Labyrinth (42 page)

Her favourite red cloak was no good. The material was too delicate and the hem bulged. Instead she picked a heavy brown cloak. It was a winter garment, intended to be worn for hunting, but that couldn’t be helped.

With expert fingers, Alais unpicked the
passementerie
at the front until she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze the book inside. Next, she took the thread Sajhe had brought her from the market, which exactly matched the colour of the material, and sewed the book in place at the back, secure.

Alais held the cloak up and swung it over her shoulders. It was uneven at present but, once she had her father’s book too, it would be better balanced.

She had only one more task to accomplish. Leaving the cloak draped over the chair, Alais went back to the table to see if the ink was dry. Mindful that she could be interrupted at any moment, she folded the parchment and slipped it inside a lavender posy. She stitched the opening shut, so that no one could come upon it by accident, then placed it back under her pillow.

Alais looked around, satisfied with what she had accomplished, and started to clear up her sewing materials.

There was a knock at the door. Alais rushed to open it, expecting to see her father. Instead, she found Guilhem standing on the threshold, unsure of his welcome. The familiar half smile, the little boy lost eyes.

“May I come in, Dame?” he asked softly.

Her instinct was to throw her arms about him. Caution held her back.

Too much had been said. Too little forgiven.

“May I?”

“It is your chamber also,” she said lightly. “I would not deny you admittance.”

“So formal,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I would that pleasure not duty made you answer thus.”

“I am…” she hesitated, thrown off balance by the intense longing sweeping through her. “I am happy to see you,
Messire
.”

*You look tired,“ he said, reaching to touch her face.

How easy it would be to give in. To give all of herself to him.

She closed her eyes, almost feeling his fingers moving over her skin. A caress, as light as a whisper and as natural as breathing. Alais imagined herself leaning towards him, letting him hold her up. His presence made ; her dizzy, made her feel weak.

I cannot. Must not.

Alais forced open her eyes and took a step back. “Don’t,” she whispered. please don’t.“

Guilhem took her hand and held it between his. Alais could see he was nervous.

“Soon… unless God intervenes, we will face them. When the time’s, Alzeu, Thierry, the others, we all will ride out. And might not return.”

“Yes,” she said softly, wishing some of the life would return to his face.

“Since our return from Besiers, I have behaved ill towards you, Alais, without cause or justification. I’m sorry for it and have come to ask your forgiveness. Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things - things - that I regret.”

Alais held his gaze but, unsure of how she felt, did not trust herself to speak.

Guilhem moved closer. “But you are not displeased to see me.”

She smiled. “You have been absent from me so long, Guilhem, I hardly know what to feel.”

“Do you wish me to leave you?”

Alais felt tears spring into her eyes, which gave her the courage to stand firm. She did not want him to see her cry.

“I think it would be best.” She reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a handkerchief, which she pressed into his hand. “There is yet time for things to be right between us.”

Time is the one thing that we do not have, little Alais,“ he said gently.

“But, unless God or the French allow it, I will come again tomorrow.”

Alais thought of the books and of the responsibility resting on her shoulders. How soon she would be leaving.
I might never see him more.
Her heartstrings cracked. She hesitated, and then embraced him fiercely, as if to imprint his outline on hers.

Then, as swiftly as she had taken him, she let him go.

We are all in God’s hands,“ she said. ”Now, please leave, Guilhem.“

Tomorrow?“

We will see.“

Alais stood like a statue, hands clasped in front of her to stop them from shaking, until the door had shut and Guilhem was gone. Then, lost in thought, she wandered slowly back to the table, wondering what had driven him to come. Love? Regret? Or something else?

CHAPTER 46

Simeon glanced up at the sky. Grey clouds jostled for position, obscuring the sun. He had journeyed some distance from the Cite already, but wanted to get back to his lodgings before the storm hit.

Once he reached the outskirts of the woods that separated the plains outside Carcassonne from the river, he slowed his pace. He was out of breath, too old to travel so far on foot. He leaned heavily against his staff and loosened the neck of his robe. It was not so far now. Esther would have a meal waiting for him, perhaps a little wine. The thought restored him. Perhaps Bertrand was right? Perhaps it would be over by spring.

Simeon did not notice the two men who stepped out behind him on the path. He was not aware of the raised arm, the club coming down on his head, until he felt the blow and the darkness took him.

By the time Pelletier arrived at the Porte Narbonnaise, a crowd had already formed.

“Let me through,” he shouted, pushing everyone out of his way until he reached the front. A man was slumped on all fours on the ground. Blood was flowing from a cut on his forehead.

Two men-at-arms towered above him, their pikes pointed at his neck. The man was evidently a musician. His tabor was punctured and his pipe had been snapped in two and tossed aside, like bones at a feast.

What in the name of Sant-Foy is going on?“ Pelletier demanded. ”What is this man’s offence?“

“He did not stop when ordered to do so,” the older of the soldiers lied. His face was a patchwork of scars and old wounds. “He has no authorization”

Pelletier crouched down beside the musician. “I am Bertrand Pelletier, Intendant to the Viscount. What is your business in Carcassona?”

The man’s eyes flickered open. “Intendant Pelletier?” he murmured, clutching Pelletier’s arm.

“It is I. Speak, friend.”

“
Besiers es presa
.” Beziers is taken.

Close by, a woman stifled a cry and clasped her hand to her mouth.

Shocked to his core, Pelletier found himself on his feet again.

“You,” he commanded, “fetch reinforcements to relieve you here and help get this man to the Chateau. If he does not regain his speech through your ill treatment, it will be the worse for you.” Pelletier spun to the crowd. “Mind my words well,” he shouted. “No citizen is to speak of what you have witnessed here. We will know soon enough the truth of the matter.”

When they reached the Chateau Comtal, Pelletier ordered the musician to be taken to the kitchens to have his wounds dressed, while he went immediately to inform Viscount Trencavel. Some little time later, fortified by sweet wine and honey, the musician was brought to the
donjon
.

He was pale but in command of himself. Fearing the man’s legs would not hold him, Pelletier ordered a stool to be fetched so he could give his testimony sitting down.

“Tell us your name,
amic
,” he said.

“Pierre de Murviel,
Messire
.”

Viscount Trencavel sat in the middle, his allies around him in a semicircle.

“
Benvenguda
, Pierre de Murviel,” he said. “You have news for us.”

Sitting bolt upright with his hands on his knees, his face as white as milk, he cleared his throat and began to talk. He had been born in Beziers, although he had spent the past few years in the courts of Navarre and Aragon. He was a musician, having learned his trade from Raimon de Mirval himself, the finest troubadour of the Midi. It was on the strength of this that he’d received an invitation from the Suzerain of Beziers. Seeing an opportunity to visit his family again, he’d accepted and returned home.

His voice was so quiet that the listeners had to strain to hear what he was saying. “Tell us of Besiers,” said Trencavel. “Leave no detail unspoken.”

“The French army arrived at the walls the day before the Feast Day of Santa Maria Magdalena and pitched camp along the left bank of the River Orb. Closest to the river were the pilgrims and mercenaries, beggars and unfortunates, a tattered rabble of men, bare-footed and wearing only breeches and shirts. Further away, the colours of the barons and the churchmen flew above their pavilions in a mass of green and gold and red. They built flagpoles and felled trees for enclosures for their animals.”

“Who was sent to parley?”

“The Bishop of Besiers, Renaud de Montpeyroux.”

“It is said he is a traitor,
Messire
,” said Pelletier, leaning over and whispering in his ear, “that he has already taken the Cross.”

“Bishop Montpeyroux returned with a list of supposed heretics drawn up by the Papal Legates. I don’t know how many were set down on the parchment,
Messire
, but hundreds certainly. The names of some of the most influential, most wealthy, most noble citizens of Besiers were written there, as well as followers of the new church and those who were accused of being
Bons Chretiens
. If the Consuls would hand over the heretics, then Besiers would be spared. If not…” He left the words hanging.

“What answer gave the consuls?” said Pelletier. It was the first indication of whether or not the alliance would hold against the French.

“That they would rather be drowned in the salt sea’s brine than surrender or betray their fellow citizens.”

Trencavel gave the slightest sigh.

“The Bishop withdrew from the city, taking with him a small number of Catholic priests. The commander of our garrison, Bernard de Servian, : began to organise the defences.”

He stopped and swallowed hard. Even Congost, bent over his parchment, stopped and looked up.

“The morning of July the twenty-second dawned quietly enough. It was hot, even at first light. A handful of Crusaders, camp followers, not even soldiers, went to the river, immediately below the fortifications to the south of the city. They were observed from the walls. Insults were traded. One of the
routiers
walked on to the bridge, swaggering, swearing. It so inflamed our young men on the walls, they armed themselves with spears, clubs, even a makeshift drum and banner. Determined to teach the French a lesson, they threw open the gate and charged down the slope before anyone knew what was happening, shouting at the tops of their voices and attacked the man. It was over in moments. They threw the
routier’s
dead body off the bridge into the river.”

Pelletier glanced at Viscount Trencavel. His face was white.

“From the walls, the townspeople screamed at the boys to come back, they were too dizzied with confidence to listen. The noise of the brawl drew the attention of the captain of the mercenaries, the r
oi
as his men call him. Seeing the gate standing open, he gave the order to attack. At last the youths realised the danger, but it was too late. The
routiers
slaughtered them where they stood. The few that made it back tried to secure the gate, but the
routiers
were too quick, too well armed. They forced their way through and held it open.

“Within moments, French soldiers were hammering at the walls, armed with picks and mattocks and scaling ladders. Bernard de Servian did his best to defend the ramparts and hold the keep, but everything happened too quickly. The mercenaries held the gate.

“Once the Crusaders were inside, the massacre began. There were bodies everywhere, dead and mutilated; we were in blood knee-deep. Children were cut from their mothers’ arms and skewered on the points of pikes and swords. Heads were severed from limbs and mounted on the walls for the crows to pick clean, so it seemed that a line of bloody gargoyles, fashioned from flesh and bone, not stone, gaped down on our defeat. They butchered all who they came upon, without regard to age or sex.”

Viscount Trencavel could remain silent no longer. “But how came it that the Legates or the French barons did not stop this carnage? Did they not know of it?”

Du Murviel raised his head. They knew,
Messire
.“

“But a massacre of innocent people goes against all honour, all convention in war,” said Pierre-Roger de Cabaret. “I cannot believe that the Abbot of Citeaux, for all his zeal and hatred of heresy, would sanction the slaughter of Christian women and children, in a state of sin?”

“It is said that the Abbot was asked how he should tell the good Catholics from the heretics: ”
Tuez-les tous. Dieu reconnaitra les siens
“,” said du Murviel in a hollow voice. “ ”Kill them all. God will recognise his own.“ Or so it is rumoured that he spoke.”

Trencavel and de Cabaret exchanged glances.

“Go on,” ordered Pelletier grimly. “Finish your story.”

The great bells of Besiers were ringing the alarum. Women and children crowded into the Church of Sant-Jude and the Church of Santa Maria Magdalena in the upper town, thousands of people crammed inside like animals in a pen. The Catholic priests vested themselves and sang the Requiem, but the Crusaders broke down the door and slaughtered them all.“

His voice faltered. “In the space of a few brief hours, our entire city had been turned into a charnel house. The looting started. All our fine houses were stripped bare by greed and barbarity. Only now did the French barons, through greed not conscience, seek to control the
routiers
. They, in turn, were furious to be deprived of the spoils they had earned, so set the town alight so none could benefit. The wooden dwellings of the slums went up like a tinderbox. The roof timbers of the Cathedral caught light and collapsed, trapping all those sheltering inside. So fierce were the flames, the Cathedral cracked down the middle.”

Tell me this,
amic
. How many survive?“ said the Viscount.

The musician dropped his head. “None,
Messire
. Save those few of us who escaped the city. Otherwise, all are dead.”