Beyond the carousel, Alice could see the grey heads and shoulders of tombs and gravestones behind the walls of the cemetery, a row of cypress and yew protecting the sleepers from casual glances. To the right of the gates, a group of men played pétanque.
For a moment, she stood still, facing the entrance to the Cite head on, preparing herself to go in. To her right was a stone pillar from which an ugly stone gargoyle stared out, its flat face uncompromising and blunt. It looked newly restored.
SUM CARCAS. I am Carcas.
Dame Carcas - the Saracen queen and wife of King Balaack — after whom Carcassonne was said to be named after resisting a five-year siege by Charlemagne.
Alice walked over the covered drawbridge, which was squat and confined and fashioned from stone, chain and wood. The boards creaked and clattered beneath her feet. There was no water in the moat beneath her, only grass speckled with wild flowers.
It led into the Lices, a dusty, wide area between the outer and inner ring of fortifications. To the left and right, children were climbing on the walls and staging mock battles with plastic swords. Straight ahead was the Porte Narbonnaise. As she passed beneath the high, narrow arch, Alice raised her eyes. A benign stone statue of the Virgin Mary looked down at her.
The moment Alice passed through the gates all sense of space vanished. The rue Cros-Mayrevieille, the cobbled main street, was very narrow and sloped upwards. The buildings were packed so closely together that a person could lean out of the top storey of one house and join hands with someone on the opposite side.
The high buildings trapped the noise. Different languages, shouting, laughing, gesturing as a car crawled by with barely a hand’s width to spare on either side. Shops leaped out at her, selling postcards, guidebooks, a mannequin in the stocks advertising a museum of inquisitional instruments of torture, soaps and cushions and tableware, everywhere replica swords and shields. Twisted wrought-iron brackets stuck out from the wall with wooden signs attached to them: I Eperon Medieval, the Medieval Spur, sold replica swords and porcelain dolls; A Saint Louis sold soap, souvenirs and tableware.
Alice let her feet guide her to the main square, Place Marcou. It was small and filled with restaurants and clipped plane trees. Their spreading branches, wide like entwined and sheltering hands above the tables and chairs, competed with the brightly coloured awnings. The names of the individual cafés were printed on the top — Le Marcou, Le Trouvère, Le Ménestrel.
Alice strolled over the cobbles and out the other side, finding herself back at the junction of the rue Cros-Mayrevieille and the Place du Château, where a triangle of shops, crêperies and restaurants surrounded a stone obelisk about eight feet high, topped by a bust of the nineteenth-century historian Jean-Pierre Cros-Mayrevieille. Around the bottom was a bronze frieze of the fortifications.
She walked forward until she was standing in front of a sweeping semi-circular wall that protected the Château Comtal. Behind the imposing locked gates were the turrets and battlements of the castle. A fortress within a fortress.
Alice stopped, realising that this had been her destination all along. The Château Comtal, home of the Trencavel family.
She peered through the tall wooden gates. There was something familiar about it all, as if she was returning to a place she’d been once, long ago, and forgotten. There were glass ticket booths on either side of the entrance, blinds drawn, with printed signs advertising the opening hours. Beyond that was a grey expanse of gravel and dust, not grass, which led to a flat, narrow bridge, about six feet across.
Alice stepped away from the gates, promising herself she’d come back first thing in the morning. She turned to the right and followed signs for the Porte de Rodez. It was set between two distinctive, horseshoe-shaped towers. She climbed down the wide steps, worn away in the middle by countless feet.
The difference in age between the inner and outer walls was most evident here. The outer fortifications, which she read had been built at the end of the thirteenth century and restored during the nineteenth, were grey and the blocks were relatively equal in size. Detractors would claim it was just another indication of how inappropriately the restoration had been carried out. Alice didn’t care. The spirit of the place was what moved her. The inner wall, including the western wall of the Chateau Comtal itself, was composed of a mixture of red tiles of the Gallo-Roman remains and the crumbling sandstone of the twelfth century.
Alice felt a sense of peace after the noise within the Cite, a feeling of belonging here, among such mountains and skies. With her arms resting on the battlements, she stood looking down to the river, imagining the cold touch of the water between her toes.
Only when the remains of the day gave way to dusk did Alice turn and head back into the Cite.
CHAPTER 34
Carcassona
JULHET 1209
They rode in single file as they approached Carcassonne, Raymond-Roger Trencavel at the head, followed closely by Bertrand Pelletier. The chevalier Guilhem du Mas brought up the rear.
Alaïs was at the back with the clergy.
Less than a week had passed since she had left, but it seemed much longer. Spirits were low. Although the Trencavel ensigns fluttered intact in the breeze and the same number of men were returning as had set out, the expression on the Viscount’s face told the story of the failure of their petition.
The horses slowed to a walk as they approached the gates. Alaïs leaned forward and patted Tatou on the neck. The mare was tired and she’d thrown a shoe, but her stamina could not be faulted.
The crowds were several deep as they passed under the Trencavel coat of arms hanging between the two towers of the Porte Narbonnaise. Children ran alongside the horses, throwing flowers in their path and cheering. Women waved makeshift pennants and kerchiefs out of top-floor windows, as Trencavel led them up through the streets towards the Chateau Comtal.
Alaïs felt nothing but relief as they crossed the narrow bridge and passed through the Eastern Gates. The Cour d’Honneur erupted in sound, everybody waving and calling out. Écuyers sprang forward to take their masters’ horses, servants ran to make ready the bathhouse, scullions headed for the kitchen with pails of water ready so that a feast could be prepared.
Among the forest of waving arms and smiling faces, Alaïs caught sight of Oriane. Her father’s servant, François, was standing close behind. She flushed at the thought of how she had tricked him and slipped away from under his nose.
She saw Oriane scanning the crowd. Her eyes came briefly to rest upon her husband, Jehan Congost. A look of contempt flitted across Oriane’s face, before she moved on and fixed her gaze upon Alaïs, much to the latter’s discomfort. Alaïs pretended not to notice, but she could feel her sister staring at her across the sea of heads. When she looked again, Oriane had gone.
Alaïs dismounted, taking care not to knock her injured shoulder, and handed Tatou’s reins to Amiel to take the mare to the stables. Her relief at being home had already passed. Melancholy settled over her like a winter fog. Everyone else seemed to be in someone’s arms, a wife‘s, a mother’s, an aunt’s, a sister’s. She searched for Guilhem, but he was nowhere to be seen. In the bathhouse already. Even her father had gone.
Alaïs wandered into the smaller courtyard, seeking solitude. She couldn’t shake a verse by Raymond de Mirval from her mind, although he made her mood worse. ‘Res contr’ Amor non es guirens, lai on sos poders s’atura.‘There is no protection against love, once it chooses to exert its power.
When Alaïs had first heard the poem the emotions expressed in it were unknown to her. Even so, as she’d sat in the Cour d’Honneur, her thin arms hooped around her childish knees, listening to the trouvère as he sang of a heart torn in two, she had understood the sentiment behind the words well enough.
Tears sprang into her eyes. Angrily, she rubbed them away with the back of her hand. She would not give in to self-pity. She sat down on a secluded bench in the shade.
She and Guilhem had often wa
lked in the Cour du Midi in the days before their marriage. Then, the trees had been turning gold and a carpet of autumn leaves, the colour of burned copper and ochre, had covered the ground. Alaïs traced a pattern in the dust with the tip of her boot, wondering how she and Guilhem could be reconciled. She lacked the art and he lacked the inclination.
Oriane often stopped talking to her husband for days. Then, as quickly as the silence had fallen, it would lift and Oriane would be sweet and attentive to Jehan, until the next time. What few memories Alaïs had of her parents’ marriage were of similar periods of light and dark.
Alaïs had not expected this to be her fate. She had stood before the priest in the chapel in her red veil and spoken her wedding vows, the flames from the flickering red Michelmas candles sending shadows dancing over the altar bedecked with flowering winter hawthorn. She had believed, and did still in her heart, in a love that would last forever.
Her friend and mentor, Esclarmonde, was petitioned by lovers for potions and posies to regain or capture affection. Wine mulled with mint leaves and parsnips, forget-me-nots to keep a lover fruitful, bunches of yellow primrose. For all her respect for Esclarmonde’s skills, Alaïs had always dismissed such behaviour as superstitious nonsense. She did not want to believe love could be so easily tricked and bought.
There were others, she knew, who offered more dangerous magic, black charms to bewitch or to harm faithless suitors. Esclarmonde warned her against such dark powers, the obvious manifestation of the Devil’s dominion over the world. No good could ever come of such ill.
Today, for the first time in her life, Alaïs had a flicker of understanding of what might drive women to such desperate measures.
‘Filha.’
Alaïs jumped up.
Where have you been?’ said Pelletier, out of breath. ‘I have searched everywhere for you.’
‘I did not hear you, Paire,’ she said.
Work to prepare the Ciutat will begin as soon as Viscount Trencavel has been reunited with his wife and son. There will be little time to draw breath in the days ahead.’
When are you expecting Simeon to arrive?’
‘A day or two more yet.’ He frowned. ‘I wish I could have persuaded him to travel with us. But, he believes he will be less conspicuous among his own people. He may well be right.’
‘And once he is here,’ she pressed on, ‘you will decide what is to be done? I have an idea about — ’
Alaïs stopped, realising she would rather test her theory first before making a fool of herself in front of her father. And him.
‘An idea?’ he said.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just going to ask if I could be present when you and Simeon meet to talk.’
Consternation flickered across his lined face. She could see him struggling to decide.
‘In the light of the service you have performed so far,’ he said in the end, ‘you may hear what we have to say. However’ - he held up a finger in warning - ‘on the clear understanding that you are there as an observer only. Any active participation in this matter is at an end. I will not have you putting yourself at risk again.’
A bubble of excitement inside her grew. I will persuade him otherwise when the time comes.
She lowered her eyes and folded her hands meekly in her lap. ‘Of course, Paire. I will obey your wishes.’
Pelletier shot her a look, but did not pursue it. ‘There is one more service I must ask of you, Alaïs. Viscount Trencavel will make a public celebration of his safe return to Carcassona, while the news of our failure to agree terms with Toulouse is not yet widely known. Dame Agnès will observe Vespers in the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari this evening rather than in the chapel.’ He paused. ‘I wish you to attend. Your sister too.’
Alaïs was astounded. Although she attended services in the chapel of the Chateau Comtal from time to time, her father had not challenged her decision to abstain from services in the cathedral.
‘I know you must be weary, but Viscount Trencavel believes it important that no just criticism could be made of his conduct — and that of those closest to him — at this time. If there are spies within the Ciutat - and I have no doubt that there are — we do not wish our spiritual failings, as they might be interpreted, to reach the ears of our enemies.’
‘It’s not a question of fatigue,’ she said furiously. ‘Bishop de Rochefort and his priests, they’re hypocrites. They preach one thing but do another.’ Pelletier turned red, whether through anger or embarrassment, she could not be sure. ‘By this token, will you be attending also?’ she demanded.
Pelletier did not meet her eye. ‘You will appreciate I will be occupied with Viscount Trencavel.’
Alaïs glared at him. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘I will obey you, Paire. But do not expect me to kneel before the figure of a broken man on a cross of wood and pray.’
For a moment, she thought she had been too outspoken. Then, to her astonishment, her father began to laugh.
‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘I would expect nothing less of you. Just be careful, Alaïs. Do not express such views unwisely. They may be listening.’
Alaïs passed the next few hours in her chamber. She made a poultice of fresh wild marjoram for her stiff neck and shoulder. At the same time, she listened to her servant’s good-natured chatter.
According to Rixende, opinion was divided over Alaïs’ early morning flight from the Chateau. Some expressed admiration for Alaïs’ fortitude and bravery. Others, Oriane among them, criticised her. She had made a fool of her husband by acting in so rash a manner. Worse, she had jeopardised the success of the mission. Alaïs hoped this was not what Guilhem felt, although she feared it was. His thoughts tended to run along well-trodden paths. More than that, his pride was easily hurt and Alaïs knew from experience his desire to be admired, to be celebrated within the household, sometimes led him to say and do things contrary to his true nature. If he felt himself humiliated, there was no saying how he would react.
‘But they can hardly say so now, Dame Alaïs,’ Rixende said, as she cleared away the remains of the compress. ‘All have returned safely. If that doesn’t prove God is on our side, then what does!’
Alaïs gave a pale smile. She suspected Rixende would see things in a different light once news of the true state of affairs spread through the Cite.
The bells were clamouring and the sky was flecked pink and white as they walked from the Chateau Comtal towards Sant-Nasari. At the head of the procession was a priest, decked in white and holding a golden cross high in the air. The other priests, nuns and monks followed.
Behind them came Dame Agnès, the wives of the Consuls, her ladies-in-waiting bringing up the rear. Alaïs was obliged to partner her sister.
Oriane did not address a single word to her, good or ill. As always, she drew the eyes and admiration of the crowd. She was wearing a deep red dress, with a delicate gold and black girdle pulled tight to accentuate her high waist and rounded hips. Her black hair was washed and oiled and her hands were clasped in front of her in an attitude of piety, perfectly displaying the alms purse that dangled from her wrist.
Alaïs assumed the purse was a gift from an admirer, a wealthy one at that, judging by the pearls set around the neck and the motto embroidered in gold thread.
Beneath the ceremony and display, Alice was aware of an undercurrent of apprehension and suspicion.
She didn’t notice François until he tapped her lightly on the arm.
‘Esclarmonde has returned,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I have come directly from there.’
Alaïs spun round to face him. ‘Did you speak with her?’
He hesitated. ‘Not really, Dame.’
Immediately, she stepped out of the line. ‘I will go.’
‘May I suggest, Dame, you wait until after the service is finished?’ he suggested, glancing to the door. Alaïs followed his eyes. Three black-hooded monks were standing guard, clearly noting who was present and who was
not. ‘It would be unfortunate if your absence reflected badly on Dame Agnès or your father. It could be interpreted as a sign of your sympathy for the new church.’
‘Of course, yes.’ She thought a moment. ‘But please tell Esclarmonde I will be with her as soon as I can.’
Alaïs dipped her fingers in the bénitier and crossed herself with holy water, in case anyone was watching.
She found a space in the tightly packed north transept, as far away as she could get from Oriane without attracting attention. Candles flickered high above the nave from chandeliers suspended from the roof. From below, they looked like huge wheels of steel that might at any time come crashing down upon the sinners below.
Although surprised to find his church full after so long empty, the Bishop’s voice was thin and insubstantial, barely audible over the mass of people breathing and shuffling in the heat. How different it was from the simplicity of Esclarmonde’s church.
Her father’s church also.
The Bons Homes valued inner faith above outward display. They needed no consecrated buildings, no superstitious rituals, no humiliating obeisance designed to keep ordinary men apart from God. They did not worship images nor prostrate themselves before idols or instruments of torture. For the Bons Chrétiens, the power of God lay in the word. They needed only books and prayers, words spoken and read aloud. Salvation was nothing to do with the alms or relics or Sabbath prayers spoken in a language only the priests understood.
In their eyes, all were equal in the Grace of the Holy Father - Jew and Saracen, man and woman, the beast of the fields and the birds of the air. There would be no hell, no final day of judgement, because through God’s grace all would be saved, although many would be destined to live life many times over before they regained God’s kingdom.
Although Alaïs had not actually attended a worship, because of Esclarmonde she was familiar with the words of their prayers and rituals. What mattered was that in these darkening times, the Bons Chrétiens were good men, tolerant men, men of peace who celebrated a God of Light rather than cowering under the wrath of the Catholics’ cruel God.