Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

The makeshift pyre in the middle of the farmyard was burning fiercely, fanned by the hot night winds that swept up from the Mediterranean Sea.

The soldiers were standing well back, their hands at their faces to shield themselves from the heat. Their horses, tethered by the gate, were stamping with agitated hooves. The stench of death was in their nostrils, making them nervous.

The women had been stripped and made to kneel on the ground in front of their captors, their feet tied and their hands bound tightly behind their back. Their faces, scratched breasts and bare shoulders showed marks of their ill use, but they were silent. Somebody gasped as the girl’s corpse was thrown down in front of them.

The captain walked toward the fire. He was bored now, restless to be gone. Killing heretics was not the reason he had taken the Cross. This brutal expedition was a gift to his men. They needed to be kept occupied, to keep their skills sharp and to stop them turning on each other.

The night sky was filled with white stars around a full moon. He realized it must be past midnight, perhaps later. He’d intended to be back long before now, in case word came.

“Shall we give them to the fire, my lord?”

With a sudden, single stroke, he drew his sword and severed the head of the nearest woman. Blood pumped from a vein in her neck, splashing his legs and feet. The skull fell to the ground with a soft thud. He kicked her still twitching body until it fell forward into the dirt.

“Kill the rest of these heretic bitches, then burn the bodies, the barn too. We’ve delayed long enough.”

Alais woke as dawn slipped into the room.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember how she came to be in her father’s chamber. She sat up and stretched the sleep from her bones, waiting until the memory of the day before came back vivid and strong.

Some time during the long hours between midnight and daybreak she had reached a decision. Despite her broken night, her mind was as clear as a mountain stream. She could not sit by, passively waiting for her father to return. She had no way of judging the consequences of each day’s delay. When he had spoken of his sacred duty to the Noublesso de los Seres and the secret they guarded, he had left her in no doubt that his honor and pride lay in his ability to fulfill his vows. Her duty was to seek him out, tell him all that had happened, put the matter back in his hands.

Far better to act than do nothing.

Alais walked over to the window and opened the shutters to let in the morning air. In the distance the Montagne Noire shimmered purple in the gathering dawn, enduring and timeless. The sight of the mountains strengthened her resolve. The world was calling her to join it.

She was taking a risk, a woman traveling alone. Willful, her father would call it. But she was an excellent rider, quick and instinctive, and she had faith in her ability to outride any group of routiers or bandits. Besides, to her knowledge, there had been no attacks on Viscount Trencavel’s lands.

Alais raised her hand to the bruise at the back of her head, evidence that someone meant her harm. If it was her time to die, then far better to face death with her sword in her hand than sit waiting for her enemies to strike again.

Alais picked up her cold lamp from the table, catching her reflection in the black-streaked glass. She was pale, her skin the color of buttermilk, and her eyes glinted with fatigue. But there was a sense of purpose that had not been there before.

Alais wished she did not have to return to her chamber, but she had no choice. Carefully stepping over Francois, she made her way across the courtyard and back into the living quarters. There was no one about.

Oriane’s faithful shadow, Guirande, was sleeping on the floor outside her sister’s chamber as Alais tiptoed past, her pretty, pouting face slack in sleep.

The silence that met her as she entered her room told her that the nurse was no longer there. She had presumably woken to find her gone and taken herself off.

Alais set to work, wasting no time. The success of her plan depended on her ability to deceive everyone into believing she was too weak to venture far from home. No one within the household could know that her destination was Montpellier.

She took from her wardrobe her lightest hunting dress, the tawny red of a squirrel’s pelt, with pale, stone-colored fitted sleeves, generous under the arm, which tapered to a diamond-shaped point. She tied a thin leather belt around her waist, to which she attached her eating knife and her borsa, winter hunting purse.

Alais pulled up her hunting boots to just below her knees, tightened the leather laces around the top, to hold a second knife, then adjusted the buckle, and put on a plain brown hooded cloak with no trim.

When she was dressed, Alais took a few precious gemstones and jewelry from her casket, including her sunstone necklace and turquoise ring and choker. They might be useful in exchange or to buy safe passage or shelter, particularly once she was beyond the borders of Viscount Trencavel’s lands.

Finally, satisfied she had forgotten nothing, she retrieved her sword from its hiding place behind the bed where it had lain, untouched, since her marriage. Alais held the sword firmly in her right hand and raised it in front of her face, measuring the blade against the flat of her hand. It was still straight and true, despite lack of use. She carved a figure of eight in the air, reminding herself of its weight and character. She smiled. It felt right in her hand.

Alais crept into the kitchen and begged barley bread, figs, salted fish, a tablet of cheese and a flagon of wine from Jacques. He gave her much more than she needed, as he always did. For once, she was grateful for his generosity.

She roused her servant, Rixende, and whispered a message for her to deliver to Dame Agnes that Alais was feeling better and would join the ladies of the household in the Solar after Tierce. Rixende looked surprised, but made no comment. Alais disliked this part of her duties and usually begged to be excused whenever possible. She felt caged in the company of women and was bored by the inconsequential tapestry talk. However, today it would serve as perfect proof that she was intending to return to the chateau.

Alais hoped she would not be missed until later. If her luck held, only when the chapel bell tolled for Vespers would they realize she had not come home and raise the alarm.

And by then I will be long gone.

“Do not go to Dame Agnes until after she has broken fast, Rixende,” she said. “Not until the first rays of the sun strike the west wall of the courtyard, is that clear? Oc? Before that, if anyone comes searching for me-even my father’s manservant-you may tell them that I have gone to ride in the fields beyond Sant-Miquel.”

The stables were in the northeastern corner of the courtyard between the Tour des Casernes and the Tour du Major. Horses stamped the ground and pricked up their ears at her approach, whinnying gently, hoping for hay. Alais stopped at the first stall and ran her hand over the broad nose of her old gray mare. Her forelock and withers were flecked with coarse white hairs.

“Not today, my old friend,” she said. “I couldn’t ask so much of you.”

Her other horse was in the stall next door. The six-year-old Arab mare, Tatou, had been a surprise wedding gift from her father. A chestnut, the color of winter acorns, with a white tail and mane, flaxen fetlocks and white spots on all four feet. Standing as high as Alais’ shoulders, Tatou had the distinctive flat face of her breed, dense bones, a firm back and an easy temperament. More important, she had stamina and was very fast.