“The savagery and reprisals escalated. In July 1210, de Montfort besieged the hill fortress of Minerve. The town is protected on two sides by deep rocky gorges cut by rivers over thousands of years. High above the village, de Montfort installed a giant trebuchet, known as La Mahoisine the bad neighbour.” He stopped and turned to Alice. “There is a replica there now. Strange to see. For six weeks, de Montfort bombarded the village. When finally Minerve fell, one hundred and forty Cathar parfaits refused to recant and were burned on a communal pyre.

“In May 1211, the invaders took Lavaur, after a siege of a month. The Catholics called it ”the very seat of Satan“. In a way, they were right. It was the See of the Cathar bishop of Toulouse and hundreds of parfaits and parfaites lived peaceably and openly there.”

Baillard lifted his glass to his lips and drank.

“Nearly four hundred credentes and parfaits were burned, including Amaury de Montreal, who had led the resistance, alongside eighty of his knights. The scaffold collapsed under their weight. The French were forced to slit their throats. Fired by bloodlust, invaders rampaged through town searching for the lady of Lavaur, Guirande, under whose protection the Bons Homes had lived. They seized her, misused her. They dragged her through the streets like a common criminal, then threw her into the well and hurled stones down upon her until she was dead. She was buried alive. Or possibly drowned.”

“Did they know how bad things were?” she said.

“Alais and Sajhe heard some news, but often many months after the event. The war was still concentrated on the plains. They lived simply, but happily, here in Los Seres with Harif. They gathered wood, salted meats for the long dark months of winter, learned how to bake bread and to thatch the roof with straw to protect it against storms.”

Baillard’s voice had softened.

“Harif taught Sajhe to read, then to write, first the langue d’Oc, then the language of the invaders, as well as a little Arabic and a little Hebrew.” He smiled. “Sajhe was an unwilling pupil, preferring activities of the body to those of the mind but, with Alais’ help, he persevered.”

“He probably wanted to prove something to her.”

Baillard slid a glance at her, but made no comment.

“Nothing changed until the Passiontide after Sajhe’s thirteenth birthday, when Harif told him he was to be apprenticed in the household of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix to begin his training as a chevalier.”

What did Alais think of that?“

“She was delighted for him. It was what he always wanted. In Carcassona, he’d watched the ecuyers polishing their masters’ boots and helmets. He had crept into the lices to watch them joust. The life of a chevalier was beyond his station, but it had not stopped him dreaming of riding out in his own colours. Now it seemed he was to have the chance to prove himself after all.”

“So he went?”

Baillard nodded. “Pierre-Roger Mirepoix was a demanding master, although fair, and had a reputation for training his boys well. It was hard work, but Sajhe was clever and quick and worked hard. He learned to tilt his lance at the quintain. He practised with sword, mace, ball-and chain, dagger, how to ride straight-backed in a high saddle.”

For a while, Alice watched him gazing out over the mountains and thought, not for the first time, how these distant people, in whose company Baillard had spent much of his life, had become flesh and blood to him.

What of Alais during this time?“

While Sajhe was in Mirepoix, Harif began to instruct Alais in the rites and rituals of the Noublesso. Already, her skills as a healer and a wise woman became well known. There were few illnesses, of spirit or body, which she could not treat. Harif taught her much about the stars, about the patterns that make up the world, drawing on the wisdom of the ancient mystics of his land. Alais was aware that Harif had a deeper purpose. She knew he was preparing her – preparing Sajhe too, that was why he had sent him away – for their task.

“In the meantime, Sajhe thought little about the village. Morsels of news about Alais reached Mirepoix from time to time, brought by shepherds or paifaits, but she did not visit. Thanks to her sister Oriane, Alais was a fugitive with a price on her head. Harif sent money to purchase Sajhe a hauberk, a palfrey, armour and a sword. He was dubbed when he was only fifteen.” He hesitated. “Shortly after that, he went to war. Those who had thrown in their lot with the French, hoping for clemency, switched allegiance, including the Count of Toulouse. This time when he called on his liege lord, Pedro II of Aragon, Pedro accepted his responsibilities and in January 1213 rode north. Together with the Count of Foix, their combined forces were large enough to inflict significant damage on de Montfort’s depleted forces.

“In September 1213, the two armies, north against south, came face to face at Muret. Pedro was a brave leader and a skilled strategist, but the attack was badly mismanaged and, in the heat of battle, Pedro was slain. The South had lost its leader.”

Baillard stopped. “Among those fighting for independence was a chevalier from Carcassona. Guilhem du Mas.” He paused. “He acquitted himself well. He was well liked. Men were drawn to him.”

An odd tone had entered his voice, admiration, mixed with something else Alice could not identify. Before she could think more of it, Baillard continued. “On the twenty-fifth day of June, 1218, the wolf was slain.”

“The wolf?”

He raised his hands. “Forgive me. In the songs of the time, for example the Canso de lo Crosada, de Montfort was known as the wolf. He was killed besieging Tolosa. He was hit on the head by stone from a catapult, it said, operated by a woman.” Alice couldn’t help herself smiling. “They carried his body back to Carcassona and saw him buried in the northern manner. His heart, liver, stomach, were taken to Sant-Cerni and the bones to Sant-Nasari to be buried beneath a gravestone, which now hangs on the wall of the south transept of the Basilica.” He paused. “Perhaps you noticed it on your visit to the Ciutat?

Alice blushed. “I… I found that I could not enter the Cathedral,” she admitted. Baillard looked quickly at her, but said nothing more about the stone.

“Simon de Montfort’s son, Amaury, succeeded him, but he was not the commander his father was and, straight away, he began to lose the lands his father had taken. In 1224, Amaury withdrew. The de Montfort family relinquished their claim to the Trencavel lands. Sajhe was free to return home. Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix was reluctant to allow him to leave, but Sajhe had…”

He broke off, then stood up and wandered some way from her down the hill. When he spoke, he did not turn.

“He was twenty-six,” he said. “Alais was older, but Sajhe”… he had hopes. He looked on Alais with different eyes, no longer the brother to the sister. He knew they could not marry, for Guilhem du Mas still lived, but he dreamed, now he had proved himself, that there could be more between them.“

Alice hesitated, then went to stand beside him. When she placed her hand on his arm, Baillard jolted, as if he had forgotten she was there at all.

“What happened?” she said quietly, feeling oddly anxious. She felt as if she was somehow eavesdropping, as if it was too intimate a story to be shared.

“He gathered his courage to speak.” He faltered. “Harif knew. If Sajhe had asked his advice, he would have given it. As it was, he kept his counsel.”

“Perhaps Sajhe knew he wouldn’t wish to hear what Harif had to say.”

Baillard gave a half-smile, sad. “Benleu.” Perhaps. Alice waited.

“So…” she prompted, when it was clear he was not going to continue. “Did Sajhe tell her what he felt?”