Labyrinth (9 page)

“There may be news…” she started to say.

“That’s no excuse,” he snapped. “I received no word.”

“I…” Alai’s let her words tail off.
What to say
?

She picked up his cloak from the bed and offered it to him. “Will you be long?” she said softly.

“Since I do not know why I am summoned to Council in the first place, how can I say?” he said, still angry.

All at once, his temper seemed to leave him. His shoulders relaxed and he turned to face her, no longer scowling. “Forgive me, Alai’s. You cannot answer for your father’s behavior.” He traced the outline of her chin with his hand. “Come. Help me with this.”

Guilhem bent forward so Alai’s could reach the fastening more easily. Even so, she had to stand on tiptoe to fasten the round silver and copper brooch at his shoulder.

“Merce, mon cor,”
he said when she was done. “Right. Let’s find out what this is all about. It’s probably nothing of importance.”

“As we were riding back into the Cite this morning, a messenger arrived,” she said without thinking about it.

Immediately, Alais castigated herself. Now he was sure to ask where she’d been so early, and with her father, but his attention was on retrieving his sword from under the bed and he didn’t pick up on her words.

Alai’s winced at the harsh sound of the metal as he pushed the blade back into its scabbard. It was a sound that, more than any other, symbolized his departure from her world to the world of men.

As Guilhem turned, his cloak fell against the wooden cheese board that was still balanced precariously on the edge of the table. It fell, tumbling with a clatter to the stone floor.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alais said quickly, not wanting to risk her father’s anger by delaying Guilhem any longer. “The servants will do this. You go. Return when you can.”

Guilhem smiled and was gone.

When she could no longer hear his tread, Alai’s turned back to the room and looked at the mess. Lumps of white cheese, wet and viscous, were stuck in the straw matting covering the floor. She sighed and bent down to retrieve the board.

It had come to rest on its side propped against the wooden bolster. As she picked it up, her fingers brushed against something on the underside. Alai’s turned it over to look.

A labyrinth had been carved into the polished surface of the dark wood.

“
Meravelhos
. So beautiful,” she murmured.

Captivated by the perfect lines of the circles, curving around in ever decreasing circles, Alai’s traced the pattern with her fingers. It was smooth, flawless, a labor of love created with care and precision.

She felt a memory shift at the back of her mind. Alai’s held the board up, sure now that she had seen something like it once before, but the memory was elusive and refused to come out of the dark. She couldn’t even remember where the board had come from in the first place. In the end she gave up trying to chase down the thought.

Alai’s summoned her servant, Severine, to clear the room. After that, to keep her mind from what was happening in the Great Hall, she turned her attention to the plants she had harvested from the river at dawn.

The crop already had been left too long. The linen cloths had dried out, the roots were brittle and the leaves had lost most of their moisture. Confident she could salvage something, Alai’s sprinkled water over the
panier
and set to work.

But all the time she was grinding the roots and sewing the flowers into sachets for air sweeteners, all the time she was preparing the lotion for Jacques’ leg, her eyes kept drifting back to the wooden board where it lay mute on the table in front of her, refusing to give up its secrets.

Guilhem ran across the courtyard, his cloak flapping uncomfortably around his knees, cursing his bad luck that today of all days he should be caught out.

It was unusual for
chevaliers
to be included in the Council. The fact that they’d been summoned to the Great Hall, rather than the
donjon,
suggested something serious.

Was Pelletier speaking the truth when he said he’d sent a personal messenger to Guilhem’s chamber earlier? He couldn’t be sure. What if Francois had come and found him absent? What would Pelletier have to say about that?

Either way, the end result was the same. He was in trouble.

The heavy door leading to the Great Hall stood open. Guilhem hurried up the steps, taking them two at a time.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the corridor, he saw the distinctive outline of his father-in-law standing outside the entrance to the hall itself. Guilhem took a deep breath and carried on walking, his head down. Pelletier put out his arm, blocking his path.

“Where were you?” he said.

“Forgive me,
Messire
. I did not receive the summons—”

Pelletier’s face was a deep, thunderous red. “How dare you be late?” he said in a voice of steel. “Do you think that orders do not apply to you? That you are so celebrated a
chevalier
that you can choose to come and go as you please rather than as your
seigneur
bids you?”

“
‘Messire
, I swear on my honor that if I had known—”

Pelletier gave a bitter laugh. “Your honor,” he said fiercely, jabbing Guilhem in the chest. “Don’t play me for a fool, du Mas. I sent my own servant to your rooms to give you the message in person. You had more than enough time to make yourself ready. Yet I have to come and fetch you myself. And, when I do, I find you in bed!”

Guilhem opened his mouth, then shut it again. He could see pools of spittle forming in the corners of Pelletier’s mouth and in the gray bristles of his beard.

“Not so full of yourself now, then! What, nothing to say? I am warning you, du Mas, the fact that you are married to my daughter will not prevent me from making an example of you.”

“Sire, I did—”

Without warning, Pelletier’s fist slammed into his stomach. It was not a hard punch, but it was forceful enough to catch him off balance.

Taken by surprise, Guilhem stumbled back against the wall.

Straight away, Pelletier’s massive hand was around his throat, pushing his head back against the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, Guilhem could see the
sirjan
at the door leaning forward to get a better view of what was going on.

“Have I made myself clear?” he spat in Guilhem’s face, increasing the pressure again. Guilhem couldn’t speak. “I can’t hear you,
gojat”
Pelletier said. “Have I made myself clear?”

This time, he managed to choke out the words.
“Oc, Messire.”
Guilhem could feel himself turning puce. The blood was hammering in his head.

“I am warning you, du Mas. I’m watching. I’m waiting. And if you make one wrong step, I will see that you live to regret it. Do we understand one another?”

Guilhem gulped for air. He just managed to nod, scraping his cheek against the rough surface of the wall, when Pelletier gave a last, vicious shove, crunching his ribs against the hard stone, and released him.

Rather than go back into the Great Hall, Pelletier stormed out in the opposite direction into the courtyard.

The moment he’d gone, Guilhem doubled over, coughing and rubbing his throat, taking in great gulps of air like a drowning man. He massaged his neck and wiped the smear of blood from his lip.

Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Guilhem straightened his clothes. Already his head was filled with the ways in which he would bring Pelletier to account for humiliating him like this. Twice in the space of one day. The insult was too great to be ignored.

Suddenly aware of the steady murmur of voices spilling out of the Great Hall, Guilhem realized he should join his comrades before Pelletier came back and found him still standing outside.

The guard made no attempt to hide his amusement.

“What are you staring at?” Guilhem demanded. “You keep your tongue in your head, do you hear, or it will be the worse for you.”

It wasn’t an idle threat. The guard immediately dropped his eyes and stood aside to let Guilhem enter.

“That’s more like it.”

With Pelletier’s threats still ringing in his ears, Guilhem slipped into the chamber as unobtrusively as he could. Only his high color and the rapid beating of his heart betrayed anything of what had taken place.

CHAPTER 6

Viscount Raymond-Roger Trencavel stood on a platform at the far end of the Great Hall. He noticed Guilhem du Mas slipping in late at the back, but it was Pelletier he was waiting for.

Trencavel was dressed for diplomacy, not war. His red long-sleeved tunic, with gold trim around the neck and cuffs, reached to his knees. His blue cloak was held at the neck by a large, round gold buckle that caught the light from the sun shining in through the high windows that ran along the top of the southern wall of the chamber. Above his head was a huge shield bearing the Trencavel coat of arms, with two heavy metal pikes forming a diagonal cross behind it. The same ensign appeared on banners, ceremonial clothes and armor. It hung above the portcullis of the moated gateway of the Porte Narbonnaise, both to welcome friends and to remind them of the historic bond between the Trencavel dynasty and its subjects. To the left of the shield was a tapestry of a dancing unicorn, which had hung on the same wall for generations.

On the far side of the platform, set deep into the wall, was a small door that led to the viscount’s private living quarters in the Tour Pinte, the watchtower and oldest part of the Chateau Comtal. The door was shielded by long blue curtains, also embroidered with the three strips of ermine that made up the Trencavel arms. They gave some protection from the bitter draughts that whistled through the Great Hall in winter. Today they were held back with a single, heavy gold twist.

Raymond-Roger Trencavel had spent his early childhood in these rooms, then returned to live within these ancient walls with his wife, Agnes de Montpellier, and his two-year-old son and heir. He knelt in the same tiny chapel as his parents had knelt; he slept in their oak bed, in which he had been born. On summer days like these, he looked out of the same arched windows at dusk and watched the setting sun paint the sky red over the Pays d’Oc.

From a distance, Trencavel appeared calm and untroubled, with his brown hair resting lightly on his shoulders and his hands clasped behind his back. But his face was anxious and his eyes kept darting to the main door.

Pelletier was sweating heavily. His clothes were stiff and uncomfortable beneath his arms, clinging to the small of his back. He felt old and unequal to the task ahead of him.

He’d hoped the fresh air would clear his head. It hadn’t. He was still angry with himself for losing his temper and allowing his animosity toward his son-in-law to deflect him from the task in hand. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of thinking about it now. He would deal with du Mas later if need be. Now, his place was at the viscount’s side.

Simeon was not far from his mind either. Pelletier could still feel the cauterizing fear that had gripped his heart as he rolled the body over in the water. And the relief when the bloated face of a stranger stared, dead-eyed, up at him.

The heat inside the Great Hall was overwhelming. More than a hundred men, of church and state, were packed into the hot, airless chamber, which reeked of sweat, anxiety and wine. There was a steady drizzle of restless and uneasy conversation.

The servants standing closest to the door bowed as Pelletier appeared and rushed to bring him wine. Immediately opposite, across the chamber, was a row of high-backed chairs of dark, polished wood, similar to the choir stalls of the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari. In them sat the nobility of the Midi, the
seigneurs
of Mirepoix and Fanjeaux, Coursan and Termenes, Albi and Mazamet. Each had been invited to Carcassonne to celebrate the feast day of Sant-Nasari at the end of July, yet now found himself instead summoned to Council. Pelletier could see the tension in their faces.

He picked his way through the groups of men, the consuls of Carcassonne and leading citizens from the market suburbs of Sant-Vicens and Sant-Miquel, his experienced gaze taking in the room without appearing to do so. Churchmen and a few monks were skulking in the shadows along the northern wall, their faces half-hidden by their robes and their hands folded out of sight inside the capacious sleeves of their black habits.

The
chevaliers
of Carcassonne, Guilhem du Mas now among them, were standing in front of the huge stone fireplace that stretched from floor to ceiling on the opposite side of the chamber. The
escrivan
Jehan Congost, Trencavel’s scribe—and the husband of Pelletier’s eldest daughter Oriane—was sitting at his high desk at the front of the hall.

Pelletier came to a halt in front of the dais and bowed. A look of relief swept across Viscount Trencavel’s face.

“Forgive me,
Messire
.”

“No matter, Bertrand,” he said, gesturing that Pelletier should join him. “You’re here now.”

They exchanged a few words, their heads close together so that nobody could overhear them. Then, on Trencavel’s word, Pelletier stepped forward.

“My lords,” he bellowed. “My lords, pray silence for your
seigneur,
Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Viscount of Carcassona, Besiers and Albi.”

Trencavel stepped into the light, his hands spread wide in a gesture of greeting. The hall fell silent. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

“Benvenguda,
my lords, loyal friends,” he said. Welcome. His voice was as true as a bell and as steady, giving the lie to his youth.
“Benvenguda a Carcassona.
Thank you for your patience and for your presence. I am grateful to you all.”

Pelletier cast his eye over the sea of faces, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. He could see curiosity, excitement, self-interest and trepidation, and understood each emotion. Until they knew why they had been summoned and, more significantly, what Trencavel wanted of them, none of them knew how to behave.