Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

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.”

At dawn on Wednesday the sixteenth of March, they gathered inside the Great Gate of Montsegur.

From the battlements, the members of the garrison watched the Crusaders sent to arrest the Bons Homes climb the last section of the rocky path, still slippery with frost this early in the day.

Bertrande was standing with Sajhe and Rixende at the front of the crowd. It was very quiet. After the months of relentless bombardment, she still had not got used to the absence of sound now the mangomels and catapults had fallen silent.

The last two weeks had been a peaceful time. For many, the end of their time. Easter had been celebrated. The parfaits and a few parfaites had fasted. Despite the promise of pardon for those who abjured their faith, almost half the population of the Citadel, Rixende among them, had chosen to receive the consolament . They preferred to die as Bons Chretiens rather than live, defeated, under the French crown. Possessions had been bequeathed by those condemned to die for their faith to those condemned to live deprived of their loved ones. Bertrande had helped -distribute gifts of wax, pepper, salt, cloth, shoes, a purse, breeches, even a felt hat.

Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix had been presented with a coverlet full of coins. Others had given corn and jerkins for him to distribute among his men. Marquesia de Lanatar had given all her belongings to her granddaughter Philippa, Pierre-Roger’s wife.

Bertrande looked around at the silent faces and offered a silent prayer for her mother. Alais had chosen Rixende’s garments carefully. The dark green dress and a red cloak, the edges and hem embroidered with an pattern of blue and green squares and diamonds and yellow flowers. Her mother had explained it was the image of the cloak she’d on her wedding day in the capela Santa-Maria in the Chateau Comtal. Alais was sure her sister Oriane would remember it, despite the passage of years.

As a precaution, Alais had also made a small sheepskin bag to be held against the red cloak, a copy of the chemise in which each of the books of the Labyrinth Trilogy were stored. Bertrande had helped to fill it with fabric and sheets of parchment so that, from a distance at least, it would deceive. She didn’t understand entirely the point of these preparations, only that they mattered. She had been delighted to be allowed to help.

Bertrande reached out and took Sajhe’s hand.

The leaders of the Cathar Church, Bishop Bertrand Marty and Raymond Aiguilher, both old men now, stood quietly in their dark blue robes. For years, they had served their ministry from Montsegur, travelling from the citadel, preaching the word and delivering comfort to credentes in the isolated villages of the mountains and the plains. Now they were ready to lead their people into the fire.

“ Mama will be all right,” Bertrande whispered, trying to reassure herself as much as him. She felt Rixende’s arm on her shoulder.

“I wish you were not…”

“I have made my choice,” Rixende said quickly. “I choose to die in my faith.”

“What if Mama is taken?” whispered Bertrande.

Rixende stroked her hair. “There is nothing we can do but pray.”

Bertrande felt tears well up in her eyes when the soldiers reached them. Rixende held out her wrists to be shackled. The boy shook his head. Having not expected so many to choose death, they had not brought enough chains to secure them all.

Bertrande and Sajhe watched in silence as Rixende and the others walked through the Great Gate and began their last descent of the steep, winding mountain path. The red of Alais’ cloak stood out among the subdued browns and greens, bright against the grey sky.

Led by Bishop Marty, the prisoners began to sing. Montsegur had fallen, but they were not defeated. Bertrande wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She had promised her mother to be strong. She would do her best to keep her word.

Down below on the meadows of the lower slopes, stands had been erected for the spectators. They were full. The new aristocracy of the Midi, French barons, collaborators, Catholic legates and Inquisitors, invited by Hugues des Arcis, the Seneschal of Carcassonne. All had come to see “justice‘ done after more than thirty years of civil war.

Guilhem pulled his cloak hard about him, taking care not to be recognised. His face was known after a lifetime fighting the French. He could not afford to be taken. He glanced around.

If his information was right, somewhere in this crowd was Oriane. He was determined to keep her away from Alais. Even after all this time, just the thought of Oriane moved him to anger. He clenched his fists, wishing he could act now. That he did not have to dissemble or wait, just put a knife in her heart as he should have done thirty years before. Guilhem knew he had to be patient. If he tried something now, he’d be cut down before he’d even had the chance to draw his sword.

He ran his eyes along the rows of spectators until he saw the face he was looking for. Oriane was sitting at the middle of the front row. There was nothing of the southern lady left in her. Her clothes were expensive in the more formal and elaborate style of the north. Her blue velvet cloak was trimmed in gold with a thick ermine collar around the neck and hood and matching winter gloves. Although her face was still striking and beautiful, it had grown thin and was spoiled by its hard and bitter expression.

There was a young man with her. The likeness was strong enough for Guilhem to guess he must be one of her sons. Louis, the eldest, he’d heard had joined the Crusade. He had Oriane’s colouring and black curls, with his father’s aquiline profile.