The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  The wars against the Moors, even the zealous Almohads, had always been prosecuted with a certain level of understanding. A level of respect for the enemy had existed on both sides, and both forces had stated that their primary concern had been the conversion of the enemy, bringing the lost souls within the embrace of their faith. Whether you believed it or not, that set a certain humanity to the war.

  In the crusade in Constantinople, it had been simple greed that had driven the invasion and the siege. As such, while atrocities had been committed and it had been an ugly struggle, it had never been personal and based upon hatred.

  What Arnau was now learning about this ‘Cathar’ crusade in Occitania was that two opposed views within the same Church bred more bitterness and hatred than any enemy from outside. The Cathars violently opposed any interference from the Church of Rome into what they saw as their more true Christian ethos, while with the Pope’s fury behind them and the extremely pious de Montfort leading, the crusaders were unforgiving in their demand for adherence to Rome. Moreover, the priest, Benedict, who had been preaching in the region and trying to convert the Cathars for years, would not sleep until total victory had been achieved. The result of such vehemence on both sides was simple horror. Cathars and crusaders alike seemed to be attempting to outdo one another with atrocities and viciousness as the war went on.

  This, then, would likely be no ordinary siege. They could neither give, nor expect quarter or respect. What the coming days held worried him more than mere battle and injury. He had begun to dream feverishly, and those cages of rotting heretics at Pamiers featured nightly as he woke in a terrified sweat.

  ‘Steady yourself,’ Balthesar said, watching.

  They were as prepared as they could be. For days every man available, even the knights, had worked to dig a new ditch around the walls, and all but essential supplies had been sent east to safety. On both towers, behind every arrow slit, and all along the walls, missiles stood in stacks. Against any reasonable force, they could have been confident. This was not a reasonable force. The flood of humanity, bristling with steel points and brightly coloured livery had been pouring into view for an hour now, and showed no sign of slowing. Someone had clearly judged the approach well, for the catapult on the keep had attempted a ranging shot and realised that the enemy were drawing up outside of their range. However, the massive mangonels being assembled along their lines had a much greater range than the tower-top weapons. Within a day they would be able to begin battering Pujol’s walls, while remaining untouched themselves.

  There had been a short and urgent conference between the various commanders. The notion of abandoning Pujol had even been raised, though quickly discarded. The simple fact, and all knew it, was that the fall of Pujol, a small fortress facing an immense force, was inevitable. It was just a matter of time and of how many of the enemy they could take with them.

  There remained one hope, though. Riders had been dispatched the moment the enemy force had been sighted approaching, racing for the crusade’s great commander. Even if the Earl of Leicester could not gather enough men to help, his brother still had a strong army somewhere to the east. If Guy de Montfort could be summoned to Pujol with his army, then things would change, and they could perhaps turn this from a desperate siege into a feasible battle.

  Arnau frowned and peered into the enemy force.

  ‘Do you see what I see?’

  Balthesar, Ramon and Tristán all followed his gesture, though none seemed to see it. Arnau pointed at the flags now appearing to the right of the field of men. ‘Banners from home.’

  Ramon leaned forward. ‘The king has come?’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t see any Aragonese colours yet, but there are Catalan nobles there in force. I see Creixell’s flag, and Escala, and many others I know, from Tortosa to Perpignan. Half of Catalunya is here arrayed against us. See how the heretic king treats his Catalan subjects? Where are the men of Aragon or the monarch himself and his court? No, he sends Catalunya to fight for him.’

  He spat. Every day hammered another nail into the coffin of Pedro of Aragon’s reputation with Arnau. ‘Would that we could meet him in the field, but I have no wish to fight my countrymen with no chance of meeting our true enemies.’

  ‘I fear your countrymen feel differently,’ Tristán muttered, looking out at the huge force. ‘See how things progress? There will be no ultimatum given. No offer.’

  Arnau nodded. The enemy were assembling, and the engines already being constructed. The siege was about to begin. Arnau prayed that Guy de Montfort would come.

  * * *

  Dawn brought war. The enemy had still been arriving and setting up camp until the sun slid into the flat horizon of the west behind them, and the siege engines had been completed, though too late to be of much use that first day.

  The first strain of sunlight that brought a glow to the indigo east, however, had seen the enemy ready. War commenced with a clatter of timbers against struts all around the castle as Toulouse’s catapults released their first shots. Nine machines shot but only two struck home; the crack of massive stones hurtling into the walls of Pujol, a morning alarm for many of the garrison, who hurried up to the wall and tower tops at the bellowed urging of officers. The failure of many machines, though, was not a herald of what was to come. These were simply ranging shots, and by the time a second volley was released, six of the catapults struck home. From then, they began to loose individually, as soon as they were ready, and it was impossible to tell what levels of success they were achieving other than that most shots struck the walls.

  Arnau began to appreciate, as he stood on the tower top, how well designed Pujol was. It may be small and relatively unimportant, but it had been constructed with all thought for siege engines. The round tower was a tough proposition for the enemy, for its curved walls deflected most shots off at an angle with relatively minor damage. The curtain wall was also curved in most places, and was proving to be tough for the catapults. The only truly flat walls they could concentrate on were the keep and the gatehouse, and both of these had been built with extraordinarily thick walls, which could take a serious pounding without too much damage.

  Even the biggest machines the enemy could field were doing little more than knock facing stones from the walls or leave tiny hairline cracks. The artillerists on the tower with Arnau had smiled. In their expert opinion Pujol was if not impregnable to such attacks, at least capable of withstanding the damage for months. More than long enough for help to arrive.

  Arnau watched from the tower top all morning. The enemy kept their main force back, attempting to put an early end to this with a breach from artillery, but the men behind Arnau seemed to be correct. At the range they were at, the enemy catapults were doing little more than cosmetic damage, and were not close enough to reach the parapets where they could do any real harm to the defenders. Only one lucky shot from an over-stretched mangonel took a piece of stonework from the wall top and killed two men in the process, and the damage to the machine from the stretching put it out of commission for the rest of the morning.

  Three hours into the barrage with hardly any effect on the castle, someone out there had given a new command, and two of the catapults had been moved forward from the siege lines to a position where they could reach the tops of the walls and start to do proper damage. D’Orbessan had immediately given his artillerists free rein to do what they could, as had des Essarts over on the keep. Both enemy machines had been immediately targeted by the tower-top catapults and within two shots had been turned into over-sized kindling. That had taught Count Raymond not to move too close.

  And so the enemy artillery, now down to six working machines, went back to concentrating on the walls and once more things calmed, for they were clearly making little more than a mark on the castle. Arnau had settled to leaning on the parapet, feeling strangely safe despite the ongoing peril, listening to the pointless thuds and cracks of artillery shot. All along the wal
ls and tower tops cauldrons of water were now constantly on the boil, for all were sure the enemy couldn’t keep up this wasteful barrage for long.

  Yet nothing else happened. Noon came and went with a ration of cheese and bread brought around the walls for all the men there. The enemy artillery continued doing little of any import to the walls. Arnau actually found that he was becoming bored, and spent his time trying to identify the banners among the Catalan contingent. Several were from families he was sure had been among the claimants for Rourell’s lands, though these were the little fish that he would throw back. The big fish had yet to put in an appearance. Still, if Pedro’s Catalans were here, likely the Aragonese nobles and the king himself would not be far behind.

  The afternoon saw a rise in everyone’s spirits at this consistent failure. While priests and nobles went among the enemy, haranguing and encouraging, a group of Franks on the walls nearby had noticed that the catapults had fallen into a steady rhythm and began singing a truly eye-wateringly filthy song in time to the thuds, loud enough to be heard by the enemy.

  The afternoon wore on with warm sunshine and a sense of impregnability, and by the time the golden disc touched the horizon, the enemy catapults at last fell silent. The first day had ended and the death toll had been negligible. The garrison of Pujol went to their rest leaving a good number of men on watch in shifts, but with a positivity that none had expected. No one could doubt that Guy de Montfort would be coming with his army, or at least the Earl of Leicester with a hastily gathered force. All they had to do was keep safe as they had today and eventually everything would change.

  The next morning Arnau rushed up to the tower top to a new alarm. The siege engines remained silent as the sun rose this time. Instead, the voices of the enemy army rose in morning song, a paean to the Lord. Every man in Pujol hurried to his place and began to prepare, for everyone who had been among a fielded army in battle knew what that meant. Indeed, as archers checked their strings, men adjusted straps and fastenings and tested blade edges, and the cauldrons were once more brought to the boil; the enemy’s morning hymn faded to be replaced by the noisy blessings of two dozen priests who moved among the lines, preparing the men for the battle to come.

  Arnau found himself leaning on the parapet and listening to the blessings, and the differences between these and those carried out by the priests among the true Church struck him like a blow. It was nothing to do with the difference in language. It was a central core of the belief that was twisting their prayers. The priests were calling upon a ‘good’ God, father of the Christ, to protect their men, but labelled the Franks sons of the ‘evil’ god of Abraham and called for their utter destruction.

  Despite any tales of de Montfort’s viciousness, Arnau felt any lingering doubts about the righteousness of their cause falling away. These Cathars had two gods, which surely was the worst heresy of all, for did the book of Deuteronomy not say, ‘Thou shalt not have alien Gods in my sight?’ Even the Saracen and the Moor recognised that their God was the one god and the only god, for all they might deny the divinity of the Christ. Arnau shuddered at the wickedness being espoused before them, and had to shake himself to recall his wandering thoughts as the enemy ended their rituals.

  In defiance of their heresy, a man in strong armour with a cross hanging around his neck stepped up to the parapet above the gatehouse. There, he began to bellow out verses from the scripture, aiming them like arrows at the enemy priests.

  ‘“The Lord, the King of Israel, and its Redeemer, the Lord of hosts saith these things – I am the first, and I am the last, and there is no God besides me.” Isiah.’

  A roar followed this and as it died away he bellowed, ‘“I am alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, saith the Lord God, that is, and that was, and that is to come, the almighty.” Revelation.’

  Another roar.

  ‘“You shall have no other gods before me.” Exodus.’

  And so it went on. Quote after quote, each punctuated with a roar from the garrison. Zachariah. Romans. Samuel, and so on. And with each verbal shot, Arnau felt his righteousness and his spirit and his strength grow. Finally, the enemy had had enough, and half a dozen brave men ran forth from their lines, stretching bow strings, and stopped sharply, loosing their missiles up at the gate top. It had been so unexpected that the lay preacher had to throw himself down to avoid being pinned, though not one of the enemy archers returned alive to their lines, all impaled with shots from the walls as they ran back.

  As if the exchanges had been a trigger, suddenly horns and shouts rang out across the attacking army. The defenders prepared themselves once more as all around the lines, gaps opened up and men ran forward with armfuls of brush and sticks and clods of earth.

  ‘Ready,’ called d’Orbessan at the tower top. Crossbowmen and archers alike stretched and cranked and sighted. Men at arms held their polearms ready or gripped swords or forked sticks, ready to push siege ladders back from the defences.

  As the swarms of men ran for the ditches, calls went up and archers and crossbowmen loosed their missiles. In truth, though it was like some sort of child’s game, for it was near impossible to miss the low-ranking men running with their loads, it was also a small victory at best. Almost every shot hit home, the defenders achieving far more than anyone could hope, there were simply so many men running at the castle that even after a second volley, a collection of debris had been cast into the ditch.

  As some of the runners were taken by arrows on the way back to their own lines, already the enemy were adjusting their tactics. Huge wicker screens were wheeled from the enemy lines and dropped into place halfway along the open space, and the second group of runners began to hurtle from the enemy lines, using those screens to protect themselves part of the way. This time many more of them managed to cast their loads into the ditch, and though more died on the way and on the way back, the ditch filling had increased. Again, more screens were brought out, creating a covered gallery that protected men part of the way. The enemy began to concentrate their efforts on one section of wall, and with the aid of their screens and roofs, they were getting more and more men to the ditch and more and more back to safety.

  Once again, it was brought home to Arnau how much the numbers had predetermined the outcome of this fight, and that it was all a matter of holding as long as they could. Though the catapults on the tower tops in the next half-hour managed to pulverise the shelter, it was quickly replaced with another and the work went on.

  The purpose of the second day was soon clear: the enemy were forging a path to the walls.

  By the time noon had passed, and this time with no chance to eat, a section of the ditch some forty feet wide had been almost completely filled, and the enemy’s last task involved two more groups of runners, this time with timbers which they cast down to form a floor across the debris.

  By mid-afternoon the route to the castle was clear.

  The enemy gave them no respite now. With the ditch neutralised, new groups of men began to run forward. This time they carried small wooden shelters, large enough to house perhaps three or four men. As they crossed the ground that was already strewn with dead runners, they fell in turn to shots from the wall top. Catapults, crossbows and arrows made sure that not one of the men reached the ditch, their burdens falling to the bloody ground.

  Half an hour of frenetic work ensued down there with men coming forth and dragging away the bodies to clear a path. As the sun finally began to slip westwards, the assault started again in earnest, new groups running forward, collecting the wooden shelters and running them further. Only two made it across the ditch, but even as more men came to complete the job, those two were shoved up against the wall.

  The enemy soldiers responsible cheered, and then immediately paid the price for their bravery. At a shouted command, one of the cauldrons was heaved up to the parapet and then tipped over. The boiling water fell like murderous rain upon those triumphant men, searing and burning, sending men to their death i
n agony. The courage of the next men faltered, but, driven on by the shouts of their commanders, they came again. Arnau watched, tense, as over the next hour shelters made it to the wall one after the other. The men bringing them inevitably died to arrows, stones or boiling water, but the enemy had started something new, and the shelters they were now bringing were covered with dampened hides that would keep the interior dry. The purpose of the shelters was soon made clear. As the light turned to that of late afternoon, becoming darker and hazier, men came with shovels and picks and timbers. Count Raymond’s soldiers died by the score in that hour, and the attrition below the walls must have been appalling. The mounds of dead outside the castle rose constantly, yet their tactic was working. By the time the sun sank into the west, the sappers were achieving their goal.

  The defenders on the wall tops could actually feel the work going on under the ramparts, vibrating through the stone. As the light faded, rocks and boiling water and arrows and bolts rained down constantly on the wooden shelters, but it was all little more than a delay to the enemy. Their soldiers continued to die at a surprising rate, the fates of the men working below always agonising, and yet their numbers were ever replenished from the enemy lines at seemingly no cost in manpower to the massive force.

  By the time darkness truly fell, the defenders could do no more. Arnau watched as the wooden shelters finally succumbed to the torrents of boiling water and the stones, cracking and splintering and leaking, but it was too late. The soft and fertile farmland upon which the castle was built was no great trouble for enemy sappers, and by the time the shelters had been neutralised, the men were actually within the ground, digging, a pile of soil growing beside the walls.