He felt his ribs snap as a boot connected with his side. He jerked in agony as they kicked him again. He could taste blood in his mouth.
There was no sound from Alaïs. She didn’t appear to be moving at all.
Then he heard Sajhë shout. Guilhem lifted his head just as the soldier struck Sajhë sideways with the flat of his sword, knocking him senseless.
Oriane had disappeared into the cave, taking Bertrande with her.
With a roar, Guilhem summoned every last bit of strength left in him, and hurled himself to his feet, sending one of the soldiers flying backwards down the hill. He grasped his sword and drove it into the throat of the one man left standing, as Alaïs staggered to her knees and stuck the other soldier in the back of the leg with his own knife. The howl of pain died in his throat.
Guilhem realised everything had fallen silent.
For a moment, he just stared at Alaïs. Even now, Guilhem was terrified to believe the evidence of his eyes for fear she would be taken away from him again. Then he held out his hand.
Guilhem felt her fingers entwine with his. He felt her skin, torn and battered, like his, cold like he was. Real.
‘I thought — ’
‘I know,’ she said quickly.
Guilhem didn’t want to let her go, but the thought of Bertrande called him back.
‘Sajhë’s hurt,’ he said, striding up the slope towards the entrance. ‘You help him. I’m going after Oriane.’
Alaïs bent down to check Sajhë, then immediately ran to catch him up.
‘He’s unconscious only,’ she said. ‘You stay. Tell him what’s happened. I have to find Bertrande.’
‘No, it’s what she wants. She’ll force you to reveal where you’ve concealed the Book, then she’ll kill you both. I’ve a better chance of bringing your daughter out alive without you, can’t you see?’
‘Our daughter,’ she said.
Guilhem heard the words, although he could make no sense of them. His heart started to race.
‘Alaïs, what — ?’ he started to say, but she had ducked under his arm and was already running down the tunnel into the darkness.
CHAPTER 80
Ariège
FRIDAY 8 JULY, 2005
‘They’ve gone to the cave,’ shouted Noubel, slamming down the receiver, ‘of all the stupid — ’
Who?’
‘Audric Baillard and Alice Tanner. They’ve taken it into their heads that Shelagh O’Donnell is being held at the Pic de Soularac and are on their way there. She said someone else was there too. An American, William Franklin.’
Who’s he?’
‘No idea,’ said Noubel, grabbing his jacket from the back of the door and lumbering out into the corridor.
Moureau followed him. Who was it on the phone?’
‘The front desk. They took the message from Dr Tanner at nine o’clock, apparently, but “didn’t think I’d want to be disturbed in the middle of an interrogation!” N‘importe quoi!’ Noubel mimicked the nasal voice of the night sergeant.
Both men automatically glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was ten-fifteen.
What about Braissart and Domingo?’ said Moureau, with a glance down the corridor to the interview rooms. Noubel’s hunch had been right. The two men had been arrested not far from Authié’s ex-wife’s farmhouse. They’d been heading south towards Andorra.
‘They can wait.’
Noubel threw open the door to the car park, sending it flying back against the fire escape. They hurried down the metal stairs to the tarmac.
‘Did you get anything out of them?’
‘Nothing,’ said Noubel, jerking open the car door, slinging his jacket on the back seat. He forced himself in behind the steering wheel. ‘Silent as the grave, the pair of them.’
‘More frightened of their boss than you,’ said Moureau, slamming his door. ‘Any word on Authié?’
‘Nothing. He went to Mass earlier in Carcassonne. No sign of him since then.’
‘The farmhouse?’ suggested Moureau, as the car jumped forward towards the main road. ‘Has the search team reported in yet?’
‘No.’
Noubel’s phone started to ring. Keeping his right hand on the wheel, he stretched into the back seat, releasing a smell of stale sweat from under his arms. He dropped the jacket in Moureau’s lap and made frantic gestures while Moureau fished through his pockets.
‘Noubel, oui?’
His foot slammed down on the brake, sending Moureau flying forward in his seat. ‘Putain! Why in the name of Christ am I only hearing about this now! Is anybody inside?’ He listened. When did it start?’ The line was bad and Moureau could hear the signal breaking. ‘No, no! Stay there. Keep me informed.’
Noubel tossed his phone on the dashboard, turned the siren on and accelerated towards the motorway.
‘The farm’s on fire,’ he said, putting his foot to the floor.
‘Arson?’
‘The nearest neighbour’s half a kilometre away. He claims to have heard a couple of loud explosions, then saw the flames and called the firefighters. By the time they’d arrived, the fire had already taken hold.’
‘Is there anybody in there?’ said Moureau anxiously.
‘They don’t know,’ he said grimly.
Shelagh was drifting in and out of consciousness.
She had no idea how long it had been since the men had gone. One by one her senses were shutting down. She was no longer aware of her physical surroundings. Arms, legs, body, head, she felt as if she was floating, weightless. She wasn’t aware of heat or of cold, nor the stones and dirt beneath her. She was cocooned in her own world. Safe. Free.
She wasn’t alone. Faces floated into her mind, people from the past and present, a procession of silent images.
The light seemed to be growing stronger again. Somewhere, just out of her line of vision, there was a juddering white beam of light, sending dancing shadows running up the walls and across the rocky roof of the cave. Like a kaleidoscope, the colours were shifting and changing shape before her eyes.
She thought she could see a man. Very old. She felt his cold, dry hands on her brow, skin as dry as tracing paper. His voice telling her it was going to be all right. That she was safe now.
Now Shelagh could hear other voices, whispering in her head, murmuring, speaking softly, caressing her.
She felt black wings at her shoulder, cradling her tenderly, like a child. Calling her home.
Then, spoiling it, another voice.
‘Turn round.’
Will realised the roaring was inside his head, the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears, thick and heavy. The sound of the bullets reverberating again and again in his memory.
He swallowed hard and tried to catch his breath. The pungent smell of the leather in his nose and mouth was too strong. It turned his stomach.
How many shots had he heard? Two? Three?
His two bodyguards got out. Will could hear them talking, arguing with François-Baptiste perhaps. Slowly, careful not to draw attention, he levered himself up a little on the back seat of the car. In the light of the headlights, he could see François-Baptiste standing over Authié’s dead body, arm hanging by his side, the gun still in his hand. It looked as if someone had thrown a can of red paint over the door and bonnet of Authié’s car. Blood, tissue and shards of bone. What remained of Authié’s skull.
The nausea rose in his throat. Will swallowed again. Forced himself to keep looking. François-Baptiste started to bend down, hesitated, then quickly turned back instead.
Even though the repeated doses of the drug had left his arms and legs unresponsive, Will felt his body stiffen. He dropped back on the seat, grateful at least they hadn’t put him back in the claustrophobic box in the boot of the car.
The door closest to his head was jerked open and Will felt the familiar calloused hands on his arms and neck, dragging him across the seat and dropping him on to the ground.
The night air was cool on
his face and bare legs. The robe they’d dressed him in was long and wide, although tied at the waist. Will felt self-conscious, vulnerable. And terrified.
He could see Authié’s body lying motionless on the gravel. Next to it, tucked behind the front wheel of the car, he could see a tiny red light blinking on and off.
‘Portez-le jusqu’à la grotte.’ François-Baptiste’s voice drew Will back. ‘Vous nous attendez dehors. En face de l‘ouverture.’ He paused. ‘Il est dix-heures moins cinq maintenant. Nous allons rentrer dans quarante, peut-être cinquante minutes.’
Nearly ten o’clock. He let his head hang as the man took hold beneath his arms. As they started to drag him up the slope towards the cave, he wondered if he’d still be alive at eleven.
‘Turn round,’ Marie-Cécile repeated.
A harsh, arrogant voice, Audric thought. He stroked his hand once more across Shelagh’s head, and then slowly he drew himself to his full height. His relief at finding her alive had been short-lived. She was in a very bad condition. Without medical help soon, Audric feared she would die.
‘Leave the torch there,’ Marie-Cécile ordered him. ‘Come down here where I can see you.’
Slowly, Audric turned round and stepped down from behind the altar.
She was holding an oil lamp in one hand, a pistol in the other. His first thought was how alike they were. The same green eyes, the black hair curling around the beautiful, austere face. With the gold headdress and necklace, the amulets circling her upper arms and her lean, tall body encased in the white robe, she looked like an Egyptian princess.
‘You have come alone, Dame?’
‘I hardly think it necessary to be accompanied everywhere I go, Monsieur, besides . . .’
He dropped his eyes to the gun. ‘You do not think I will trouble you,’ he nodded. ‘I am old, after all, oc?’ Then he added: ‘But also you do not want anyone else to hear.’
A suggestion of a smile crossed her lips. ‘Strength lies in secrecy.’
‘The man who taught you that is dead, Dame.’
Pain sparked in her eyes. ‘You knew my grandfather?’
‘I knew of him,’ he replied.
‘He taught me well. Never confide in anyone. Never trust anyone.’
‘A lonely way to live, Dame.’
‘I do not find it so.’
She had moved round, circling him like an animal stalking its prey, until she had her back to the altar and he was standing in the centre of the chamber, near a dip in the ground.
The grave, he thought. The grave where the bodies were found.
Where is she?’ Marie-Cécile demanded.
He did not answer. ‘You are much like your grandfather. In character, your features, your persistence. Also, like him, you are misguided.’
Anger flickered across her face. ‘My grandfather was a great man. He honoured the Grail. He devoted his life to the quest to find the Book of Words, the better to understand.’
‘Understand, Dame? Or exploit?’
‘You don’t know anything about him.’
‘Ah, but I do,’ he said softly. ‘People do not change so very much.’ He hesitated. ‘And he was so close, was he not?’ he continued, dropping his voice even further. ‘A few kilometres further to the west and it would have been him who found the cave. Not you.’
‘It makes no difference now,’ she said fiercely. ‘It belongs to us.’
‘The Grail belongs to no one. It is not something that can be owned or manipulated or bargained with.’
Audric stopped. In the light of the oil lamp burning on the altar he looked straight into her eyes.
‘It would not have saved him,’ he said.
From across the chamber, he heard her draw her breath.
‘The elixir heals and extends life. It would have kept him alive.’
‘It would have done nothing to save him from the illness stripping the flesh from his bones, Dame, any more than it will give you what you desire.’ He paused. ‘The Grail will not come for you.’
She took a step towards him. ‘You hope it will not, Baillard, but you’re not sure. For all your knowledge, all your research, you do not know what will happen.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘This is your chance, Baillard. After all your years of writing, studying, wondering. Like me, you have devoted your lifetime to this. You want to see this done as much as I do.’
‘And if I refuse to cooperate?’
She gave a sharp laugh. ‘Come now. You hardly need to ask. My son will kill her, you know that. How he does so — and how long it takes – is up to you.’
Despite the precautions he’d taken, a shiver ran down his spine. Provided Alice stayed where she was, as she had promised, there was no need for alarm. She was safe. It would be over before she realised what was happening.
Memories of Alaïs — Bertrande too – rushed unbidden into his mind. Their impetuous nature, their reluctance to ever obey an order, their foolhardy courage.
Was Alice made of the same metal?
‘Everything is ready,’ she said. ‘The Book of Potions and the Book of Numbers are here. So if you will just give me the ring and tell me where the Book of Words is concealed . . .’
Audric forced himself to concentrate on Marie-Cécile, not Alice.
Why are you certain it is still in the chamber?’
She smiled. ‘Because you are here, Baillard. Why else would you come? You want to see the ceremony performed, just once before you die. You will put on the robe,’ she shouted, suddenly impatient. She gestured with the gun to the piece of white material sitting at the top of the steps. He shook his head and, for a fraction of a second, he saw doubt in her face. ‘Then you will get me the Book.’
He noticed that three small, metal rings had been sunk into the floor of the lower section of the chamber. And he remembered that it was Alice who discovered the skeletons in the shallow grave.
He smiled. Soon, he would have the answers he sought.
‘Audric,’ Alice whispered, feeling her way down the tunnel.
Why doesn’t he answer?
She felt the ground sloping down beneath her feet as before. It seemed further this time.
Ahead, in the chamber, she could see a faint glow of yellow light.
‘Audric,’ she called again, her fears growing.
She walked faster, covering the last few metres at a run, until she burst into the chamber and then stopped dead.
This cannot be happening.
Audric was standing at the foot of the steps. He was wearing a long white robe.
I remember this.
Alice shook the memory from her head. Audric’s hands were tied in front of him and he was tethered to the ground, like an animal. On the far side of the chamber, lit by an oil lamp flickering on the altar, was Marie-Cécile de l’Oradore.
‘That’s far enough, I think,’ she said.
Audric turned, regret and sorrow in his eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, realising she had ruined everything. ‘But I had to warn you . . .’
Before Alice had realised what was happening, someone had grabbed her from behind. She screamed and kicked out, but there were two of them.
It happened like this before.
Then someone called her name. Not Audric.
A wave of nausea swept over her and she started to fall.
‘Catch her, you idiots,’ Marie-Cécile shouted.
CHAPTER 81
Pic de Soularac
MARÇ 1244
Guilhem couldn’t catch Alaïs. She was already too far ahead.
He staggered down the tunnel in the dark. Pain pierced his side where his ribs were cracked, stopping him breathing easily. Alaïs’ words reeling in his head and fear hardening in his chest kept him going.
The air seemed to be getting colder, chill, as if the life was being sucked out of the cave. He didn’t understand. If this was a sacred place, the labyrinth cave, why did he feel in the presence
of such malevolence?
Guilhem found himself standing on a natural stone platform. A couple of wide, shallow steps directly in front led down to an area where the ground was flat and smooth. A calèlh was burning on a stone altar, giving a little light.
The two sisters were standing facing one another, Oriane still holding the knife to Bertrande’s throat. Alaïs was completely still.
Guilhem ducked down, praying Oriane had not seen him. As quietly as he could, he started to edge around the wall, hidden in the shadows, until he was close enough to hear and see what was happening.
Oriane tossed something down on the ground in front of Alaïs.
‘Take it,’ she shouted. ‘Open the labyrinth. I know the Book of Words is concealed here.’
Guilhem saw Alaïs’ eyes widen in surprise.
‘Did you never read the Book of Numbers? You astound me, sister. The explanation is there for the key.’
Alaïs hesitated.
‘The ring, with the merel inserted in it, unlocks the chamber within the heart of the labyrinth.’
Oriane jerked Bertrande’s head back, so the skin on her neck was pulled tight. The blade glinted in the light.
‘Do it now, sister.’
Bertrande cried out. The noise seemed to run right through Guilhem’s head like a knife. He looked at Alaïs, frowning, her bad arm hanging uselessly at her side.
‘Let her go first,’ she said.
Oriane shook her head. Her hair had come unbound and her eyes were wild, obsessive. Holding Alaïs’ gaze, slowly, with deliberation, she made a small incision on Bertrande’s neck.
Bertrande cried again as blood began to trickle down her neck.
‘The next cut will be deeper,’ Oriane said, her voice shaking with hatred. ‘Get the Book.’
Alaïs bent down and picked up the ring, then walked to the labyrinth. Oriane followed, dragging Bertrande with her. Alaïs could hear her daughter’s breath coming faster and faster and she was losing consciousness, staggering with her feet still tied.
For a moment, she stood, her thoughts spiralling back in time to the moment when first she had seen Harif perform the same task.