My heart hit my boots.

‘Look here, there’s no need to… if it’s too much.’

How I wanted to save her from the pain of remembering. How I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her everything was all right. But of course, it wasn’t. How could it be?

Fabrissa gave a tiny shake of her head, but did not falter. And I understood that, having started, she needed to see things through.

‘It was December,’ she continued. ‘A bright day, very cold, with a glancing white sun and blue skies. In the afternoon, the light lingered for just a little longer than usual on the mountains, golden light draped like a skein of silk across the snowed peaks of the Sabarthès, of the Roc de Sédour. Everywhere painted in gold and white. And although it went against what we believed, I remember thinking how hard it was not to believe that God’s hand had created such a day.’

I looked at her then, touched by so simple a statement of faith. Already, the joy of that memory had gone. Her expression was serious once more.

‘When night fell, everyone went to the Ostal for the fête.’

‘The fête de Saint-Etienne?’

She nodded. ‘There was a rumour that soldiers had been seen in Tarascon, but we assumed it was too distant to concern us. We suspected, too, that our enemies had lists of names, knowledge of possessions and old allegiances that they could only have been given by those who lived, hidden, amongst us.’

‘Those who were not forced to wear the yellow cross?’

‘It was not as simple as that,’ she said, then paused. ‘What we did not know, as we gathered for the feast, was that a troop of soldiers was already making its way up the valley. The rumours, this time, were true.

‘My parents, my brother and I had spent the best part of the previous two days with my mother’s family in Junac, on the other side of the valley. Our return journey had taken longer than expected, and the cold had taken its toll on my brother.’

‘You have a brother?’ I said under my breath, knowing, even as I said it, that it was idiotic for me to take pleasure in this similarity between us. ‘An elder brother?’

‘He was three years younger,’ she said quietly.

‘Was?’

She shook her head. I was furious with myself for having jumped in. Had I not yet learnt that Fabrissa would tell the story in her own way and in her own time?

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted.’

‘As we drew close to home, a boy came running out of the woods. He was in a state of shock, swallowing his words and talking too fast for us to hear what he was saying. My father managed to calm him and, with great patience, coax out of the terrified child that…’

She broke off, her eyes wide.

‘That what?’

‘That there had been massacres. That villages lower down the mountain had been put to the torch. Of old men, women, cut down where they stood. Children, too. Of the fields running with blood.’

I turned cold. ‘Good God.’

‘We had no way of knowing if the reports were true, of course,’ she continued. ‘There had been many false alarms in the previous weeks. We could not be certain.’

I fished out another cigarette from my case and lit it.

‘What did you do?’

‘My brother’s health was poor, so my father decided to take him and my mother home. He told me to go on ahead and that he would join me at the Ostal as soon as he could. Before we parted company, he made me promise to say nothing about the boy. True or false, his testimony would spread panic and alarm. Far better to wait until he could confer with the others and, together, decide what action to take.

‘When I arrived at the Ostal, everyone was in good spirits. The whole village had come together to celebrate. My heart wept at the knowledge that in a matter of hours, this way of life might be lost.’

‘That must have been very difficult.’

‘So I sat, knowing what I knew and yet having to conceal it. And all the time, I was watching the door, waiting for my father. When he did come, he was immediately cloistered with Guillaume Marty, Sénher Bernard, Sénher Authier and the others.’ Fabrissa hesitated. ‘Later, I learned my father had questioned the boy further and satisfied himself that he was telling the truth without embellishment. He instructed my mother to pack what belongings we could carry between us and sent the boy round to rouse those who were at home, rather than in the Ostal. There were not many. Old Na Sanchez, who was bedridden, and Monsieur Galy.’

‘Galy?’

‘I knew none of this at the time, of course. I still prayed it might be a false alarm. My first indication it was not was the sound of horses’ hooves and bridles outside, then two soldiers strode into the hall and the uproar started.’

I turned cold.

‘The fighting escalated quickly. The soldiers were easily driven back and the doors barricaded shut. The spies in our midst had come armed, ready to support the attackers. But they, too, were swiftly overpowered.

‘The very presence of the soldiers was proof that the main battalion was on its way. The tactic of sending scouts ahead was commonplace. Usually, the arrests were quick and undertaken without bloodshed. But this time, things were different. The horrifying reports of the massacres in the valley suggested as much. My father and the others knew we had to flee the village before the main force arrived.

‘Not everyone was prepared to go. Raymond and Blanche Maury said they were too old to be driven again from their homes and that they would rather die in their beds. But mostly people did as they were instructed and left the Ostal, by means of the underground tunnel. The bons homes, Guillaume Marty and Michel Authier, elected to stand firm and try to hold the soldiers off.’

My head was spinning with so much information. So much confusing, baffling detail.

‘My mother had worked quickly. She and my brother, together with all those who had decided to leave, had packed what little they could carry – a loaf of bread, some beans, wine, blankets – and were waiting at the exit to the tunnel.

‘The journey was hard for my brother. He was a sickly child, with little strength to see him through the long winters. I could see in his face how much pain he was suffering, although he never complained. ’ She stopped again. ‘He never complained, not once.’

‘What was his name?’ I asked gently.

‘Jean. His name was Jean.’

For a moment, we were silent, the threads of history flapping around us like ribbons in the wind.

‘Where did you go? Was anywhere safe?’

‘There are caves within these mountains, hidden from view.’ She pointed across the valley, over the sleeping roofs of the village, to the woods through which I had made my approach into Nulle.

‘The tiniest openings in the rock face lead to tunnels, ancient hiding places, a labyrinthine sequence of passageways and caverns.’

Thinking of the road signs I had seen yesterday for the caves of Niaux and Lombrives, I looked back in the direction we had descended, trying to work out how they had crossed from this side of the village to the other without being seen by the soldiers.

‘And these caves were substantial enough to accommodate all of you?’

‘There are whole cities underground, magnificent, soaring caverns.’ Again, the same half-smile.

‘Astonishing.’

‘Yes. We travelled as far as we could by cart, until the ground became too steep. We unharnessed our mule, trusting she would find her way back home. Others did the same. We hoped, too, that the tracks left by the hooves of the animals and the wheels of the trap would serve as a false trail for the soldiers hunting us.

‘We doubled back around the village, through the woods to the east, avoiding the open ground. Then we began the steep ascent up to the caves.’