Paradise Red

  PARADISE RED

  BOOK THREE

  THE PERFECT FIRE TRILOGY

  K. M. Grant

  Contents

  1 A Third Greeting

  2 The Visitors

  3 At Carcassonne

  4 The Convert

  5 In the Cold

  6 The Lie

  7 The Ring

  8 Into the Fortress

  9 Into the Night

  10 Waking Up

  11 The Pog

  12 The Attempt

  13 Stalemate

  14 Face-to-Face

  15 Silence

  16 The Challenge

  17 Facing the Enemy

  18 Paradise Red

  19 The Valley

  Author’s Note

  BOOKS BY K. M. GRANT

  For Liffy, with love

  1

  A Third Greeting

  Did I nod off? If so, I’m sorry. It’s just that storytellers occasionally have to pause for breath, and when you are as old as I am, sleep is always lurking in the corner of the eye. I’m awake again now, though, quite awake.

  If this is our first meeting, you will not know that I, your narrator, am the Amouroix-in-Occitan. That is, I am a small snatch of land on the northern side of the Pyrenean mountains, one of the counties that make up the broader territory once commonly called Occitania, which you may know as southern France. I don’t intrude much into these pages. In fact, I pride myself on intruding so little that when I do, you’ll have to pinch yourself to remember who I am. I don’t apologize for that. I may be old and called a different name, but I have lost neither my spirit nor my looks. I am worth remembering.

  We may, of course, have met before, for what you are reading now continues a story I have been recounting for a little time. If we have not met, however, I need to tell you about Raimon, Yolanda, and the Blue Flame. Now—a storyteller’s conundrum: how to enlighten new friends while not making old friends yawn?

  The best way, in my opinion, is just to start, so I shall begin by telling you that I have been woken from sleep by the echo of Raimon’s laughter and that this surprises me. After all, Raimon laughing at any time is rare enough, but how can he laugh now? The ring on his finger—well, scarcely a ring, really just a strip of leather welded in the heat of the Blue Flame and given to him by Yolanda, the girl he loves—has etched both a black imprint on his skin and an aching groove in his heart. He and Yolanda certainly belong together, yet she is married to another, and, worse—though she wears the pair to his ring in or thong around her neck—has chosen to stick by that other in his hour of need.

  It is not even as if that “other” is a friend. Far from it. Yolanda is married to Sir Hugh des Arcis, the French Seneschal of Carcassonne, the guardian of the French king’s standard, a red-tailed banner also known as the oriflamme. It is Sir Hugh who is set to crush the Occitan of which, as I told you, I, the Amouroix, form a part. If I tell you also that Raimon holds the Occitan dearer than his own life, you will understand why, as Sir Hugh’s wife, Yolanda seems to have drifted far away in every sense. And Raimon parted from her in anger. It was not well done.

  Then his home, together with the whole of my town of Castelneuf, is in ruins despite all the machinations of Raimon’s other foe, Yolanda’s brother, Count Aimery. The count, while professing to be a true Occitanian, contrived to make his own deal with the French king. The Occitan might be overrun and my lovely lands forced to bow before the oriflamme, but Aimery would be safe. Actually, more than safe, for he planned to trade his Occitanian title for a French title of grander proportions. However, Aimery miscalculated. Castelneuf, chateau and town, was burned on the French king’s orders. Both Raimon and Aimery have been left to sift through it together.

  Then there is the loss of the Blue Flame itself. This small living icon, in which the soul of the Occitan is distilled, has both saved Raimon’s life and, some might say, ruined it. You see, if Sir Parsifal, the old knight who returned the Blue Flame to the Occitan in its hour of need, had not wandered aimlessly into the Castelneuf valley, Raimon would never have danced to its fiery tune, and had he not danced, there would have been no pyre, and without the pyre, he would not have become the Flame’s champion after Sir Parsifal’s death. Without the Flame, he might have gotten to Paris in time to save Yolanda from her marriage.

  If you are new to my tale, do not be confused. You can catch up with the beginning in your own time. For the present you need only know that the Blue Flame is now in the most dangerous hands of all, those of the White Wolf, a man who professes to be a loyal Occitanian but is, in truth, simply a religious fanatic, being the self-appointed leader of the Cathars, a sect who believe the earth and all its beauties to be the work of the devil. The Catholic French call him and those who follow him “heretics.” Cathar heretics. Raimon just calls them wicked.

  So, all in all, you will understand why I say it is a strange time for Raimon to laugh, and I should say at once that his laugh is not the carefree laugh that occasionally rang out before Castelneuf was drawn into this bitter fray. Only a mad person could really laugh like that now. No. Raimon’s laugh is squeezed through bad memories and stinging regrets. The life he and Yolanda might have led will never be because whatever the future holds, the past cannot be expunged. If it were possible to paint Raimon’s laugh, it would be edged with black like an old-fashioned mourning card.

  Having said all that, however, laughter is laughter, and Raimon is not brooding, at least not at this moment. I can tell this quite easily, since he has one of those cleanly etched, dark-framed faces across which all his moods flit openly, much like the shadows that chase across my jagged expanses. Indeed, not just his face but his whole body is seldom completely still, and even when peace does descend, it is less the stillness of repose and more the stillness of the diver about to leap. I love him for this.

  Anyway, what would be the point of brooding? He cannot bring back Sir Parsifal, but although the old knight’s absence, together with the loss of Yolanda and the Blue Flame, aches like a throbbing scar, none are entirely gone from him. He still feels Sir Parsifal by his side, usually urging a caution that Raimon is inclined to ignore, and the sky is full of Yolanda since they still share that same sky. As for the Flame, it pulses as a cone of brilliant, prickling blue somewhere deeper than his heart, tugging at him as an impatient child tugs at a father’s hand. On waking, he smells its sulfurous smoke. On sleeping, he feels as though the small silver salver in which it flutters has somehow jostled beneath his bedroll. And there is something else, something quite recent. Both waking and sleeping, he feels the Flame is telling him something that remains just beyond his reach.

  What is not beyond his reach, though, is the certainty that he will retrieve the Flame from the White Wolf. Like a rod of steel, this belief stiffens his spine, and if his spine ever softens, all he has to do is touch Unbent, the sword Sir Parsifal bequeathed to him on his deathbed. “Fight for the Flame, for the Amouroix, for the Occitan, and for love,” he hears the dead knight exhort him. And Raimon knows he will fight, fight to his last breath. He looks forward to it.

  For the moment, however, Unbent is unsheathed not for battle but for polishing, almost overpolishing, by Cador, Raimon’s self-appointed and eager young squire, and Raimon himself is not fighting but building. He is not building alone. He and Count Aimery are building together.

  This is quite complicated. Are Raimon and Aimery now friends or enemies? Certainly they were enemies as long as it was Aimery’s intention to betray the Occitan. Certainly forgiveness and trust, those two staples of friendship, do not flourish between them. But now that Aimery’s intrigues have so hideously unraveled, it is difficult to describe what they are to each other. It is practical expediency, not friendship, that keeps them workin
g together. Both know that a chateau in ruins is easy prey. At any moment, more French soldiers may come to complete the destruction they started, or a troop of random bandit knights could attack and finish the job for them. Also, though they have not yet quite reached my borders, Catholic inquisitors, hungry for souls and brimming with highly imaginative ways of extracting confessions of heresy, are also moving slowly in Castelneuf’s direction. French and Occitanian, Catholic and Cathar: the wars between them ebb and flow, with alliances forged in cunning and broken at will. At the time of my tale, not only Raimon but the whole country simmers.

  For the moment, however, Raimon and Aimery are straining bare chested, hewing and hammering and heaving, working up a sweat though the air is freezing. And I, who can see everything, can tell you that though King Louis has betrayed Aimery, Aimery’s vision of himself as a great man at the French court still tempts him as a plump carcass tempts a wounded jackal. If he, Count Aimery of Amouroix, can only wrest the Blue Flame of the Occitan from the White Wolf and deliver it into the royal hand as he once promised he would, his fortunes may yet be restored.

  This is what Aimery is pondering as he pulls his shirt back on, his flesh shining white and a little soft. Despite the activity, he is out of condition. He scratches the blond beard that broadens an already broad face just beginning to coarsen. Raimon’s laugher irritates him. “What’s so funny?” he asks, his pale eyes darting.

  Raimon gestures at a multicolored girl who is slithering toward them carrying a box the size of a cat’s coffin under one arm and a skinny creature resembling a misshapen fawn—on closer inspection, a dog—under the other. “Laila’s hissing at the ice as if it’s insulted her personally,” he says, and calls out as he picks up his own shirt and slings it over his shoulder. “If you hiss like a snake, Laila, you’ll turn into one.” The cold makes his veins tingle as they used to when he and Yolanda took their first bath of the spring. He touches his leather ring, noting that he must oil it or it will crack, then tosses icicled hair out of his eyes.

  Laila opens her mouth to offer some sharp retort but slips and crashes onto her stomach. The box, whose contents are a fiercely guarded secret, skitters away in front of her and her patchwork skirt flaps to reveal numerous jaunty underskirts. The dog, who rejoices in the name of Ugly, lands heavily and spins like a flailing skater. Still, the moment she can scramble to her feet, she whines concern for her beloved mistress, concern that is quite misplaced, for although giddy and panting slightly, Laila has enough breath left to let loose a torrent of curses. Guiltily, Ugly extends a sympathetic and servile paw, a trick that Laila taught her when they met in the Parisian gutter. The girl, still cursing, takes the paw, then topples the dog so that Ugly is upended again. Only now do the curses give way to a percussive chortle.

  “A poisonous snake,” Aimery remarks drily to Raimon, although it is his eyes that are snakelike, lingering as Laila rebalances her box on her head, makes a show of smoothing her dress over her hips, and flips a dainty heel to reveal spiked shoes painted pink. A ripple runs through Aimery’s grainy cheek.

  A man shouts from above. Aimery drags his attention from Laila and tucks his shirt into thick woolen leggings. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Ready,” Raimon replies, and drops his shirt onto the ground.

  Above them, twenty feet of thick oak, honed and planed into a beam by dozens of woodcutters, has been raised by a specially constructed hoist attached to an enormous wheel turned by half a dozen stalwart oxen. Aimery and Raimon ease their way up the scaffolding poles toward it. This is a crucial moment, as the giant beam is one of six main joists for the great hall’s new roof. When the five others are in place, the rest of the keep can grow and Castelneuf will rise again like a man rising from the dead. Raimon’s father, Sicart, already perched high on the opposite wall, braces himself as he takes hold of one side of the sturdy webbed sling in which the beam is cradled. Instructions fly around. “Take care!” “A little to the right!” “Don’t let it swing too far over!” Nothing must go wrong.

  When Aimery reaches the top of the scaffolding, he takes hold of the sling, while Raimon, more sure footed, clambers over the rough-cast stone to the squared niche in which the beam must settle. Another man does the same on Sicart’s side. He and Raimon nod to each other. On the ground, the oxen are brought to a halt, and men bind ropes into iron rings to prevent the sling from slipping. More shouted instructions. “Keep the knots tight!” “Just slip the loose end through once more!” “Watch your back!”

  Despite the care everybody is taking, the beam begins to swing as the wind strengthens. Raimon can feel sharp gusts icing his bare skin. He should have put his shirt on. “It’s straight now!” he shouts down, his teeth beginning to chatter. Then, “Have you got it?” across the chasm to his father.

  “Yes. Got it.”

  “Keep it still.”

  Sicart grunts, his arms aching. Damn the wind. Still, it is good to be doing something with his son. It stops him from thinking of his daughter, Adela, too devout a Cathar heretic for his liking, sitting below in silent mourning for the White Wolf, who, during the Castelneuf conflagration, snatched the Blue Flame but left Adela behind. She has not said a word since then.

  Raimon is momentarily straddled over the niche. Once properly wedged, the beam will be a king among beams, set to last for a thousand years. At this moment, however, it hovers, ungainly as a heavy emperor being hoisted onto his throne. Everybody must keep hold. Just a touch from such a weight could send a man tumbling to his death.

  “Are we all ready?”

  “Push it over a bit.”

  “Keep a good grip.”

  “More to the right—”

  “Too much, too much—”

  It doesn’t matter to whom the voices belong. They are the voices of a shared endeavor. Except that just before the order goes to loosen the ropes and ease the oxen forward, Raimon has to bend almost double to sweep away a small piece of rubble. The beam must sit absolutely square and tight. As he stretches his fingers, there is a random gust. The beam shifts.

  Aimery is immediately aware. His grip tightens then loosens, as if his hold has inadvertently slipped. The beam swings. The warning is swallowed. An accident could be so useful.

  It is Sicart who suddenly shouts, “For God’s sake, Aimery. Duck, son!” The beam misses Raimon by less than a hair’s breadth. Only then does Aimery find his tongue, adding his voice to the general relief. He apologizes and recatches the webbing. However, his apology is too effusive, his expression too innocent, and when his eyes meet Raimon’s, it is like granite meeting steel.

  “Are you all right?” Sicart is leaning out, regardless of the danger to himself.

  Raimon dusts himself off and raises an arm. “I’m fine,” he calls back.

  “Ready to try again?” Aimery almost trills. He seizes the beam and turns those granite eyes again to Raimon. “I’ll take better care next time.”

  Raimon’s lips tighten. Aimery is a fool to have given his secret thoughts away. Though he could so easily have died, Raimon is not sorry to have learned that his enemy is still his enemy.

  They all rearrange themselves. There is more shouting, more swinging, some grinding and grunting, a chorus of creaking ropes and a great rasping as the beam scrapes its way down amid gritty puffs of powdered stone. When at last it is still, there is cheering. This is a good omen! Even the normally morose Sicart is grinning, helping more men to swarm up the scaffolding ribs to tap the beam for luck. The master forester carves his initials underneath those of the master mason. Aimery holds out his hand to Raimon. “Beam in safe and sound,” he says. “Sorry about the slip.”

  Raimon cannot ignore the hand without causing comment. The contact is momentary.

  Two hours later, all five beams are in place. Tomorrow it will be the turn of the smaller joists. By the end of the week, if the weather holds, the rafters will be laid, and the great hall will be closed against the elements. Everybody looks forward to that. />
  Yet they are unlucky. Before all the workers have reached the ground, a few flakes of snow drift through the dust. There is disappointed muttering. It is late March and spring could be on its way, but the winter is being very persistent.

  Raimon pulls on his shirt, and Cador buckles Unbent to his back. The feel of the sword is very good. In Aimery’s full vision, Raimon draws it out and tosses it from hand to hand, enjoying the dirty look Aimery cannot disguise. Aimery does not think Raimon should have a sword. Born a weaver, stay a weaver, that’s Aimery’s motto. Raimon presses the little flame that decorates Unbent’s pommel hard into his palm and suddenly holds the sword above his head with both hands. Cador squeaks and leaps away. “Catch!” shouts Raimon. He whirls the sword, then tosses it. With more good luck than skill, Cador catches it by the hilt. “Victory!” the boy yells, staggering a little under the weight, his whole face creasing with pleasure. Now he swaps Unbent for the rough sword Raimon carries all the time. Even after this tiny outing, he’ll polish Unbent again.

  Aimery, who has never seen his own squire’s face crease like that, scowls as he wraps himself in a knee-length fox fur, one of the few things saved from the French fire-raisers’ looting. Laila is staring at him, and at once he is again aware of her pink heels and smooth hips. He coughs. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I mean, why aren’t you with Yolanda at Carcassonne? You’re supposed to be her servant. How is she managing without you? And by the way”—he gestures at her hair—“that’s a terrible shade of orange.”

  Laila, whose corkscrew curls change color almost every day, takes her time, tossing her head to dislodge the snowflakes, and then blinks to draw attention to her eyebrows, each painted a different shade of turquoise and plucked into a perfect arc. “If I’m still here, it’s your fault.”

  “Absolute nonsense. You’re not a prisoner in shackles.”

  “There’s more to prison than shackles. I’ve no horse.”