Spirit only. Courage only. Love.
My love, yes
.
Guilhem had died in the arms of the woman he loved and lay un-buried at her side. One of the unknown dead destined to lie there for decades more. It was not yet their time to be found, to be mourned, to be buried. But soon. Soon, someone would come and their names would join the ranks of those who had lived and died for their country.
Guilhem stood, as he had stood many times before, at the right hand of his liege lord, Raymond-Roger Trencavel. Trencavel’s skin was pale from the sleep of ages, but his eyes were battle bright. His right hand gripped the sword that had served him so well in life, insubstantial skin touching familiar iron. Fingers that were not there, blood that did not move or slip, skin that could not be pierced or burnt or cut any longer.
In this August of 1944, his restless spirit remained the same as it had been in 1209 as he waited within the walls of Carcassonne. Then, Guilhem had set out through the Porte Narbonnaise at his seigneur’s side to beat back the crusaders massed at the gates. On that day, the battle had been lost, though he had never given up. His life had been dedicated to driving the invader, the occupier, the collaborators from the land he loved.
Every death remembered
.
Viscount Trencavel had not lived to see his son grow up, as so many others would not see their children grow up, but he watched him from another realm and was proud of the man his son became. Raymond had fought, as he himself had fought, been defeated as he had been defeated. Reunited now, the son at the father’s side, his place assured in the ranks of the fallen dead.
And on the far side of his son, Trencavel’s friend and steward, Bertrand Pelletier.
Thousand upon tens of thousands massed, or so it seemed. The ancient lords of the Sabarthès and the Corbières and Termenès, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Amaury de Montréal, Pierre-Roger de Cabaret and Amiel de Coursan. And lower
chevaliers
also, Thierry de Massabrac and Alzeu de Preixan, dubbed the same Passiontide as Guilhem du Mas. Simeon the Bookbinder with his long black beard, returned now to the side of his old ally, Pelletier. Esclarmonde de Servian, the bravest of women, and Guiraude, the Lady of Lavaur, under whose protection the
bons homes
had lived. And Dame Carcas, her hair hidden beneath her veil, also in the ranks of the army of spirits which had once come to her aid.
Those who died so others might live, those who gave their lives and now live, will hear your call
.
Pascal Barthès, all those whose lives were taken by fire or flood or iron. White bones on the battlefield, picked clean by time. Grey bones in the arms of the earth, fallen in the mountains of the Sabarthès, scorched in the pyres of Montségur or the Domaine de la Cade, on the fields of Flanders and France.
Now they were moving, murmuring. The ghost army had been summoned to this one place and it had come. In the shadow of Rennes-les-Bains and Rennes-le-Château, the ruins of the castle, the ancient green forest of Arques and Tarascon and the grey wall of the mountains beyond, they walked to Coustaussa. Gathered here to fight once more. Once more, a call to arms. To rid their lands of occupation, of the oppressor, of the shame of the yellow cross and the yellow star. A drift of autumn leaves, the marks of oppression fluttering free now. This, the final battle for the soul of the Languedoc.
They had each heard the call and they had answered. Those sleeping in the cimetière Saint-Michel, in the cimetière Saint-Vincent, in the country graveyards of the Haute Vallée. A shifting, a murmuring through the cities of the dead, words carried on the wind.
Were they here in Coustaussa only, or everywhere throughout the Languedoc? She didn’t know.
Sandrine felt tears come to her eyes. She could not see Raoul. Surely, if he was dead, she would see him? There was still hope, then. If he was not here, he had not died. Quickly, she sent her eyes flying over the thousands of faces and heads and folds of cloth. She could not see Lucie or Marianne, Suzanne or Liesl either. She could not see Monsieur Baillard.
But then she turned her head and saw the stone wings of the statue, the sword clasped in her hands. Beside her, a little apart from the group, she found the smiling, pretty face of Geneviève Saint-Loup. And on the other side, Eloise Breillac. Alphonse, who had never held his child in his arms, and Yvette and Robert Bonnet, brave and stoical. And a man so like Raoul that the sight of him caught at Sandrine’s heart. His brother Bruno, she realised. The tears fell down her cheeks.
Next, Sandrine saw a man with a calm expression. A long grey woollen robe, like a monk’s habit.
‘Arinius, the map maker,’ she murmured.
Beside him, with her hair braided over one shoulder, a bright-eyed girl with quick, searching eyes. Lupa, one of the unsung Christian saints, who had died at her husband’s side to protect the people they loved. For a timeless instant, Sandrine met her gaze and saw something of herself reflected in Lupa’s silver eyes.
Finally, in the white centre, her father – François Vidal – with the same gentle, loving smile on his face as he had worn in life. She reached out to him, wishing more than anything that she could feel his hand in hers again, but she knew she couldn’t cross the distance between them.
Sandrine understood it was almost over. Time had run its course. The ghost army had done what it had been summoned to do. It had sent the invaders from the land, driving their enemies to death or to flight. Suzanne, Marianne, Liesl and Lucie had led the people – and, God willing, themselves – to safety. Only she remained to gaze upon the faces of the spirits who had risen to fight for the Midi once more.
Sandrine watched as each turned towards Viscount Trencavel. They seemed to wish him to speak. As he did so, his voice carried on the wind. Metal drew against metal, against leather. An intake of breath, ghosts yet, but the sense of purpose remained.
Per lo Miègjorn
.
Words not spoken, but heard. Words beyond words, imprinted in the soul and the spirit of those who had given their lives so others might live. And would again.
Then, when the battle is over, they shall sleep once more
.
BAUDRIGUES
S
andrine opened her eyes. At first she didn’t know where she was. She could remember little, except that she had killed Authié and the act had brought her peace. And then something had happened and . . . She tried to sit up, but pain shot down her leg and she remembered. She put her hand to her abdomen and knew, this time, the bleeding would not stop.
Marianne and Suzanne had got everyone away, hadn’t they? And Liesl and Lucie? Everyone safe. She sighed with relief, then remembered. That wasn’t quite right. Lucie had come back to find her lying unconscious in the Place de la Mairie among rotting corpses.
Together, they had made it halfway down the hill, but then they had run into a Milice patrol. Those soldiers who’d fled before the ghosts looked into their souls had staggerred back to Couiza with stories so wild, so horrifying, their commanders had ordered a four-man patrol back to Coustaussa to investigate.
Lucie had tried to stop the soldiers arresting them. A gun had been fired, but who had fired it, Sandrine wasn’t sure. She remembered Lucie falling to the ground, her kneecap blown and bloodied. Shattered bone and cartilage, screaming with pain.
Then, the rattling wheels of the trucks heading east. For a while, peace, when Sandrine realised they had done it. They had won. They had saved Coustaussa. The Gestapo and Wehrmacht were withdrawing. Every unit and battalion leaving the South.
Sandrine was finding it hard to think now, but she wished she understood why they had been brought here rather than been killed. They had no more need for hostages, did they? She realised they were in the munitions store at the Château of Baudrigues outside Roullens. She knew the place from the outside. They’d tried to attack it, more than once. Suzanne, Marianne and her. They had never succeeded.
Sandrine turned her head and saw that Lucie was there. Of course she was there. Brave, brave Lucie to have come back to rescue her.
She felt a wave of affection wash through her battered body. For that first day when they were all together – Bastille Day, Tuesday 14 July 1942, in the boulevard Barbès. Her, Suzanne and Marianne and Lucie, Max and Liesl. And Raoul.
‘Raoul . . .’
Sandrine’s cracked lips broke into a smile as she remembered the sense of promise that day. The blue sky, the sweet summer air. A perfectly framed memory set in a gilt frame. Their voices raised in song.
‘
Vive le Midi
,’ she whispered, remembering the hope in their voices. ‘
Vive Carcassonne
.’
Geneviève and Eloise, brave women who had died for their friends. All the others too, known to her and unknown, she had admired. César Sanchez and Antoine Déjean, Yvette and Robert Bonnet. Gaston, too, in the end.
She wished she knew for sure that Liesl and Marianne and Suzanne were all right. Yves Rousset. God willing, Max. Little Jean-Jacques and Marieta.
‘Raoul,’ she murmured again.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he come?
Sandrine thought of Audric Baillard, of his wise face. If France was free again, it would be in part thanks to him. She didn’t understand what had happened, or why he had not been there with them. Only that he was a guardian of the land, the conscience of the Midi. That he linked what had been, and what was, and what was to come.
Sandrine shifted position, the cord seeming to cut deeper into her wrists. She knew she was dying. The internal injuries inflicted by Authié were too severe to allow her to survive. She thought how disappointed Raoul would be.
The minutes slipped by. The air was so still and so hot. Sandrine drifted in and out of consciousness, or sleep, she wasn’t sure. Elsewhere, outside in the park, noises filtered into the dirty room in which they were being held. She knew there were other prisoners here too – Jean Bringer, Aimé Ramond, Maurice Sevajols – she could hear voices from surrounding rooms.
The sound of footsteps, rough orders given in German and in French, the sound of the heavy doors of a Feldgendarmerie truck being slammed shut.
A scream of pain, a single shout splitting the air, then nothing.
The minutes ticked on, ticked on. The sun climbed higher in the sky and the shadows came round. Sandrine felt something on her leg. She opened her eyes and saw that a black spider was crawling across her ankle, the lightest of touches. She thought she should move, shake it off, but she lacked the strength even to do that now. The hours of sitting still, hands behind her back, legs bound, had robbed her of strength.
‘It’s supposed to be good luck, kid,’ murmured Lucie. ‘Maybe you’re going to come into money.’
Sandrine turned her head, pleased to hear the sound of Lucie’s voice.
‘I think it depends on what kind of spider it is,’ she replied.
‘A black widow?’
Sandrine gave a half-laugh. ‘Could be.’
‘I like your socks,’ Lucie said softly. ‘Unusual.’
‘My father brought them back from Scotland.’ She said the familiar words. ‘A gift.’
‘Ah . . . I remember, yes. They’re really something. Thought that the first time we met.’
The silence of the hot afternoon lapped over them again. Sandrine dozed, slipping in and out of consciousness. Strange to be so weightless, so cut adrift from sensation. Everything was blurred now, body and mind and emotion, all run together.
When she next came to her senses, Lucie was talking again.
‘We got everyone else away. We did that much.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘What happened to them?’ Lucie asked quietly. ‘The soldiers. Their bodies were black, Sandrine. Blood in their eyes . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘What did they see that terrified them so much? That could do that? Like they’d been burnt, all black and scorched.’
Sandrine thought of Alaïs and Léonie and Lupa, Dame Carcas and Viscount Trencavel.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Not really.’
Lucie fell silent. Sandrine couldn’t make sense of it either.
‘Just us, kid.’
Sandrine felt a lump in her throat. ‘Just us.’
Outside, the grunt of a lorry being started. More shouting, a sense of panic and fear, perhaps. Nothing ordered about the withdrawal.
‘The last ones are leaving,’ Lucie said, trying to prop herself up.
Sandrine bit back tears as she saw Lucie struggle, her disobedient and broken limbs no longer doing what she commanded.
‘How about that? We sent them packing after all.’
Sandrine looked at the ceiling. The patches of damp in the corner and the stains on the wall where a pipe had burst and water had seeped through. The smears of blood, brown and ridged in the gaps between the tiles. They were not the first prisoners to be held in this room.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lucie said. ‘Next year, you’ll be twenty-one. We should have a grand party. Invite everyone, everyone we know. What do you say? May the eighth 1945. Make it a red-letter day. We’ll have cake for Jean-Jacques, and beer for Raoul.’
‘And Suzanne. She never really did much like wine either.’
‘We should invite everyone we know,’ Lucie continued. ‘Coming of age, and all that.’
‘Raoul will find us,’ Sandrine said, wanting to give Lucie something to cling on to.
‘Course he will.’
‘We have to be patient. Hold on for just a little bit longer.’
Lucie was smiling as her eyes flickered shut. ‘Raoul will find you. Like Hercules and his Pyrène, he’ll tear the Aude apart to get to you. Nothing will stand in his way.’
Sandrine smiled. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He will.’
CARCASSONNE
R
aoul could feel nothing, see nothing. The days were darkness and nights without sleep. He had lost all sense of time since he was arrested in the station master’s office. Had lost all sense of self. Everything was as if it was happening to someone else, as if he was watching. Between the beatings and the pain, the blissful punctuation of black rest, he had separated himself from the reality.