belongings.
‘Where I come from, there was once a group of people who believe what you do. My mother helped them, as did my adopted father.’ Ninian fastened his pack behind Garnet’s saddle. ‘I wasn’t there when it happened, but my father remembers the people with affection. He says you shouldn’t judge a man by what he believes, only by what he does. He also says nobody has the right to tell anyone else that his idea of God is any more valid than theirs.’
‘Your father is a wise man,’ Peter Roger pronounced. He took a scarf out from inside his tunic. ‘Now, although I like you and I begin to trust you, I cannot disregard the rules of my people. You have to be blindfolded.’
Ninian only saw the terrifying heights to which he had climbed once the ascent was safely over. The scarf was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in an open space — perhaps a tiny village square — with modest buildings on three sides and, on the fourth, a low wall. Beyond the buildings, the mountains soared even higher and, immediately behind the little hamlet, a domed peak rose up shaped like an upturned cup. Beyond the wall, the ground fell away in an almost sheer drop to the valley far, far below. Whichever way Peter Roger had just brought them up here, Ninian thought, swallowing the nausea, they certainly hadn’t climbed those dreadful, awesome slopes.
He was given little time to recover and was still feeling horribly vertiginous when Peter Roger, in the company of another man built on similar lines who had emerged to meet them, slung Ninian’s pack over one shoulder and led him away across an open space and into a small dwelling. Within, a pale-faced woman dressed in black sat on an elaborate wooden chair before a hearth in which a fire blazed; it was very cold at that height.
Peter Roger pushed Ninian forward. As he approached her, the woman rose elegantly to her feet.
She smiled at him. ‘I am Alazais de Saint Gilles, known in my previous life as de Gifford,’ she said in a low, melodious voice. ‘I am told that you bring news of my son.’
The details of that first extraordinary day in Alazais’s little house stayed with Ninian for a long time. Peter Roger and his companion remained with them only for a short time. Ninian thought afterwards that Alazais had submitted him to some test, so subtle that he had no idea what it was, and, when he had passed it, the two men had felt it safe to leave.
Once he was alone with her, she fed him warm bread, goat’s cheese and salty, herb-flavoured olives and gave him copious amounts of a rich, spiced drink. She built up the fire and made him sit down on a pile of animal skins placed close to it, spreading a sheepskin over his knees and putting another around his shoulders against the draughts. He tried to protest, especially since she wore only a thin, black robe and her hands were blue with cold, but she simply smiled, shook her head and assured him she was used to it.
When she had done all she could to make him comfortable, she sat down in her chair, fixed him with her light green eyes and said, ‘Now, tell me of my son.’ With a sudden, vivid eagerness in her face, she added, ‘I believe he-’ But she stopped whatever she had been about to say and nodded for him to speak.
Ninian paused to collect his thoughts. It was important, he realized, to say the right things. He could feel the heat of this woman’s love for her son, and whatever impression he first gave her would be the crucial one, forming the picture in her head that must replace Gervase’s living, breathing presence.
‘He is sheriff of Tonbridge,’ he began, ‘which is a town-’
‘I know Tonbridge,’ she interrupted. Her comment greatly surprised him, but now was not the moment to question it.
‘He is an honourable man and, although he has a reputation for swift judgement and sometimes severe punishment, he is widely regarded as fair and people respect him. Well,’ he added, ‘honest people do, anyway.’ The woman’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘My father regards him as one of his closest friends, and I respect my father’s judgement.’
The woman nodded. Her face eager, she said, ‘What of his private life? Is he happy?’
Reflecting that it might have been better to mention this first, Ninian responded quickly. ‘He is married to a woman named Sabin who is a healer. He has three children: two boys called Simond and Benoit — he’s called after Sabin’s grandfather, who brought her up — and a girl called-’ Only just realizing it, he looked up and met the woman’s hungry eyes. ‘Called after you, madam.’
An expression so poignant crossed her face that he was moved. Impulsively, he reached out and took her thin hand. ‘They are good people, my lady,’ he said. ‘Their family is close and loving, and I would say that Gervase is blessed.’
There was silence for some time. Then she gave his hand a squeeze and released it. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘It is many years since I have seen my only son. Although I was married to a man of the north and went willingly with him to live in his country, I am a woman of the south and my roots here are very deep. When my husband died, I followed my heart and my conscience and returned to my homeland.’
‘Your conscience?’ Ninian was not entirely sure what she meant, although he had an idea.
‘I am a Cathar,’ she said, smiling down at him. ‘Peter Roger tells me you have some knowledge of us and our beliefs.’
‘Yes,’ Ninian said slowly.
On the ascent to the village he had been thinking about what he had said to Peter Roger. One phrase in particular kept echoing in his head: you don’t have priests, and you believe that everyone may speak to God directly without the intercession of the clergy. He recalled the terrible fate of Beziers and its inhabitants, and he thought he was beginning to understand what was happening down here in the south. ‘The church cannot let you flourish,’ he said now, speaking half to himself. ‘You do not see the need for priests, and if everyone else were to become Cathars too, the clergy would lose their income and their homes. They must have persuaded the king of France to send his army against you, and the towns where your people lived are being destroyed.’
He looked up and met her eyes. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said on a sigh, ‘in essence, you are right. Consider too that the lands of the Midi are fertile and contain many fine sea ports. Can you not see another reason why the king should join forces with the church to attack the Cathars?’
‘He wants to increase his kingdom,’ Ninian said. Kings always wanted that.
‘Indeed he does,’ Alazais agreed. ‘Every knight who rides under his banner has been told in great detail of the glorious sunlit fiefs that will be his for the taking once the great Cathar families have been driven off. Religion is the excuse, young man,’ she said, her voice suddenly harsh, ‘but greed is the true spur.’
With a visible effort she made herself relax, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. After a moment, opening them again, she looked at him with a smile and said, ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Ninian de Courtenay.’
Her eyes flicked from him to his pack, placed by Peter Roger on the floor beside him. Watching the movement, he realized that she had been doing it all the time they had been talking. He, too, glanced at his pack — it was Josse’s old campaign bag and very precious to Ninian — and then up at Alazais. Her eyes were wide and, gazing into them, he felt momentarily dizzy, as if a memory of his earlier vertigo had returned. He was about to protest, but she spoke first.
In a soft, hypnotic voice, she said, ‘What is in your pack, Ninian de Courtenay?’
‘My — my father prepared it for me,’ he managed to say. He was feeling very strange. ‘He — he put in winter garments, a change of linen, a sharp knife and some food.’
‘And have you unpacked your bag since you left home?’ the soft but imperative voice went on.
He tried to think. Had he? Acquin was the last place he had stayed for more than a night, and he was almost sure he had not taken everything out of the bag then. While on the road he had only changed his linen once, stuffing the soiled garments down towards the bottom of the bag. ‘No,’ he whispered. He tried to think what she was doing, why she seemed intent on putting him into a trance; what did she want from him? Even as he formed the fearful question, it was as if her mind reached into his and swept it away.
‘Look inside your pack,’ she intoned. ‘Take everything out. Lay your belongings on the floor where I may see them.’
With no will of his own, he obeyed. He reached out and dragged the pack towards him, unfastening the ties and taking out his leather water bottle — still half full — and his small knife. A shirt came next — very dirty — and then some mud-caked hose that stank of sweat. A lightweight tunic, a length of frayed and stained linen in which he had once wrapped some slices of ham, a filthy undershirt.
The bag was empty, and he turned back to face her. He thought she spoke to him, which was odd because her lips did not move. A voice said: look again.
