The Winter Ghosts - By Kate Mosse Page 0,37

soldiers shouting.

‘We had not gone far before we came upon a break in the undergrowth. My father pulled back the twisted and overgrown branches of laurel to reveal ancient roots.’

Fabrissa smiled at the recollection.

‘In truth it looked like a flight of steps fashioned from wood, and I said so. Jean was amused at this, so from then on, I concentrated my efforts on keeping him entertained. Distracting him.’

Her face grew serious again.

‘But he was coughing almost all the time now. More than once, my father had to gently lower him from his back, and we would wait while Jean struggled to catch his breath.

‘At last, we reached a plateau, not much more than a ledge on the mountainside. I could see my father’s relief that his memory had not been at fault. Up above I saw a cleft in the rock, in the shape of a half-moon, concealed beneath an overhanging escarpment. From below the plateau, the mouth of the cave was not visible at all. A short tunnel led to a wider space, which connected in turn with a network of caverns deep inside the mountain.

‘Then we heard voices, and soon were reunited with our neighbours.’

A sigh escaped from between my lips.

‘Each family occupied a small area within which they made their camp. To start with the atmosphere was hopeful. The children played, delighted with the subterranean world, and women helped my mother to nurse Jean. At first, his health improved, and every day he became a little stronger.’

I frowned. ‘Every day? How long were you in the caves, then?’

‘A long time.’

‘Weeks?’ I said, appalled at the thought.

‘More.’ She paused. ‘Because it was winter, we had assumed the soldiers would give up and leave us alone until the spring. That was what had happened in the past. And, at the beginning, it seemed to be their intention. They did go, but in the end they always came back. They always came back. It was a game of cat and mouse.’

Fabrissa turned her eyes on me, then back to the wooded horizon. ‘We were the last, you see. Our village was one of the few remaining strongholds. They could not let us be. So we waited and we waited. The heavy snows came and we thought they would leave then. But they did not. They occupied the village. Our village.

‘The weeks passed. Our spirits began to dwindle. Men left the caves at night to fetch food and more provisions - a little oil for the lamps, candles, kindling to make fires - but it was never enough. Everyone was hungry and cold.’

She hesitated and I, for the first time since she had begun her story, could not stop myself reaching out for her. I tried to take her hands in mine, but her fingers were so cold I could not seem to catch hold of her.

‘Jean suffered very badly. The chill and damp got into his bones, his chest. At night, he could not sleep. He coughed continuously, clawing for breath, choking. He needed fresh air and sunlight, the very things we could not give him. Each day, I watched him grow weaker and knew there was nothing I could do. When he died, he was only fourteen years old.’

My heart contracted in pity. That Fabrissa also had lost a beloved brother, but in circumstances so much worse than mine, was more than I could bear. Although my ignorance of the precise circumstances of George’s passing had haunted me for years, I’d not had to watch him die. But Fabrissa had been there with Jean. She had seen him slipping from her, unable to do anything to save him. How could anyone live with such memories?

‘I’m so very sorry,’ I said quietly.

The sun had risen, cold and white in the sky. The black trees and the night-time silhouette of the mountains had transformed into the greens and greys of the new day. I could see snow on the peak of the Roc de Sédour in the distance.

I gathered her to me. This time I held her tight, though she felt insubstantial in my arms, like mist.

‘We could not bury him,’ she whispered. ‘The ground outside was too hard and the floor of the caves was rock. So he was laid with the others who had died: widow Azéma, the Bulot children. Later, many more.’

I caught my breath. For so long, my nights had been haunted by images of George dying in the mud and the blood and the barbed wire,