Paradise Red (26 page)

If they could see inside the fortress, they would be more heartened still, for shortage of fresh vegetables has brought disease. It would not be so bad if the Cathars could bury the bodies, but there is nowhere to do that, so they must tip them unceremoniously over the walls. To see loved ones dispatched like this saps the soul. Sicart is among the dead. Never having recovered from seeing Adela's stiff, spidery frame being carried shoulder high along the walkway on the day Raimon escaped, he was happy to go.

Left to himself, and despite all the “last stand” rhetoric, Raymond de Perella might have tried to come to an accommodation with Hugh. He knows as well as Hugh does that despite the current halt, the spring will bring renewed vigor in the road building, and though the strong and able-bodied Cathars could still slip away down the hidden paths, the weak and sick could not. It is unthinkable to leave them behind. Everything, therefore, points to a truce. However, de Perella is no longer master of this fortress. The more desperate their position clearly becomes, the stronger runs the White Wolf's writ. Reinforced by the “Flame,” without which he is now seldom seen, this most ardent of perfecti encourages, cajoles, and inspires. Though there are corpses stacked in corners waiting to be hurled into the abyss, he somehow keeps the Cathars believing that God is in the fortress with them and will not desert them. He never tells them that God will smite their enemies. They must not expect such an ordinary miracle. The miracle is that their sacrifice, even unto death, is a victory beyond price, a heavenly victory, a victory for which God will shower them with praise and reward when they meet him face-to-face.

Sir Roger and Metta are among those listening. In the
brouhaha following the murder of Adela and the disappearance of Raimon, Aimery, and Laila, they were hauled into the keep and questioned threateningly. Sir Roger roundly and furiously condemned Raimon. Metta tearfully defended him. In the end, however, the White Wolf had a Bible brought in. “What has happened is an abomination,” he said. “I shall not forget that, but we have a great struggle ahead, and it is not good if we are divided among ourselves. So, Sir Roger, we will gather the brethren together, and you will publicly swear, and your daughter too, that you have not and will never betray the Cathar cause.”

Sir Roger had been outraged. That he and Metta, stalwart Occitanians and lifelong Cathars, should have to swear loyalty is beyond insulting. But when the Bible, heavy in its wooden cover, was laid on a table, both father and daughter repeated the words they were told to repeat. What else was there to do? Metta seemed simply glad to end the matter, though she is not unscarred. There is a stoop in her shoulders that was never there before, and when the White Wolf resumes the kind solicitation and instruction with which he offers comfort, she listens to him without demur.

The real beginning of the actual end comes through a combination of five consecutive days of better weather and a piece of luck. Handing out bribes in the village, Hugh is approached by three men from the Basque country who volunteer, for a triple fee, to lead a small group of Hugh's best climbers up to the eastern barbican. The path is so sheer and precipitous that they suggest the climb should take place at night to prevent disabling fear and dizziness. Climbing in the dark will have its own dangers, but also advantages. The heretics in the barbican will be
taken so completely by surprise that if the French are clever, they might take possession of it before the rest of the fortress even realizes what has happened.

Hugh rejects the offer outright. To pay for the privilege of sending his men straight into a death trap seems an unlikely strategy for victory. The Basques do not argue, they just begin to load their donkeys. This is not their war. They seek only money, and if it is not forthcoming here, there will be other opportunities. Hugh watches, and after they have moved out, sends men to usher them off the road and to his council tent, where he makes them repeat their offer in front of witnesses. There is disagreement among his knights as to the trustworthiness of these unlikely allies, but eventually ten men volunteer to climb and the Basques are left in no uncertainty that if there is any hint of treachery, they will not see their native land again.

The night passes in slow anticipation. Hugh paces about and at dawn, as work resumes on the road, strains his eyes upward. He sees nothing at first. It is only as the sun breaks through that he gives a long, low whoop. From the top of the barbican, Cathar blue has given way to des Arcis yellow and crimson.

Now French spirits soar. They redouble their efforts on the road, but there is hardly any need, for not only can they now turn the barbican's stone guns onto the Cathars without any danger to themselves, but the villagers finally agree to send nothing more up to the fortress. The Cathars are now on their own.

Hugh waits for an emissary. Surely now the heretics will give up, for though they are still defended on three sides, the fall of the barbican is a fatal breach. At first, no message comes.
Instead, the White Wolf's empty flame is thrust higher and higher. But Hugh is patient, and eventually, as the French manning the barbican's stone gun deal out death inside the fortress with monotonous thumps, de Perella, unable to bear the screams of the women and children any longer, crawls between the corpses and holds up a grimy cloth that was once white. Hugh's men peer down. After what seems like an age, a knight shouts. At last, the bombardment stops and, despite the White Wolf, negotiations begin.

In all the excitement in the French camp, not much notice is taken of a lone rider in the early morning with only a squire in tow, and though, when passing the tents of the inquisitors, Raimon feels for Unbent, he and Cador ride through unmolested. Once in the main camp, however, Amalric and Henri recognize the horses. “Whoa there! Bors? Galahad?” Their reins are seized as Henri peers at Raimon with peeved surprise. “We thought you were up there with them.”

“I want to see Sir Hugh,” Raimon says.

“In irons is the only way he wants to see you.” They drag Raimon from his saddle.

“I demand to see Sir Hugh.” And there is Hugh in front of him, not seeing him for a moment because he is reading a message he has just been given. Even when he looks up, his gaze is quite uncomprehending. Then he starts. “You! Have you come from the fortress?”

“I want to speak to you.”

“Is it about this?” Hugh brandishes the parchment. “Have they sent you to negotiate in person? A strange choice, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“I'm throwing down a challenge.”

“A challenge?” Hugh's lips twitch. “To me? Here? Now?” He raises his eyebrows suddenly. “Oh, I see. Is it de Perella's idea that the fate of the Occitan should be decided in some kind of spectacle? You and I with the Flame between us?”

“No,” Raimon says, his blood boiling at Hugh's mocking tone. “My challenge has nothing to do with the fortress or even the Flame. It's to do with Yolanda.”

Hugh shudders and involuntarily crushes the message. “You've seen her? How?” Then, in dread, “She's not up there is she?”

Raimon stands like a mutineer. He will tell Hugh nothing. Amalric administers a hefty slap across the face, which Raimon receives, unflinching. Hugh scrutinizes him. “Come,” he says at last, his mocking tone vanished.

Raimon hesitates, conscious of Cador's danger.

“See that this boy and the horses are safe and fed,” Hugh orders a passing squire. “Come,” he repeats and, when Amalric and Henri move to flank him, gestures them away. “I can defend myself,” he says, “and rest assured, I won't hesitate.”

They pass by the oriflamme. The air is too still for it to flap, so it hangs, a dew-drenched, heavy threat, its red tails stained and tattered. Against the memory of the Flame's small, fresh vigor, the banner of France appears old and soiled and worn out. Raimon regards it with contempt.

He ducks his head beneath a tasseled awning. Hugh's belongings are neatly stored, with his good armor still in its chests and covered with an oilcloth, his long, two-handed sword gleaming on top. Raimon is suddenly glad that before they entered the camp he had Cador cut his hair and clean his boots. He does not want to look like a vagabond.

“A challenge,” remarks Hugh, tracking Raimon's every move. “It's a while since I've had one of those.” He may no longer be mocking, but he never forgets that he is a French knight, the keeper of the king's oriflamme, and that Raimon is a weaver's son. If Raimon wants to meet him on equal terms, he must earn the right. Yet Raimon is also possessed of one great advantage. He already knows what Hugh longs to know.

“I've come to kill you,” Raimon blurts out.

Hugh sets his legs a little wider. His eyes bore harder into Raimon's. “She's had a baby,” he says very slowly. “That's it, isn't it? She's had my baby, and it's a boy.” He cannot control the leaping of his heart.

Raimon will stamp on that leap. “She was having
a
baby, but she got rid of it.” He spits the lie straight out.

But Hugh is already shaking his head. “Don't take me for a fool, Raimon. If she'd gotten rid of the child you wouldn't be here, because she'd never have told you. Do you think she would risk you doing just what you're doing now and losing your life as a consequence? You see, she may not love me, but I know her just as well as you do.” Without thinking, he smoothes and folds the parchment again and again.

Raimon is telling himself all the while to keep calm, that losing control will get him nowhere, but his fury rocks him. “You forced her. She was unprotected and you just took her like an animal. You claim to be a knight? Why, you're nothing but a common criminal.” Abandoning his knightly challenge, he throws off Unbent and springs forward like a marketplace boxer. Never mind sword thrusts and parries, he will grind every ounce of Hugh's flesh and every hair of his head into the dirt.

The parchment flies into the air as they wrestle muscle against muscle, bone against bone. More heavily built and less blindly livid, Hugh pins Raimon against the armor chest, “You'll have to do better than this, my friend.”

“I'll murder you!” Raimon bellows.

Hugh gives him one last shove and then lets him go. Raimon rushes for Unbent, but Hugh does not pick up his own sword. Instead, he retrieves the parchment and holds it out like a shield. “Can you read?”

Raimon raises Unbent.

Hugh searches for something. “Metta,” he says suddenly. “Isn't that her name?”

Raimon is stopped in his tracks.

Hugh straightens the parchment and motions to it.

Raimon hesitates, then snatches it. He cannot make out the words at first for his eyes are hazy with hate, and, suspecting Hugh of a trick, his gaze keeps darting from parchment to Hugh and back. Eventually Hugh retreats and folds his arms, and when Raimon looks properly, he can see that what he holds is a treaty. He frowns. Hugh is motionless. Raimon lowers Unbent and reads.

The words are quite clear. The Blue Flame of the Occitan is to be handed over to Hugh, the keeper of the oriflamme. Then, all the knights in the fortress will be spared if they give up being Cathars and Occitanians and instead embrace Catholicism and swear allegiance to King Louis. This they must do in front of witnesses, and any who refuse will burn. After that, the fortress of Montségur will pass to the French crown. As for the perfecti, they must give themselves over to Hugh, who will pass them on to the inquisitors as he sees fit.

Raimon's whole self tightens with revulsion at the humiliation for the Occitanian knights. He begins to raise Unbent again. “What's this to do with Metta? You're surely not going to burn the women and children.”

Hugh feels for a stool and sits down, his sword within reach. He cannot suppress the joy the thought of his child gives him, but he tries to keep his voice grave. “Listen to me. The perfecti holed up in the fortress are as determined as any inquisitor. The White Wolf seeks the martyr's flames not just for himself but for them all. I cannot save the women if they won't save themselves.” He pauses. “Don't you also have a sister? And then there's Aimery.”

Raimon is trembling. “They're both dead.”

“Aimery's dead?” Hugh exhales hard. He seems to forget Raimon for a moment. “How?” Raimon says nothing. “May God have mercy on his soul.” Then Hugh is brisk again. “Listen to me. I'm in charge here, and as long as I'm in command, I can make sure the terms of the treaty are upheld.” Raimon makes a disparaging sound. “Don't be a child, Raimon. Don't you understand? This treaty is the best the Cathars can hope for. Better than the best. Don't you realize that there are people within my own camp who want everybody in the fortress to burn whether they recant and swear allegiance to the king or not? But de Perella will not sign it.”

Raimon is groaning inside. He already anticipates what is coming. Hugh shakes the parchment. “This may be your last challenge—apart,” he adds drily, “from your challenge to me.”

Raimon grips Unbent again, but Hugh has been clever. The thought of Metta burning undermines Raimon's singleminded
focus on Yolanda. He cannot just pretend he never knew her.

Hugh scrutinizes him. “And you still want the Blue Flame, don't you?”

Here is a victory that Raimon will not hide. “I have the Flame already,” he declares.

Hugh's smile loses a smidgen of its sparkle. “The Flame's still on the pog,” he says curtly. “We see it every night.” Raimon raises his eyebrows. Hugh speaks with care. “How would that be possible if, as you say, you have it?”

Raimon ignores the question. “Without the Flame you're finished,” he says. “The king doesn't really care about anything else. That's the prize he wants.”

“The Flame's on the pog,” Hugh repeats. He gets up and walks to and fro. Raimon
must
be bluffing. The White Wolf would never allow it to be removed. In his fury and upset over Yolanda, Raimon is reduced to fantasy. Hugh decides not to mention the Flame again. He taps his fingers. “There's not much time left. Though we have not yet agreed on terms, tomorrow, at the latest, de Perella will surrender and the prisoners will be paraded before the inquisitors. That's the moment they will have to decide whether to bow to France and Catholicism and live, or die as miserable heretics.” The two men are now face-to-face. “You have knowledge of the pyre yourself, Raimon,” Hugh says more softly. “You cannot want more people to suffer than have suffered already.”