Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Bertrande nodded.

“Good girl.” Then, trying to reassure her, he added: “My grandmother used to give me messages to take for her when I was no older than you are now. She used to make me repeat them back several times until she was sure I was word perfect.”

Bertrande gave a thin smile. “ Mama says your memory is terrible. Like a sieve, she says.”

“She’s right,” he said, then grew serious again. “They might also ask you some questions about the Bons Homes and what they believe. Answer as honestly as you can. That way, you are less likely to contradict yourself. There’s nothing you can tell them they won’t already have heard from someone else.” He hesitated and added one last reminder. “Remember. Do not mention Alais or Harif at all.”

Bertrande’s eyes filled with tears. “What if the soldiers search the citadel and find her?” she said, her voice rising in panic. What will they do if they find them?“

“They won’t,” he replied quickly. “Remember, Bertrande. When the Inquisitors have finished with you, stay exactly where you are. I will come and find you as soon as I can.”

Sajhe barely had time to finish his sentence when a guard jabbed him in the back and forced him further down the hill towards the village. Bertrande was sent in the opposite direction.

He was taken to a wooden pen, where he saw Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, the commander of the garrison. He had already been interrogated. It was a good sign to Sajhe’s mind, a courtesy. It suggested the terms of the surrender were being honoured and the garrison were being treated as prisoners of war, not criminals.

As he joined the crowd of soldiers waiting to be called forward, Sajhe slipped his stone ring from his thumb and concealed it beneath his clothes. He felt strangely naked without it. He had rarely removed it since Harif bestowed it upon him twenty years before.

The interrogations were taking place inside two separate tents. The friars were waiting with yellow crosses to attach to the backs of those who’d been found guilty of fraternising with heretics, and then the prisoner was taken to a secondary holding area beyond, like animals at a market.

It was clear they did not intend to release anyone until everybody, from the oldest to the youngest, had been questioned. The process could take days.

When Sajhe’s turn came, he was allowed to walk unaccompanied into the tent. He stopped before Inquisitor Ferrier and waited.

Ferrier’s waxen face expressed nothing. He demanded Sajhe’s name, his age, his rank and his home town. The goose quill scratched over the parchment.

“Do you believe in Heaven and Hell?” he said abruptly.

“I do.”

“Do you believe in Purgatory?”

“I do.”

“Do you believe the Son of God was made perfect Man?”

“I’m a soldier, not a monk,” he replied, keeping his eyes to the ground.

“Do you believe a human soul has only one body in which, and with which, it will be resurrected?”

“The priests say that it is so.”

“Have you ever heard anyone say that swearing oaths is a sin? If so, who?”

This time, Sajhe raised his eyes. “I have not,” he said defiantly.

“Come now, sergeant. You’ve served in the garrison for more than a year and yet do not know that heretici refuse to swear oaths?”

“I serve Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Inquisitor. I heed not the words of others.”

The interrogation continued for some time, but Sajhe stayed faithful to his role as a simple soldier, pleading ignorance of all matters of scripture and belief. He incriminated no one. Claimed to know nothing.

In the end, Inquisitor Ferrier had no choice but to let him go.

It was only late afternoon, but already the sun was setting. Dusk was creeping back into the valley, stealing the shape from things and covering everything with black shadows.

Sajhe was sent to join a group of other soldiers who had already been interrogated. Each of them had been given a blanket, a hunk of stale bread and a cup of wine. He could see such kindness had not been extended to the civilian prisoners.

As the day gathered to a close, Sajhe’s spirits fell further.

Not knowing if Bertrande’s ordeal was over – or even where in the vast camp she was being held – was eating away at his mind. The thought of Alais, waiting, watching the fading of the light, her anxiety growing as the hour of departure approached, filled him with apprehension, all the worse for being unable to do anything to help.

Restless and unable to settle, Sajhe“ got up to stretch. He could feel the damp and chill seeping into his bones and his legs were stiff from sitting still for so long.

“ Assis ,” growled a guard, tapping him on the shoulder with his pike.

He was about to obey, when he noticed movement higher up the mountain.

There was a search party making its way towards the rocky outcrop where Alais, Harif and their guides were hidden. The flames from their torches flickered, throwing shadows against the bushes shivering in the wind.

Sajhe’s blood turned cold.

They had searched the castle earlier and found nothing. He had thought it was over. But it was clear they were intending to search the undergrowth and the labyrinth of paths that led around the base of the citadel. If they went much further in that direction, it would bring them to precisely the point where Alais would emerge. And it was almost dark.

Sajhe started to run towards the perimeter of the compound.

“Hey!” the guard shouted. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Arrete !”

Sajhe ignored him. Without thinking about the consequences, he vaulted the wooden fence and pounded up the slope, towards the search party. He could hear the guard calling for reinforcements. His only thought was to draw attention away from Alais.

The search party stopped and looked to see what was going on.

Sajhe shouted, needing to turn them from spectators to participants. One by one, they turned. He saw confusion in their faces turn to aggression. They were bored and cold, itching for a fight.

Sajhe had just enough time to realise his plan had worked as a fist was driven into his stomach. He gasped for breath and doubled over. Two of the soldiers held his arms behind him as the punches came at him from all directions. The hilts of their weapons, boots, fists, the onslaught was relentless. He felt the skin beneath his eye split. He could taste blood on his tongue and at the back of his throat as the blows continued to rain down.

Only now did he accept how seriously he’d misjudged the situation.

He’d thought only of drawing attention away from Ala’is. An image of Bertrande’s pale face, waiting for him to come, slipped into his mind as a fist connected with his jaw and everything went black.

Oriane had devoted her life to her quest to retrieve the Book of Words .

Quite soon after returning to Chartres after the defeat of Carcassonne, her husband lost patience with her failure to secure the prize he had paid for. There was never love between them and, when his desire for her faded, his fist and his belt replaced conversation.

She endured the beatings, all the time devising ways in which she would be revenged on him. As his land and wealth increased, and his influence with the French king grew, his attention was drawn to other prizes. He left her alone. Free to resume her quest, Oriane paid informers and employed a network of spies in the Midi, all hunting down information.

Only once had Oriane come close to capturing Alais. In May 1234 Oriane had left Chartres and travelled south to Toulouse. When she arrived at the cathedral of Saint-Etienne, it was to discover the guards had been bribed and her sister had disappeared again, as if she had never been.