Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) by Lisa T. Bergren Page A
Authors: Lisa T. Bergren
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Lead me….
My eyes moved back to the swooping falcons and, beneath them, the rocky valleys. And then I turned and scanned the ruins of the castle until my eyes found what they sought.
William.
When we all gathered again, sitting in a line along the castle wall, we shared a picnic of cold roast chicken, bread, and fruit. The group was uncommonly quiet, all lost in thought.
“Any questions from you?” Will called, rising. I was both glad and sad that there were four people sitting between us. My mind and heart were whirling as I wondered if what I felt was true, godly. Was He leading me to Will? Telling me that Will was the right man for me, regardless of what others thought? Regardless of our fears?
“So this was originally built as a Cathar castle?” Felix asked.
Will ran his hand down the crumbling corner of the wall nearest him. “They took refuge here, but no, it was built long before that. Many of these sites are symbolic outposts of Charlemagne’s ninth-century empire. Sadly, when his feuding sons took over, Languedoc became a scrap fought over by two fierce dogs. France ultimately won, as we’ve seen.”
“How is it in such good condition?” Andrew asked, tossing a rock from one hand to the other.
“It fell by negotiation rather than by force,” Will said. “And it was used as a base from which to harass other Cathars in subsequent years.”
“So none were put to the stake here?” Hugh asked. His intent look, as if he wished he could see it happen, sent a shiver down my spine.
“No. But over there, in Minerve,” Will said with a nod toward the castle on the far ridge, “a hundred and forty were burned. Simon de Montfort, the leader of the crusaders, a devout man following orders from holy men he trusted, was universally hated. Not only for how he hunted the Cathars, but how he took out the legs from beneath the Languedoc. The entire region celebrated when his head was bashed in by a trebuchet stone. They sang songs of it.” He gave a shrug.
My eyes widened at that bit of information. Such violence, such hatred, all fueled by faith. This wasn’t an adventure of the soul—it was the means to set a hundred trails of gunpowder afire. The old bear loved such sweet tinder. Anything to get us thinking.
That afternoon, when we returned to the chateau in Carcassonne, the bear greeted me in the hall. “A telegram for you,” he said gently. The others filtered past, all intent on bathing and resting before changing for our last dinner in this ancient city.
I entered a library, and he followed, sitting down in a big leather chair while I went to the window to open the telegram. I scanned it. “It’s from my parents,” I said, then fell into reading it in silence. They’d received my own telegram. My father continued to make good strides since his stroke. He still wasn’t able to speak, but he seemed to understand much. And he was walking. Clearly, the hospital in Minneapolis was giving him good care. I reread the words twice, then a third time, hearing my mother’s voice, smiling at the glad tidings they contained. The hope.
I stared through the chateau window, which boasted a view over the second city wall, out to the verdant green valley below, and thought how far I felt from my parents. Our life together seemed a decade ago, even though we’d parted less than two months ago. So much had changed in that time. I had changed. Was I still the same person, at the core? Or less or more of who I was meant to be?
“Is his health improving, child?” the bear asked.
“Much,” I said, folding the thin sheet of paper. “I am very grateful.”
“And yet hearing from them leaves you homesick,” he said gently.
“Indeed.” Slowly, I turned to face him, wondering if I was so very transparent.
“Many start to yearn for home about this time on our journey,” he said, waving his unlit pipe in the air. “It is normal. And, trust me, something you can overcome.”
“What if…” I
My eyes moved back to the swooping falcons and, beneath them, the rocky valleys. And then I turned and scanned the ruins of the castle until my eyes found what they sought.
William.
When we all gathered again, sitting in a line along the castle wall, we shared a picnic of cold roast chicken, bread, and fruit. The group was uncommonly quiet, all lost in thought.
“Any questions from you?” Will called, rising. I was both glad and sad that there were four people sitting between us. My mind and heart were whirling as I wondered if what I felt was true, godly. Was He leading me to Will? Telling me that Will was the right man for me, regardless of what others thought? Regardless of our fears?
“So this was originally built as a Cathar castle?” Felix asked.
Will ran his hand down the crumbling corner of the wall nearest him. “They took refuge here, but no, it was built long before that. Many of these sites are symbolic outposts of Charlemagne’s ninth-century empire. Sadly, when his feuding sons took over, Languedoc became a scrap fought over by two fierce dogs. France ultimately won, as we’ve seen.”
“How is it in such good condition?” Andrew asked, tossing a rock from one hand to the other.
“It fell by negotiation rather than by force,” Will said. “And it was used as a base from which to harass other Cathars in subsequent years.”
“So none were put to the stake here?” Hugh asked. His intent look, as if he wished he could see it happen, sent a shiver down my spine.
“No. But over there, in Minerve,” Will said with a nod toward the castle on the far ridge, “a hundred and forty were burned. Simon de Montfort, the leader of the crusaders, a devout man following orders from holy men he trusted, was universally hated. Not only for how he hunted the Cathars, but how he took out the legs from beneath the Languedoc. The entire region celebrated when his head was bashed in by a trebuchet stone. They sang songs of it.” He gave a shrug.
My eyes widened at that bit of information. Such violence, such hatred, all fueled by faith. This wasn’t an adventure of the soul—it was the means to set a hundred trails of gunpowder afire. The old bear loved such sweet tinder. Anything to get us thinking.
That afternoon, when we returned to the chateau in Carcassonne, the bear greeted me in the hall. “A telegram for you,” he said gently. The others filtered past, all intent on bathing and resting before changing for our last dinner in this ancient city.
I entered a library, and he followed, sitting down in a big leather chair while I went to the window to open the telegram. I scanned it. “It’s from my parents,” I said, then fell into reading it in silence. They’d received my own telegram. My father continued to make good strides since his stroke. He still wasn’t able to speak, but he seemed to understand much. And he was walking. Clearly, the hospital in Minneapolis was giving him good care. I reread the words twice, then a third time, hearing my mother’s voice, smiling at the glad tidings they contained. The hope.
I stared through the chateau window, which boasted a view over the second city wall, out to the verdant green valley below, and thought how far I felt from my parents. Our life together seemed a decade ago, even though we’d parted less than two months ago. So much had changed in that time. I had changed. Was I still the same person, at the core? Or less or more of who I was meant to be?
“Is his health improving, child?” the bear asked.
“Much,” I said, folding the thin sheet of paper. “I am very grateful.”
“And yet hearing from them leaves you homesick,” he said gently.
“Indeed.” Slowly, I turned to face him, wondering if I was so very transparent.
“Many start to yearn for home about this time on our journey,” he said, waving his unlit pipe in the air. “It is normal. And, trust me, something you can overcome.”
“What if…” I
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