Paradise Red (15 page)

Yolanda greets them in the courtyard, with Gui and Guerau behind her. The huntsman locks the dogboys in the kennels to keep them out of harm's way. Only when the mules have stopped and the bells around their necks have settled are the inquisitors' servants allowed to sink down and rest, although they never sit at ease for their masters' probing eyes are always upon them, boring into them, seeing thoughts they would rather keep secret.

The inquisitors seem startled by Yolanda's appearance, about which she has almost forgotten. They mutter between themselves at her multicolored tunic and rough workman's trousers. They cannot place her at all.

The youngest inquisitor dismounts and begins to walk about, his arms crossed in stern disapproval. The oldest one speaks. “And where is Count Aimery?” he asks Guerau. “We've heard he is now dedicated to the Cathar cause.”

Yolanda answers. “How should we know?”

Both the mounted inquisitors lean forward, their feet pushing against the stirrups. “Who asked you anything, insolent girl?”

Yolanda draws herself up to her full height. “I should be careful if I were you.”

“Careful? Oh really?”

The dismounted inquisitor picks up a stick.

Yolanda is not sure how she is holding herself so steady, but she turns around very slowly, removes the stick from him, and breaks it in half. “Don't you know who I am?”

All the inquisitors at once are wary. They look at her more closely.

“I am married to Sir Hugh des Arcis,” Yolanda says, making her voice imperiously commanding. “Do you know Sir
Hugh, the chosen champion of Louis IX of France, the keeper of the king's oriflamme, and a man whose career is of interest even to the Pope? You must know him, surely? And you'll know where to find him, too, because even now he's at Montségur, reclaiming the Blue Flame from the heretics.” She regrets throwing away Hugh's ring. At this moment it would have been good for something.

However her announcement is enough to startle and the inquisitors' foreheads crease. Of course they know Sir Hugh, and they have no quarrel with him, nor do they wish for one. Indeed, the Pope has ordered them to pray every night for his success in capturing the Blue Flame and obliterating the last of the Cathars. Had they known Castelneuf was in the hands of Lady des Arcis and not Count Aimery, they would never have come here. Somebody will pay for this error.

The young inquisitor, less judicious than the others, will not be thwarted. This is his first inquisitorial tour, and so far, he has exterminated a heretic in every place. He does not want to spoil his record. He stabs a bony finger at Gui, Guerau, and the huntsman. “What about these three? They have the heretic look about them.”

His seniors flush with displeasure. The boy is assiduous and keen. He does not flinch when the heretics scream, and he is imaginative, highly imaginative, when it comes to the extraction of answers. But he takes too much upon himself. One tries to silence him but Yolanda is already staring directly into his eyes. “They are part of my household,” she says.

“But were they not also part of your brother's?” The young man clicks dirty teeth.

Yolanda regards him as she might regard a rat. “I was part
of my brother's household once,” she says. “You must keep up if you ever wish to become as efficient an inquisitor as my uncle Girald d'Amouroix.”

Even this young man starts at that name. Inquisitor Girald! He who was murdered so horribly! Why, he is almost an inquisitorial saint! It is hardly believable that this creature is his niece, but nevertheless, he backs away a little.

The older inquisitors are not unhappy at their younger friend's discomfiture. “Knocked him off his perch, and not before time,” one murmurs to the other. The young man knows better than to retort.

Yolanda gestures around. “As you see, we can offer no hospitality,” she says. “You'll have to apply to my husband for that.”

“And we'll be sure to do so when we get to Montségur ourselves,” comes the answer. “Now get these servants back on their feet and mount up, Brother James.” Whips are flicked.

The young inquistor climbs resentfully aboard his mule, snagging his habit so that a very hairy bare leg is exposed. At once, with casual impudence copied from Laila, Yolanda unsnags the tunic and smoothes it down the leg, making the young man snort at unwanted sensations that erupt like fireworks. His leg flies backward, his hands fly up, and when he is thoroughly discomfited, Yolanda smacks his mule lightly on the bottom. “There now,” she says, with unimpeachable innocence. “You're decent again. What's your name? James, isn't it? I'll be sure to tell my husband to look out for you.”

After they leave, she is violently sick. “Relief,” she says to the huntsman. Though she knows as well as anybody the link between sickness and pregnancy, she will not allow that thought to take root anywhere.

Four weeks later, when the late winter surge is long over and the bitches are basking with their puppies in the early summer sunshine, Yolanda runs down the steps, and this time her eyes are filled with disbelief and terror. “I was sick again this morning,” she says blankly. The puppies mewl. “It can't be,” she cries to the huntsman. “It just can't be. I scrubbed everything away. There was nothing left of Hugh, nothing, not anywhere.” The huntsman takes her hands. She cannot say any more, for she knows that what cannot be, is. And she knows that she has really known it ever since her mouth began to taste salty and her body to feel like a stranger's. Hugh has had his way and got his way. She is having his baby. “I want that sorrel mare,” she says abruptly.

The huntsman does not move. “Send for the sorrel mare,” she says.

“Where will you go?”

“To Montségur. To Laila. I know there's something in her box that can help me, but I can't tell what. I've got to find her.”

“The troubadours should go with you.”

Something in Yolanda snaps. “There's only one horse,” she shouts, “and don't you see, I've got to hurry. Brees will protect me.”

She turns on her heel, runs back up the steps, and shoves a bundle together, with Laila's box at the top. Within two hours, the mare is collected and waiting. Gui gives her a leg up while Guerau settles her pack. “You do see, don't you?” Yolanda says to them all. “Laila can fix anything.”

The huntsman speaks slowly. “You do what you have to do, my lovely,” he says, “but take care how you do it.”

She gives a wan smile and glances down at Brees. The dog
is ready, undaunted by the prospect of another journey because he has almost forgotten the last one. “If I ride hard and fast enough, maybe God will take care of it for me,” Yolanda says, although given that God seems already to have deserted her, she holds out no hope for that at all.

We must go back, just a little, to find Aimery first up the path to what is known as the pog of Montségur. Set within a jostling pavilion of other mountains, its particular mix of cottage loaf, giant's nose, and stubborn boil in need of lancing is quite unmistakable, though for the procession of Cathars, something else marks it out.

At the base of the walls of the fortress, the eastern barbican thrusting up like a thumb floats an uneven and occasional blue haze. The haze is, of course, a trick of the eye, a natural glow from the refraction of a sapphire sky against the glassy sun. To the travelers, however, it is the mark of the Flame, and the sight of it makes every stomach lurch with both pride and fear. Here they are, ready to sacrifice their lives, and the Flame has seen fit to greet them. They ignore the plume of smoke that already rises from the kitchens at the back of the pog. Though this smoke is entirely benign, they need no reminders of what may be in store for them.

All except Sir Roger. He sees the smoke and at once regrets bringing his daughter. As they prepare for the climb, he allows his horse to dawdle. It is not too late. Even now he could order
her cart to turn around or, better still, send it on through the Pyrenean passes to Spain, where neither the French army nor the inquisitors will follow. Raimon could take her. Raimon
must
take her. He pulls his skewbald round.

Raimon is riding alone, staring up like the others at the gauzy blue mist, when Sir Roger accosts him without apology. “If you love Metta as you say you do, take her away from this. Take her to Spain.” Sir Roger pushes so close that their stirrups clink together, and Raimon can smell the stale sweat on the old knight's woolen undershirt. “She should never have come. What was I thinking? Please, Raimon. It's too late for me to take her back but you could take her forward.” He gestures at the peaks. “That way lies life and here,” he gestures at the fortress, “lies death. I know it. We all know it. Who survives a last stand?” He drops his reins and wrings his hands.

Raimon's heart sinks, and he blames himself. How could he not have forseen this? No man would willingly see a daughter perish. Look at how his own father has suffered at Adela's pointless decline. But he is in too deep to desert the Flame now. It is up there, waiting for him, and he will not abandon it. “Sir Roger,” he begins, and is at once rudely interrupted.

“Here we are! We must ride up together as far as we can,” cries Aimery, pushing Argos between them. “The finest days of the Occitan are just beginning. People will talk about this for centuries to come. Alain!” He stands in his stirrups and bellows. “Take my standard out in front.”

When Sir Roger does not respond in kind, Aimery reproaches him. “Come, Sir Roger. Why the long face? This is surely a moment for all good Cathars to savor. The Blue Flame calls to us. Can't you hear it?”

Sir Roger makes an inarticulate noise and falls back, his eyes still boring into Raimon. Aimery, who sees it all, now bends Argos hard against Galahad so that the horses increase their step and leave Sir Roger behind. Scarcely is the old man out of earshot before Aimery winks. “Well,
Sir
Raimon,” he jibes, “I thought your prospective father-in-law might try to get you to elope with Metta. That would be tricky, wouldn't it. Still, I've saved you from trying to explain why you can't.”

“Go away!” Raimon forces the words through his teeth. “Just go away, Aimery. You sully everything. You think you're a knight, but you're nothing but a cheap opportunist.”

A loud crow issues from Aimery's mouth. “
Me? Me
an opportunist?” He leers into Raimon's face. “Isn't opportunity what life's about, my friend? And I don't see you neglecting yours.”

The horses are sweating, their shoes scuffing sparks as the slope steepens. The glistening shingle provides no solid footholds. One horse falls and grazes its knees. Aimery shifts in his saddle, suddenly a soldier. “Impossible for the king's men to gallop up here at any rate,” he says. “We'll have plenty of warning. Hugh will be at some disadvantage.”

Raimon does not reply.

They climb on, the horses blowing and panting, and as they get nearer to the fortress Aimery suddenly begins to shout. “Ho!” he bellows. “Friends! Ho up there!” He jabs Raimon in the ribs. “They'll see my banner and may think we're enemies. We must let them know we come in peace. You should shout too.”

Raimon wants to punch him.

Aimery shouts again and this time three arrows greet him
in return, one landing in front of Argos's nose and the others in line with Aimery's toes. They bounce, for the ground is either too hard or too flimsy to get any purchase, but Aimery notes the barbed heads and jerks Argos to a halt. “Ho there! I tell you we come in peace.” He squints up and is dazzled by the sun. Another arrow flies passed. Argos treads on the shaft and snaps it. Aimery slowly raises his hands. They wait. No more arrows. Aimery grins. “We'll have to walk from here on foot,” he says. “I don't think the horses can come farther even without riders. I suppose we just have to let them go.”

Raimon dismounts. Aimery swings a leg over and sits sidesaddle for a moment. Both of them look behind them to where the procession has become as uneven as a broken sentence. Many knights have already dismounted and the carts have stopped, the baggage slowly being unloaded onto human donkeys and the women hitching up their skirts to climb unhampered. Metta and Adela are together.

It is with true regret that Aimery lets Argos loose. Raimon hands Galahad over to Cador. The boy's chin is trembling. Just when he got his warhorse, he must lose it. Raimon draws him to one side. This is where they must part too. However brutal he must be, however much he must lie, he cannot let Cador enter the fortress. He adopts his sternest face and his sternest tones. “Now, Cador. Give me Unbent. I can manage for myself from here.”

The little boy sags, as if from a blow, even as he helps Raimon strap on the baldric. “You said you wouldn't abandon me.”

“I'm not abandoning you. I'm giving you a different job. I don't want Galahad and Bors to wander off like Argos. You must take them and look after them.”

Cador is not fooled. Nobody else is leaving their squire behind. Raimon is getting rid of him. His voice rings out. “You're my knight. You can't just dismiss me. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“A good squire obeys his lord.” Raimon will not relent. “You can't come any farther.”

“Do you want to end up with your stuff as tatty as Sir Roger's?”

Raimon gives the ghost of a smile. “I don't think anybody will notice.”

The boy crumbles completely now. “I don't believe any of it,” he sobs. “You being a Cathar or loving Metta—none of it. And don't try to persuade me because I never will.” Raimon has to look away. “But the thing that's hardest,” Cador tries to find something on which to wipe his nose, “the thing that's
really
hardest, is that you don't trust me anymore.”