Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

“You told me you did not touch the body,” he said sharply.

“Nor did I. But I could see his hands under the water, that’s all. Jewels. So many rings, father. A gold bracelet made from interlinking chains. Another around his neck. Why would they leave such things?”

Alais broke off, as she remembered the man’s bloated, ghostly hands reaching out to touch her and, where his thumb should have been, blood and shards of white bone. Her head started to spin. Leaning back against the damp, cold wall, Alais made herself concentrate on the hard wood of the bench beneath her and the sour smell of the casks in her nose, until the dizziness faded.

“There was no blood,” she added. “An open wound, red like a piece of meat.” She swallowed hard. “His thumb was missing, it was-”

“Missing?” he said sharply. “What do you mean, missing?”

Alais glanced up in surprise at the shift of tone. “His thumb had been cut off. Sliced from the bone.”

“Which hand, Alais?” he said. Now there was no hiding the urgency in his voice. “Think. It’s important.”

“I’m not-

He hardly seemed to hear. “Which hand?” he insisted.

“His left hand, the left, I’m sure of it. It was the side closest to me. He was facing upstream.”

Pelletier strode across the room, bellowing for Francois, and threw open the door. Alai’s hurled herself to her feet too, shaken by her father’s desperate mood and bewildered as to what was going on.

“What is it? Tell me, I beseech you. Why does it matter if it was his left or his right hand?”

“Prepare horses straight away, Francois. My bay gelding, Dame Alai’s’ gray mare and a mount for you.”

Francois’ expression was as impassive as ever. “Very good, Messire. Are we going far?”

“Only to the river.” He gestured him to be gone. “Quick, man. And fetch my sword and a clean cloak for Dame Alai’s. We’ll meet you at the well.”

As soon as Francois was out of earshot, Alai’s rushed to her father. He refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he walked back to the casks and, with a shaking hand, poured himself some wine. The thick, red liquid slopped over the side of the earthenware bowl and splashed all over the table, staining the wood.

“Paire,” she pleaded. “Tell me what this is about. Why do you have to go to the river? Surely, it cannot be a matter for you. Let Francois go. I can tell him where.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me, so I can understand. You can trust me.”

“I must see the body for myself. Find out if-”

“Find out what?” Alai’s said quickly.

“No, no,” he was saying, shaking his grizzled head from side to side. “This is not for you to…” Pelletier’s voice trailed off.

“But-”

Pelletier held up his hand, suddenly in control of his emotions again. “No more, Alai’s. You must be guided by me. I would that I could spare you this, but I cannot. I have no choice.” He thrust the cup toward her. “Drink this. It will fortify you, give you courage.”

“I’m not afraid,” she protested, offended he thought her reluctance cowardice. “I do not fear to look on the dead. It was shock that affected me so before.” She hesitated. “But I beseech you, Messire, to tell me why-”

Pelletier turned on her. “Enough, no more,” he shouted.

Alai’s stepped back as if he had struck her.

“Forgive me,” he said immediately. “I am not myself.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “No man could ask for a more loyal, a more steadfast daughter.”

“Then why will you not confide in me?”

He hesitated and, for a moment, Alai’s thought she had persuaded him to speak. Then the same, shuttered look fell down over his face again.

“All you have to do is show me,” he said in a hollow voice. “The rest is in my hands.”

The bells of Sant-Nasari were ringing for Tierce as they rode out of the West Gate of the Chateau Comtal.

Her father rode in front, with Alai’s following behind with Francois. She felt wretched, both guilty that her actions had precipitated this strange change in her father and frustrated that she did not understand.

They picked their way along the narrow, dry dirt track that zigzagged sharply down the hill below the Cite walls, doubling back on itself over and again. When they reached the flat, they broke into a canter.

They followed the course of the river upstream. An unforgiving sun beat down upon their backs as they rode into the marshes. Swarms of midges and black swamp flies hovered above the rivulets and puddles of torpid water. The horses stamped their hooves and switched their tails, in vain trying to stop their thin summer coats being pierced by the myriad biting insects.

Alai’s could see a group of women washing clothes in the shaded shallows on the other bank of the river Aude, standing half in and half out of the water as they beat the material on flat gray stones. There was a monotonous rumble of wheels over the single wooden bridge that linked the marshes and villages of the north to Carcassonne and its suburbs. Others waded across the river at its lowest point, a steady stream of peasants, farmers and merchants. Some were carrying children on their shoulders, some driving herds of goats or mules, all heading for the market in the main square.

They rode in silence. Once they moved from open ground into the shadow of the marsh willows, she found herself drifting away into her own thoughts. Calmed by the familiar motion of her horse beneath her, the singing of the birds and the endless chattering of the cicadas in the reeds, for a while Alai’s almost forgot the purpose of their expedition.

Her apprehension returned when they reached the outskirts of the woods. Falling into single file, they threaded their way through the trees. Her father turned, briefly, and smiled at her. Alai’s was grateful for it. She was nervous now, alert, listening for the slightest sign of trouble. The marsh willows seemed to tower with malice over her head and she imagined eyes in the dark shadows, watching them pass, waiting. Every rustle in the undergrowth, every beat of a bird’s wing made her heart race.

Alai’s hardly knew what she had expected, but when they arrived at the glade, everything was quiet and peaceful. Her panier was standing under the trees where shed left it, the tips of the plants poking out of the strips of linen. She dismounted and handed her reins to Francois, then walked toward the water. Her tools lay undisturbed, where she’d left them.

Alai’s jumped at the touch of her father’s hand on her elbow.

“Show me,” he said.

Without a word, she led her father along the bank until she reached the spot. At first, she could see nothing and, for a brief moment, she wondered if it had been a bad dream. But there, floating in the water among the reeds a little farther upstream than before, was the body.

She pointed. “There. By the knitbone.”

To her astonishment, rather than summoning Francois, her father threw off his cloak and waded into the river.

“Stay there,” he called over this shoulder.

Alai’s sat down on the bank and drew her knees up to her chin and watched as her father plowed into the shallows, paying no attention to the water splashing up over the tops of his boots. When he reached the body, he stopped and drew his sword. He hesitated for a moment, as if preparing himself for the worst, then, with the tip of the blade, Pelletier carefully lifted the man’s left arm up out of the water. The mutilated hand, bloated and blue, lay balanced for a moment, then slithered down the silver flat of the blade toward the hilt, as if alive. Then it slipped back into the river with a dull splash.