by Jon Steele
“My sword! Give me my sword!”
Jean de Combel handed it to him.
“Va be, esta be!” the knight cried. “This is it! Stand at the forecourt! The bastards must not enter the fortress or the folk will be slaughtered!”
The fighters formed a line at the gate, drawing the French soldiers onto the narrow strip of land between the fortress and the sheer cliffs. There was little room to maneuver, and when the French pressed at the gate, the fighters forced them back with lances. The knight heard the screams of King’s men at the rear falling to their deaths. He raised his sword and cried again:
“Va be, esta be!”
Then he collapsed again to his knees and could not rise. Folk appeared in the courtyard to drag away wounded. Two folk grabbed the knight.
“No, I will stay!”
Jean de Combel turned quickly. “You are finished here, we will hold. Take him!”
The folk carried the knight to the infirmary below the tower cellar. A dank and hellish place stinking of blood and pus. Torches formed a pool of light around two wooden tables. One table was empty, dripping with blood; a fighter was strapped to the second table, screaming through the leather strap clenched between his teeth. The screams became shrieks as a surgeon, a barber from Carcassonne, sawed off the fighter’s leg. A boy working with the barber removed an iron rod from white coals and cauterized the bloody stump. The boy had done it many times and he was good at it.
The barber saw the knight, nodded to the folk.
“On the table. Remove his chain mail and gambeson,” the barber said.
The folk did it quickly. The barber wiped his filthy hands on his tunic, hurried to the table. He tore open the knight’s linen shirt, probed the wound.
“It’s a three-sided blade,” the barber said. “I’ll try to dig it out, but you will not live, I think. Do you wish to receive Consolamentum?”
The knight looked around the infirmary. More wounded coming in.
“Tell the good men to see to my brothers first.”
“As you wish.”
The barber turned to collect his knives.
The knight felt dizzy. The flame and smoke of the torches seemed to slow and take strange shapes. His eyes began to lose focus and close . . . He felt an arm slip under his neck, raise his head. The knight opened his eyes, saw a fighter in chain mail and coif emerge. The fighter held a clay cup to the knight’s mouth.
“Quickly, drink of this.”
The knight looked at the fighter’s armor. It bore no coat of arms, and the chain mail was stained with blackish blood.
“Who . . . who are you? Bring your face into the light that I may see you.”
The fighter leaned forward. The knight saw a battle-hardened face, oddly painted with streaks of mud.
“I do not know you. Have reinforcements broken through? Are we saved?”
“There are no reinforcements, and there will be none.”
“Then . . . who are you?”
“Someone who’s been at your side these ten months, fighting the evil that surrounds this sacred ground.”
“What evil do you speak of?”
“The enemies of light, the devourers of souls. They know I’m here, they’re hunting for me.”
“Your words are strange.”
“Drink of this cup and sleep. When you wake, you’ll understand.”
The knight felt his consciousness slipping, then a flash of fear . . . He tried to raise himself.
“No, this is a trick, you are a poisoner.”
The fighter held him down.
“You are mortally wounded and already falling into death; but you must live for one hundred more days. Look into my eyes, listen to my voice. It cannot end here; it must not end here.”
And when the fighter offered the cup again, the knight did not resist. There was a bitter taste, warmth, falling into light.
And now . . .
. . . the knight was healed, standing in the courtyard of the battered fortress. He looked down at himself, saw he was wearing a plain wool tunic and coarsely woven leggings. He thought he looked very much like one of the folk, then wondered which of the dead folk’s clothes he was wearing. He pulled the tunic away from his neck, saw the bloodied scraps of linen bandages tied around his chest. A voice called:
“So it’s true. You’re alive.”
The knight looked up to the battlements, saw a shadowed form at the ramparts.
“Who’s there?” the knight said.
“Jean de Combel, best crossbowman in the fortress, that’s who. Come up, the air is fresh up here.”
For a moment the knight was taken aback by the crossbowman’s familiarity. Then he remembered that was the way within the fortress. Nobles and peasants, knights and infantrymen, men and women even; all were equal before the Pure God of the Cathars.
“What about the others?” said the knight.
“What others?”
The knight had difficulty remembering who “the others” were. He tried to see them in his mind. Soldiers of France, arse-lickers of the Pope; yes, that’s them. He nodded to the walls.
“The ones beyond the walls, the French.”
“Oh, them, the Crusaders. They’re far too busy roasting a boar to care about fighting. Besides, there’s been a truce for two weeks.”
“A truce?”
“From the day you were wounded.”
“It’s been two weeks?”
“It has. We fought them back to the barbican, as you commanded. But we couldn’t drive them off the mountain. It went back and forth all night. At dawn, we’d had it and called for a truce. The Crusaders could have stormed the courtyard and slaughtered us all; but they were in a hurry for their breakfast and accepted the truce instead.”
The knight looked around the courtyard again. The fortress appeared to be abandoned.
“Where is everyone?”
“In the tower, watching the remaining folk and fighters receive Consolamentum. The ones that stayed, anyway. I was asked to keep an eye on the Crusaders, make sure they keep to the truce.”
“Did many leave us?”
“More than half.”
“Half?”
The crossbowman shrugged.
“Can’t blame them. The King offered safe passage to all who promise to become good little Frenchmen.”
“Fighters, too?”
“Fighters, too, including you and the rest of the Avignonet assassins, if you choose.”
“Avignonet?”
“You remember; you and your merry band, slaughtering those seven Inquisitors in their beds last year. The very deed that brought us to this happy day.”
The knight tried to remember it. He looked at his hands. Yes, he thought, the hands of an assassin.
“What are you thinking?” Jean de Combel said.
The knight looked up.
“Has there been any word from those who left? Have the Crusaders kept their word?”
“Some of the folk were paraded around the fortress this morning. The Inquisitor ordered them to sew a yellow cross to their tunics, to show the world they are heretics returned to the teats of Whoring Mother Church. There was a priest with them—one of the Inquisitors, I’m sure. A fat slob of a Dominican, he was. He called to me. Promised the wearing of the yellow cross would be the extent of my punishment if I would surrender to him.”
“And will you?”
“I showed him the crack of my backside and shouted, ‘Vai t’escoundre!’”
The knight laughed. Jean de Combel certainly would shout go fuck yourself to a priest. And he would shout it in Occitan, refusing to even curse in the tongue of the French King.
“How many of us are left, then?” the knight said.
“Fighters?”
“Yes.”
&nbs
p; “Twenty-six. Many with wounds.”
“And folk?”
“One hundred ninety-two Cathars.”
The knight stood still a moment.
“So, it is true. We are defeated in this place.”
“Yes, we are defeated. Come up and take the air, enjoy the truce while you can.”
“Yes, I will,” the knight said. “I’d like to see what a truce looks like. I don’t recall ever seeing one.”
He climbed the stone steps, used his left arm to balance himself against the wall. There was some pain still, but he felt almost disconnected from it. As if it were happening to someone else, not him. Closer to the ramparts, he had a better view of Jean de Combel. The crossbowman was wearing a bloodied gambeson over a linen shirt. His leggings and shoes were bloodied as well. The crossbowman reached down, gave the knight assistance up the last steps.
“I was told you had died three times,” Jean de Combel said.
“I’m not as fast on my feet as I used to be, if that makes you any happier.”
The knight stepped onto the ramparts and he felt the warm sun on his face. He looked beyond the battlements to see the lands of Occitania. Mountains like citadels, thick forests of pine and oak, meadows of poppy. Farther were sunlit rivers winding through maquis scrublands; and above it all, great winged vultures soared in loping circles. He closed his eyes and breathed. He smelled wildflowers, sage from the maquis, snow and ice from Mont Canigou. And Jean de Combel was right; there was the scent of roasting meat. The knight saw fifty or so French soldiers at the end of the summit. They wore swords at their belts, but appeared relaxed.
“So, this is what a truce looks like,” the knight said.
“It is.”
The knight sniffed at the scent of meat.
“Smells good, doesn’t it?” he said.
“What are you saying? Only the French could waste perfectly good boar over a spit. I’ve half a mind to march down there and make those bastards a proper sanglier stew. We still have a few onions and garlic in stores. Some carrots, too. And the French have the boar. And the fat Dominican is with them, see him? Probably has a boy under his robes, pulling at his fat dick. I promise you, that papist will have a skin of wine for the sauce.”
The knight looked at Jean de Combel.
“They might toss you a foot if you beg.”
“Perhaps. But as the Pure God would have it, it’s too late.”
“Why too late?”
The crossbowman laughed.
“Because I’ve received Consolamentum.”
“When?”
“With you, two days ago.”
“Me?”
“Yes, well, you were delirious with fever. Not surprised you don’t remember it. Your fellow assassin de Lahille was there, too. Took us some fakery to get you through the ceremony. We held you up and poked you in the back when you needed to reply. None too coherently, but you grunted well enough, and the good men took pity on you.”
“You tease me, de Combel.”
“Not at all. I speak only truth now. I have to. Comes with receiving the one and only sacrament of the Cathars. And a serious business, it is. It means that for the rest of our lives, there is no meat. Has there ever been a troubadour with a more woeful tale? Locked up with these pacifist vegetarians for ten months; not a scrap of meat to eat for the fighters. Do you know how hard it is to do battle without meat in your stomach? What am I saying—of course you do. Anyway, look out there. Crusaders cooking boar, so close we can smell it. And yes, they probably would toss us a foot. A hairy back foot, if we begged. But alas, it’s forbidden to us both now.”
The knight tried to imagine the sight of receiving Consolamentum in a delirious state. He didn’t remember it—he had lost touch with the real world after someone held a cup to his lips.
“Something amuses you?”
“Twice so.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m amused that I’ve become one of the good men through the fakery of my brothers in battle.”
“And good at fakery we were.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“And your other amusement?”
The knight smiled.
“I’m amused a killer like me can now be considered one of the good men.”
“And good at killing you were.”
The knight looked at the French soldiers on the plateau, then beyond to where the shadows of hills began to creep over the land.
“Do you believe in the faith of the good men, de Combel?”
The crossbowman sighed.
“I believe that these good men believe it, and I believe it is a comfort to these gentle folk.”
“So what is to happen to them?”
“You don’t know?”
“You’re the first person I’ve seen since I woke up, or the first I can remember seeing. I’m not even sure how I made it to the courtyard.”
The crossbowman chuckled.
“You’d best come with me, see for yourself. Make your own choice about going or staying, now that you’re on your feet. It’s still not too late to leave the fortress and become a good little Frenchman.”
The knight followed the crossbowman along the ramparts, careful not to trip over rubble and spent missiles in his path. At the southwest wall, Jean de Combel leaned through the battlements and pointed down.
“That is what happens tomorrow.”
Five hundred meters down, in a clearing at the edge of the forest, hundreds of French soldiers appeared small as ants. They were busy as ants, too, carrying tinder and buckets of pitch to a large square palisade. There were wooden ladders at the walls and the soldiers took turns climbing the steps to empty their burdens. Soldiers inside the walls spread the stuff over a thick flooring of straw.
“They will burn us, as heretics,” the knight said.
“They will.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, at dawn. And that will be the end of Montségur and the good men, I think. And a foul end it is. I’d hoped we could do more for them. But, alas, there is no choice but to watch them marched to their deaths.”
The knight looked at Jean de Combel, never before having heard such a sadness in the crossbowman’s voice.
“How do you mean, de Combel?”
The crossbowman’s eyes betrayed a secret knowledge, one he tried to conceal with a mocking smile.
“Why I . . . why I only mean these Cathars are a gentle folk, they deserve better than extinction.”
The knight stared at the crossbowman.
“You fought bravely as anyone to defend them, de Combel. You will burn with them at the dawn, will you not? What more could you do as a fighter?”
The crossbowman turned his eyes from the knight, looked down on the palisade. The French soldiers were done with their work and drinking wine from skins. After a long silence, the crossbowman looked at the knight.
“You said it yourself before the last battle. Pope and King wish to wipe all memory of this place from the face of the Earth. I feared your words as you spoke them. I fear them now more than any words I’ve heard from a man. Shall I tell you why?”
“Yes.”
“Because more than battle, more than what will come at the dawn, I fear a world without the Cathars.”
The knight nodded, looked up to the sky. There was Saturn, there was Mercury, there was Mars hanging at the edge of the falling dark.
“Fear not, de Combel. It cannot end here; it must not end here.”
BOOK ONE
GO, SET A WATCHMAN, LET HIM DECLARE WHAT HE SEETH
ONE
I
RADIO INTERCEPT, PARIS: SEPTEMBER 9, 2013, 19:30 HOURS. Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale: Code Red Alert.
“. . . Batobus Manon dockside at Musée d’Orsay. Several bo
dies seen floating in river. Manon heading east on river. Anonymous tip reports area of Notre Dame to be target of attack by Muqatileen Lillah. This is a GIGN Code Red Alert. Engage Operation Dragon Fortress. Repeat: This is a GIGN Code Red Alert. Engage Operation Dragon Fortress. Level A terrorist strike in progress. Six men wearing black jumpsuits and balaclavas, carrying light automatic weapons have hijacked Batobus Manon dockside at Musée d’Orsay. Several bodies seen floating in river . . .”
Harper’s mobile reconnected to Operations Control in Berne.
“Did you copy that transmission, Mr. Harper?”
“The enemy tipped off the police.”
“Indeed, they plan to make a show of it. The world’s news media will be all over the story in a few minutes.”
“You’re sure the bomb is on board?”
“Affirmative.”
“How many goons?”
“Standard kill squad of six.”
“Time to target?”
“Tactical gives it eighteen minutes at present speed and course.”
“Can the mechanics shift the time warp?”
“Negative. It’s locked over Saint-Sulpice.”
Swell, Harper thought. Plan A looked great on paper. Goons attack, Inspector Gobet’s time mechanics drop a warp over Saint-Sulpice. Harper sorts the goons, cleanup crew secures the bomb. Just another night in paradise. None of the Parisian locals the wiser as they take aperitifs in nearby cafés.
“Then now’s the time for suggestions, Inspector.”
“Tactical is transmitting a counterattack to your mobile as I speak.”
A map of Paris appeared on Harper’s mobile screen, zoomed in on the border of the 6th and 1st arrondissements. Two dots appeared marking Pont Alexandre III and Notre Dame; a third dot triangulated Harper’s position at Rue de Mézières, then a line appeared marking a track to l’Académie française on the Left Bank.
