Labyrinth

THE CITE ON THE HILL
CHAPTER 1

Carcassona

JULHET 1209

Alais jolted awake, bolt upright, her eyes wide open. Fear fluttered in her chest, as a bird caught in a net struggles to be free. She pressed her hand against her ribs to still her beating heart.

For a moment, she was neither asleep nor awake, as if some part of her had been left behind in the dream. She felt she was floating, looking down on herself from a great height, like the stone gargoyles that grimaced at passers-by from the roof of the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari.

The room came back into focus. She was safe in her own bed, in the Chateau Comtal. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the dark. She was safe from the thin, dark-eyed people who haunted her at night, their sharp fingers clawing and pulling at her. They cannot reach me now. The language carved in the stones, more pictures than words, which meant nothing to her, all vanished like wisps of smoke in the autumn air. The fire too had faded, leaving only a memory in her mind.

A premonition? Or a nightmare only?

She had no way of knowing. She was afraid of knowing.

Alais reached for the night-curtains, which were hung around the bed, as if by touching something substantial she would feel less transparent and insubstantial herself. The worn cloth, filled with the dust and familiar smells of the castle, was reassuringly coarse between her fingers.

Night after night, the same dream. All through her childhood, when she had woken in terror in the dark, her face white and wet with tears, her father had been at her bedside, watching over her as if she was a son. As each candle burned down and another was lit, he whispered of his adventures in the Holy Land. He told her of the endless seas of the desert, the curve and sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful. He described the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the food. The terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun as it set over Jerusalem.

For many years, in those hollow hours between dusk and dawn, as her sister lay sleeping beside her, her father had talked and talked, setting her demons to flight. He had not allowed the black cowls or the Catholic priests to come near, with their superstitions and false symbols.

His words had saved her.

“Guilhem?” she whispered.

Her husband was deeply asleep, his arms flung out claiming ownership of most of the bed. His long dark hair, smelling of smoke and wine and the stables, was fanned across the pillow. Moonlight fell through the open window, the shutter pinned back to let the cool night air into the chamber. In the gathering light, Alais could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin. The chain Guilhem wore around his neck shimmered and glinted as he shifted position in his sleep.

Alais wanted him to wake and tell her that everything was all right, that she didn’t have to be afraid any more. But he did not stir and it did not occur to her to wake him. Fearless in all other things, she was inexperienced in the ways of marriage and cautious with him still, so she contented herself with running her fingers down his smooth, tanned arms and across his shoulders, firm and broad from the hours spent practising with sword and quintain for the Joust. Alais could feel the life moving beneath his skin even as he slept. And when she remembered how they had spent the early part of the night, she blushed, even though there was no one there to see.

Alais was overwhelmed by the sensations Guilhem aroused in her. She delighted in the way her heart leapt when she caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted beneath her feet when he smiled at her. At the same time, she did not like the feeling of powerlessness. She feared love was making her weak, giddy. She did not doubt she loved Guilhem and yet she knew she was keeping a little of herself back.

Alais sighed. All she could hope was that, with time, it would become easier.

There was something in the quality of the light, black fading to grey, and the occasional hint of birdsong from the trees in the courtyard, which told her that dawn was not far away. She knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep now.

Alais slipped out between the curtains and tiptoed across to the wardrobe that stood in the far corner of the chamber. The flagstones were cold under her feet and the rush matting scratched her toes. She opened the lid, removed the lavender bag from the top of the pile, and took out a plain, dark green dress. Shivering a little, she stepped into it, threading her arms into the narrow sleeves. She pulled the material, slightly damp, over her undershift, then fastened the girdle tightly.

Alais was seventeen and had been married for six months, but she had not yet acquired the softness and sway of a woman. The dress hung shapelessly on her narrow frame, as if it didn’t belong to her. Steadying herself with her hand on the table, she pushed her feet into soft leather slippers and took her favourite red cloak from the back of the chair. Its edges and hem were embroidered with an intricate blue and green pattern of squares and diamonds, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers, which she had designed herself for her wedding day. It had taken her weeks and weeks to sew. All through November and December she had worked at it, her fingers growing sore and stiff with cold as she hurried to have it finished in time.

Alais turned her attention to her panier, which stood on the floor beside the wardrobe. She checked her herb pouch and purse were there, together with the strips of cloth for wrapping plants and roots and her tools for digging and cutting. Finally, she fixed her cloak firmly at her neck with a ribbon, slipped her knife into its sheath at her waist, pulled her hood up over her head to cover her long, unbraided hair, then quietly crept across the chamber and out into the deserted corridor. The door closed with a thud behind her.

It was not yet Prime, so there was nobody about in the living quarters. Alais walked quickly along the corridor, her cloak swishing softly against the stone floor, heading for the steep and narrow stairs. She stepped over a serving boy slumped asleep against a wall outside the door to the room her sister Oriane shared with her husband.

As she descended lower, the sound of voices floated up to meet her from the kitchens in the basement. The servants were already hard at work. Alais heard a slap, closely followed by a yell, as an unlucky boy started the day with the cook’s heavy hand on the back of his head.

A scullion came staggering towards her, struggling with a massive half-barrel of water he had drawn from the well.

Alais smiled. “Bonjorn.”

“Bonjorn, Dame,” he answered cautiously.

“Here,” she said, going down the stairs before him to open the door.

“Merce, Dame,” he said, a little less timid now. “Grand merce.”

The kitchen was alive with hustle and bustle. Great billows of steam were already rising from the huge payrola, the cauldron, hanging on a hook over the open fire. An older servant took the water from the scullion, emptied it into the pot, and then shoved the barrel back at him without saying a word. The boy rolled his eyes at Alais as he headed out and back up to the well once more.

Capons, lentils and cabbage in sealed earthenware jars stood waiting to be cooked on the big table in the centre of the room, together with pots containing salt mullet, eel and pike. At one end were fogaca puddings in cloth bags, goose pate and slabs of salted pork. At the other, trays of raisins, quinces, figs and cherries. A boy of nine or ten was standing with his elbows propped on the table, the scowl on his face making it clear how much he was looking forward to another hot and sweaty day at the turnspit, watching the meat roast. Next to the hearth, the brushwood was burning fiercely inside the dome-shaped bread oven. The first batch of pan de blat, wheat bread, was already standing on the table to cool. The smell made Alais hungry.

“May I have one of those?”

The cook looked up, furious at the intrusion of a woman into his kitchen. Then he saw who it was and his bad-tempered face creased into a cock-eyed smile revealing a row of rotten teeth.

“Dame Alais,” he said with delight, wiping his hands on his apron. “Benvenguda. What an honour! You’ve not come to visit us for quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Jacques,” she said warmly. “I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“In my way, you!” he laughed. “How could you ever be in my way?” As a child, Alais had spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, watching and learning, the only girl Jacques had ever allowed across the threshold into his male domain. “Now, Dame Alais, what can I get you?”

“Just a little bread, Jacques, some wine too, if you can spare it?”

A frown appeared on his face.

“Forgive me, but you’re not going down to the river? Not at this time of day, unaccompanied? A lady of your position… it’s not even light. I hear things, stories of…”

Alais laid a hand on his arm. “You are kind to concern yourself, Jacques, and I know you have my best interests at heart, but I will be fine. I give you my word. It’s nearly dawn. I know exactly where I’m going. I’ll be there and back before anyone even notices I’ve gone, really.”

“Does your father know?”

She put a conspiratorial finger to her lips. “You know what he does not, but please, keep it our secret. I will take great care.”

Jacques looked far from convinced, but feeling he’d said as much as he dared, he did not argue. He walked slowly over to the table and wrapped a round loaf in a white linen cloth and ordered a scullion to fetch a jar of wine. Alais watched, feeling a tug at her heart. He was moving more slowly these days and he was limping heavily on his left side.

“Is your leg still giving you difficulty?”

“Not much,” he lied.

“I can dress it for you later, if you like. It doesn’t look as if that cut is healing as it should.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Did you use the ointment I made for you?” she asked, knowing from the expression on his face that he had not.

Jacques spread his podgy hands in a gesture of surrender.

“There is so much to do, Dame – all these extra guests, hundreds once you count the servants, ecuyers, grooms, ladies-in-waiting, not to mention the Consuls and their families. And so many things are difficult to find these days. Why only yesterday, I sent-”

“That’s all very well, Jacques,” said Alais, “but your leg won’t get better on its own. The cut’s too deep.”

She suddenly realised that the noise level had dropped. She glanced up to see the entire kitchen was eavesdropping on their conversation. The younger boys were propped on their elbows at the table, staring open-mouthed at the sight of their quick-tempered master being told off. And by a woman.

Pretending not to notice, Alais dropped her voice.

“Why don’t I return later to do it, in return for this?” She patted the loaf. “It can be our second secret, oc? A fair exchange?”

For a moment, she thought she had been over-familiar and presumed too much. But, after a moment’s hesitation, Jacques grinned.

“Ben,” she said. Good. “I will come back when the sun is high and see to it. Dins d’abord.” Soon.

As Alais left the kitchen and climbed back up the stairs, she heard Jacques bellowing at everybody to stop gawping and get back to work, pretending the interruption had never happened. She smiled.

Everything was as it should be.

Alais pulled open the heavy door that led into the main courtyard and stepped out into the newborn day.

The leaves of the elm tree that stood in the centre of the enclosed courtyard, under which Viscount Trencavel dispensed justice, looked black against the fading night. Its branches were alive with larks and wrens, their voices warbling shrill and clear in the dawn.

Raymond-Roger Trencavel’s grandfather had built the Chateau Comtal, more than a hundred years ago, as the seat from which to rule his expanding territories. His lands stretched from Albi in the north and Narbonne in the south, to Beziers in the east and Carcassonne in the west.

The Chateau was constructed around a large rectangular courtyard and incorporated, on the western side, the remains of an older castle. It was part of the reinforcement of the western section of the fortified walls that enclosed the Cite´, a ring of solid stone that towered high above the river Aude and the northern marshlands beyond.

The donjon, where the Consuls met and significant documents were signed, was in the southwest corner of the courtyard and well guarded. In the dim light, Alais could see something propped against the outside wall. She looked harder and realised it was a dog, curled up asleep on the ground. A couple of boys, perched like crows on the edge of the goose pen, were trying to wake the animal up by flicking stones at it. In the stillness, she could hear the regular dull thud, thud of their heels banging against the wooden railings.

There were two ways in and out of the Chateau Comtal. The wide arched West Gate gave directly on to the grassy slopes that led to the walls and was mostly kept closed. The Eastern Gate, small and narrow, was tucked between two high gate towers and led straight into the streets of the Ciutat, the Cite´, itself.

Communication between the upper and lower floors of the gatehouse towers was only possible by means of wooden ladders and a series of trap doors. As a girl, one of her favourite games was to scramble up and down between the levels with the boys from the kitchen, trying to evade the guards. Alais was fast. She always won.

Pulling her cloak tightly about her, she walked briskly across the courtyard. Once the curfew bell had rung, the gates barred for the night and the guard set, nobody was supposed to pass without her father’s authorisation. Although not a consul, Bertrand Pelletier occupied a unique and favoured position in the household. Few dared disobey him.

He had always disliked her habit of slipping out of the Cite´ in the early morning. These days, he was even more adamant that she should stay within the walls of the Chateau at night. She assumed her husband felt the same, although Guilhem had never said so. But it was only in the stillness and anonymity of the dawn, free from the restrictions and limitations of the household, that Alais felt really herself. Nobody’s daughter, nobody’s sister, nobody’s wife. Deep down, she had always believed her father understood. Much as she disliked disobeying him, she did not want to give up these moments of freedom.

Most of the night-watch turned a blind eye to her comings and goings. Or, at least they had. Since rumours of war had started to circulate, the garrison had become more cautious. On the surface, life went on much the same and although refugees arrived in the Cite´ from time to time, their tales of attacks or religious persecution seemed to Alais nothing out of the ordinary. Raiders who appeared from nowhere and struck like summer lightning before passing on were facts of existence for any who lived outside the safety of a fortified village or town. The reports seemed no different, neither more nor less, than usual.

Guilhem didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the whisperings of a conflict, at least not so far as she could tell. He never talked to her of such things. Oriane, however, claimed that a French army of Crusaders and churchmen was making ready to attack the lands of the Pays d’Oc. Moreover, she said the campaign was supported by the Pope and the French King. Alais knew from experience that much of what Oriane said was intended only to upset her. Nonetheless her sister often seemed to know things before anybody else in the household and there was no denying the fact that the number of messengers coming in and out of the Chateau was increasing by the day. It was also undeniable that the lines on their father’s face were deeper and darker, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced.

The sirjans d’arms on guard at the Eastern Gate were alert, although their eyes were rimmed with red after a long night. Their square silver helmets were pushed high on their heads and their chain-mail coats were dull in the pale dawn light. With their shields slung wearily across their shoulders and their swords sheathed, they looked more ready for bed than battle.

As she got closer, Alais was relieved to recognise Berenger. When he identified her, he grinned and he bowed his head.

“Bonjorn, Dame Alais. You’re up and about early.”

She smiled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Can’t that husband of yours think of something to fill your nights?” said the other with a lewd wink. His face was pockmarked and the nails on his fingers were bitten and bleeding. His breath smelled of stale food and ale.

Alais ignored him. “How is your wife, Berenger?”

“Well, Dame. Quite back to her usual self.”

“And your son?”

“Bigger by the day. He’ll eat us out of house and hearth if we don’t watch out!”

“Clearly following in his father’s footsteps!” she said, poking his ample belly.

“That’s exactly what my wife says.”

“Send her my best wishes, Berenger, will you?”

“She will be grateful to be remembered, Dame.” He paused. “I suppose you want me to let you through?”

“I’m only going out into the Ciutat, maybe the river. I won’t be long.”

“We’re not supposed to let anybody through,” growled his companion. “Intendant Pelletier’s orders.”

“Nobody asked you,” snapped Berenger. “It’s not that, Dame,” he said, dropping his voice. “But you know how things are at present. What if something was to happen to you and it came out that it was I who let you pass, your father would-”

Alais put her hand on his arm. “I know, I know,” she said softly. “But really there’s no need to worry. I can take care of myself. Besides…” – She let her eyes slide sideways to the other guard, who was now picking his nose and wiping his fingers on his sleeve – “what trials I might face at the river could hardly be worse than those you endure here!”

Berenger laughed. “Promise me you will be careful, e`?”

Alais nodded, opening her cloak a fraction to show him the hunting knife at her waist. “I will. I give you my word.”

There were two doors to negotiate. Berenger unbolted them in turn, then lifted the heavy beam of oak securing the outer door and pulled it open just wide enough for Alais to slip through. Smiling her thanks, she ducked under his arm and stepped out into the world.