Zillaïs stared around her in bewilderment. Forty, maybe fifty Tsiyonim women and children had been crammed into a dungeon built to accommodate no more than a dozen. The smell of stale urine and unwashed flesh made her eyes water – or were they tears of shame and anger? How could Aymon treat her people with such callousness?
‘Where is the child who is sick?’ she asked.
‘Here! Over here!’
In the corner she saw a woman rise up, frantically waving and beckoning.
‘Who are you?’ the old woman beside her asked, her voice querulous with suspicion.
Zillaïs sighed. This was not going to be easy.
‘She’s the healer, Auntie,’ the woman said, chiding.
The child was a girl, no more than five years old, Zillaïs suspected. She lay still, listless, her cheeks red with fever. Another little girl crouched beside her, clutching a scrap of dirty blanket.
‘When did this start?’ Zillaïs asked as she felt the sick child’s forehead.
‘Last night. After the snow came.’
‘She was sick,’ announced the other little girl. ‘All down her dress, eugh, eugh.’
‘Mamma,’ the little girl said in a faint, fretful whine, ‘want Rahab. Want rabbits.’
‘Hush, Thirzah, hush.’
Thirzah? Zillaïs wondered if she had heard aright. Hadn’t Rahab mentioned the name Thirzah? If these people were friends of Rahab, then perhaps they might have news …
She gently slid her hands from the girl’s sticky forehead to check for swelling in the throat and behind the ears.
‘Mmm,’ complained Thirzah, trying to wriggle away from Zillaïs’s probing fingers.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ the mother asked anxiously. ‘Can you cure her?’
‘Thirzah,’ Zillaïs asked, ‘does it hurt when you swallow?’
Thirzah nodded.
‘And here?’ Zillaïs gently pressed the child’s stomach and saw her wince.
‘Hurts,’ complained Thirzah. ‘Want to go home.’
‘Is it bad?’ asked the mother.
‘It’s very damp in here,’ Zillaïs said. ‘It might be quinsy. Let’s hope it’s not the quartan ague. I’ll give her some powdered willow for the fever and ginger to calm her stomach pains.’
‘Sit up, Thirzi. The lady’s brought some medicine to make you feel better,’ coaxed the mother.
‘Nasty medicine.’ Thirzi shook her head. ‘Don’t want nasty medicine.’
So like Lia at the same age. ‘Open wide, Thirzah,’ Zillaïs said. ‘Pinch your nose. Then you won’t taste it at all.’
Thirzah began to wriggle from side to side, turning her face away.
‘Like this.’ Zillaïs mimed. She knew that the medicine would taste bitter – and she had no honey to disguise sourness or comfits to take away the aftertaste.
Thirzah, fascinated, stared. Zillaïs took advantage of the momentary distraction and popped the spoon into her mouth.
‘Ugh. Horrid, horrid,’ wailed Thirzah, trying to spit the medicine out.
‘Is it really horrid?’ asked the other little girl gloatingly.
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ the mother said.
‘Don’t thank me yet. She’s still feverish. She must be kept cool.’
‘What is your name?’
Zillaïs hesitated. How much was it wise to reveal of herself? She contented herself with saying, ‘Zillaïs Maury.’
‘Maury?’ The woman looked up from her daughter, a look of puzzlement on her worn face. ‘I know that name … wait. One of my husband Schimeon’s customers. Lia Maury?’
‘My daughter,’ said Zillaïs, trying to conceal the rush of emotion she felt at hearing Lia’s name. ‘So you must be –’
‘Chadassah.’ The woman put out both hands in a gesture of greeting. Zillaïs hesitated again – and then reached out to press Chadassah’s hands.
‘Madame Maury –’ began Chadassah.
‘Please. Call me Zillaïs.’
‘I –I cannot pay you. We lost everything in the fire.’
‘I need no payment. I am a prisoner here, like you. We must all help each other.’
‘You?’ Chadassah pushed a straying lock of lank hair back under her headscarf. ‘But why?’
‘Because I am Tsiyonim too,’ Zillaïs said softly. And then, before Chadassah could ask any more awkward questions, she said, ‘Chadassah. I bring sad news. Rebh Jehiel is dead.’
‘Oh!’ Chadassah’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Our dear Jehiel – dead?’
Heads turned, the low, desultory murmur of chatter stilled.
‘Dead?’ quavered the elderly woman Chadassah had called ‘Auntie’. ‘Or murdered?’
‘His heart was weak,’ Zillaïs said, and instantly despised herself for saying it. Why should she excuse Jaufré d’Orbiel?
‘If that Orbiel hadn’t arrested him, he’d be alive today. It’s disgraceful! Keeping an old man locked up. Jehiel deserved better. I say it’s as good as murder.’
‘Who will say kaddish for him?’ Chadassah asked. Her eyes were bright with tears.
Zillaïs quietly withdrew. She had no wish to intrude upon the grief of the community. She was a stranger, she had only known Rebh Jehiel a little while; her grief at his passing was insignificant compared with theirs.
She gathered up her simples and went to the locked iron door, tapping.
The little window in the top was opened and one of the Hawks peered in.
‘Yes?’ he said curtly.
‘I’m ready to go back to my cell.’
‘Ready?’ He looked askance at her. ‘I’ve no instructions about that.’
‘Ask your Corporal. My name is Maury. Madame Maury.’
The guard shook his head.
‘Corporal’s busy. Can’t be disturbed.’
‘But I was distinctly told –’
‘Then you were distinctly told wrong.’ He slammed the metal cover shut.
Zillaïs looked around her. The fetid air was damp, oppressive. Jaufré d’Orbiel had tricked her. She was no longer of use to him. Now she was just another nameless prisoner.
She slid down, back against the wall, her eyes closed.
‘Oh Lia, Lia, may you be spared this …’ she whispered.
Someone tugged discreetly at her sleeve. She opened her eyes to see the large, dark eyes of Thirzah’s sister solemnly staring at her.
‘Mamma says will you come back? Thirzah’s been sick again.’
Pons led Jaufré and Arnault to the solar. Berengar’s manservant, discreet as always, did not ask what the news was that had compelled Captain Orbiel to come visit the young mistress so urgently. Yet there was something in his doleful manner that implied he guessed the gravity of the situation.
Alissende de Belcastel was sitting at her embroidery by the open window. Her long hair, pale gold, was bound back from her face with a band of twisted ribbons of blue and violet. Her underlip was caught under her white front teeth in an effort of great concentration as she tugged her needle through the linen.
‘Visitors, demoiselle,’ Pons said quietly.
‘Thank you, Pons.’ As she looked up, Jaufré saw – as he had never seen till now – how like Berengar she was. The likeness jarred.
‘Captain Orbiel?’ She smiled at him and he saw that the similarity was not so much in the features but in the way her mouth curved when she smiled, the way she tossed back her hair. ‘What brings you here?’
Jaufré was silent a moment. Now that he stood here before her, in Berengar’s house, he found that he, the poet, had no adequate words to tell her that her brother was dead.
‘Where is your grandmother?’ he said stiltedly.
‘What’s wrong?’ The smile faded from her face; she rose up, bright skeins of embroidery silks falling from her lap to the floor like flower petals. ‘Oh, Jaufré – it’s Berengar, isn’t it? He’s – he’s –’
‘Dead,’ Jaufré said softly.
Her hand flew to her mouth; her pale face flushed red – then all colour blenched from her skin and all he could see was her eyes, dark with tears, staring at him.
‘Demoiselle,’ Arnault said, clutching his hat to his chest, ‘There was nothing I could do to save him.’
She had turned so white now that Jaufré feared she was about to faint. He crossed the solar and caught hold of her, easing her back into her chair.
‘Dead?’ she whispered. ‘How – how dead?’
‘We were caught in the blizzard,’ Arnault said. ‘His horse slipped. Fell on him.’
‘Tramontan,’ she said in a dull, distant voice. ‘Pons always said Tramontan was unreliable. If only he had taken Arbutus, dear, dependable Arbutus …’ She looked at Jaufré suddenly. ‘How shall I tell Gran’mére? Berengar was … was all she had left.’
Tell me what?’
Jaufré turned around to see the Dowager standing in the doorway.
‘How dare you visit my granddaughter unchaperoned, Captain Orbiel!’ The Dowager jabbed her stick at Jaufré. ‘Have you no regard for her reputation?’
‘I come on a formal matter,’ Jaufré said coldly.
‘Berengar’s dead, Gran’mére,’ said Alissende, her voice breaking.
‘Speak up, girl, don’t mumble!’
‘Your grandson, Lord Belcastel, is dead,’ Jaufré said bluntly. He was weary of the whole affair; he wanted to get out of the Belcastel mansion. Everything here reminded him of Berengar: the hunting trophies on the walls, the boar spears they had played at tournaments with, the wide fireplace in which they had smashed wine bottles in a drunken wager to see who could down the most of the best Belcastel vintage …
‘Impossible!’ said the old woman.
‘It’s true, Gran’mére,’ Alissende said. Her lower lip trembled now but no tears came spilling from her eyes.
‘Absolutely impossible!’ the Dowager repeated stubbornly.
Jaufré nudged Arnault.
‘I was there,’ Arnault said. ‘I saw it.’
The Dowager suddenly sagged. Alissende darted forward and caught hold of her. The old woman stared into her face, eyes narrowed.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why my boy, my bright, beautiful boy? Why couldn’t it have been you?‘
Alissende flinched as if the Dowager had hit her.
‘What use are you, you simpering little thing?’
Alissende backed away from the old woman’s venomous tirade, one step at a time. Suddenly she turned on her heel and went running from the room. Jaufré could hear the sound of her stifled sobs as she fled towards her room.
‘Berengar!’ cried the old woman, her voice cracking. Tears began to run down her wizened face.
Jaufré bowed curtly to the Dowager and retreated, Arnault following hastily behind. He could not bear to stay in the mansion a moment longer. As they crossed the galleried hall, they saw Pons closing the shutters and drawing the blinds, shutting out the daylight. The old servant said nothing, but from his hunched shoulders and slow gait, Jaufré suspected that he was silently, respectfully mourning in his own fashion for his dead master.
‘They’re saying in the city that this was no natural snowstorm,’ Jaufré said to Arnault as they walked away from the Belcastel mansion, down the steeply winding lane that led back into the city. ‘What do you think?’
‘How should I know?’ Arnault shrugged the suggestion aside.
‘They’re saying that the Tsiyonim conjured up the storm. By magic.’
‘I don’t believe in magic,’ Arnault said bluntly.
‘Good,’ said Jaufré. Arnault’s hard-bitten cynicism was exactly what was required from his second-in-command on this mission; he would suspect nothing. ‘Now, Lieutenant, I want the men ready to leave at dawn. Meet me at the Aude Gate. All Hawks fully armed, on horseback.’
‘Lieutenant?’ Arnault said, alert now. For the first time Jaufré saw a gleam of pride lighten Arnault’s world-weary eyes.
‘You’re the obvious choice now that Lieutenant Belcastel is no longer with us.’
‘The men’ll be ready before dawn, Captain, rely on me!’ Arnault saluted Jaufré with alacrity and set off; he no longer dragged his feet but moved swiftly, almost jauntily.
‘The Aude Gate,’ Jaufré called after him.
As soon as Arnault was out of sight, Jaufré felt a sudden weakness overcome him. He reeled, righting himself by clutching at the wall of a house, feeling the roughness of the plaster grazing his fingers.
He had managed to keep his feelings under control till now. Now a debilitating sense of loss and fatigue overwhelmed him utterly.
This was no time to give in to weakness. He had a journey to make, a long and arduous journey into the mountains.
‘I’ll be all right after a glass of wine …
At the Tour Orbiel he rapped at the door and waited for his servant, Jehan, to let him in. No one answered. After a while, he took out his key, unlocked the door and went in. The lamps were unlit and the staircase was in darkness.
‘Jehan!’ he shouted into the darkness. His own voice echoed back to him. ‘Margotte!’ he shouted again. Where were his servants?
The sound of muffled sobbing echoed around the darkened stairwell.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
‘F-frightened –’ The voice was high, trembling, the voice of a child.
Suddenly Jaufré was seven years old again, locked terrified in the lightless darkness of the Tour Orbiel vaults. He was so cold his teeth chattered. His body ached from the bruises and weals of the violent beating he had been forced to endure. His stomach ached with hunger and his throat was parched.
He did not understand what he had done to incur his father’s hatred. There seemed to be nothing he could do to please him.
‘So – frightened –’
Was it his own voice he could hear, plaintively calling for help from the locked cellar of his childhood?
He stopped, frozen in his own memories, unable to move.
‘Help me,’ whispered the voice in the darkness.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered back.
‘Open the door,’ came back the faint voice. ‘Let me out. Let me go free.’
Jaufré’s hand hovered over the door handle. He did not want to see what lay beyond the door in the darkness of the cellar – and yet he wanted to be rid of it.
‘No!’ he cried, turning, stumbling up the stairs, making for his bedchamber, flinging the door shut, locking it.
‘Help me. Help me!’
He fumbled in the little casket for the amulet. He could not endure the torment any longer. What had the daemon said? You are not alone. The enamelled metal burned his fingers; the metal glowed, dark as the last light of a dying sun, casting its light through his skin so that his flesh seemed on fire.
And a voice came shuddering through the chamber, a voice of beaten bronze, dull as the tolling of a night bell.
‘Call me by my name. My true name.’
‘Lailahel,’ he gasped, ‘Lailahel, help me.’
Lailahel.
Jehiel had revealed its true name, the name of the daemon spirit he had summoned. His Guardian. The name, darkly sinuous, wound about his brain like the glistening coils of a black snake, lithe and dangerous.
‘Lailahel, Bringer of Darkness …’ Jaufré whispered. ‘Come to me. Tell me what I must do.’
The shadows in his chamber stirred, rustled by a hot, dry breeze. The air in the chamber burned, as if scorched by the desert sun, until only a deep copper glow remained.
‘I am here.’
‘Help me,’ Jaufré said.
A figure, darker than the shadows, materialised in the burnished air. His arms were open, beckoning Jaufré towards him. Jaufré found himself moving forwards, helplessly drawn into the embrace of the dark.
‘Why do you still fear me? I bring you what you most desire. Forget your guilt, forget your fears. Your will is my will.’
The darkness moved over his body like a slow flame, setting every nerve burning. It was the darkness of the desert night, hot as fever. And that spiced breath, perfumed with desert rose and spikenard, breathed over Jaufré’s skin like balm. Suddenly Jaufré was shuddering with desire, aroused.
He raised his face – and felt the flicker of a tongue tipped with fire parting his lips.
The dark heat scorched through his body in a sudden cresting wave of fire.
‘I am here,’ he said, yielding to the Guardian of the Night.