MAS HIVERT, FERRALS-LES-CORBIÈRES—EARLY EVENING
In the kitchen, Rose was giving orders in the final, hectic moments before dinner was served. A platter with ceramic bowls of tapenade, mustards, and relishes sat on the counter. Lia added small saucers of sea salt and two pepper mills and slid the platter onto one palm, calling up her front-of-house skills from waiting tables during her undergraduate days. With her free hand, she opened the pocket door that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
The sound of laughter and music carried from the great room, where the stone fireplace was ablaze with snapping logs. But the dining room was hushed and empty. Lia guided the door closed behind her. Roman blinds of dark wood were tilted to filter the bright reflection of the snow, and the massive walnut table glowed in the low light. Turkish rugs covered the distressed and sanded pine floor.
She set the tray on a buffet next to two decanters of dark red wine and made her way around the table, distributing the condiments. Rose’s artfully mismatched dishes and linens added whimsy to the comfortable room. Pinecones dipped in silver paint graced the place settings, and a name card was tied to the base of each pinecone with red ribbon. The names had been printed in metallic gold ink. Lia exhaled in exasperation to see her assigned place was next to Raoul’s.
Just as she reached for her name card, there was a muffled thump at the door. She opened it, and Domènec backed in, holding an ice bucket in each hand and linen towels draped over his arms.
“Care for the first taste of champagne? Vilmart 2004 Coeur de Cuvée.”
Lia took one heavy bucket and placed it at the far end of the table while Domènec set down the other and lifted up a dripping bottle. With a deft hand, he removed the capsule and cage and gently twisted the bottle until the cork released with a soft hiss. Lia had two champagne flutes ready. Domènec poured a small amount into each and let the froth settle before filling the glasses.
“To midwinter and the promise of spring,” she said, tilting her delicate flute. He tapped his glass lightly against hers. Aromas of pear and ginger wafted from the flute’s graceful bowl, and citrus bubbles laced her tongue.
“Divine,” she pronounced.
“It’s not bad,” Domènec agreed, grinning at his understatement. “Let’s not tell the others. There’s really no need to share this.”
“I have no problem with that,” she said, laughing.
Comfortable in each other’s silence, they relaxed in the gracious quiet of the room. Lia leaned over and picked up Raoul’s place card. Domènec swallowed quickly.
“I meant to introduce you when we got back to the house, but Raoul disappeared.”
“How well do you know him, Dom?”
“I don’t know a lot about his past,” he admitted. “He was raised in a winemaking family in Catalunya and inherited the estate in Lagrasse. That’s what brought him out here less than two years ago. I guess it wasn’t long after you’d gone back to the States.” He stepped over to the windows to peer at the dusk waxing blue against the blanket of snow. “Do you ever get a feeling about someone? From the moment I met him, I felt I’d known Raoul forever. Something about him reminds me of Gabriel. There will be a gesture, or the way he stands, and I…” Domènec turned with the same stricken look on his face Rose had given her earlier.
Lia nodded briefly to show him it was all right, she understood; inside, she vibrated. Of course, she’d noticed the resemblance. “Do you know how he got that scar?” she asked.
Domènec pressed his lips together and gave a quick shake of his head. “He hasn’t said anything about it, and I didn’t want to pry. I think it must be related to his family’s accident, but I know only that they died several years ago, someplace along the Hérault coast.” He joined her at the table. “We don’t talk about much outside of farming and winemaking. He’s very private. Content enough, I suppose. But lonely, I’m certain.”
The spell cast by the shadows quivering in candlelight and Domènec’s somber words released something in Lia that she’d been trying to ignore since Carcassonne. She set her glass down carefully, ran her finger around the wafer-thin rim, and asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
True to his gentle nature, Domènec didn’t raise an eyebrow at her non sequitur. He pulled a chair away from the table, motioned for Lia to sit, and sat beside her. “I’m a son of Languedoc,” he said with a smile. “And a lapsed Catholic, like most French of our generation. The stories of ghosts and restless spirits are more a part of my soul than the catechism. What’s on your mind, Lia?”
“Just before Gabriel died, I’d been researching visions the bereaved have of deceased loved ones. I wanted to show the connections between the Cathars’ beliefs in reincarnation and the Christian story of the resurrection. Some Biblical historians believe the disciples’ grief over Jesus’s death was so profound, they had visions of him after the crucifixion. And in the retelling, the myth of the resurrection became accepted fact.” She picked up her champagne glass but set it down again, fidgeting. “Visions of the dead are actually quite common. Heartbreaking, really.”
Lia met Domènec’s eyes. His brows were knitted in confusion and concern. “I kept hoping it would happen to me, that I’d see Gabriel, have another chance to talk to him,” she continued. “It never did, of course. Maybe because I know too much about it. I know visions of the dead are simply products of a broken heart.”
“But if they offer comfort?” Domènec began.
“I guess the mind will go the way it wants.”
They listened to the muffled voices bumping against the walls around them, the laughter and music that filled the house with love.
“I met Raoul two days ago,” she said. “In Carcassonne. I didn’t know it was him, didn’t realize it until he walked into the kitchen earlier. I can’t even tell you what happened, really. But he thought he knew me.” She wasn’t ready to admit she’d seen him before Carcassonne, as a disembodied face suspended in her window.
Domènec tilted his head, trying to follow her disjointed story. “He’s probably seen a photo of you around here. We’ve certainly talked about you enough.”
“Was his wife’s name Paloma?”
“I believe so.” He nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Have you seen a photo of her?”
“No, but…Lia. I don’t understand.”
She emptied her glass and pushed it away. “He called me Paloma. He thought I was her.”
“Lia, no. That can’t be. Raoul’s solid. I don’t think—”
The door from the kitchen opened. At the same time, a pair of shrieking children fell into the dining room from the great room beyond, trailed by a man on all fours wearing a Mardi Gras mask in the shape of a tiger’s head. There was a near-collision of little bodies with Jacqueline’s knees as she entered from the kitchen, carrying a platter heaped with baked white beans. Within moments, the dining room was filled with bodies in motion and voices raised in laughter. Domènec’s protests were lost in the din. Lia left the place cards as they were.
LAGRASSE—FEBRUARY 1208
Raoul and his stableman worked together to remove his saddle and bags from Mirò, wipe the cold sweat from her flanks and belly, and see the horse fed and watered. Leaving his servant to tend to the saddle, Raoul nearly collided with Paloma in the dark corridor outside the stable. His wife stood wrapped in a wool cloak, shifting her slippered feet on the wooden floor. Iset, their Lévrier bitch, now too old to hunt, sat beside her mistress, smacking her long, hairless tail in joyous percussion.
“Little dove,” Raoul whispered, drawing Paloma to his chest. “You should have waited inside.” He had been away only three days, but relief at finding his family unmolested and his home intact poured into his fierce embrace. His wife gasped but laughed when he released her.
“You’ll crush my bones to dust, Sénher d’Aran.” She slipped her arm through his as they passed from the stable through a short breezeway to the warm dining hall. “I had supper held for us. Constansa has taken Bertran and Aicelina to bed, but it was a struggle. Bertran was determined to remain awake until you arrived.”
Her soft chatter soothed Raoul through a meal of hot potage and cold pheasant. They drank red wine made from his estate’s Carignane grapes. Finally, Paloma fell silent and sat back into the chair’s embroidered cushions, perhaps sensing the food and wine had restored in Raoul what the journey had taken away. He knew she waited for his news.
“The king’s men, the pope’s men—whomever they give their allegiance to—burned the chapel in Ferrals-les-Corbières today. I passed through the village not three hours ago.”
“Segui de Bles brought us the news late this morning,” she replied, naming a trader Raoul often employed to transport his own wine as well as the wine he imported from Spain. “He’d passed a group of five riders heading west, perhaps ten miles outside Ferrals-les-Corbières. He’d seen other fires on his journey from Toulouse—and not just churches, but whole villages… What’s to become of this place, Raoul?”
He rolled the smooth-fired cup between his hands as he considered what he could and should tell his wife. “Manel is on his way to Paris. He’s been appointed to replace Pierre de Castelnau as papal emissary.” He looked up at Paloma’s sudden intake of breath. “He’s asked me to meet him there in three weeks’ time.”
“Raoul, no.”
“I must. What Manel learns in Paris must be heard in every corner of Languedoc; I can carry the news south quickly. My cousin is risking his life for us, little dove. For us and a country of strangers.”
“As are you.”
“Yes.”
Paloma gazed into the fire. In profile, Raoul saw her gray-green eyes shining with tears. She blinked once, twice, and the tears were stemmed by resignation.
“And what of Manel?” She took a deep swallow of her wine.
“He doesn’t know how long he’ll remain in Paris. He serves entirely at the behest of the pope.” More than this, he would not tell her—for her safety as well as Manel’s.
It was no secret that Manel de Perella had been plucked from the seminary at Sant Benet, not far from his Catalan home, to serve as a translator in the Vatican. But now Raoul’s gentle, golden-haired cousin was headed straight into the lion’s den. He would be the eyes, ears, and mouth of Pope Innocent III in the clandestine Council of Paris, whose constituency numbered just three: Manel de Perella, papal emissary; Arnaud Amalric, the powerful abbot of Cîteaux; and Philippe du Plessis, commander of the Knights Templar.
“He was forced to feign one of his spells to halt the riders conveying him north long enough for me to find him in Montpellier, but he fares well and sends his love to you and the children.”
Standing, Paloma smoothed her skirts and pulled the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll wait for you. Don’t be long.” She touched her husband’s shoulder and walked down the dark hall, Iset trotting beside her.
Raoul stretched his legs toward the fire and leaned his head against the tall back of the carved oak chair. Here, the flames provided warmth and light from the safety of a stone hearth. In the hands of mercenaries and Soldiers of Christ, they would be used to ravage his adopted homeland.
I’ll wait for you. Don’t be long. His wife’s words forebode a future Raoul saw in the writhing flames. A future where he, a merchant from Catalunya, would make a spy of his cousin and refugees of his wife and family while he fought to keep the independence of Languedoc.