The Rose of the World

NINETEEN

Ninian had reached his destination. He was a very long way from Acquin, and it was virtually impossible that Josse and Helewise would have found him, no matter how long and hard they searched. He was not at the address that Gervase de Gifford had given him. Nobody lived there now. The house, the street, even the town, had disappeared; burned and gone, along with most of the fifteen thousand who once had lived there, on the feast day of St Mary Magdalene more than a year before Ninian arrived.

Ninian stood looking down on what had once been Beziers. He found himself in the middle of a holy war.

The crushing disappointment of discovering that the place he had been heading for all those hundreds of miles was no safe haven but the burnt-out wreck of a town had rendered him all but catatonic. He had the sense to get out of the open and under cover in the remains of an outhouse but, once he felt reasonably safe, he gave himself up to his exhaustion and his grief and eventually fell asleep. By morning, however, he had made up his mind. He had come here to find someone, and find her he would.

Nobody in the Midi knew who he was. He had long ago realized that he was no longer being followed, and much of his former life back in England now seemed like a dream. His French had improved rapidly as he had journeyed, although down in the south they spoke a different tongue. He had already picked up a few useful words and phrases and, whenever he could, he struck up conversations with people, trying to discover what was happening.

The first time he plucked up sufficient courage to mention the name of the person he sought was almost the last. He was in a tavern, eating a large dish of a tasty bean and pork dish that the locals called cassoulet, and the man he was talking to grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and dragged him outside while he still had a mouthful of food.

The man had an arm round Ninian’s neck. With his other hand, he pressed a dagger into the exposed skin beneath Ninian’s ear. ‘How do you know that name, stranger?’ he hissed.

They were in a dark alleyway that stank of urine and bad meat. There was nobody around. Ninian tried to wriggle free, but instantly the knife point dug into his flesh. ‘Talk!’ the man said.

‘I have come from England,’ Ninian began. ‘The name was given to me by someone close to the man I call father. The person told me to come here. I have news of him, and of his wife and children.’

There was dead silence. Ninian thought the pressure on his throat had lessened a little.

Then the man whispered, ‘Give me their names.’

Ninian felt there could be no harm in complying. He spoke five names. ‘The girl is named for her grandmother,’ he added.

He heard the man give a quiet laugh. Abruptly, he let go of Ninian, who almost fell. The man grabbed at him, still laughing. ‘You are either a very clever spy, or you speak the truth,’ he said, looking intently at Ninian. He was tall, broad, dark-haired and swarthy-skinned. ‘Go and finish your dinner.’

Amazing for such a large man, he vanished as swiftly as if he had been swallowed up by the air. Ninian, eventually getting over the shock and returning to the cassoulet, thought he was lucky to have got off so lightly. He wolfed down the rest of his meal, drained his mug and was just vowing to himself that, next time he questioned someone, he would make sure they were nearer his own size, when the dark man came back.

He said simply, ‘Come with me.’

Ninian barely paused to think about it before he stood up, put some coins on the dirty table to pay for his meal and obeyed.

The dark man was called Peter Roger. He rode a bay mare that, although smaller than Garnet, could easily match him for pace, and he led Ninian through the night on roads that gradually turned from wide, well-paved thoroughfares to tracks and paths which, climbing steadily, finally grew so hazardous that Ninian was forced to dismount. Peter Roger, on his sure-footed little mare, turned and grinned at him as he laboured ever upwards. From time to time Ninian caught the flash of white teeth in the moonlight.

They stopped just before dawn. Ninian had no idea where they were. He did not much care. He was desperate for rest and fell asleep almost as soon as he was wrapped in his cloak and blanket.

He woke to the smell of new bread. Peter Roger offered him a generous chunk off the end of a loaf, spread with butter and honey. Ninian could not begin to imagine where he had acquired it. They seemed to be miles from anywhere.

As he ate, he looked around. They were high up in a long line of mountains, with green slopes falling away below and, behind them, tall, craggy peaks crowned with snow. They seemed to go on for ever, rising ever higher until their distant summits were lost in the hazy cloud.

Peter Roger noticed him staring. ‘The Pyrenees,’ he said. ‘These mountains have always been a refuge. Few men know all their secrets, and that’s the way we like it.’

‘You — you’re in hiding?’ Everything began to fall into place. Ninian, kicking himself for not having realized earlier what now seemed so obvious, said, ‘You’re a Cathar, aren’t you?’

The man grinned. ‘I am,’ he said happily. ‘It’s safe enough to tell you now, when it’s only you and me, especially when I’m so much bigger than you.’

Ninian joined in the laughter. ‘I know a little about your faith,’ he said cautiously.

‘You do?’ The man seemed surprised. He smiled indulgently. ‘Go on, then.’

Ninian gathered his thoughts and began to speak. ‘You believe there are two gods: one who is evil and rules the earth and everything in it, and one who is good and rules the spirit world. You think you were once angels in the blessed realm, forced out of that existence to live in human bodies until the time comes for your death, when you go back to your heavenly forms.’ He paused, trying to remember. ‘You live simple, good lives. You don’t eat meat or anything else that comes from animals. When you are ready, you undertake a special ceremony and after that you live as pure ones, without — er, without sharing a bed with a woman.’ He thought he heard Peter Roger give a quiet chuckle. ‘You don’t have priests or a mother church, and you believe that everyone may speak to God directly without the intercession of the clergy.’ He stopped. ‘Er — that’s all I know.’

‘How do you come by your knowledge?’ Peter Roger had got to his feet and was packing away his belongings.

‘Where I come from, there was once a group of people who believe what you do. My mother helped them, as did my adopted father.’ Ninian fastened his pack behind Garnet’s saddle. ‘I wasn’t there when it happened, but my father remembers the people with affection. He says you shouldn’t judge a man by what he believes, only by what he does. He also says nobody has the right to tell anyone else that his idea of God is any more valid than theirs.’

‘Your father is a wise man,’ Peter Roger pronounced. He took a scarf out from inside his tunic. ‘Now, although I like you and I begin to trust you, I cannot disregard the rules of my people. You have to be blindfolded.’

Ninian only saw the terrifying heights to which he had climbed once the ascent was safely over. The scarf was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in an open space — perhaps a tiny village square — with modest buildings on three sides and, on the fourth, a low wall. Beyond the buildings, the mountains soared even higher and, immediately behind the little hamlet, a domed peak rose up shaped like an upturned cup. Beyond the wall, the ground fell away in an almost sheer drop to the valley far, far below. Whichever way Peter Roger had just brought them up here, Ninian thought, swallowing the nausea, they certainly hadn’t climbed those dreadful, awesome slopes.

He was given little time to recover and was still feeling horribly vertiginous when Peter Roger, in the company of another man built on similar lines who had emerged to meet them, slung Ninian’s pack over one shoulder and led him away across an open space and into a small dwelling. Within, a pale-faced woman dressed in black sat on an elaborate wooden chair before a hearth in which a fire blazed; it was very cold at that height.

Peter Roger pushed Ninian forward. As he approached her, the woman rose elegantly to her feet.

She smiled at him. ‘I am Alazais de Saint Gilles, known in my previous life as de Gifford,’ she said in a low, melodious voice. ‘I am told that you bring news of my son.’

The details of that first extraordinary day in Alazais’s little house stayed with Ninian for a long time. Peter Roger and his companion remained with them only for a short time. Ninian thought afterwards that Alazais had submitted him to some test, so subtle that he had no idea what it was, and, when he had passed it, the two men had felt it safe to leave.

Once he was alone with her, she fed him warm bread, goat’s cheese and salty, herb-flavoured olives and gave him copious amounts of a rich, spiced drink. She built up the fire and made him sit down on a pile of animal skins placed close to it, spreading a sheepskin over his knees and putting another around his shoulders against the draughts. He tried to protest, especially since she wore only a thin, black robe and her hands were blue with cold, but she simply smiled, shook her head and assured him she was used to it.

When she had done all she could to make him comfortable, she sat down in her chair, fixed him with her light green eyes and said, ‘Now, tell me of my son.’ With a sudden, vivid eagerness in her face, she added, ‘I believe he-’ But she stopped whatever she had been about to say and nodded for him to speak.

Ninian paused to collect his thoughts. It was important, he realized, to say the right things. He could feel the heat of this woman’s love for her son, and whatever impression he first gave her would be the crucial one, forming the picture in her head that must replace Gervase’s living, breathing presence.

‘He is sheriff of Tonbridge,’ he began, ‘which is a town-’

‘I know Tonbridge,’ she interrupted. Her comment greatly surprised him, but now was not the moment to question it.

‘He is an honourable man and, although he has a reputation for swift judgement and sometimes severe punishment, he is widely regarded as fair and people respect him. Well,’ he added, ‘honest people do, anyway.’ The woman’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘My father regards him as one of his closest friends, and I respect my father’s judgement.’

The woman nodded. Her face eager, she said, ‘What of his private life? Is he happy?’

Reflecting that it might have been better to mention this first, Ninian responded quickly. ‘He is married to a woman named Sabin who is a healer. He has three children: two boys called Simond and Benoit — he’s called after Sabin’s grandfather, who brought her up — and a girl called-’ Only just realizing it, he looked up and met the woman’s hungry eyes. ‘Called after you, madam.’

An expression so poignant crossed her face that he was moved. Impulsively, he reached out and took her thin hand. ‘They are good people, my lady,’ he said. ‘Their family is close and loving, and I would say that Gervase is blessed.’

There was silence for some time. Then she gave his hand a squeeze and released it. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘It is many years since I have seen my only son. Although I was married to a man of the north and went willingly with him to live in his country, I am a woman of the south and my roots here are very deep. When my husband died, I followed my heart and my conscience and returned to my homeland.’

‘Your conscience?’ Ninian was not entirely sure what she meant, although he had an idea.

‘I am a Cathar,’ she said, smiling down at him. ‘Peter Roger tells me you have some knowledge of us and our beliefs.’

‘Yes,’ Ninian said slowly.

On the ascent to the village he had been thinking about what he had said to Peter Roger. One phrase in particular kept echoing in his head: you don’t have priests, and you believe that everyone may speak to God directly without the intercession of the clergy. He recalled the terrible fate of Beziers and its inhabitants, and he thought he was beginning to understand what was happening down here in the south. ‘The church cannot let you flourish,’ he said now, speaking half to himself. ‘You do not see the need for priests, and if everyone else were to become Cathars too, the clergy would lose their income and their homes. They must have persuaded the king of France to send his army against you, and the towns where your people lived are being destroyed.’

He looked up and met her eyes. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said on a sigh, ‘in essence, you are right. Consider too that the lands of the Midi are fertile and contain many fine sea ports. Can you not see another reason why the king should join forces with the church to attack the Cathars?’

‘He wants to increase his kingdom,’ Ninian said. Kings always wanted that.

‘Indeed he does,’ Alazais agreed. ‘Every knight who rides under his banner has been told in great detail of the glorious sunlit fiefs that will be his for the taking once the great Cathar families have been driven off. Religion is the excuse, young man,’ she said, her voice suddenly harsh, ‘but greed is the true spur.’

With a visible effort she made herself relax, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. After a moment, opening them again, she looked at him with a smile and said, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Ninian de Courtenay.’

Her eyes flicked from him to his pack, placed by Peter Roger on the floor beside him. Watching the movement, he realized that she had been doing it all the time they had been talking. He, too, glanced at his pack — it was Josse’s old campaign bag and very precious to Ninian — and then up at Alazais. Her eyes were wide and, gazing into them, he felt momentarily dizzy, as if a memory of his earlier vertigo had returned. He was about to protest, but she spoke first.

In a soft, hypnotic voice, she said, ‘What is in your pack, Ninian de Courtenay?’

‘My — my father prepared it for me,’ he managed to say. He was feeling very strange. ‘He — he put in winter garments, a change of linen, a sharp knife and some food.’

‘And have you unpacked your bag since you left home?’ the soft but imperative voice went on.

He tried to think. Had he? Acquin was the last place he had stayed for more than a night, and he was almost sure he had not taken everything out of the bag then. While on the road he had only changed his linen once, stuffing the soiled garments down towards the bottom of the bag. ‘No,’ he whispered. He tried to think what she was doing, why she seemed intent on putting him into a trance; what did she want from him? Even as he formed the fearful question, it was as if her mind reached into his and swept it away.

‘Look inside your pack,’ she intoned. ‘Take everything out. Lay your belongings on the floor where I may see them.’

With no will of his own, he obeyed. He reached out and dragged the pack towards him, unfastening the ties and taking out his leather water bottle — still half full — and his small knife. A shirt came next — very dirty — and then some mud-caked hose that stank of sweat. A lightweight tunic, a length of frayed and stained linen in which he had once wrapped some slices of ham, a filthy undershirt.

The bag was empty, and he turned back to face her. He thought she spoke to him, which was odd because her lips did not move. A voice said: look again.

He reached his hand right down to the bottom of the bag. To his great surprise, his searching fingers located a small, hard parcel wrapped in linen.

As he touched it, he thought that a jolt of some sort of energy flowed into his fingertips and up his arm. With a cry, he withdrew his hand.

‘Take it out,’ Alazais commanded.

He could not disobey. Nerving himself, he took hold of the package again. This time the shock was not so severe. Curious now — dear Lord, what was this thing he had carried unknowingly all those hundreds and hundreds of miles? — he pulled it out of the bag.

The parcel was rectangular in shape, about as long as a man’s hand and two-thirds as broad. The linen that wrapped it was yellow with age and tied with a length of twine.

He held it out to Alazais, but she shook her head. Her eyes shining now, her face filled with such anguished yearning that he flinched from her, she whispered, ‘You have brought it to me. You must unwrap it.’

He placed the package in his lap and with shaking hands untied the knotted twine. He pulled at the linen and it fell away. He stared down at what lay revealed.

It was a book, made up of several sheets of vellum, fastened together on the left-hand side with a leather cord woven into an intricate pattern. The covers were of board, bound in thick leather into which a pattern had been stamped.

‘It’s… it’s a book,’ he said stupidly.

‘Open it,’ she whispered.

He did so.

The first page was densely covered in letters. Ninian could barely read, but he understood enough to appreciate that the words made no sense to him. Whatever language they were written in, it was one he did not know. He turned a page, then another, and sumptuously-coloured illustrations seemed to leap out at him, so vivid, so alive, that he almost thought they moved. One showed a circle of black-robed figures, arms raised, their joy so palpable that he smiled with them. He flicked on through the book and saw a strange cross; another group of people, this time apparently singing; a beautiful scene of pink and gold clouds…

Then on the next page he saw a sight that made him gasp aloud. Two worlds were depicted, side by side. The light world had more of the fluffy, sunlit clouds, now inhabited by human-like figures that were vague and dreamy. The world of the dark, in hideous contrast, was a nightmare land of chaos and misery, its inhabitants wailing in torment as they tore at their hair, nature around them distorted and corrupt.

‘Turn the page,’ Alazais said sharply.

He glanced up at her. He wondered how she had known what he was looking at since she had her eyes closed and, anyway, could not have seen the book in his lap, for his shoulder concealed it from her.

He did as she commanded.

On the very last page, there was neither writing nor any illustration. Instead, there was a strange pattern of marks, odd little black dots, each with a tail that went either up or down. The marks were set out in careful lines, and the lines covered the whole page. Beneath the marks there were symbols. As he studied the lines, it seemed to him that somehow the symbols related to the marks…

He heard a snatch of music, if indeed music was what it was. Sounds, anyway, such beautiful sounds, in a pattern that stopped his heart and then set it beating in a different way. He was filled with a joy so vast that he felt his solid, earthbound body could not contain it.

The sounds ceased. He gave an involuntary sound — a groan? A sigh of ecstasy? All strength left him, and he slumped to the ground.

He was awake. He did not know how long he had been unconscious. Tentatively, he flexed his arms and legs, trying to see if he had been hurt. Everything seemed fine. He opened his eyes and, very carefully, sat up.

Alazais sat in her high chair, dark, immobile, mysterious, like the statue of some ancient goddess from man’s infancy. On her face was a look of bliss. As he looked more closely — for he wondered if she had died — he saw there were tears on her thin cheeks, glistening in the light from the fire.

After a while she opened her eyes and looked down at him. ‘You have done it, Ninian de Courtenay,’ she said softly. ‘Against all expectations, you have found me and brought to me what I so desperately needed. May you be blessed with a long and happy life, for you have done a deed far greater than you can know.’

‘What have I done?’ he demanded wildly. ‘I have never seen that book before, and I had no idea I was carrying it! What is it? Where does it come from?’

But she held out her hand, and abruptly he fell silent. ‘Sleep,’ she intoned. ‘Sleep now, for your journey has been long and hard, and your heart is sore with sorrow. Sleep, be healed, and tomorrow we shall talk.’

Her hand waved above his head in a careful dance of precise movements. His eyelids drooped, and he slipped down on to the floor. His last waking awareness was of hands as gentle as a mother’s tucking the sheepskins more closely around him.