Labyrinth

CHAPTER 71

Montsegur

MARC 1244

Alais stood on the walls of the citadel of Montsegur, a slight and solitary figure in her thick winter cloak. Beauty had come with the passing of the years. She was slight, but there was a grace to her face, her neck, her bearing. She looked down at her hands. In the early morning light they looked blue, almost transparent.

The hands of an old woman.

Alais smiled. Not old. Younger still than her father when he died.

The light was soft as the rising sun struggled to give the world back its shape and brush away the silhouettes of the night. Alais gazed at the ragged snow-covered peaks of the Pyrenees, rising and falling away into the pale horizon, and the purple pine forests on the eastern flank of the mountain. Early morning clouds were scudding over the ragged slopes of the Pic de Sant-Bartelemy. Beyond that, she could almost see the Pic de Soularac.

She imagined her house, plain and welcoming, tucked inside the folds of the hills. She remembered the smoke unfurling from the chimney on cold mornings such as this. Spring came late to the mountains and this had been a hard winter, but it wouldn’t be long now. She could see its promise in the pink blush of the sky at dusk. In Los Seres the trees would soon be coming into bud. By April, the mountain pastures would be covered once more with delicate blue, white and yellow flowers.

Down below Alais could make out the surviving buildings that made up the village of Montsegur, the few huts and dwellings left standing after ten months of siege. The ramshackle cluster of houses was surrounded by the standards and tents of the French army, tattered pinpricks of colour and fluttering banners, ragged around the edges. They had suffered the same hard winter as the inhabitants of the citadel.

On the western slopes, at the foot of the mountain, stood a wooden palisade. The besiegers had been building it for days. Yesterday, they hammered a row of stakes up the middle, a crooked wooden spine, each post held in place by a heap of tinder and faggots of straw. At dusk, she had seen them prop ladders around the edges.

A pyre to burn the heretics.

Alais shivered. In a few hours it would be over. She was not afraid to die when her time came. But she’d seen too many people burn to be under any illusion that faith would spare them pain. For those that wished it, Alais had provided medicines to numb the suffering. Most had chosen to walk unaided from this world to the next.

The purple stones beneath her feet were slippery with frost. Alais traced the pattern of the labyrinth on the crisp, white ground with the top of her boot. She was nervous. If her subterfuge worked, the quest for the Book of Words would end. If it failed, she had gambled the lives of those who’d given her shelter for all these years – Esclarmonde’s people, her father’s people – for the sake of the Grail.

The consequences were dreadful to think about.

Alais closed her eyes and let herself fly back through the years to the labyrinth cave. Harif, Sajhe, herself. She remembered the smooth caress of the air on her bare arms, the flicker of the candles, the beautiful voices Spiralling in the dark. The recollection of the words as she spoke them, so vivid she could almost taste them on her tongue.

Alais shivered, thinking of the moment when she finally understood and the incantation came from her lips as if of its own accord. That single moment of ecstasy, of illumination, as everything that had happened before and everything that was yet to come were joined uniquely, as the Grail descended to her.

And through her voice and her hands, to him.

Alais gasped. To have lived and had such experiences.

A noise disturbed her. Alais opened her eyes and let the past fade. She turned to see Bertrande picking her way along the narrow battlements. Alais smiled and raised her hand in greeting.

Her daughter was less serious by nature than Alais had been at this age. But in looks, Bertrande was made in her image. The same heart-shaped face, the same direct gaze and long brown hair. But for Alais’ grey hairs the lines around her eyes, they could almost be sisters.

The strain of waiting showed on her daughter’s face.

“Sajhe says the soldiers are coming,” she said in an uncertain voice.

Alais shook her head. They will not come until tomorrow,“ she said firmly. ”And there is still much to occupy our time between now and then.“ She took Bertrande’s cold hands between hers. ”I am relying on you to help Sajhe and to care for Rixende. Tonight especially. They need you.“

“I don’t want to lose you, Mama,” she said, her lip trembling.

“You won’t,” she smiled, praying it was true. “We’ll all be together again soon. You must have patience.” Bertrande gave her a weak smile. “That’s better. Now, come, Filha. Let us go down.”