Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Guilhem cast his eyes around the opulent tent, at the fine carpets and warm blankets. Oriane had achieved the wealth and status she’d always desired. He hoped it had not brought her happiness.

“Tell me your name,” he said in a low, savage voice.

“Louis d’Evreux. I don’t know who you are, but my mother will-”

Guilhem jerked his head back. “Don’t threaten me. You sent your guards away, remember? There’s no one to hear you.” He pressed the blade harder against the boy’s pale northern skin. Evreux went completely still. “That’s better. Now. Where is Oriane? If you do not answer, I will cut your throat.”

Guilhem felt him react at the use of Oriane’s name, but fear loosened his tongue. “She’s gone to the women’s compound,” he gabbled.

“For what purpose?”

“In search of… a girl.”

“Don’t waste my time, nenon ,” he said, jerking his neck back again.

What manner of girl? Why does she matter to Oriane?“

The child of a heretic. My mother’s… sister,“ he said, as if the word was poison in his mouth. ”My aunt. My mother wished to see the girl for herself.“

“Alais,” Guilhem whispered in disbelief. “How old is this child?”

He could smell the fear on Evreux’s skin. “How do I know? Nine, ten.”

“And the father? Did he die too?”

Evreux tried to move. Guilhem increased the pressure around his neck and turned the blade so the tip was pressing beneath Evreux’s left ear, ready.

“He’s a soldier, one of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix’s men.”

Guilhem straight away understood. “And you’ve sent one of your men to make sure he doesn’t live to see the sun rise,” he said.

The blade of Guilhem’s dagger flashed as it caught the light from the candle.

“Who are you?”

Guilhem ignored him. Where is Lord Evreux? Why is he not here?“

“My father is dead,” he said. There was no grief in his voice, only a sort boastful pride Guilhem could not understand. “I am master of the Evreux estates now.”

Guilhem laughed. “Or, most likely, your mother is.”

The boy flinched as if he had been struck.

“Tell me, Lord Evreux,” he said with contempt, stressing the word, what does your mother want with the girl?“

“What does it matter? She’s the child of heretics. They should’ve them all.”

Guilhem felt Evreux’s regret at his momentary loss of control the instant the words were spoken, but it was too late. Guilhem flexed his arm and dragged his knife from ear to, ear, slitting the youth’s throat.

“ Per lo Miegjorn ,” he said. For the Midi.

The blood gushed in spurts on to the fine carpets along the line of the cut. Guilhem released his hold and Evreux fell forward.

“If your servant comes back quickly, you may live. If not, you had better pray your God will forgive your sins.”

Guilhem pulled his hood back over his head and ran out. He had to find Sajhe de Servian before Evreux’s man did.

The small group jolted its uncomfortable way through the cold night.

Already, Oriane regretted deciding to take the caleche . They would have been quicker on horseback. The wooden wheels banged and scraped against the flints and the hard, icy ground.

They avoided the main routes in and out of the valley where roadblocks were still in place, heading south for the first few hours. Then as the winter dusk gave way to the black of night, they turned to the south east.

Bertrande was asleep, her cloak pulled up over her head to keep out the biting wind that whipped under the bottom of the hangings erected over the cart. Oriane had found her endless chatter irritating. She’d plagued her with questions about life in Carcassonne in the old days, before the war.

Oriane fed her biscuits, sugar loaf and spiced wine, with a sleeping draught strong enough to knock a soldier out for days. Finally, the child stopped talking and fell into a deep sleep.

“Wake up!”

Sajhe could hear someone talking. A man. Close by.

He tried to move. Pain shot through every part of his body. Blue flashes sparked behind his eyes.

“Wake up!” The voice was more insistent this time.

Sajhe flinched as something cold was pressed against his bruised face, soothing his skin. Slowly, the memory of the blows beating down on his head, his body, everywhere, came crawling back.

Was he dead?

Then he remembered. Someone shouted, further down the slope, yelling at the soldiers to stop. His assailants, caught out suddenly, stepping back. Someone, a commander, shouting orders in French. Being dragged down the mountain.

Not dead perhaps.

Sajhe tried to move again. He could feel something hard against his back. He realised his shoulders were pulled tight behind him. He tried to open his eyes, but found one was swollen shut. His other senses were heightened in response. He was aware of the movements of the horses, stamping their hooves on the ground. He could hear the voice of the wind and the cries of nightjars and a solitary owl. These were sounds he understood.

“Can you move your legs?” the man asked.

Sajhe was surprised to find he could, although it ached cruelly. One of the soldiers had stamped on his ankle when he was lying on the ground.

“Can you manage to ride?”

Sajhe watched the man go behind him to cut the ropes binding his arms to the post, and realised there was something familiar about him. Something he recognised in his voice, the turn of his head.

Sajhe staggered to his feet.

“To what do I owe this kindness?” he said, rubbing his wrists. Then, suddenly, he knew. Sajhe saw himself as an eleven year-old boy again, climbing the walls of the Chateau Comtal and along the battlements, looking for Alais. Listening at the window to hear laughter floating on the breeze. A man’s voice, talking and teasing.

“Guilhem du Mas,” he said slowly.

Guilhem paused and looked with surprise at Sajhe. “Have we met, friend?”

“You would not remember,” he said, barely able to look him in the face. Tell me, amic ,“ he stressed the word. ”What do you want with me?“

“I came to…” Guilhem was nonplussed by his hostility. “You are Sajhe de Servian?”

“What of it?”

“For the sake of Alais, whom we both…” Guilhem stopped and composed himself. “Her sister, Oriane, is here, with one of her sons. Part of the Crusader army. Oriane has come for the book.”

Sajhe stared. “What book?” he said belligerently.

Guilhem pressed on regardless. “Oriane learned that you had a daughter. She’s taken her. I don’t know where they’re heading, but they left the camp just after dusk. I came to tell you and offer my help.” He stood up. “But if you don’t want it…”

Sajhe felt the colour drain from his face. Wait!“ he cried.

“If you want to get your daughter back alive,” Guilhem continued steadily, “I suggest you put your grievance against me to one side, whatever its cause.”

Guilhem held out his hand to help Sajhe to his feet.

“Do you know where Oriane is likely to have taken her?”

Sajhe stared at the man he had spent a lifetime hating, then for the sake of Alais and his daughter, took the outstretched hand.

“She has a name,” he said. “She’s called Bertrande.”

Pic de Soularac

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

Audric and Alice climbed the mountain in silence.

Too much had been said for any more words to be needed. Audric was breathing heavily, but he kept his eyes trained on the ground at his feet and did not once falter.

“It can’t be much further,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

“No.”

Five minutes later, Alice realised they had come at the site from the opposite side to the car park. The tents had all gone, but there was evidence of their recent occupancy with the brown, dried-out patches of ground and the odd random piece of rubbish. Alice noticed a trowel and a tent peg, which she picked up and put in her pocket.