to make a good end.”

“You wish to be consoled, Paire?” she said carefully.

Pelletier managed a thin smile and, for an instant, the man he had been in his life, shone through.

“I have listened well to the words of the Bons Chretiens. I have learned the words of the melhorer and the consolament...” He broke off. “I was born a Christian and I will die one, but not in the corrupt embrace of those who wage war in God’s name at our gates. With God’s grace, if I have lived well enough, I will join the glorious company of spirits in Heaven.”

A fit of coughing overtook him. Alais cast her eyes around the room in desperation. She sent a servant to inform Viscount Trencavel her father’s condition had worsened. As soon as he had gone, she summoned Rixende.

“I need you to fetch the parfaits. They were about the courtyard earlier. Tell them there is one who wishes to receive the consolament.”

Rixende looked terrified.

“No blame will attach itself to you for carrying a message,” she said, trying to reassure the girl. “You do not have to return with them.”

A movement from her father drew her attention back to the bed.

“Quick, Rixende. Make haste.”

Alais bent down. What is it, Paire? I’m here with you.“

He was trying to speak, but the words seemed to shrivel in his throat before he could utter them. She tipped a little wine into his mouth and wiped his desiccated lips with a wet cloth.

“The Grail is the word of God, Alais. This is what Harif tried to teach me, although I did not understand.” His voice stuttered. “But without the merel… the truth of the labyrinth, it is a false path.”

What about the merel? she whispered urgently, not understanding.

You were right, Alais. I was too stubborn. I should have let you go when there was still a chance.“

Alais was struggling to make sense of his meandering words. “What path?”

“I have not seen it,” he was murmuring, “nor will I now. The cave… few have seen it.”

Alais spun round to the door in despair.

2›Where is Rixende? 2›

In the corridor outside was the sound of running feet. Rixende appeared, followed by two parfaits. Alais recognised the elder, a dark featured man with a thick beard and a gentle expression who she’d met once at Esclarmonde’s house. Both were wearing dark blue robes and twisted rope belts with metal buckles in the shape of a fish.

He bowed. “Dame Alais.” He looked past her to the bed. “It is your father, Intendant Pelletier, who has need of consolation?”

She nodded.

“He has the breath to speak?”

“He will find strength to do so.”

There was another disturbance in the corridor as Viscount Trencavel appeared on the threshold.

“Messire-” she said in alarm. “He requested the parfaits… my father wishes to make a good end, Messire.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, but he ordered the door to be closed.

“Nevertheless,” he said. “I will stay.”

Alais stared at him for a moment, then turned back to her father as the officiating parfait summoned her.

“Intendant Pelletier is in great pain, but his wits are strong still and his’t courage holds.” Alais nodded. “He has done nothing to harm our church nor owes us a debt?”

“He is a protector of all friends of God.”

Alais and Raymond-Roger stood back as the parfait walked over to the and leaned over the dying man. Bertrand’s eyes flickered as he whispered the melhorer, the blessing.

“Do you vow to follow the rule of justice and truth and to give yourself to God and to the Church of the Bons Chretiens?”

Pelletier forced the words from his lips. “I – do.”

The parfait placed the parchment copy of the New Testament on his, “May God bless you, make a Good Christian of you and lead you to end.” He recited the Benedicte, then the Adoremus three times.

Alais was moved by the simplicity of the service. Viscount Trencavel looked straight ahead. He seemed to be keeping himself under control with an enormous effort of will.

“Bertrand Pelletier, are you ready to receive the gift of the Lord’s Prayer?”

Her father murmured his assent.

In a clear, true voice, the parfait spoke the paternoster seven times over, pausing only to allow Pelletier to make his responses.

“This is the prayer that Jesus Christ brought into the world and taught to the Bons Homes. Never eat or drink again without repeating this prayer first; and if you fail of this duty, you must need do penance again.”

Pelletier tried to nod. The hollow whistling in his chest was louder now, like the wind in autumn trees.

The parfait began to read from the Gospel of John.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God.“ Pelletier’s hand jerked above the covers as the parfait continued to read.”… And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.“

His eyes suddenly flew open.“ Vertat,” he whispered. “Yes, the truth.”

Alais grabbed his hand in alarm, but he was slipping away. The light had gone from his eyes. She was aware the parfait was speaking faster now, as if he feared there was not enough time to complete the ritual.

“He must speak the final words,” he urged Alais. “Help him.”

“Paire, you must…” Grief took her voice from her.

“For every sin… I have committed… by word or deed,” he rasped, “I… I ask pardon of God and the Church… and all here present.”

With evident relief, the parfait placed his hands on Pelletier’s head and gave him the kiss of peace. Alais caught her breath. A look of release had transformed her father’s face as the grace of the consolament descended to him. It was a moment of transcendence, of understanding. His spirit was ready, now, to leave his sick body and the earth that held him.

“His soul is prepared,” said the parfait.

Alais nodded. She sat on the bed, holding her father’s hand. Viscount Trencavel stood on the other. Pelletier was barely conscious, although he seemed to feel their presence.

2›“Messire? 2›

“I’m here, Bertrand.”

“Carcassona must not fall.”

“I give you my word, in honour of the love and obligation that has been between us these many years, I will do all I can.”

Pelletier tried to lift his hand from the blanket. “It has been an honour to serve you.”

Alais saw the Viscount’s eyes were filled with tears. “It is I who should thank you, my old friend.”

Pelletier tried to raise his head. “Alais?”

“I’m here, Father,” she said quickly. The colour had gone from Pelletier’s face now. His skin hung in grey folds under his eyes. “No man ever had such a daughter.”

He seemed to sigh as the life left his body. Then, silence.

For a moment, Alais did not move, breathe, react in any way. Then she felt a wild grief building within her, taking her over, possessing her, until she broke down in an agony of weeping.