Alys Clare: The Rose of the World

Would it have made any difference if she had behaved differently since going to live in the House in the Woods? Of course it would, the sensible part of her answered. They would still have had today’s devastating argument, and she would still have persuaded him, for she knew she had employed unfair tactics by reminding him of his family and, once she had done so, there had only been one possible outcome. But oh, if they had already taken that great step that she knew they both wanted, and become man and wife in law and in body as they already were in heart and spirit, then she knew in her very bones that, argue as they might, this night they would have lain in each other’s arms and made it up.

She heard his voice again in her mind. You are right, my lady, as you usually are. Dear God, if he had added abbess after my lady, the two of them could have been back in her little room at the abbey, disputing hotly from their accustomed positions either side of the large oak table that had always divided them.

Was she still abbess, then? In her soul, was she still a nun? She turned over, trying to pad her cloak under her hip bone. Deliberately, she made herself go back over the long and painful months and years between her first doubts and her final decision. It was not that she no longer loved God and wished with all her heart to serve him; it was that she had lost her faith in the church which men had built in his name.

She thought now of what Yves had told them of the horrors in the south. It was the ultimate persuasion, had she needed it, that she had been right.

She felt drowsy at last. She stretched out a hand to Josse’s broad back, stopping just short of touching him. In a couple of days, they would cross the narrow seas back to England. She knew what she must do: she must reinforce as often as she could that they’d had to go back; that to go on after Ninian would have been useless and might well have cost both of them their lives. She must say, every day, he is young, he is strong, he is resourceful. And, more often than any of those phrases, he will come back.

Sending all the love that was in her heart out to this big, strong man of hers, Helewise closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

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.’