Citadel (32 page)
In fear, Arinius began to pray. Struggling to be heard above the noise of the tempest and the crack of the wind, above the beating of his heart. Already, rivulets of water were running down the hillside, opals of rain battering down on him, and always, the thunder snarling in the hills.
Then, over the cacophony of the storm, the crack of a branch underfoot, a rustle in the undergrowth. Another breaking of a twig, close by. He caught his breath, seized by a new dread. A wild boar? These woods were rich for hunting, he’d no doubt. Or a rabbit, a snake? Pray God not a wolf.
He froze, listening for the pant, the gasp of a beast waiting to attack, but unable to hear anything over the noise of the tempest. The rain was growing heavier, harder, pounding down and sending clods of mud and wet leaves and branches skidding down the hillside, but Arinius continued on, murmuring the Lord’s words, mixed now with memories of stories, of older tales, like a spell to guard against any ungodly inhabitant of the woods.
He slipped, then slipped again, sliding back down the slope in a roll of wet wool and leather. He struggled to find purchase and get back on his feet. The Codex was safe beneath his tunic and the bottle was still on its leather tie around his shoulder, but he realised he was in danger of doing himself serious injury if he carried on. He had to find shelter and see the storm out.
Head down against the wind and the rain, Arinius wrapped his arms round an oak tree. He lost track of time, clinging to the trunk as a sailor to a mast in a storm-tossed sea. The edges between the darkness of the day and the blackness of night blurred.
Gradually, the thunder quietened, then stopped altogether. Over the noise of the rain and the wind, he could hear the howls of wolves in the distant hills. A screech owl returning from the hunt and the sounds of night jays.
Finally, the rain also began to ease and Arinius sank to the ground in precarious sleep. He dreamt of deliverance and heaven, imaginings of white figures standing before triumphant gates with sword or scroll in their hands. And in the centre, a single figure, lit by the sun and by the moon.
Silver and gold.
‡
TARASCON
AUGUST 1942
‘
M
onsieur? Monsieur Audric, wake up.’
Baillard heard the child and his heart leapt. For a moment, forgetting where he was, who he was. He was back in the distant past, hearing another child’s voice calling to him.
‘Bertrande?’ he said, a lift in his voice.
‘No, it’s Aurélie, monsieur.’
Baillard opened his eyes to see the youngest of the Saint-Loup girls standing at the bottom of the bed with a candle in her hand. Disappointment rushed through his old bones. Of course it wasn’t Bertrande, how could it be? She had died many years ago. So very, very many years ago.
‘What time is it,
filha
?’ he said softly. ‘It’s dark still.’
‘Some time after four, monsieur. My sister Eloise sent me to fetch you. She says you should come.’
Immediately, Baillard sat up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve found something,’ she said.
‘Something or someone?’ he asked quickly.
‘I don’t know, only Eloise said you should come straight away. There’s a
charreton
waiting.’
Quickly, Baillard straightened his clothes, pushed his feet into his shoes and took up his hat and coat.
‘Have you told Inspector Pujol?’ he asked, following Aurélie through the sleeping house.
‘I couldn’t wake him, monsieur.’
Baillard stopped, listening to the stertorous snoring coming from behind the closed door of Pujol’s bedroom.
‘No, I dare say you couldn’t.’
Five minutes later, Pujol was lumbering down the corridor with Baillard and Aurélie, nursing a hangover. A sour smell of sweat and red wine seeped through his pores, and his general lack of fitness and lungs full of tobacco meant he moved heavily. Baillard knew he would wake up as soon as the morning air hit his face.
‘How did she get in?’ he growled, rubbing his eyes.
‘You left a window open at the back, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,’ Aurélie said, then added: ‘You should be more careful.’
Baillard laughed.
Pujol unbolted the front door and they stepped outside into the street. Straight away Baillard heard the sound of dogs howling in the hills to the south of the town. Pujol glanced at him, and they both started to walk a little faster.
‘Did you say someone was waiting for us, Aurélie?’
‘By the bridge,’ she said. ‘My uncle.’
It was as dark as pitch. The blackout was not rigorously enforced in the countryside, but it was late and few people were awake. Baillard’s heart was thudding as they made their way through the sleeping streets. Ahead, in the distance, he saw the outline of a donkey and cart.
Although many of the vehicles requisitioned by the army in 1939 had been returned, there was little fuel, and in the Haute Vallée people relied on the old ways of getting from village to village. Ox and cart, pony and trap. As they drew closer, Baillard saw their driver was a young man, broad and tall, his face weathered by the wind and the sun. The two Ariégeois greeted one another, then Pujol made the introductions.
‘Audric, this is Guillaume Breillac. He’s married to Eloise Saint-Loup.’
‘I have heard of you, Sénher Baillard,’ Guillaume said, tipping his hat.
‘His father and I served together in the last war,’ Pujol said. ‘Me, him and Déjean. Signed up together, September 1914.’ He turned back to Breillac. ‘How is the old rogue, still going strong?’
‘The same as ever, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. He and my brother are waiting for you above the Larnat road.’
‘What’s Pierre doing up there at this time of night,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hunting, no doubt?’
Guillaume shrugged. ‘It’s hard for him.’
Pujol turned to Baillard. ‘Took a hit from a shell, May 1940. Came out of it all right, but doesn’t like to be around people much any more.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’
‘Whereas Guillaume’s something of a local hero,’ Pujol continued. ‘He was involved in the discovery, what, ten years ago now, of a mass grave in the caves not far from here. You must have heard about it. Hundreds of bodies, been there seven hundred years or so. A bad business.’ Pujol shook his head. ‘But no more ghosts in the hills now, è, Guillaume? Old Breillac’s a great one for holding that the mountains are haunted.’
Pujol slapped Guillaume on the shoulder once more, before walking round to the back of the cart. Throughout the exchange Baillard had watched Guillaume’s honest, intelligent face closely, and saw a different emotion mirrored there. Tolerance for Pujol’s teasing, but no modern disdain for old wives’ tales. Something sharper.
‘I heard something of it,’ he said, looking at Guillaume.
For a moment Guillaume did not react. Then he nodded, the briefest acknowledgement of a shared knowledge. Baillard smiled. They understood one another.
Pujol made heavy weather of clambering up the single frame step, causing the cart to tilt perilously to one side. The shovels and digging equipment slid across the floor of the trap. He lowered his hefty frame down on the narrow wooden cross bench, then shuffled along to make room, breathing heavily. Baillard climbed easily into the cart and sat down next to him, a slight, neat figure, his pale suit with a yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket just visible beneath his trench coat. Guillaume tapped the donkey’s flank with his stick, clicked, and gave a tug on the reins. The animal dropped its head, lifted its foot and began to pull. The harness strained, leather and bridle clinking against the wood.
In the distance, the first vestiges of light appeared in the sky, flecks of white, silver, the air fragrant with the scents of pine and oak. It was a timeless scene, the spark of the animal’s hooves on the path, puffs of breath, the early song of birds in the forest around them.
Guillaume came to a halt. Baillard looked up at the path, memories of other such journeys vivid in his mind. To the peak of Montségur, to the Mont d’Alaric above the plains east of Carcassonne, to the highest reach of the Pic de Saint-Barthélémy.
‘We have to walk from here.’
‘How far is it?’ said Pujol.
‘About ten minutes to the plateau. My father and brother are waiting there.’
Guillaume tied the donkey to a tree. Baillard looked at Pujol’s face, moist around the temples, and smiled sympathetically.
Pujol grunted. ‘I can’t imagine why I let you talk me into this, Audric,’ he grunted. ‘Two old men clambering about the rocks like a pair of schoolboys.’
‘Courage, my friend,’ Baillard said. ‘
Coratge
.’
Pujol was panting heavily by the time they reached the ridge. Baillard saw the pinpricks of light from the hunting lamps, pale against the dawn sky, and three men standing looking down into the gully below.
‘Breillac,’ said Pujol, offering his hand.
The old man turned round. His face was riven with white crease lines in his brown skin, but his eyes were clear, sharp. A cigarette was wedged into the corner of his mouth. He nodded, then turned to Baillard.
‘
Peyre
, this is Monsieur Baillard,’ Guillaume said, in the dialect of the mountains. ‘And my brother, Pierre.’
Baillard nodded a greeting. ‘
Bonjorn
.’
The old man’s eyes fixed on Baillard, as if he knew of his reputation, but he said nothing. The young man nodded.
‘What’s happened, Breillac?’ asked Pujol.
‘About an hour ago, Pierre heard a noise.’
‘What was he doing up here?’ Pujol demanded.
Since two rabbits hung from his belt and the blade of his knife glistened in the early morning light, the question was unnecessary.
Baillard put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘You are retired now,
amic
.’
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Breillac said, his voice thick with red wine and tobacco.
Baillard nodded. ‘We understand.’
‘Pierre was setting traps. Might have used something to flush the rabbits out.’
‘Something?’ Pujol demanded.
‘To help things on their way.’
Pujol was about to turn on Pierre, but one look at Baillard’s expression warned him not to.
‘So Pierre didn’t notice anything different at first,’ Breillac continued in his steady way. ‘Then he saw something.’ He pointed down into the gully. ‘Down there. Looks like a body. Pierre fetched me, I sent Guillaume to find you.’
‘You did the right thing, Sénher Breillac,’ said Baillard quickly.
Pujol nodded. ‘Shall we see?’
Breillac gestured to his sons. Pierre had a coil of rope hooked over his shoulder and Guillaume produced a leashed axe from a hessian sack on his back. Without a word, they went to the edge of the gully.
The three old men watched in silence as the boys climbed down. Breillac sucking on the end of a thin rolled cigarette.
‘
Aquí
,’ Guillaume called out from below.
‘What is it?’ Pujol called.
‘A man.’
‘Alive?’ Baillard said quickly.
‘No, sénher.’
Moments later Guillaume appeared back at the top of the ridge. Wrapping the end of the rope around his waist, he steadied himself against the side of a rock and, with the help of his father and Pujol, slowly began to haul the body up the side of the cliff. Baillard watched, feeling as if a fist was tightening around his throat.
‘God save us . . .’ Pujol said, crossing himself.
Baillard stared in pity at the battered body. He helped lower it from Guillaume’s shoulders and lay it on the ground. Struggling to keep his anger in check, he put his hand on Antoine Déjean’s forehead.
‘Look, Audric,’ Pujol muttered, pointing at the rope burns on Antoine’s wrists, then the bruises on his stomach and face. ‘These aren’t the result of a fall.’
‘No.’
Baillard began to speak, an old mountain prayer for the passing of a soul.
‘
Peyre Sant, Dieu
. . .’
Old Breillac bowed his head. His sons stood beside him, looking down at the broken body of the young man.
‘Amen.’
Baillard leant forward and laid his yellow handkerchief over Antoine’s face, then turned to Pujol.
‘Why here, Achille?’
‘It’s obvious when Pierre set a charge in one of the burrows, he misjudged it.’ He pointed to a crumbled section of path further along. ‘Caused a landslide, look. The trees have come down.’
‘No, not why did it happen. I mean why bury the body this far up in the hills in the first instance. There are plenty of other places that would have served as well. Antoine might not have been found for months.’
‘It’s very remote,’ Pujol suggested.
Baillard was frowning. ‘Is there anything special about this place, Achille? Something significant?’
Pujol started to shake his head, then stopped. ‘It’s not that far from where de l’Oradore set up camp. Could that be relevant?’
‘It could be . . .’ Baillard murmured.
‘What will I tell Célestine and Pierre?’ Pujol said quietly.
‘The truth,
amic
, which is that their son is dead and we do not know why.’ He sighed. ‘But it might be as well to put it about that it was a climbing accident. If his killers believe the matter closed, it will be easier for us.’
‘Easier for us to do what?’
‘To find out what happened without interference.’
The Breillacs were talking quietly to one another. Their storm lamps, the light extinguished now the day had started, were on the ground beside the rope.
‘They’ll hold their tongues.’
Baillard nodded. ‘Breillac strikes me as a man who keeps his own counsel. Pierre too. And Guillaume, he understands more than most, I would say.’
Pujol looked at him for a moment. ‘Never have half an idea what you’re talking about, but I suppose you know what you mean.’ He waved at Breillac. ‘We’re going to take him down.’
Guillaume and Pierre carried Antoine down the path to where the donkey and trap were still standing. Baillard took off his coat and laid it across the body. Then they walked slowly behind the
charreton
into Tarascon in the pale light of early morning.
