Labyrinth (3 page)

On one side of it are the letters
NV.
On the other is an engraving of a labyrinth.

IV

Pic de Soularac

Sabarthe`s Mountains

For a moment, everything is silent.

Then the darkness melts. Alice is no longer in the cave. She is floating in a white, weightless world, transparent and peaceful and silent.

She is free. Safe.

Alice has the sensation of slipping out of time, as if she is falling from one dimension into another. The line between the past and present is fading now in this timeless, endless space.

Then, like a trap door beneath the gallows, Alice feels a sudden jerk, then a drop and she is plummeting down through the open sky, falling, falling down towards the wooded mountainside. The brisk air whistles in her ears as she plunges, faster, harder towards the ground.

The moment of impact never comes. There’s no splintering of bone against the slate grey flint and rock. Instead, Alice hits the ground running, stumbling along a steep, rough woodland track between two columns of high trees. They are dense and tall and tower above her so she can’t see what lies beyond.

Too fast.

Alice grabs at the branches as if they will slow her, stop this headlong flight towards this unknown place, but her hands go straight through as if she’s a ghost or a spirit. Clumps of tiny leaves come away in her hands, like hair from a brush. She cannot feel them, but the sap stains the tips of her fingers green. She puts them up to her face, to breathe in their subtle, sour scent. She cannot smell them either.

Alice has a stitch in her side, but she cannot stop because there is something behind her, getting steadily closer. The path is sloping sharply beneath her feet. She is aware that the crunch of dried root and stone has replaced the soft earth, moss and twigs. Still, there is no sound. No birds singing, no voices calling, nothing but her own ragged breathing. The path twists and coils back on itself, sending her scuttling this way and that, until she rounds the corner and sees the silent wall of flame which blocks the path ahead. A pillar of twisting fire, white and gold and red, folding in on itself, its shape ever shifting.

Instinctively, Alice puts up her hands to shield her face from the fierce heat, although she cannot feel it. She can see faces trapped within the dancing flames, the mouths contorted in silent agony as the fire caresses and burns.

Alice tries to stop. She must stop. Her feet are bleeding and torn, her long skirts wet, slowing her down, but her pursuer is hard at her heels and something beyond her control is driving her on into the fatal embrace of the fire.

She has no choice but to jump, to avoid being consumed by the flames. She spirals up into the air like a wisp of smoke, floating high above the yellows and oranges. The wind seems to carry her up, releasing her from the earth.

Someone is calling her name, a woman’s voice, although she pronounces it strangely.

Alais.

She is safe. Free.

Then, the familiar clutch of cold fingers on her ankles, shackling her to the ground. No, not fingers, chains. Now Alice realises she is holding something in her hands, a book, held together with leather ties. She understands that it is this what he wants. What
they
want. It is the loss of this book that makes them angry.

If only she could speak she could perhaps strike a bargain. But her head is empty of words and her mouth incapable of speech. She lashes out, kicks to escape, but she is caught. The iron grip on her legs is too strong. She starts to scream as she is dragged back down into the fire, but there is only silence.

She screams again, feeling her voice struggling deep inside her to be heard. This time, the sound comes rushing back. Alice feels the real world rushing back. Sound, light, smell, touch, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Until, for a fraction of a second, she pauses, enveloped suddenly by a translucent cold. It is not the familiar chill of the cave, but something different, intense and bright. Within it, Alice can just make out the fleeting outline of a face, beautiful, indistinct. The same voice is calling her name once more.

Alais.

Calling for the last time. It is the voice of a friend. Not someone who means her harm. Alice struggles to open her eyes, knowing that if she could see, she could understand. She cannot. Not quite.

The dream is starting to fade, setting her free.

It’s time to wake up. I must wake up.

Now there’s another voice in her head, different from the first. The feeling is coming back to her arms and legs, her grazed knees that sting and her scuffed skin sore where she fell. She can feel the rough grip on her shoulder, shaking her back to life.

“Alice! Alice, wake up!”

THE CITE ON THE HILL

CHAPTER 1

Carcassona

JULHET 1209

Alais jolted awake, bolt upright, her eyes wide open. Fear fluttered in her chest, as a bird caught in a net struggles to be free. She pressed her hand against her ribs to still her beating heart.

For a moment, she was neither asleep nor awake, as if some part of her had been left behind in the dream. She felt she was floating, looking down on herself from a great height, like the stone gargoyles that grimaced at passers-by from the roof of the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari.

The room came back into focus. She was safe in her own bed, in the Chateau Comtal. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the dark. She was safe from the thin, dark-eyed people who haunted her at night, their sharp fingers clawing and pulling at her. They cannot reach me now. The language carved in the stones, more pictures than words, which meant nothing to her, all vanished like wisps of smoke in the autumn air. The fire too had faded, leaving only a memory in her mind.

A premonition? Or a nightmare only?

She had no way of knowing. She was afraid of knowing.

Alais reached for the night-curtains, which were hung around the bed, as if by touching something substantial she would feel less transparent and insubstantial herself. The worn cloth, filled with the dust and familiar smells of the castle, was reassuringly coarse between her fingers.

Night after night, the same dream. All through her childhood, when she had woken in terror in the dark, her face white and wet with tears, her father had been at her bedside, watching over her as if she was a son. As each candle burned down and another was lit, he whispered of his adventures in the Holy Land. He told her of the endless seas of the desert, the curve and sweep of the mosques and the call to prayer of the Saracen faithful. He described the aromatic spices, the vivid colours and the peppery taste of the food. The terrible brilliance of the blood-red sun as it set over Jerusalem.

For many years, in those hollow hours between dusk and dawn, as her sister lay sleeping beside her, her father had talked and talked, setting her demons to flight. He had not allowed the black cowls or the Catholic priests to come near, with their superstitions and false symbols.

His words had saved her.

“Guilhem?” she whispered.

Her husband was deeply asleep, his arms flung out claiming ownership of most of the bed. His long dark hair, smelling of smoke and wine and the stables, was fanned across the pillow. Moonlight fell through the open window, the shutter pinned back to let the cool night air into the chamber. In the gathering light, Alais could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin. The chain Guilhem wore around his neck shimmered and glinted as he shifted position in his sleep.

Alais wanted him to wake and tell her that everything was all right, that she didn’t have to be afraid any more. But he did not stir and it did not occur to her to wake him. Fearless in all other things, she was inexperienced in the ways of marriage and cautious with him still, so she contented herself with running her fingers down his smooth, tanned arms and across his shoulders, firm and broad from the hours spent practising with sword and quintain for the Joust. Alais could feel the life moving beneath his skin even as he slept. And when she remembered how they had spent the early part of the night, she blushed, even though there was no one there to see.

Alais was overwhelmed by the sensations Guilhem aroused in her. She delighted in the way her heart leapt when she caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted beneath her feet when he smiled at her. At the same time, she did not like the feeling of powerlessness. She feared love was making her weak, giddy. She did not doubt she loved Guilhem and yet she knew she was keeping a little of herself back.

Alais sighed. All she could hope was that, with time, it would become easier.

There was something in the quality of the light, black fading to grey, and the occasional hint of birdsong from the trees in the courtyard, which told her that dawn was not far away. She knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep now.

Alais slipped out between the curtains and tiptoed across to the wardrobe that stood in the far corner of the chamber. The flagstones were cold under her feet and the rush matting scratched her toes. She opened the lid, removed the lavender bag from the top of the pile, and took out a plain, dark green dress. Shivering a little, she stepped into it, threading her arms into the narrow sleeves. She pulled the material, slightly damp, over her undershift, then fastened the girdle tightly.

Alais was seventeen and had been married for six months, but she had not yet acquired the softness and sway of a woman. The dress hung shapelessly on her narrow frame, as if it didn’t belong to her. Steadying herself with her hand on the table, she pushed her feet into soft leather slippers and took her favourite red cloak from the back of the chair. Its edges and hem were embroidered with an intricate blue and green pattern of squares and diamonds, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers, which she had designed herself for her wedding day. It had taken her weeks and weeks to sew. All through November and December she had worked at it, her fingers growing sore and stiff with cold as she hurried to have it finished in time.

Alais turned her attention to her panier, which stood on the floor beside the wardrobe. She checked her herb pouch and purse were there, together with the strips of cloth for wrapping plants and roots and her tools for digging and cutting. Finally, she fixed her cloak firmly at her neck with a ribbon, slipped her knife into its sheath at her waist, pulled her hood up over her head to cover her long, unbraided hair, then quietly crept across the chamber and out into the deserted corridor. The door closed with a thud behind her.

It was not yet Prime, so there was nobody about in the living quarters. Alais walked quickly along the corridor, her cloak swishing softly against the stone floor, heading for the steep and narrow stairs. She stepped over a serving boy slumped asleep against a wall outside the door to the room her sister Oriane shared with her husband.

As she descended lower, the sound of voices floated up to meet her from the kitchens in the basement. The servants were already hard at work. Alais heard a slap, closely followed by a yell, as an unlucky boy started the day with the cook’s heavy hand on the back of his head.

A scullion came staggering towards her, struggling with a massive half-barrel of water he had drawn from the well.

Alais smiled. “Bonjorn.”

“Bonjorn, Dame,” he answered cautiously.

“Here,” she said, going down the stairs before him to open the door.

“
Merce
, Dame,” he said, a little less timid now. “
Grand merce
.”

The kitchen was alive with hustle and bustle. Great billows of steam were already rising from the huge
payrola,
the cauldron, hanging on a hook over the open fire. An older servant took the water from the scullion, emptied it into the pot, and then shoved the barrel back at him without saying a word. The boy rolled his eyes at Alais as he headed out and back up to the well once more.

Capons, lentils and cabbage in sealed earthenware jars stood waiting to be cooked on the big table in the centre of the room, together with pots containing salt mullet, eel and pike. At one end were
foga
c
a
puddings in cloth bags, goose pate and slabs of salted pork. At the other, trays of raisins, quinces, figs and cherries. A boy of nine or ten was standing with his elbows propped on the table, the scowl on his face making it clear how much he was looking forward to another hot and sweaty day at the turnspit, watching the meat roast. Next to the hearth, the brushwood was burning fiercely inside the dome-shaped bread oven. The first batch of
pan de
bl
at,
wheat bread, was already standing on the table to cool. The smell made Alais hungry.

“May I have one of those?”

The cook looked up, furious at the intrusion of a woman into his kitchen. Then he saw who it was and his bad-tempered face creased into a cock-eyed smile revealing a row of rotten teeth.

“Dame Alais,” he said with delight, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Benvenguda.
What an honour! You’ve not come to visit us for quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Jacques,” she said warmly. “I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“In my way, you!” he laughed. “How could you ever be in my way?” As a child, Alais had spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, watching and learning, the only girl Jacques had ever allowed across the threshold into his male domain. “Now, Dame Alais, what can I get you?”

“Just a little bread, Jacques, some wine too, if you can spare it?”

A frown appeared on his face.

“Forgive me, but you’re not going down to the river? Not at this time of day, unaccompanied? A lady of your position… it’s not even light. I hear things, stories of…”

Alais laid a hand on his arm. “You are kind to concern yourself, Jacques, and I know you have my best interests at heart, but I will be fine. I give you my word. It’s nearly dawn. I know exactly where I’m going. I’ll be there and back before anyone even notices I’ve gone, really.”

“Does your father know?”