The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  As it was, all trust and value in them had gone. The four men no longer had d’Orbessan with them, and they had lost every man they had brought with them to Occitania. To the crusading earl, they constituted merely four ageing knights with a chequered history who may or may not have been in the pay of the enemy. As such, while the main thrust of the crusade, led by Sir Guy, had cut back and forth across the land for the next fortnight, threatening the Cathars and taking lesser strongholds, the four survivors of Pujol had been kept far from the war in Pamiers where Simon de Montfort continued to pursue the political angle, forging treaties, communicating with Rome and planning, planning, forever planning.

  As August drew to a close, news came that the King of Aragon had finally arrived, his forces moving into Occitania. He had, as they had fully expected, initially travelled to Toulouse to the court of his brother-in-law, the count. There, it was said, he and the count had quarrelled and argued for a full week over their strategy. The count had fought this war for years already and consequently favoured a careful and defensive tactic, while King Pedro, knowing that with their combined force they fielded far more men than the Earl of Leicester could ever hope to gather, and fresh from victory against the Moors, advocated a campaign of pressing conquest.

  Their goal was clear, if their method was not. The enemy needed to retake critical cities that de Montfort had secured in the previous years, chief among them Carcasonne and Beziers, and to that end they would have to move east. When the attack had come, it had been unexpected for it was not to the east after all. The goal seemed to have changed, and since spies continued to report rifts in the enemy decision-making, they had not been expecting a move at all yet, let alone in this unexpected direction.

  It appeared that King Pedro had tired of arguing his decision, and had marched out without Count Raymond, heading south instead of east, forgetting all their plans in favour of marching on Pamiers and the Earl of Leicester himself. His swift departure from Toulouse had taken all by surprise, and none more so than Simon de Montfort, who was currently somewhat reliant upon the strength and movements of his brother Guy. Yet Guy was busy somewhere in the wilds, conquering small strongholds while the real danger now pressed south, along the Garonne.

  Pamiers had burst into an uproar of activity and panic. The Aragonese army was on the move, and it seemed likely that, despite their arguments, the count would follow. Raymond of Toulouse could not risk losing his new ally, and would have to help, after all. That meant that the entire Cathar force would commit in an unforeseen direction, while Guy and his army were in parts unknown. Pamiers was a political centre, only lightly fortified. If the Aragonese struck without Guy and his army to hand, the struggle would be brutal.

  Between Pedro of Aragon with his huge army, and de Montfort with mere scattered pockets of knights, lay three fortresses along the Garonne. Close by to the court, Saverdun held a small but strong garrison. Halfway to Toulouse, the castle of Auterive was manned by a small contingent of German knights who had joined the crusade at Carcassonne. And closest to the enemy, the river fortress of Muret stood like a sentinel, the strongest garrison of the three. Muret was threatened with a siege almost immediately, and the talk the four frustrated men of Rourell heard around the court was that Muret had instantly become the critical fortress. If Muret fell, then the enemy would roll over the other two castles with relative ease and be on the doorstep of the Earl of Leicester in days.

  Simon de Montfort, though, was a lion of a man, and not one given to panic or fear. Faced with this critical situation, and knowing that he could not count on the arrival of his brother to save the day, de Montfort put out a call for every knight within a day’s ride. He would gather what force he could and ride to the relief of Muret, picking up the two garrisons on the way but taking only cavalry. He needed men, but they needed to be at Muret now, else all might be lost.

  Thus it had been with a last surge of hope that Arnau, Balthesar, Ramon and Tristán had presented themselves before the Earl of Leicester during his brief repast, the only time he was not bustling around, issuing commands.

  De Montfort had simply looked at them, one eyebrow lifting.

  Arnau and the others had let Balthesar do the talking, given his natural gravitas. The grey-haired knight had been brief and to the point, explaining that the four men had always maintained their loyalty to the cause, they were trained warriors and veterans of an earlier crusade and one of the most successful battles of that war, and they were willing, even eager, to take on their excommunicated, heretic king.

  De Montfort had remained silent for a few moments, and had finally nodded. ‘Gather your arms and armour and prepare your horses. We ride at dawn.’

  And so they had done just that. After three weeks of being trapped in Pamiers, looked at askance by all and unable to take an active role, they were finally to have their chance. Whether or not the archbishop was present, the king was at Muret, and with the flower of knighthood from Aragon and Catalunya at his side, La Selva would also be there. De Comminges had been at Toulouse and there seemed little doubt that he would now be there too. At least three of the four villains behind the fall of Rourell would be at Muret.

  Thus it was that they rode north with a small army of mounted knights and retainers and a tense sense of anticipation. Some ten miles down the great river they reached Saverdun, held by de Montfort’s half-brother, the irascible Guillaume de Barres. There, despite the urgency of their mission they tarried, for de Barres had also brought in every knight upon which he could lay his hands, and they were uniformly weary from their journey and needed at least one good night before the possibility of a dreadful fight. De Montfort had argued, but de Barres was an engaging and glib speaker, and before a dozen verbal arrows had been launched, the earl had held up his hands in surrender and laughed.

  ‘Very well. We shall pass the night in your halls, but please hold your wit hostage, Brother, for I cannot face much more.’

  At Saverdun the bishops had gathered, and that night a grand mass was held. Arnau once again found himself a little more confident in the rightness of their cause when the gathered churchmen, carrying the authority of the Church of Rome itself and in front of hundreds of witnesses, excommunicated the Count of Toulouse and his son, the Count of Foix and his son, the Lord de Comminges and any who took up the banner with them.

  Thus it was that on the next day, as they rode to war, the crusaders were blessed and every man who stood against them was consigned to an eternity of hellfire. Another ten miles brought them to the fortress of Auterive and the dour but purposeful German knights. Arnau found himself half expecting to see the Lord von Ehingen there, but was sadly disappointed. Still, given his history with the men of that distant and cold land, he knew well their mettle in war, and felt good that they would be fighting alongside such men in the coming days.

  On they rode, as the weak and watery sun began to slide down the sky, and clouds began to pull in from the west, bringing with them a slow drizzle that settled and soaked in minutes. They could not have been more than a few miles from their destination when they passed a small chapel by the roadside, and a humble country priest stepped out of the doorway, bowing his head to the passing army of Christendom. De Montfort raised a hand and halted the column, slipping from his horse to land in a puddle and approach the priest. He entered the chapel and was inside for some time, praying and donating to the church fund, before returning to his horse and leaving an extremely grateful priest in their wake. Arnau had thought for a moment, rather uncharitably, that the earl had done such a thing to increase his already powerful reputation with his men, though when he caught sight of the man’s face as they left, he knew that it had been grace and piety and nothing more that had led to the interlude.

  Muret came into view as the late afternoon light tried hard to illuminate the land between the scudding clouds. The fortress, not an awful lot larger than the doomed castle of Pujol, was at least in a far more defensible position. It sat upon a sp
it of land where two rivers joined: the Garonne and its tributary the Louge, connected all across by bridges. A small town sat between the rivers a few hundred yards from the castle walls. It would not be an easy proposition for the besieging army, but never had Arnau been more grateful for that, for the moment the castle came into view, so did the forces of the enemy.

  The Toulousain army had joined that of Aragon now, their arguments put aside, and the massed forces, an array the size of which Arnau had not seen since Las Navas, seemed to fill the land to the horizon on the far side of both rivers.

  ‘How many would you reckon?’ Balthesar murmured from close behind.

  Arnau could not even estimate, beyond the word, ‘…endless.’

  ‘Anywhere between eight and twelve thousand I’d say,’ Ramon replied, ‘depending upon how tightly they’re packed in those camps.’

  ‘And how many of us are there?’ Tristán asked.

  ‘From what I understand of Muret’s garrison and have seen on our journey, a little over a thousand.’

  ‘Ballocks.’

  They all nodded at this. Odds of probably ten to one were not favourable. Indeed, Arnau had heard such things discussed before in Constantinople. A battle with odds of ten to one was considered unwinnable. Even in a siege, with awful attrition among the enemy, the result was all but a foregone conclusion.

  Still, the column did not falter. The Earl of Leicester rode with confidence, making for the bridge that would lead them across to the castle. The siege had not yet begun in earnest, for the enemy force was still gathering, preparing and constructing siege engines, and thus for now it was still possible to approach the castle from this side without passing through that enormous force.

  The four men had somehow contrived to be near the earl and the front of the column, though they noticed that stern-looking men rode protectively nearby and watched them all the time. Thus it was that they were close enough to the army’s commanders to hear a most unexpected exchange.

  The noble Guillaume de Barres, who they had collected at Saverdun, pulled in beside the Earl of Leicester with a strange grin on his face. ‘Brother mine, there is almost an hour’s light left today. Perhaps we should cross the river and give the Godless King of Aragon a tanned hide before dark so that we can enjoy wine in peace tonight.’

  Arnau blinked at the ridiculous notion, yet when he caught sight of the man’s face, he would be willing to wager that for all the smile and the light-hearted tone, the man was actually serious. Such an idea would be unbelievably foolish given the odds, and de Montfort had to realise that. The earl turned a face on his half-brother, that was calm and peaceful, and his expression was one of odd sympathy that made Arnau frown.

  ‘Tsk, dear count,’ de Montfort replied in soft admonition, ‘how un-Christian of you. We are the heroes here, and not the villains. Do you not think we should give the poor king the opportunity to recant and to withdraw before we beat him to death?’

  De Barres exploded with laughter. ‘You are too thoughtful and soft, Brother.’

  Arnau stared at the two men, but when he turned to Ramon and Balthesar expecting shock, he found both men smiling. In the face of all this, he couldn’t decide whether the commands of such mad men would bring them doom or make them invincible. Shaking his head at such gay insanity, he could not help but join in the laughter.

  So the column of knights rode across the bridge and through the gate into the fortress of Muret, where they were warmly greeted by the defenders and their commander. Arnau and his friends were shown to their accommodation, and he was not at all surprised to find that they were quartered surrounded by those same stern men who had watched them on the journey, and a long way from the earl.

  They ate a meal with the German knights, exchanging tales of exploits past with them, and after the meal, they climbed the stairs of the great keep to take in the enemy once more. The light had gone now, and night was truly settling in. Still the enemy was extremely visible by their campfires, which illuminated great banners marking the nobles and royalty among the force.

  In one of the two camps it was easy enough to pick out the banners of Aragon, and to find the Count de Comminges close by was of little surprise. It took Arnau a while to locate the flags of the Lord La Selva, but he was there, sure enough. Across in the second camp, the flags of the Counts of Toulouse and of Foix fluttered in the night breeze that had finally driven away the rain clouds.

  ‘Looks as though we might have a dry day for it,’ Ramon noted, looking up.

  Arnau frowned. ‘For what?’

  ‘For the battle.’

  ‘What battle? This will surely be a siege. We can try to hold this place until Guy de Montfort finally arrives.’

  Ramon sniffed. ‘I was listening to some of the lesser commanders. The rumour is that unless the enemy depart tonight, the earl will ride out with what men he can gather at first light and bring the heathens to battle.’

  Arnau stared. ‘That is insane. We cannot win. He would not be so idiotic.’

  ‘I believe you need to think again. You’ve heard the man. You’ve seen him. He will attack. He believes God rides with us, for the enemy are all excommunicated enemies of the Church. He believes we cannot lose.’

  ‘He is wrong.’ He faltered for just a moment then. It was not in his nature to wallow in gloomy pessimism, but there were times when simple mathematics would decide an outcome, and he could see no way that the numbers here could provide anything but disaster in the open field.

  ‘Have faith in the Lord, Arnau.’

  ‘I do, but my faith in foolhardy earls and barons is in considerably shorter supply.’

  ‘Look down at the bailey, Arnau. The place is not supplied for a siege. Their food would have lasted the garrison less than a week. With the whole army here, it will be gone as we break our fast on the morrow. The simple truth is that we cannot afford not to attack, else we will starve here when the siege begins in earnest.’

  ‘What is happening down there?’ Tristán interrupted, pointing. The others glanced over towards the gatehouse. A small line of holy men in cassocks and habits was moving across the bridge, heading for the enemy lines by torchlight.

  ‘De Montfort makes good on his promise. He offers Pedro the opportunity to renounce heresy and lead his men home. Bishops and priests go to offer a return to the embrace of the true Church.’

  Arnau breathed lightly. While he did not like the notion of meeting that vast force in the field, they could hardly afford to let their enemies leave. ‘Let us pray that the man laughs at that. If he goes home, so do the others we seek and our only chance of taking them evaporates. Back in Aragon, with the king as their benefactor, we will never touch them. It has to be here and, for all this situation looks impossible, it also has to be now.’

  ‘He will not leave. Why should he? He knows he is vastly stronger than us and has no need to fear the coming days.’

  ‘Though the odds become a tiny bit more favourable, suddenly,’ Balthesar said from the other side of the keep; they rushed over past the men on guard to join him. Across the other bridge, in the direction from which they themselves had approached, a column of mounted knights was arriving.

  ‘Relief from Carcassonne,’ Ramon said. ‘I heard men say they were expecting it. The Vicomte de Corbeil with five hundred men.’

  Arnau grimaced. ‘That changes things entirely.’

  ‘Sarcasm does not suit you, Vallbona.’

  ‘Nor does a gravestone.’ He gave a snort of dark humour.

  ‘The Divine Plan is not for men to unpick, Arnau. God is with us, and if de Montfort is right, we cannot lose.’

  ‘We shall see in the morning, eh?’

  12th September 1213

  Arnau wolfed down the fresh bread with the tasty, salty butter even as he continued to lay out and check his armour. He still found it inconceivable that the earl would actually order a battle in the field today, against an army that could crush them all like a snail between armoured finge
rs, yet the mood across the castle seemed to indicate that this was precisely what was going to happen. Tristán and Ramon were going through the same routine, and between the three of them they sorted Balthesar’s armour also, for the older knight had left the room half an hour ago to visit the great hall where a briefing was planned.

  Tristán had placed his four wooden figures on the windowsill, and Arnau was impressed at the finished products. If the young man ever left the way of the sword, he would clearly make a talented carpenter. Beyond the four figures, the sun was not yet in evidence, and it might as well have been the middle of the night for all anyone knew in here. Dawn was close, though, and mass was being prepared ready. The bulk of the army would enjoy the service in the open air, from the tongue of one of the many bishops present, while the great lords would be in the chapel.

  The bishops had abandoned all hope for peace and reconciliation now, and their focus had moved from the sending of offers and prayers for a bloodless solution to the blessing of blades and prayers for a grand victory. The emissaries they had sent had returned to the castle late in the evening with a flat refusal from Pedro of Aragon. He had no intention of abandoning his war, and would defy the Pope to the last drop of blood. He would ‘…see Muret flattened and the crusaders with it…’ were his own words.

  Arnau had just finished laying everything out when the door opened and Balthesar made his way in, rolling his shoulders in a proactive manner. ‘Well, we have a plan. If you can call it that. The earl intends to try and surprise the enemy. The army will leave via the gate through the town, between the two rivers. It is assumed that the enemy will think we are fleeing Muret, and will not react in time. Then our fearless leader intends to cross the Louge a little further upstream, where we need no bridge, come around from that side and hit them unexpectedly.’