Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Did they find the merel?

Alai’s struggled to stand. She had to tell her father what had happened. He was going to Montpellier, that much she could remember. She had to speak with him first. She tried to get up, but her legs would not hold her. Her head was spinning again and she was falling, falling, slipping back into a weightless sleep. She tried to fight it and stay conscious, but it was no use. Past and present and future were part of an infinite time now, stretching out white before her. Color and sound and light ceased to have any meaning.

With a final, anxious glance back over his shoulder, Bertrand Pelletier rode out of the Eastern Gate at Viscount Trencavel’s side. He could not understand why Alai’s had not come to see them off.

Pelletier rode in silence, lost in his own thoughts, hearing little of the inconsequential chatter going on around him. His spirits were troubled at her absence from the Cour d’Honneur to see them off and wish the expedition well. Surprised, disappointed too, if he could bring himself to admit it. He wished now he had sent Francois to wake her.

Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets were lined with people waving and cheering. Only the finest horses had been chosen. Palfreys whose resilience and stamina could be relied upon, as well as the strongest geldings and mares from the stables of the Chateau Comtal picked for speed and endurance. Raymond-Roger Trencavel rode his favorite bay stallion, a horse he’d trained himself from a colt. Its coat was the color of a fox in winter and on its muzzle was a distinctive white blaze, the exact shape, or so it was said, of the Trencavel lands.

Every shield displayed the Trencavel ensign. The crest was embroidered on every flag and the vest each chevalier wore over his traveling armor. The rising sun glanced off the shining helmets, swords and bridles. Even the saddlebags of the pack horses had been polished until the grooms could see their faces reflected in the leather.

It had taken some time to decide how large the envoi should be. Too small and Trencavel would seem an unworthy and unimpressive ally and they would be easy pickings on the road. Too large and it would look like a declaration of war.

Finally, sixteen chevaliers had been chosen, Guilhem du Mas among them, despite Pelletier’s objections. With their ecuyers, a handful of servants and churchmen, Jehan Congost and a smith for working repairs to the horses’ shoes en route, the party numbered some thirty in total.

Their destination was Montpellier, the principal city within the domains of the viscount of Nimes and the birthplace of Raymond-Roger’s wife, Dame Agnes. Like Trencavel, Nimes was a vassal of the king of Aragon, Pedro II, so even though Montpellier was a Catholic city-and Pedro himself a staunch and energetic persecutor of heresy-there was reason to expect they would have safe passage.

They had allowed three days to ride from Carcassonne. It was anybody’s guess as to which of them, Trencavel or the count of Toulouse, would arrive in the city first.

At first they headed east, following the course of the Aude toward the rising sun. At Trebes, they turned northwest into the lands of the Minervois, following the old Roman road that ran through La Redorte, the fortified hill town of Azille, and on to Olonzac.

The best land was given over to the canabieres, the hemp fields, which stretched as far as the eye could see. To their right were vines, some pruned, others growing wild and untended at the side of the track behind vigorous hedgerows. To their left was a sea of emerald-green stalks of the barley fields, which would turn to gold by harvest time. Peasants, their wide-brimmed straw hats obscuring their faces, were already hard at work, reaping the last of the season’s wheat. The iron curve of their scythes catching the rising sun from time to time.

Beyond the river bank, lined with oak trees and marsh willow, were the deep and silent forests where the wild eagles flew. Stag, lynx and bear were plentiful, wolves and foxes too in the winter. Towering above the lowland woods and coppice were the dark forests of the Montagne Noire where the wild boar was king.

With the resilience and optimism of youth, Viscount Trencavel was in good spirits, exchanging lighthearted anecdotes and listening to tales of past exploits. He argued with his men about the best hunting dogs, greyhounds or mastiffs, about the price of a good brood bitch these days, gossiped about who had wagered what at darts or dice.

Nobody talked of the purpose of the expedition, nor of what would happen if the viscount failed in his petitions to his uncle.

A raucous shout from the back of the line drew Pelletier’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder. Guilhem du Mas was riding three abreast with Alzeu de Preixan and Thierry Cazanon, chevaliers who’d also trained in Carcassonne and been dubbed the same Passiontide.

Aware of the older man’s critical scrutiny, Guilhem raised his head and met his gaze with an insolent stare. For a moment they held each other fixed. Then, the younger man inclined his head slightly, an insincere acknowledgment, and turned away. Pelletier felt his blood grow hot, all the worse for knowing there was nothing he could do.

For hour after hour they rode across the plains. The conversation faltered, then petered out as the excitement that had accompanied their departure from the Cite gave way to apprehension.

The sun climbed ever higher in the sky. The churchmen suffered the most in their black worsted habits. Rivulets of sweat were dripping down the bishop’s forehead and Jehan Congost’s spongy face had turned an unpleasant blotchy red, the color of foxgloves. Bees, crickets and cicadas rattled and hummed in the brown grass. Mosquitoes pricked at their wrists and hands, and flies tormented the horses, causing them to switch their manes and tails in irritation.

Only when the sun was full overheard did Viscount Trencavel lead them off the road to rest awhile. They settled on a glade beside a slow-flowing stream, having established the grazing was safe. The ecuyers unsaddled the horses and cooled their coats with willow leaves dipped in the water. Cuts and bites were treated with dock leaves or mustard poultices.

The chevaliers removed their traveling armor and boots, washing the dust and sweat from their hands and necks. A small contingent of servants was dispatched to the nearest farm, returning some time later with bread and sausage, white goat’s cheese, olives and strong, local wine.

As the news spread that Viscount Trencavel was camped nearby, a steady stream of farmers and peasants, old men and young women, weavers and brewers started to make their way to their humble camp under the trees, carrying gifts for their seigneur: baskets of cherries and newly fallen plums, a goose, salt and fish.

Pelletier was uneasy. It would delay them and use up precious time. They had a great deal of ground to cover before the evening shadows lengthened and they pitched camp for the night. But, like his father and mother before him, Raymond-Roger enjoyed meeting his subjects and would have none turned away.

“It is for this that we swallow our pride and go to make peace with my uncle,” he said quietly. “To protect all that is good and innocent and true in our way of life, e? And, if necessary, we shall fight for it.”

Like an ancient warrior king, Viscount Trencavel held court in the shade of the holm oak trees. He accepted all the tributes offered to him with grace and charm and dignity. He knew that this day would become a story to be treasured, woven into the life of the village.

One of the last to approach was a pretty, dark-skinned girl of five or six, with bright eyes the color of blackberries, who gave a brief curtsey and offered a posey of wild orchids, white sneezewort and meadow honeysuckle. Her hands were shaking.