Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Francois-Baptiste darted a glance at him.

“Did you think she hadn’t told me?” Authie took a step towards him.

“Do you think I don’t know what she does?” He could feel the anger rising in him. “Have you see her, Francois-Baptiste? Have you seen the ecstasy on her face when she speaks those obscene words, those blasphemous words? It’s an offence against God!”

“Don’t you dare talk about her like that!” he said, his hand moving to his pocket.

Authie laughed. “That’s right. Ring her. She’ll tell you what to do. What to think. Don’t do anything without asking her first.”

He turned away and started to walk back to the car. He heard the release of the safety catch seconds before it registered what it was. In disbelief, Authie spun round. He was too slow. He heard the snap of the bullets, one, two in quick succession.

The first went wide. The second hit him in the thigh. The bullet went straight through, shattering the bone, and out the other side. Authie went down, screaming, as the shock of the pain went through him.

Francois-Baptiste was walking towards him, the gun held straight in front of him with both hands. Authie tried to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood behind him on the gravel, but the boy was upon him now.

For a moment, their eyes met. Then Francois-Baptiste fired again.

Alice jumped.

The sound of the shots cut through the still mountain air. It bounced off the rock and reverberated around her.

Her heart started to race. She couldn’t work out where the shots had come from. At home, she’d know it was only a farmer shooting rabbits or crows.

It didn’t sound like a shotgun.

She jumped down to the ground, as quietly as she could, and peered out into the darkness to where she thought the car park was. She heard a car door slam shut. Now, she could pick out the sound of human voices, words carried on the air.

2›What’s Audric doing in there? 2›

They were a long way off, but she could sense their presence on the mountain. Alice heard the occasional sound of a pebble as their feet dislodged gravel and stones from the path. The crack of a twig.

Alice edged closer to the entrance, sending desperate glances towards the cave as if, by sheer force of will, she could conjure Audric out of the darkness.

2›Why doesn’t he come? 2›

Audric?“ she hissed. There’s someone coming. Audric?”

Nothing but silence. Alice peered into the darkness of the tunnel stretching out before her and felt her courage waver.

But you have to warn him.

Praying she’d not left it too late, Alice turned and ran down towards the labyrinth chamber.

Los Seres

MARC 1244

Despite Sajhe’s injuries, they made good time, following the line of the river south from Montsegur. They travelled light and rode hard, stopping only to rest and water the horses, using their swords to break the ice. Guilhem saw immediately that Sajhe’s skills exceeded his own.

He knew a little of Sajhe’s past, how he had carried messages from the parfaits to the isolated and far-flung villages of the Pyrenees and delivered intelligence to the rebel fighters. It was clear the younger man knew every passable valley and ridge, and every concealed track in the woods, gorges and the plains.

At the same time, Guilhem was aware of Sajhe’s fierce dislike, although he said nothing. It was like the burning sun beating down on the back of his neck. Guilhem knew Sajhe’s reputation as a loyal, brave and honourable man, ready to die fighting for what he believed in. Despite his animosity, Guilhem could see why Alais would love this man and have a child with him, even though the thought was like a knife through his heart.

Luck was with them. There was no new snowfall during the night. The following day, the nineteenth of March, was bright and clear, with few clouds and little wind.

Sajhe and Guilhem arrived in Los Seres at dusk. The village was in a small, secluded valley and, despite the cold, there was the soft smell of spring in the air. The trees on the outskirts of the village were dotted with tight green and white. The earliest spring flowers peeped out shyly from the hedgerows and banks as they rode up the track that led to the small cluster of houses. The village seemed deserted, abandoned.

The two men dismounted and led their horses the final distance into the centre of the village. The sound of their iron shoes striking against the flint and stone of the hard earth echoed loudly in the silence. A few wisps of smoke floated carefully from one or two of the houses. Eyes peered suspiciously out through the slits and cracks of the shutters, then darted quickly away. French deserters were uncommon this high in the mountains, but not unheard of. Usually, they brought trouble.

Sajhe tethered his horse beside the well. Guilhem did likewise, then followed him as he walked through the centre of the village to a small dwelling. There were tiles missing from the roof and the shutters were in need of repair, but the walls were strong. Guilhem thought it wouldn’t take much to bring the house back to life.

Guilhem waited while Sajhe pushed the door. The wood, swollen by the damp and stiff from disuse, shuddered on its hinges, then creaked open enough for Sajhe to get in.

Guilhem followed, feeling the damp, tomb-like air on his face, numbing his fingers. A mound of leaves and mulch was piled up against the wall opposite the door, clearly blown in by the winter winds. There were fingers of ice on the inside of the shutters and, like a ragged fringe, at the bottom of the sill.

The remains of a meal sat on the table. An old jug, plates, cups and a knife. There was a film of mould on the surface of the wine, like green weed on the surface of a pond. The benches were neatly tucked against the wall.

“This is your home?” Guilhem asked softly.

Sajhe nodded.

“When did you leave?”

“A year ago.”

In the centre of the room, a rusted cooking pot hung suspended over a pile of ash and charred wood that had long since burned itself out. Guilhem watched with pity as Sajhe leaned over and straightened the lid.

At the back of the house, there was a tattered curtain. He lifted it to reveal another table with two chairs set on either side. The wall was covered with rows of narrow, almost empty shelves. An old pestle and mortar, a couple of bowls and scoops, a few jars, covered in dust, were all that had been left behind. Above the shelf small hooks had been set into the low ceiling from which a few dusty bunches of herbs still hung. A petrified sprig of fleabane and another of blackberry leaves.

“For her medicines,” he said, taking Guilhem by surprise. He stood still, his hands folded in front of him, not wanting to interrupt Sajhe’s recollections.

“Everybody came to her, men as well as women. When they were sick or their spirits were troubled, to keep their children healthy through the winter. Bertrande… Alais let her help with the preparations and deliver packages to the houses.”

Sajhe faltered, then fell silent. Guilhem was aware of the lump in his own throat. He too remembered the bottles and jars with which Alais had filled their chamber in the Chateau Comtal, the silent concentration with which she had worked.

Sajhe let the curtain drop from his hand. He tested the rungs of the ladder, then cautiously climbed to the upper platform. Here, rotten with mildew and soiled by animals, was a pile of old blankets and rotten straw, all that remained of where the family had slept. A single candlestick, with the remains of wax, stood beside the bedding, the tell-tale smoke marks spread like a stain up the wall behind it.

Guilhem couldn’t bear to witness Sajhe’s grief any longer and went outside to wait. He had no right to intrude.