Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (11 page)

"Louis has a big appetite, like any man," Olivia responded. She had grown to like Alexa, a former lover of the king, with a cynical, world-weary personality.

"What do you want from him? You don't have to be here, you know?"

"I wanted to leave the boring village of Troyes. I want to know powerful men and see great battles, and when my life is over, to know that I have lived well."

"You don't need to whore yourself to the king for those things."

"He's not so bad," Olivia responded, lowering her voice as the two other women from their supply wagon approached. They were real prostitutes, slightly older women who serviced common soldiers and absorbed their crude, banal attention.

"We need more women," Bruna, the biggest and oldest of the four, said when she saw Olivia and Alexa.

"Or less men . . . or more goats!" Alexa replied, earning a chorus of laughter from the others. Olivia smiled and the four of them got into their wagon, a rickety construction pulled by a foul-tempered donkey they had affectionately named Louis. In the wagon, dried strips of beef and dehydrated fruits sat in dozens of barrels, safeguarded and distributed by the women each morning.

"Are you all going to Egypt?" Olivia asked when they settled.

"Just Cyprus," Alexa said.

"Cyprus," Bruna answered.

"I'm going to Aigues-Mortes, and then back to Paris," Morenna, the fourth girl, answered. Olivia's heart sank. She had found camaraderie among these rough women of the flesh, in their unstable cart in the middle of the French Army. They had taken her in immediately, knowing that even a second-removed connection to the king could count for something, if circumstances aligned correctly. Olivia was more than just a connection to Louis, though. She was young and beautiful, a surefire way to attract the attention of more soldiers, which meant more business and fewer odd jobs for food and money. Of course, Olivia was reserved for Louis alone.

"Are you going to Egypt?" Alexa asked.

"I'm not sure yet. If you all aren't going—"

"Aigues-Mortes! Aigues-Mortes!" a voice screamed from outside. The women jumped out of the wagon and saw a collection of buildings in the distance, sitting next to the ocean, with the tall masts of ships behind them, bobbing in the water.

"We've arrived," Olivia whispered.

The army did not enter Aigues-Mortes that night, preferring to spread out in the nearby fields and woods until the following day. The officers and royal staff were permitted to enter the city, though, and Olivia got tidings from Louis, in the form of a cavalryman, as the sun began to set over the western sky.

"You will follow me," the grim-faced messenger said to Olivia, extending his hand from the saddle of his horse. Olivia took his hand and he pulled her up behind him, and kicked his heels into the horse's flanks. They bounded off in a moment, preparing to enter the city built solely for the Seventh Crusade.

Chapter Eleven

"I'M GOING TO AIGUES-MORTES," Artois announced that evening. The Coquets were outside Christof's cabin, each weighing the news that Francois had brought. If the Royal French Army was only a few hours away in Aigues-Mortes, preparing to set off for the Seventh Crusade, the time for procrastination was over.

"Have you thought this through?" Raul asked.

"Yes. I was born to fight, and this is . . . I can't find the right words. I have to go on the Seventh Crusade; I want it more than I've ever wanted anything. If I miss this, I'll be missing part of me, I'll be, I don't know . . ." Artois trailed off, trying to make them understand with his eyes. It was times like this when Artois wished for the gift of eloquence that Francois had, where he knew the right words to express his feelings.

"If you feel so strongly, you should go," Christof said.

"Christof! He is not your son!" Raul exclaimed. "Artois, do you understand what you're getting into? This won't be one of your tavern brawls or fights with the local constables. These are Ayyubids, murderous Muslims who will castrate you if they capture you. Do not make this decision lightly. There will be many wars in the future, why must you fight in this one, when we are already shunned by the man who you will be pledging to serve?"

"Sorry, Father. I'm going. I wish I could explain it better," Artois said.

"Father, you were the best tracker in France, and then your dogs were killed," Francois said.

"And?"

"And when that dragon took your— our—dogs, you lost your purpose. Your contribution to the people, to the peasantry, was extinguished. This war is Artois' contribution to France. He won't be fighting for King Louis or for the pope. He'll fight for the common men next to him, who only want to return safely to their wives and children. Artois must do this, and I'm going with him."

"What? You intend to—"

"I'm going as well, brother. I've lived in this swamp all my life, remembering our dead friends and relatives, trying to find meaning in their deaths. I will honor them with my sword, fighting the Muslim dogs, who were never a friend to the Cathars either," Christof said. He clapped a hand on Artois' back and the three of them watched Raul, whose eyes were simultaneously filled with disbelief and pity.

Raul felt old. Christof was five years older, but he still had the mischievous eyes of a younger man. Raul remembered his own father, a man who drank heavily, fought everyone, and still, somehow, found a way to smile every day. He had died in a brawl involving several prostitutes, and Raul remembered thinking, when he heard the news, that it was the sort of death his father would have wanted—something wild, dangerous, and utterly pointless. Artois was like that, but Francois took after his mother, studious and disciplined. It was their differences that Raul had hoped would eventually separate the brothers, leading them to very, very different lives. But they were together, here and now, with crazy Christof, ready to rush off to a war.

The marsh air was purer at night, without the sun coaxing out all the chemicals from the plants and water. The marshes were louder at night, too, with mosquitoes buzzing and wolves howling in the distance. This particular night was silent, though, and Raul looked at Christof, Francois, and Artois, standing united and ready to leave him if necessary. Their blood was up, and they were going to fight. The purpose of the fight didn't matter: they needed action, excitement, and the sort of life-threatening danger that curiously makes people feel more alive than anything else. With a deep breath, Raul stretched his arms overhead and looked to the heavens. Mangrove branches obscured the bulk of the sky, but there were a few twinklings of stars, like candles stubbornly clinging to their flame, refusing to give in to the absolute darkness.

"We should leave in the morning," Raul said. "Let's get a good rest, first."

They set out at false dawn. Their boots and clothes reeked from the long hike through the marshes, but they reached the main road before noon. None of them knew the road's name, but it twisted north and east, straight into Aigues-Mortes. The sun was directly overhead when they took their first break, and Raul took the opportunity to speak sense to the group.

"How are we going to explain to the officers that we did not answer the king's summons months ago?" he asked.

"We'll say we never heard it," Artois answered. The other three looked at him, and he looked down, confident that his simple solution would work.

"Christof?"

"Tell them you came to fetch me, knowing I wouldn't receive any messages in the marsh. Once the bastards see the four of us, Artois especially, they'll be satisfied."

"If we tell them about the marshes, they'll figure out that we are Cathar descendants. That's not the best start, I think," Raul said. Christof's idea was slightly better than Artois', but still lacking. He turned to his younger son, "Francois?"

"If we are asked why we did not come sooner, which is not a certainty, we should speak the truth. We are Cathar descendants, and we still want to fight. We can say that we are no longer outcasts or rebels, just simple Frenchmen who wish to fight against Muslim tyranny. If we are forthcoming, our detractors, if there are any, will be disarmed," Francois said.

Aigues-Mortes came into sight the next day. The town was constructed for one purpose—to ferry troops out of France. The layout of the town gave credence to its purpose, and every large, well-constructed building was close to the water, whether it was a warehouse for storing supplies or an elongated wharf, with extra-large moorings for the largest ships in the French fleet. Farther from the water, the cottages of the people of Aigues-Mortes became smaller and smaller. After those, a fence was erected around the perimeter of the entire town. It was not a barricade, to hold off hordes of savages while the residents fled to their boats; this was the French coast, one of the safest places on Earth. If a foreign nation ever dared attack Aigues-Mortes, the hammer of the mighty French Army would fall on it with full force. For true safety, deterrence is often the best defense.

People were everywhere. Battalions drilled in the fields around the town, and the entire scene resembled an anthill that had been kicked by a child. French flags, blue with gold fleur-de-lis, were waving proudly from every ship's mast and commanders' positions. Behind the modern, stylish town, the Mediterranean Sea glistened for hundreds of miles, its blue depths more beautiful to Francois than any grandeur the French Crown could manufacture.

"We'll be with the infantry," Christof said. "Latecomers get the worst postings. At the first battle, we'll whet our blades with Muslim blood before anyone else. I'm looking forward to this, all danger and no glory."

"We can still turn back," Raul said.

"No, we can't," Artois growled.

"Father, you don't need to do this," Francois said. He was attuned to his father's reluctance more keenly than Christof and Artois, who were obsessed with going to war. They lived for the glory, the danger, and suffering that could only be found in combat. Men such as Raul wanted to build, innovate, and create a better world, where pain was lessened and humankind's banal existence elevated. At first glance, the men were seemingly cut from the same mold, but below the surface, they couldn't be more different.

"If you all are going, I'm going," Raul answered. Francois knew that if he chose not to go, he could convince his father to join him, leaving Artois and Christof. It wouldn't be an easy decision, but Francois was confident he could persuade the old man if he wanted to. He wanted to fight too, though his high-powered insight couldn't be turned inward to figure out why.

"Let's do this," Christof said, walking straight toward the nearest French flag. In a few moments, the decision to join or shun the Seventh Crusade would no longer be theirs, as they were absorbed into the ranks of King Louis IX.

Chapter Twelve

FRANCOIS WAS EXPECTING A COMMOTION. He thought their arrival would ignite some sort of emergency assembly, where all of the high-ranking commanders would appear and have a heated debate on what to do with the Coquets. Instead, a lowly lieutenant waved them over to his position, which appeared to be a watchtower facing north. The nearest troops were 200 yards away, a cavalry platoon going over battle horns.

"Who are you?" the lieutenant yelled from his post. It was really just a small building with a ladder in the back that led to the roof, so a man could stand there and see very far. He had a bow and arrow, too, though Francois doubted it was well-used in his hands.

"We are the Coquets, from Toulouse," Raul said proudly, like he was announcing their presence to the king himself.

"Are you here to join the crusade? Slow farmers and merchants have been trickling in all day, the last arrivers for the big party."

"Where do we sign up?" Artois bellowed. He did not like being considered a farmer or merchant, though he wasn't truly a soldier, either. Regardless, this lieutenant looked young and had an obnoxious grin on his face, like some middle-class whelp who took every opportunity to remind peasants of their station.

"Go into Aigues-Mortes and locate the four cottages standing alone, on the west side. New recruits are being processed there," the lieutenant said. He said "recruits" as if it was some foul word, a designation for people not worthy to even speak to him.

"Aye, we will," Christof said.

"Aye, sir," the lieutenant said.

"Aye, sir," Francois echoed, ushering his family past the snide lieutenant. They didn't need to make any enemies, and Artois was getting that crazy gleam in his eye, as if he might climb the ladder to the lieutenant and throttle the man.

"I apologize, sir, but I don't remember hearing your name," Raul said as they walked by.

"I am Pierre Dimon, from Paris."

Raul didn't respond and they kept walking. His hands were clenched into fists, Francois noticed, and veins on his neck were showing where they usually didn't.

"What is it, Father?" Francois asked.

"The Dimons are prominent among the Inquisitors, and I believe I knew that young soldier's father," Raul said.

"You knew him?"

"Last time I saw Pierre Dimon senior, he was missing his head," Raul responded. To Francois' surprise, Christof laughed.

"Ha! Those were good days," he said.

They killed him because he was an Inquisitor,
Francois thought. Calling other men evil is easy, until you are doing exactly as they have done, or worse.

Aigues-Mortes, as a fortified town occupied by the king, was closely guarded. The Coquets were stopped three times on their way to the recruit houses, and they were always allowed to pass, though a few guards cast uneasy glances at Artois. Appropriate that, too, because he was big and raring for a fight. Francois knew the time would come when they would join a unit, and Artois would be expected to complete some sort of initiation. Francois would complete one, too, but he doubted he would kill anyone in the process.

They did nothing at the recruit cottages except give their names. After that, they were led to a training yard where two dozen other men waited, sitting on the ground around a huge, square sandpit. The sand was yellow and brown, compacted to be as hard as brick. After an hour, an officer entered the arena and looked at the assembled recruits.