Labyrinth (35 page)

Congost thought him untrustworthy, inclined to think too much of himself, always skulking around and reporting everything back to his master. There was no business for him to be in the living quarters at this time of day.

Francois bowed his head. “
Escrivan
.”

Congost did not acknowledge him.

By the time he reached his quarters, Congost had worked himself into “fm frenzy of righteous indignation. The time had come to teach Oriane a lesson. He could not allow such provocative and deliberate disobedience to go unpunished. He flung open the door without knocking.

“Oriane! Where are you? Come here.”

The room was empty. In his frustration at finding her absent, he swept everything off the table. Bowls smashed, the candle holder clattered on the ground. He strode over to the wardrobe and pulled everything out and wrenched the covers off the bed, the bedding with her wanton scent on them.

Furious, Congost threw himself down on a chair and looked at his handiwork. Torn material, broken bowls, candles. It was Oriane’s fault. ill behaviour had caused this.

He went in search of Guirande to clear up the mess, reflecting on the ways he could bring his errant wife to heel.

The air was humid and heavy when Guilhem emerged from the bath to find Guirande waiting for him, her wide mouth upturned in a it smile.

His mood darkened. “What is it?”

She giggled and looked at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes.

Well?“ he said harshly. ”If you have something to say, say it, or leave me in peace.“

Guirande leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

He straightened up. “What does she want?”

“I cannot say,
Messire
. My lady does not confide her wishes to me.”

“You’re a poor liar, Guirande.”

“Is there any message?”

He hesitated. Tell your mistress I will attend her presently.“ He pressed a coin into her hand. ”And keep your mouth shut.“

He watched her go, then walked to the centre of the courtyard and sat down beneath the elm tree. He didn’t have to go. Why put himself in the way of temptation? It was too dangerous. She was dangerous.

He had never intended things to go so far. A winter’s night, bare skin wrapped in furs, his blood heated by the mulled wine and the exhilaration of the chase. A kind of madness had come over him. He’d been bewitched.

In the morning, he’d woken with regret and vowed that it would never happen again. For the first few months after his marriage, he had kept his word. Then there had been another such night, then a third and a fourth.

She overwhelmed him, took his senses captive.

Now, given how things were, he was even more desperate to ensure no whisper of scandal seeped out. But he must be careful. It was important to finish the affair well. He would keep this appointment only to tell her that their meetings must stop.

He stood up and headed for the orchard before his courage failed. At the gate, he stopped, his hand on the latch, reluctant to go further. Then he saw her standing beneath the willow tree, a shadowed figure in the fading light. His heart leaped in his chest. She looked like a dark angel, her hair shining like jet in the dusk, tumbling unbraided down her back in twists.

Guilhem took a deep breath. He should turn back. But at that moment, as if she could sense his indecision, Oriane turned and he felt the power of her gaze, drawing him to her. He told his
ecuyer
to keep watch at the gate, then stepped through on to the soft grass and walked towards her.

“I feared you would not come,” she said as he drew level.

“I cannot stay.”

He felt the warm tips of her fingers brush against his, then her hands gentle on his wrist.

“Then I beg your pardon for disturbing you,” she murmured, pressing herself against him.

“Someone will see us,” he hissed, trying to pull away.

Oriane tilted her face and he caught the scent of her perfume. He tried to ignore the stirrings of desire. “Why do you speak so harshly to me?” she pleaded. “There is no one here to see. I have posted a watch at the gate.

Besides, everyone is too busy tonight to pay attention to us.“

“They are not so immersed in their own business that they don’t notice,” he said. “Everybody is watching, listening. Hoping for something they can use to their advantage.”

“Such ugly thoughts,” she murmured, stroking his hair. “Forget everyone else. For now, think only of me.” Oriane was so close now he could feel her heart beating through the thin fabric of her dress. “Why are you so cold,
Messire
? Have I said something to offend you?”

He could feel his resolve weakening as his blood grew hotter. “Oriane, we are sinning. You know it. We wrong your husband and my wife by our unholy—”

“Love?” she suggested and she laughed, a pretty, light sound that turned his heart over. “ ”Love is not a sin, it is a virtue that makes the bad good and the good better“. You have heard the troubadours.”

He found himself holding her beautiful face in his hands.

That is but a song. The reality of our vows is quite another matter. “Or are you minded to misconstrue my meaning?” He took a deep breath. “What I am saying is that we must not meet any more.”

He felt her grow still in his arms. “You no longer want me,
Messire
?” she whispered. Her hair, loose and thick, had fallen across her face, concealing her from him.

“Don’t,” he said, but his resolve was weakening.

“Is there something I can do to prove my love for you?” she said, her voice so broken, so soft, that he could barely hear her. “If I have not pleased you,
Messire
, then tell me.”

He entwined his fingers with hers. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re beautiful, Oriane, you are—” he broke off, no longer able to think of the it words to say. The clasp on Oriane’s cloak came undone. It fell to the ground, the vibrant, shimmering blue material pooling like water at her She looked so vulnerable, so powerless, it was all he could do not to pick her up in his arms.

“No,” he murmured. “I cannot…”

Guilhem tried to summon up Alais’ face, imagined her steady gaze on her trusting smile. Unusual for a man of his rank and position, he believed in his wedding vows. He did not want to betray her. Many nights in the early days of their marriage, watching her as she slept in the quiet of their chamber, he understood he was - he
could
be. - a better man because he was loved by her.

He attempted to pull himself free. But now all he could hear was Oriane’s voice, mixed up with the spiteful chattering of the household saying how Alais had made a fool of him by following him to Beziers. The roaring in his head grew louder, drowning out Alais’ light voice. Her image grew fainter, paler. She was drifting away from him, leaving him to resist temptation alone.

“I adore you,” whispered Oriane, sliding her hand between his legs.

Despite his resolution, he closed his eyes, helpless to resist the soft whispering of her voice. It was like the wind in the trees. “Since your return from Besiers, I have barely caught sight of you.” Guilhem tried to speak, but his throat was dry. They are saying Viscount Trencavel favours you most of all his
chevaliers
,“ she said.

Guilhem could no longer distinguish one word from another. His blood pulsed too loud, too heavily in his head, swamping every other sound or sensation.

He laid her down on the ground.

“Tell me what happened between the Viscount and his uncle,” she murmured in his ear. “Tell me what happened in Besiers.” Guilhem gasped as she wrapped her legs around him and drew him to her. “Tell me how your fortunes have changed.”

“It is not a story I can share,” he breathed, conscious only of the movement of her body beneath his.

Oriane bit his lip. “You can share it with me.”

He shouted her name, no longer caring who might be listening or watching. He did not see the look of satisfaction in her green eyes nor the traces of blood - his blood - on her lips.

Pelletier looked around him, displeased to see neither Oriane nor Alais at the supper table.

Despite the preparations for war going on around them, there was an element of celebration in the Great Hall that Viscount Trencavel and his retinue had returned safely home.

The meeting with the consuls had passed off well. Pelletier had no doubt they would raise the funds they needed. Messengers were arriving every hour from the chateaux closest to Carcassonne. So far, no vassal had failed to pledge allegiance and offer men or money.

As soon as Viscount Trencavel and Dame Agnes had withdrawn, Pelletier excused himself and went out for some air. His indecision lay heavy on his shoulders once more.

Your brother awaits you in Besiers, your sister in Carcassona.“

Fortune had restored Simeon and the second book more quickly than Pelletier had believed possible. Now, if Alais’ suspicions were right, it seemed the third book might also be close at hand.

Pelletier’s hand drifted to his chest, where Simeon’s book lay next to his heart.

Alais was woken by a loud clatter as the shutter banged against the wall.

She sat up with a jolt, her heart thumping. In her dream, she had been back in the woods outside Coursan, hands bound, struggling to escape from the coarse hood.

She picked up one of the pillows, still warm with sleep, and held it to her chest. Guilhem’s scent still hung about the bed, even though it had been more than a week since last he had laid his head beside hers.

There was another bang as the shutter smashed against the wall. The storm was whistling around the towers and skimming the surface of the roof. The last thing she remembered was asking Rixende to bring her something to eat.

Rixende knocked at the door and came timidly into the room.

“Forgive me, Dame. I did not want to wake you, but he insisted I should.”

“Guilhem?” she said quickly.

Rixende shook her head. “Your father. He bids you join him at the eastern gatehouse.”

“Now? But it must be after twelve?”

The midnight has not yet struck, Dame.“

“Why has he sent you rather than Francois?”

“I don’t know, Dame.”

Leaving Rixende to keep watch in her chamber, Alais threw her cloak over her shoulders, and hurried downstairs. Thunder was still rumbling ¦ the mountains as she rushed across the courtyard to join him.

“Where are we going?” she shouted over the wind, as they hurried through the East Gate.

To Sant-Nasari,“ he said. To where the
Book of Words
is hidden.”

Oriane lay stretched out, like a cat, on her bed, listening to the wind. Guirande had done a good job, both at restoring the room to order and describing the damage her husband had done. What had set him in such a rage, Oriane did not know. Nor did she care.

All men - courtiers, scribes,
chevaliers
, priests - were the same under the skin. Their resolve snapped like twigs in winter for all their talk of honour. The first betrayal was the hardest. After that, it never ceased to amaze her how quickly secrets spewed from their faithless lips, how their actions denied all they claimed to hold dear.

She had learned more than she expected. The irony was, Guilhem didn’t even understand the significance of what he had told her tonight.

She had suspected Alais had followed their father to Beziers. Now she knew she was right. She knew, too, something of what had passed between them on the night of his departure.

The sole reason Oriane had concerned herself with Alais’ recuperation was in the hope of tricking her sister into betraying their father’s confidence, but it had not worked. The only thing of note was Alais’ distress at the loss of a wooden board from her chamber. She’d talked about it in her sleep as she tossed and turned. So far, despite her best efforts, all attempts to retrieve the board had failed.

Oriane stretched her arms above her head. Even in her wildest dreams, she had never imagined her father possessed something of such power and such influence that men would pay a king’s ransom to obtain it. All she had to do was be patient.

After what Guilhem had told her tonight, she realised the board was of less significance than she’d thought. If only they’d had more time, she would have coaxed from him the name of the man her father had met in Beziers.
If
he knew it.

Oriane sat up. Francois would know. She clapped her hands.

“Take this to Francois,” she said to Guirande. “Let no one see you.”

CHAPTER 38

Night had fallen over the Crusader camp.

Guy d’Evreux wiped his greasy hands on the cloth a nervous servant was holding out to him. He drained his cup and glanced towards the Abbot of Citeaux at the head of the table to see if he was ready to rise.

He was not.

Smug and self-satisfied in his white robes, the Abbot had positioned himself between the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Nevers. The constant jockeying for position that went on between the two and their followers had started before the Host had even left Lyon.

From the glazed look on their faces, it was clear that Arnald-Amalric was once more castigating them. Heresy, the fires of hell, the dangers of the vernacular, all subjects about which he was capable of lambasting an audience for hours.

Evreux had no respect for either of them. He thought their ambitions pathetic - a few gold coins, wine and whores, a little fighting, then home in glory having served their forty days. Only de Montfort, seated a little further down the table, seemed to be listening. His eyes burned with an unpleasant zeal matched only by the Abbot’s own fanaticism.

Evreux knew de Montfort by reputation only, even though they were near neighbours. Evreux had inherited land to the north of Chartres with good hunting. A combination of strategic marriage and repressive taxation had ensured the family’s wealth had grown steadily over the past fifty years. He had no brothers to challenge his title and no significant debts.

De Montfort’s lands were outside Paris, less than two days’ ride from Evreux’s estate. It was known de Montfort had taken the Cross at the personal request of the Duke of Burgundy, but his ambition was common knowledge, as were his piety and courage. He was a veteran of the eastern campaigns in Syria and Palestine, one of the few Crusaders who’d refused to take part in the siege of the Christian city of Zara during the Fourth Crusade to the Holy Land.