Citadel

  ‘Marieta,’ she said. ‘Coucou, c’est moi.’

  Marieta was sitting at the table with her back to the door, breathing heavily. Beneath a wrapover housecoat, today’s a pattern of yellow and pink field flowers, she wore her customary black, cotton rather than wool her only concession to the season. Buttoned up to the neck and at the cuffs, with dark stockings and sabots, the heavy wooden clogs she always wore. Wisps of grey hair were escaping from the bun at the nape of her neck and her chest wheezed, her breath full of dust.

  ‘Coucou,’ Sandrine said again, putting her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

  Marieta jumped. ‘Madomaisèla!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘What are you doing up at this time?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  Marieta looked her up and down, taking in the beret and outdoor shoes.

  ‘You know your sister doesn’t like you to go out on your own.’

  ‘I did tell her.’

  Marieta raised her eyebrows. ‘But did she hear you?’

  Sandrine flushed. ‘I didn’t want to wake her up.’

  The housekeeper leaned forward and picked a stray piece of crimson wool from Sandrine’s skirt.

  ‘And if Madomaisèla Marianne asks where you are?’

  ‘She won’t, she was awfully late home last night.’ Sandrine paused. ‘Do you know where she went?’

  Their eyes met. On the wall above the door, the hands of the clock moved round. One tick, two ticks, three.

  Marieta was the thread that held the woven life of the household together. Originally from Rennes-les-Bains, she had spent her life in the service of others. Devout and loyal, she had been widowed young, in the Grande Guerre. She had come to help after Madame Vidal had died, unexpectedly, eighteen years before.

  She claimed to be content to live in Carcassonne, though Sandrine knew she missed the ancient green forests of her childhood, the quiet village streets of Coustaussa and Rennes-les-Bains. When war had broken out in 1939, Marieta took it in her stride, saying she had survived one war and would survive another. After the telegram informing them of Monsieur Vidal’s death, there had been no more talk about her going home.

  ‘Do you?’ Sandrine said again.

  Marieta pretended she hadn’t heard. ‘Well, if you are determined to go out, you’d better have something inside you.’

  Sandrine sighed. She knew if Marieta didn’t want to talk about something, she wouldn’t.

  ‘I am hungry,’ she admitted.

  Marieta lifted the linen cloth on the table, releasing a sweet smell of flour, rosemary and salt, to reveal a freshly baked loaf cooling on a wire tray.

  ‘White bread!’

  Marieta cut a slice, then gestured to the blue china dish in the centre of the table.

  ‘And butter,’ she said. ‘Delivered this morning.’

  Without thinking how it might embarrass the older woman, Sandrine threw her arms around her. The familiar scent of lavender water and sulphur lozenges was reassuring, taking her back to a place before the war, before her father’s death. To a simpler and easier time.

  Marieta stiffened. ‘What’s the matter? Did you have another bad night?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘At least, I did, but it’s not that. It’s . . .’

  ‘Well then, sit. Eat,’ Marieta said, then spoke in a softer voice. ‘It will be all right, you hear? These times will pass. France will be France again. There are enough good men – men of principle, men of the Midi – they won’t sell us out. Not like those criminals in Vichy.’

  Sandrine looked down at the piece of bread, her appetite suddenly gone.

  ‘But what if it stays like this for ever? Nothing getting better? Always the fear of things getting worse?’

  ‘We will bide our time,’ she said. ‘Keep our heads down. The Germans will stay north of the line, we stay south. It won’t last for ever. Now, finish your breakfast.’

  Marieta watched until she’d finished every scrap. Then, before Sandrine could clear up after herself, she was on her feet and carrying the plate over to the sink. Sandrine brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stood up too. She wasn’t sure why she felt so out of sorts.

  ‘Is there anything you need in town, Marieta?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘Surely, there’s something? I want to do something.’

  ‘Well,’ said Marieta eventually, ‘I suppose if you are going that way, I promised this dress pattern to Monsieur Quintilla’s wife.’ She took an envelope from the drawer. ‘I meant to deliver it myself, but it is such a long walk down to the café at Païchérou and . . .’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘Only if you’re going that way.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘But don’t go over the bridge,’ Marieta warned. ‘Madomaisèla Marianne would say the same. Stay on this side of the river.’

  Chapter 3

  Sandrine ran down the steep steps to the small courtyard garden at the back of the house. She got her bicycle and pushed it out into the street. The gate rattled shut on its latch behind her.

  She felt her mood lift as the air rushed into her lungs. Tilting her face to the morning, she dropped her shoulders and felt the cobwebs blow away. She picked up speed as she crossed the rue du Strasbourg, weaving in and out of the elegant platanes that lined the square behind the Palais de Justice, then left into the rue Mazagran.

  The ebb and flow of life as it used to be was most evident in the elegant nineteenth-century beauty of this quartier, all grey stone and wrought-iron balustrades, the chalky pinks and blues of the decorative tiles and plaster on the front of the maisons de maître. On mornings such as this, when the lilac sky told of another hot day to come and the green underside of the leaves shimmered silver in the light breeze, it was impossible to believe that much of France was under German occupation.

  The Bastide had come into being in the mid thirteenth century, some fifty years after the medieval crusade that had given Carcassonne its bloody notoriety. The vicious wars of religion had turned the inhabitants of the medieval Cité into refugees. Evicted in 1209, with only the clothes they stood up in, after the treacherous murder of their leader and ruler, Viscount Trencavel, it was only in 1276, some years after the last Cathar stronghold had fallen, that the French king gave permission for a new settlement to be established on the left bank of the Aude.

  Despite the fact that Sandrine had lived her whole life in the Bastide, she loved the Cité more. And although she felt guilty even for thinking it, a part of her was grateful that, thanks to Maréchal Pétain’s collaboration with Berlin, she did not have to witness German soldiers walking through the cobbled streets of old Carcassonne.

  The bells of Saint-Michel were ringing the half-hour as she crossed Square Gambetta, then cycled down the rue du Pont Vieux. Then, suddenly there it was – la Cité – on the hill on the far side of the river. The sight of it never failed to take her breath away.

  For a moment, Sandrine was tempted to cross the bridge, but mindful of the promise she’d made to Marieta, she instead turned right. This first stretch of the bank, between the Pont Vieux and the weir above Païchérou, was the prettiest. Silver olive trees, fig trees in the gardens of the large houses. Ivy trailed down painted walls and ironwork trellises with vines. Elegant canopies and awnings and white terraces. Bougainvillea, carnations in pots, red and pink and white.

  She pedalled along the water’s edge, twigs and stones spinning under her wheels, and arrived at the café. Before the war, tea dances were held at Païchérou each Sunday afternoon, the waiters in their white jackets, and long refectory tables laid out in rows. For a moment, grief caught in her throat, an old memory taking her by surprise. Her father had promised to take her for her twenty-first birthday, a promise he would no longer be able to keep.

  The gates into the grounds were open. Sandrine propped her bike against the wall, then knocked at the door. She waited, but no one
came. She knocked again.

  ‘Madame?’

  She went to the window and peered in. It was dark inside. Everything looked closed up. Sandrine was in two minds as to whether to leave the envelope – Marieta was careful about her belongings. In the end, she posted it through the letter box and decided she’d come back later to make sure Madame Quintilla had got it.

  Sandrine had intended to go straight home from Païchérou, but she’d heard rumours that refugees had set up a camp on the far side of the river. She was curious to know if it was true.

  She cycled towards the weir and the secluded pocket of trees that stood at the bend of the river, just below the cimetière Saint-Michel. A glade of pine and beech, elm and ash. This morning, though, it felt a little too secluded. Sandrine found herself glancing over her shoulder, with a prickling on the back of her neck as if someone was watching her. The flapping of a collared dove, then the slither and splash of a fish in the shallows made her jump.

  Sandrine stopped at the water’s edge and looked across to the far side of the Aude. She could see nothing unusual at all, nothing different or threatening or out of place. No tents, no gypsy encampment, no shadow city. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

  The sky was the colour of forget-me-nots. The bells of Saint-Gimer below the Cité began to ring seven o’clock, the sound floating across the mirrored surface of the water. Minutes later, they were answered by the bells of Saint-Michel and other churches of the Bastide. There had been a time, during the early days of the war, when the bells were silenced. Sandrine had missed them then, the familiar steady marking of each day. Now, though they rang again, she couldn’t help hearing a sadness in their voice.

  She laid her bike down, then sat on the bank and pulled at the grass with her fingers. Before the war, at about this point in July, they’d be getting ready to leave Carcassonne for their summer house in Coustaussa. Her and Marianne, their father. Marieta fussing and packing three times as much as they needed. Picnics on the banks of the river Salz in the deep shade of the afternoon with her oldest friend, Geneviève. Cycling to Rennes-les-Bains for supper at the Hôtel de la Reine in the evening. Playing ‘Docteur Knock’ in the kitchen for hour upon hour with the battered old playing cards.

  Sandrine leant back against the trunk of the tree and looked at the towers and turrets and spires of the medieval Cité, the walls of the Château Comtal and the distinctive thin outline of the Tour Pinte. Like a finger pointing to heaven. And, between the two Carcassonnes, lay the river. Still and flat and silver.

  Like a sea of glass.

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  Codex II

  ‡

  GAUL

  CARCASO

  JULY AD 342

  The shimmering waters of the river Atax glinted bright in the early morning sunlight. The young monk crossed the wooden bridge, then followed the track that led up to the main gates on the eastern side of the fortified town.

  Ahead, Arinius could see the walls of Carcaso, not much more than twice his own height perhaps, but wide and solid. They looked strong enough to keep out any invaders. The foundations were large stone blocks, two or three deep, with a layer of mortar on the top. The façade was a mixture of lime and rubble. Spaced at regular intervals were horseshoe-shaped bastions, short squat towers on the northern section of the walls, curved on the outside and flat on the side facing the town.

  ‘A place of refuge,’ he said, praying that it would be the case. He was weary and intended to rest in Carcaso for a few days, to gather his strength for the final leg of his journey into the mountains. His throat was sore and his ribs ached from coughing.

  Pressing his hand against the dry papyrus beneath his grey habit – an action that was now as natural and unconscious as breathing – Arinius joined the early crowd waiting to gain access to the town. Merchants, farmers from the faratjals, the pastures on the plains below the hill, weavers and those with pottery or ceramics to sell. Even in these uncertain times, this trade route along the coast of Gaul remained one of the busiest. Traders and wine sellers travelling to and from Hispania. Rumours of marauding bagaudes, bands of deserting soldiers or barbarians from the East, could not deter the men and women of commerce.

  Arinius pulled his hood over his head as he approached the gate, a coin in his hand ready to pay the toll. An old denarius, though he felt sure it would still be accepted. Money bought nothing these days, but silver was silver. His heart began to thump. If the Abbot had put a price on his head, it was at the gates of Carcaso he was likely to be taken. Branded not only a heretic, but also a thief.

  ‘Protect me, Father,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross.

  The crowd shuffled forward once more. The wheels rattling on an old cart, struggling over the rough ground. A flock of geese, herded by a scrawny girl with arms like sticks, a dog snapping at the heels of its choleric owner. Another step forward. Just then, a mule kicked its back leg, sending a barrel flying. The wood split and red wine began to leak out, like a seam of blood on the dry earth.

  Arinius pushed the image away.

  The merchant started shouting and began to remonstrate with the owner of the animal, their words turning the pale morning air blue. Grateful for the diversion, Arinius slipped in front of them and up to the gate. There were two guards on duty. One, a brutish-looking man, was watching the altercation with a greedy glint in his eyes, itching for a fight. The other, a young man with a pockmarked face and a helmet too large for him, looked tired after his night’s watch.

  ‘Salve,’ said Arinius quietly. ‘Greetings, friend.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Massilia,’ Arinius lied, holding out the silver coin. It was significantly more than required and the boy’s eyes widened. He took it, tested it between his teeth, then waved Arinius through.

  ‘Salve,’ he said with a grin. ‘Welcome to Carcaso.’

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  Chapter 4

  CARCASSONNE

  JULY 1942

  Sandrine was woken by a squeal of tyres on the road as a motorbike took the corner too fast. She blinked up through the quilt of dappled leaves, for a moment not sure where she was. Trapped once more in the same nightmare? Then, the sound of the bells of Saint-Gimer striking the half-hour, and she remembered.

  She sat up, picking a twig out of her hair, and looked out across the river. The sun had climbed higher in the cloudless sky. Way upstream, she heard the plash of the water against Monsieur Justo’s barge as he pulled hand over hand on the wire. If the ferry was working, it must be past nine o’clock.

  Sandrine scrambled to her feet. As she grabbed her beret, something caught her eye ahead of her in the reeds. Something blue, beneath the overhang of the marsh willow. She paused, certain it hadn’t been there before. She walked upstream, along the water’s edge, moving out of the bright sunlight into the green shadow beneath the tree.

  She bent down. It was a man’s jacket, snagged half in and half out of the water. Sandrine reached out to get it, but it was caught on the underside of a branch and it took a couple of pulls to get it free. Holding the dripping material away from her, she examined it. The pockets were empty, apart from a heavy silver chain, the sort of thing a man might wear. The catch was broken and initials – ad – had been carved on the underside.

  She frowned. It wasn’t unusual for things to be jettisoned in the river, old boxes, flotsam, torn sacks from the market gardens upstream. But not clothes, not jewellery. Everything had a price or could be traded for something else. And the Aude was fast at this point; there were no rocks on this side of the river, only reeds and grass and flat riverbank that curved gently, so mostly the current sent its cargo rushing downstream.

  Sandrine looked out over the river. Now she noticed there was something else in the water, caught on the ridge of jagged rocks below the weir. Pushing the chain into her pocket, she shielded her gaze with her hand, reluctant to believe the evidence of her own eyes.

  It looked like someone tryi
ng to swim. One arm stretched out, the white material of the shirt billowing in the current, the other holding on to the rocks.

  ‘Monsieur?’ she shouted, hearing the fear in her voice. ‘Monsieur, do you need help?’

  Her voice sounded thin, not loud enough to carry above the roar of the water over the weir.

  ‘Monsieur!’

  Sandrine looked around for help, but the ferry had reached the far bank and was out of earshot. She dropped the jacket on to the grass and ran up towards the road. There was no one about, no sign of the motorbike she’d heard, no one walking past.

  ‘Help, I need help,’ she shouted.

  There was no answer, no movement, just shadows reflected in the water, a pattern of light and dark. Sandrine ran back to the river, hoping she’d imagined it, but the man was still there, on the rocks beneath the weir, his shirt moving to and fro in the current. It was down to her. There was no choice. There was nobody else.

  She removed her shoes and her socks, tucked her skirt into her underwear, then waded out into the water.

  ‘I’m coming, hold on.’

  The further she went into the current, the faster the water swirled about her legs, harder and fiercer against her calves, her knees, the backs of her thighs. Deeper, colder. Sandrine struggled not to be knocked off her feet.

  ‘Hold on,’ she cried again.

  Finally, she was close enough to touch him. A young man, unconscious, dark skin, black brows, long hair. His head lolled to one side. His mouth and nose were out of the water, but his eyes were closed. She wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not.

  ‘Monsieur, can you hear me?’ she said. ‘Take my hand, if you can.’

  He didn’t respond.