Labyrinth

CHAPTER 67

“Shall we sit outside?” Audric suggested. “At least until the heat becomes too much.”

“That would be lovely,” Alice replied, following him out of the little house. She felt like she was in a dream. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The vastness of the mountains, the acres of sky, Baillard’s slow and deliberate movements.

Alice felt the strain and confusion of the past few days slipping away from her.

This will do well,“ he said in his gentle voice, stopping by a small grassy mound. Baillard sat down with his long, thin legs straight out in front of him like a boy.

Alice hesitated, then sat at his feet. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, then saw he was smiling again.

“What?” she said, self-conscious suddenly.

Audric just shook his head. “Los ressons.” The echoes. “Forgive me, Madomaisela Tanner. Forgive an old man his foolishness.”

Alice didn’t know what had made him smile so, only that she was happy to see it. “Please, call me Alice. Madomaisela sounds so formal.”

He inclined his head. “Very well.”

“You speak Occitan rather than French?” she asked.

“Both, yes.”

“Others too?”

He smiled self-deprecatingly. “English, Arabic, Spanish, Hebrew. Stories shift their shape, change character, take on different colours depending on the words you use, the language in which you choose to tell them. Sometimes more serious, sometimes more playful, more melodic, say. Here, in this part of what they now call France, the langue d’Oc was spoken by the people whose land this was. The langue d’oil, the forerunner of modern-day French, was the language of the invaders. Such choices divided people.” He waved his hands. “But, this is not what you came to hear. You want people, not theories, yes?

It was Alice’s turn to smile. “I read one of your books, Monsieur Baillard, which I found at my aunt’s house in Salleles d’Aude.”

He nodded. “It’s a beautiful place. The Canal de Jonction. Lime trees and pin parasols line the banks.” He paused. “The leader of the Crusade, Arnald-Amalric, was given a house in Salleles, you know? Also, in Carcassona and Besiers.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Before, when I first arrived, you said Alais did not die before her time. She… did she survive the fall of Carcassonne?”

Alice was surprised to realise her heart was beating fast.

Baillard nodded. “Alais left Carcassona in the company of a boy, Sajhe, the grandson of one of the guardians of the Labyrinth Trilogy.” He raised his eyes to see if she was following, then continued when she indicated she was.

“They were heading here,” he said. “In the old language Los Seres means the mountain crests, the ridges.”

“Why here?”

“The Navigataire, the leader of the Noublesso de los Seres, the society to which Alais’ father and Sajhe’s grandmother had sworn allegiance, was waiting for them here. Since Alais feared she was being pursued, they took an indirect route, first heading west to Fanjeaux, then south to Puivert and Lavelanet, then west again towards the Sabarthes Mountains.

With the fall of Carcassona, there were soldiers everywhere. They swarmed all over our land like rats. There were also bandits who preyed on the refugees without pity. Alais and Sajhe travelled early in the morning and late at night, sheltering from the biting sun in the heat of the day. It was a particularly hot summer, so they slept outdoors when night fell. They survived on nuts, berries, fruit, anything they could forage. Alais avoided the towns, except when she was sure of finding a safe house.“

“How did they know where to go?” asked Alice, remembering her own journey only hours earlier.

“Sajhe had a map, given to him…”

His voice cracked with distress. Alice didn’t know why, but she reached: and took his hand. It seemed to give him comfort.

“They made good progress,” he continued, “arriving in Los Seres shortly before the Feast Day of Sant-Miquel, at the end of September, just as the land was turning to gold. Already here, in the mountains, was the smell of autumn and wet earth. The smoke hung over the fields as the stubble burned. It was a new world to them, who had been brought up in the shadows and alleyways and overcrowded halls of Carcassona. Such light. Such skies that reached, as it seemed, all the way to heaven.” He paused as he looked out over the landscape in front of them. “You understand?”

She nodded, mesmerised by his voice.

“Harif, the Navigataire, was waiting for them.” Baillard bowed his head. “When he heard all that had happened, he wept for the soul of Alais’ father and for Simeon too. For the loss of the books and for Esclarmonde’s generosity in letting Alais and Sajhe travel on without her to better secure the safety of the Book of Words.”

Baillard stopped again and, for a while, was silent. Alice did not want to interrupt or hurry him. The story would tell itself. He would speak when he was ready.

His face softened. “It was a blessed time, both in the mountains and on the plains, or at first so it seemed. Despite the indescribable horror of the defeat of Besiers, many Carcassonnais believed they would soon be allowed to return home. Many trusted in the Church. They thought that if the heretics were expelled, then their lives would be returned to them.”

“But the Crusaders did not leave,” she said.

Baillard shook his head. “It was a war for land, not faith,” he said. “After the Ciutat was defeated in August 1209, Simon de Montfort was elected viscount, despite the fact that Raymond-Roger Trencavel still lived. To modern minds, it is hard to understand how unprecedented, how grave an offence this was. It went against all tradition and honour. War was financed, in part, by the ransoms paid by one noble family to another. Unless convicted of a crime, a seigneur’s lands would never be confiscated and given to another. There could have been no clearer indication of the contempt in which the northerners held the Pays d’Oc”

What happened to Viscount Trencavel?“ Alice asked. ”I see him remembered everywhere in the Cite.“

Baillard nodded. “He is worthy of remembrance. He died – was murdered – after three months of incarceration in the prisons of the Chateau Comtal, in November 1209. De Montfort published it that he had died of siege sickness, as it was known. Dysentery. No one believed it. There were sporadic uprisings and outbreaks of unrest, until de Montfort was forced to grant Raymond-Roger’s two-year-old son and heir an annual allowance of 3,000 sols in return for the legal surrender of the viscounty.”

A face suddenly flashed into Alice’s mind. A devout, serious woman, pretty, devoted to her husband and son.

“Dame Agnes,” she muttered.

Baillard held her in his gaze for a moment. “She too is remembered within the walls of the Ciutat,” he said quietly. “De Montfort was a devout Catholic. He – perhaps only he – of the Crusaders believed he was doing God’s work. He established a tax of house or hearth in favour of the Church, introduced tithes on the first fruits, northern ways.

“The Ciutat might have been defeated, but the fortresses of the Minervois, the Montagne Noire, the Pyrenees refused to surrender. The King of Aragon, Pedro, would not accept him as a vassal; Raymond VI, uncle to Viscount Trencavel, withdrew to Toulouse; the Counts of Never and Saint-Pol, others such as Guy d’Evreux, returned north. Simon de Montfort had possession of Carcassona, but he was isolated.

“Merchants, peddlers, weavers brought news of sieges and battles, good and bad. Montreal, Preixan, Saverdun, Pamiers fell, Cabaret was holding out. In the spring of April 1210, after three months of siege, de Montfort took the town of Bram. He ordered his soldiers to round up the defeated garrison and had their eyes put out. Only one man was spared, charged with leading the mutilated procession cross-country to Cabaret, a clear warning to any who resisted that they could expect no mercy.

“The savagery and reprisals escalated. In July 1210, de Montfort besieged the hill fortress of Minerve. The town is protected on two sides by deep rocky gorges cut by rivers over thousands of years. High above the village, de Montfort installed a giant trebuchet, known as La Mahoisine the bad neighbour.” He stopped and turned to Alice. “There is a replica there now. Strange to see. For six weeks, de Montfort bombarded the village. When finally Minerve fell, one hundred and forty Cathar parfaits refused to recant and were burned on a communal pyre.

“In May 1211, the invaders took Lavaur, after a siege of a month. The Catholics called it ”the very seat of Satan“. In a way, they were right. It was the See of the Cathar bishop of Toulouse and hundreds of parfaits and parfaites lived peaceably and openly there.”

Baillard lifted his glass to his lips and drank.

“Nearly four hundred credentes and parfaits were burned, including Amaury de Montreal, who had led the resistance, alongside eighty of his knights. The scaffold collapsed under their weight. The French were forced to slit their throats. Fired by bloodlust, invaders rampaged through town searching for the lady of Lavaur, Guirande, under whose protection the Bons Homes had lived. They seized her, misused her. They dragged her through the streets like a common criminal, then threw her into the well and hurled stones down upon her until she was dead. She was buried alive. Or possibly drowned.”

“Did they know how bad things were?” she said.

“Alais and Sajhe heard some news, but often many months after the event. The war was still concentrated on the plains. They lived simply, but happily, here in Los Seres with Harif. They gathered wood, salted meats for the long dark months of winter, learned how to bake bread and to thatch the roof with straw to protect it against storms.”

Baillard’s voice had softened.

“Harif taught Sajhe to read, then to write, first the langue d’Oc, then the language of the invaders, as well as a little Arabic and a little Hebrew.” He smiled. “Sajhe was an unwilling pupil, preferring activities of the body to those of the mind but, with Alais’ help, he persevered.”

“He probably wanted to prove something to her.”

Baillard slid a glance at her, but made no comment.

“Nothing changed until the Passiontide after Sajhe’s thirteenth birthday, when Harif told him he was to be apprenticed in the household of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix to begin his training as a chevalier.”

What did Alais think of that?“

“She was delighted for him. It was what he always wanted. In Carcassona, he’d watched the ecuyers polishing their masters’ boots and helmets. He had crept into the lices to watch them joust. The life of a chevalier was beyond his station, but it had not stopped him dreaming of riding out in his own colours. Now it seemed he was to have the chance to prove himself after all.”

“So he went?”

Baillard nodded. “Pierre-Roger Mirepoix was a demanding master, although fair, and had a reputation for training his boys well. It was hard work, but Sajhe was clever and quick and worked hard. He learned to tilt his lance at the quintain. He practised with sword, mace, ball-and chain, dagger, how to ride straight-backed in a high saddle.”

For a while, Alice watched him gazing out over the mountains and thought, not for the first time, how these distant people, in whose company Baillard had spent much of his life, had become flesh and blood to him.

What of Alais during this time?“

While Sajhe was in Mirepoix, Harif began to instruct Alais in the rites and rituals of the Noublesso. Already, her skills as a healer and a wise woman became well known. There were few illnesses, of spirit or body, which she could not treat. Harif taught her much about the stars, about the patterns that make up the world, drawing on the wisdom of the ancient mystics of his land. Alais was aware that Harif had a deeper purpose. She knew he was preparing her – preparing Sajhe too, that was why he had sent him away – for their task.

“In the meantime, Sajhe thought little about the village. Morsels of news about Alais reached Mirepoix from time to time, brought by shepherds or paifaits, but she did not visit. Thanks to her sister Oriane, Alais was a fugitive with a price on her head. Harif sent money to purchase Sajhe a hauberk, a palfrey, armour and a sword. He was dubbed when he was only fifteen.” He hesitated. “Shortly after that, he went to war. Those who had thrown in their lot with the French, hoping for clemency, switched allegiance, including the Count of Toulouse. This time when he called on his liege lord, Pedro II of Aragon, Pedro accepted his responsibilities and in January 1213 rode north. Together with the Count of Foix, their combined forces were large enough to inflict significant damage on de Montfort’s depleted forces.

“In September 1213, the two armies, north against south, came face to face at Muret. Pedro was a brave leader and a skilled strategist, but the attack was badly mismanaged and, in the heat of battle, Pedro was slain. The South had lost its leader.”

Baillard stopped. “Among those fighting for independence was a chevalier from Carcassona. Guilhem du Mas.” He paused. “He acquitted himself well. He was well liked. Men were drawn to him.”

An odd tone had entered his voice, admiration, mixed with something else Alice could not identify. Before she could think more of it, Baillard continued. “On the twenty-fifth day of June, 1218, the wolf was slain.”

“The wolf?”

He raised his hands. “Forgive me. In the songs of the time, for example the Canso de lo Crosada, de Montfort was known as the wolf. He was killed besieging Tolosa. He was hit on the head by stone from a catapult, it said, operated by a woman.” Alice couldn’t help herself smiling. “They carried his body back to Carcassona and saw him buried in the northern manner. His heart, liver, stomach, were taken to Sant-Cerni and the bones to Sant-Nasari to be buried beneath a gravestone, which now hangs on the wall of the south transept of the Basilica.” He paused. “Perhaps you noticed it on your visit to the Ciutat?

Alice blushed. “I… I found that I could not enter the Cathedral,” she admitted. Baillard looked quickly at her, but said nothing more about the stone.

“Simon de Montfort’s son, Amaury, succeeded him, but he was not the commander his father was and, straight away, he began to lose the lands his father had taken. In 1224, Amaury withdrew. The de Montfort family relinquished their claim to the Trencavel lands. Sajhe was free to return home. Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix was reluctant to allow him to leave, but Sajhe had…”

He broke off, then stood up and wandered some way from her down the hill. When he spoke, he did not turn.

“He was twenty-six,” he said. “Alais was older, but Sajhe”… he had hopes. He looked on Alais with different eyes, no longer the brother to the sister. He knew they could not marry, for Guilhem du Mas still lived, but he dreamed, now he had proved himself, that there could be more between them.“

Alice hesitated, then went to stand beside him. When she placed her hand on his arm, Baillard jolted, as if he had forgotten she was there at all.

“What happened?” she said quietly, feeling oddly anxious. She felt as if she was somehow eavesdropping, as if it was too intimate a story to be shared.

“He gathered his courage to speak.” He faltered. “Harif knew. If Sajhe had asked his advice, he would have given it. As it was, he kept his counsel.”

“Perhaps Sajhe knew he wouldn’t wish to hear what Harif had to say.”

Baillard gave a half-smile, sad. “Benleu.” Perhaps. Alice waited.

“So…” she prompted, when it was clear he was not going to continue. “Did Sajhe tell her what he felt?”

“He did.”

“Well?” said Alice quickly. “What did she say?”

Baillard turned and looked at her. “Do you not know?” he said, almost in a whisper. “Pray God that you never know what it is like to love, like that, without hope of that love being returned.”

Alice sprang to Alais’ defence, crazy as it was.

“But she did love him,” she said firmly. “As a brother. Was that not enough?”

Baillard turned and smiled at her. “It was what he settled for,” he replied. “But enough? No. It was not enough.”

He turned and started to walk back towards the house. “Shall we?” he said, formal again. “I am a little hot. You, Madomaisela Tanner, must be tired after your long journey.”

Alice noticed how pale, how exhausted he suddenly looked and felt guilty. She glanced at her watch and saw they’d been talking for longer than she’d realised. It was nearly midday.

“Of course,” she said quickly, offering him her arm. They walked slowly back to the house together.

“If you will excuse me,” he said quietly, once back inside. “I must sleep a while. Perhaps you should rest also?”

“I am tired,” she admitted.

When I awake, I will prepare food, then I will finish the story. Before dusk falls and we turn our mind to other things.“

She waited until he had walked to the back of the house and drawn the curtain behind him. Then, feeling strangely bereft, Alice took a blanket for a pillow and went back outside.

She settled herself under the trees. She realised only then that the past had so held her imagination that she’d not thought about Shelagh or Will once.