This book made available by the Internet Archive.
Acknowledgment
Thanks to Deborah Rochefort and The Compleat Anachronist for permission to quote her translation of the first stanza of Peire d'Auvergne's "Dejosta Is brues jorns e Is loncs sers."
12 September 1213 A.D.
"All of the heretics are on the march against us, it would seem," said Gaucelm Deluc to his general, Simon de Montfort, who was commander of the crusade against the heretics in the fertile southern lands of the Languedoc.
They stood at the battlements on top of the walls of the fortified town of Muret, which they had occupied only since yesterday. There had been no real resistance from the town militia when the French army had marched in. But now the heretics were attempting to take it back.
Indeed, on this morning the sun was so strong that the colors of the landscape were hot. Yellow fields, violent reds and oranges burnished the leaves on trees that huddled near the marshes on the upper bank of the Louge, an insignificant stream that trickled into the wider Garonne.
Where the two rivers joined, the town of Muret formed a triangular fortress of considerable strength, protected on two sides by water and the citadel that formed the northeast wall of the town. A curtain wall stretched along the quay where the Garonne glistened and then turned southwest to flank the lower plains stretching out toward rolling hills on the west.
Even though Gaucelm was a French noble, from a family of fine lineage, loyal to the Capetian kings of France, he could not help but be affected by the warm, rich lands of the South. Ever since he'd ridden out with the other Frenchmen who'd taken the
cross on this crusade, Gaucelm had found these rolling plains and lush forests appealing. Enchanted was the word that came to mind, though as a warrior he did not believe in any kind of enchantment.
Beside Gaucelm, the wily Simon de Montfort watched the besieging army make camp. He was a slightly smaller man than the tall, broad-shouldered Gaucelm Deluc. Though smaller of stature, Baron de Montfort was nonetheless commanding in his leadership.
Gaucelm's bravery and intelligence had attracted Simon's attention, and in councils of war, he had come to depend on Gaucelm more and more. For his part, Gaucelm respected this man who had a genius for battle strategy and could build an effective army out of shifting groups of men from all parts of France and out of mercenaries of dubious reliability. The two had become friends as well as colleagues of war.
From boats moored on the Garonne, siege engines were being unloaded and rolled into position on the opposite bank of the Louge from where Gaucelm and Simon stood on the citadel wall. Since dawn, the machines already in place had begun to harass the priory situated inside the walls beside the north town gate. But Simon's own archers positioned along the top of the wall tried to discourage the heretics from loading their projectiles onto the machines of war.
Below them, the heavy wooden gates of the town thudded shut, then the envoys of the opposing camp clattered their mounts across the bridge spanning the Louge. Shouts were heard as the enemy envoy trotted onto the road and back into their camp.
"They outnumber us, my lord," said Gaucelm.
Across the meek Louge, the count of Toulouse, the count of Foix, and the count of Comminges had gathered the southern forces in a disorganized camp, protected on the east by the flowing Garonne. The heretics had a force of more than a thousand mounted knights and men-at-arms, supported by possibly ten thousand foot soldiers.
"Ten or eleven thousand to our sixteen hundred," answered
Simon, touching his dark mustache and short beard as he considered. "But our nine hundred horse matches their mounted men of about the same numbers."
"Hmmm, just so," said Gaucelm. He studied the melee of horsemen and foot, the gathering of three allied armies under three different Languedoc nobles. "I do not think they form an organized whole. Perhaps they cannot agree on how to retake their town."
"So it would appear," agreed Simon. "I do not understand why they do not build a barricade on their western flank. Nor do their archers form any line of defense."
Gaucelm could see that the heretics' camp lay open to attack from the west. Any sensible army would dig a trench and put up stakes, at least. For then they could retreat behind it. But the camp was unprotected on that side and what appeared to be a council of war was taking place on the meadow across the road from the camp. Sun glinted off helmets and chain mail while men-at-arms held upright lances with pennants drooping from the ends and painted shields bearing the colors of the various southern knights.
"Perhaps that is why."
Gaucelm nodded his head toward an army that suddenly poured over the crest of a hill nearly a mile west of the town. Simon narrowed his eyes and stared at this new host, his quick military mind estimating their number.
Gaucelm also counted the horsemen that moved in a ragged line to join the allies awaiting them. When they got nearer, he could see their battle standards flying from long poles.
"The king of Aragon," he said.
About eight hundred horse spilled down the slope to swell the ranks of the already huge army that was beginning to besiege the fortified town of Muret. But neither Simon nor Gaucelm panicked. As his most trusted lieutenant, Gaucelm knew how Simon de Montfort, the remarkable general of the king's army, worked. Though the forces against them were now eight to one
if all the foot soldiers were counted, Gaucelm waited and surveyed.
He had been watching the camp gather since dawn, for he was the most help to the wily Simon when he could read the minds of their opponents. Once Simon's mind was decided on a strategy, the general relied on Gaucelm to quickly relay the orders to their battle corps.
But now, even in their disarray, this new force under the banner of the king of Aragon looked daunting.
"Do we sally forth to meet them?" asked Gaucelm.
Even with the best strategy, the odds were against them. Their nine hundred horse could surely be swallowed up against a cavalry of two thousand allied horse, to say nothing of the ten thousand or so of the heretic forces on foot.
"Not yet," said Simon, glaring into the oncoming force. "We wait to see how they will array themselves."
His own forces waited out of sight of the enemy in the market square of the new town, which was below the old town at the foot of the castle where Gaucelm and Simon stood. There, at a moment's notice, they could form into battle array and carry out his orders. "You say this Peter of Aragon is a hero?" asked Simon.
"A knight-errant," replied Gaucelm with a dismissive shrug. "The winner of many tournaments and many raids against the Moors in Spain, but no fit match against our discipline."
"And Count Raymond VI of Toulouse is no warrior either," said Simon with a sneer. "He promises the pope he will root out heresy in his lands, pretends to be a good Catholic and loyal subject to the king. But we know he does nothing but turn his back while heretics flourish under his nose." Simon smoothed his mustache, considering. "He is equally indecisive in battle, from what I've seen."
Both men knew and agreed that this last point was how the two opposing forces differed.
Gaucelm and Simon and the small garrison that held the town of Muret were here because Pope Innocent III had finally con-
nived to make King Philip Augustus of France send an army to crush the heretics of the Cathar sect who flaunted orthodoxy.
The heretics were stubborn, independent people with their own language and character, distinct from that anywhere else in France. But the heretic counts could not agree, and Simon de Montfort had nipped away at the southern lands of the Langue-doc, leaving many of the towns in the hands of French knights and barons who had conquered them.
Never had crusadin
g been so easy. Pope Innocent III had offered more than spiritual blessings; he decreed that the northern barons could depose any southern lords who had protected or tolerated heresy. The chances for plunder were great—and they did not have to hazard a voyage to the Holy Lands to fulfill crusading vows.
"Peter of Aragon's troops do not even ride in formation," said Simon with disdain in his voice. "I've heard it said that he has taken on this enterprise to please his mistress, the wife of a baron of Languedoc."
Gaucelm uttered a sound of contempt. "True, my lord, if we are to believe his own handwriting in the letter we intercepted on its way to said lady."
"We need not fear to get the better of this light king," said the righteous Simon, "if he has declared war on God's cause to please one sinful woman."
Above them, on the battlements of the citadel, French cross-bowmen in their hauberks of mail released their deadly bolts which sped with great accuracy at the enemy still trying to work the stone-throwing mangonels. Screams pierced the air where the besieging heretics had not seen the powerful crossbows raised and fired in unison. At the same time, longbowmen fired from narrow, vertical arrow loops, slots in the citadel tower walls from which hundreds of arrows produced a deadly rain on those unfortunate enough to be within their range.
But Gaucelm was no fool. The French held the town, but a long, wearisome siege was hardly the way to maintain their position of strength. They had only sixteen hundred men to com-
mand at the moment, and soon those men's forty days of service to the crusade would be up, and they would want to go home. No, they must act.
Gaucelm could almost hear the thoughts forming in Simon's mind as the two men watched the new army under the standard of the king of Aragon straggle onto the meadow where the other leaders of the allies met in their council of war.
Finally, Simon spoke. "We will lull them into thinking we have no choice but to hide behind these walls," he said. "And then we will appear to withdraw"
"To withdraw, my lord?"
"As you pointed out, we cannot hope to overcome them with numbers, and so we will depend on our training and on the element of surprise. If we cannot hope to meet them in a pitched battle, we will have to take them on one division at a time."
Gaucelm smiled. "Ah, you have a plan."
"You, my friend, will take all our foot soldiery and throw open the Louge gate. You will lure whichever of those foolish lords wishes to accept your challenge into an assault on the gap we will open for them."
"With seven hundred spears and crossbows, we can easily hold the passage," said Gaucelm. "The heretics can only march across the bridge three or four abreast at most."
"Just so. After they are distracted by this ploy, I will take the knights and ride out of the south gate."
"Ah, you will appear to withdraw, and then when their guard is down, you will circle northward and surprise them."
Though it was a daring plan, and the numbers were still against them, Gaucelm knew the wily general had carried out such strategies before.
"We will strike swiftly. Their own confusion will serve in our behalf," said Simon.
"Godspeed."
Gaucelm wasted not a moment taking long strides along the parapet walk. He issued quick orders to the sergeant-at-arms, and within seconds, his orders were passed all along the wall.
* * *
When Allesandra Valtin saw Peter of Aragon's forces ride over Perramon Hill, her decision was made. She, too, had been watching the allies make their camp on the opposite bank of the Louge from where she stood in the citadel. Trapped in the town when Simon de Montfort had taken it, she'd agonized while the siege outside had formed.
If Simon de Montfort knew that within his grasp was a baron's widow who now controlled substantial southern holdings and who was a close friend of the count of Toulouse, the evil de Montfort would take her hostage. She would be held for ransom or worse, should Simon become desperate. And Simon de Montfort had a reputation for cruelty.
"Count Simon is occupied in defending these walls he has taken," she said to her friend, Marguerite Borneil, in whose castle they were incarcerated. "We are fortunate that most of his army already turned homeward, and he is left with only a small garrison."
The dark-blond Marguerite looked over the taller Allesandra's shoulder into the sunlight where the confused sounds of the siege were reaching them. "You think he would massacre the town."
"I do." Allesandra clenched her jaw. "He has done so before. They say he once threw the lady of the castle down a well and heaped stones upon her until she died." It made Allesandra shudder to think of the horrible tale. "He goes beyond the usual rules of reprisal."
"A man much to be feared."
"That is why we must dislodge him. I will not stand by while the people of Muret are murdered."
"That is what our besieging army is supposed to prevent, my dear."
"But they will not," said Allesandra in a tone of aggravation, "unless they can act as one. See how our contingents mill about. They are not formed into any sort of battle array. Some do not
even stay by their horses. Indeed, it looks as if none of the corps know what the other is doing."
"You sound as if you do not rely upon your friend Raymond to command his fellow counts."
"How can he when they have all had such quarrels recently? Only this threat from the north brings them together. I love Raymond as a friend and respect him as my overlord, but I fear his weakness."
"Which is?"
"Indecisiveness."
Marguerite sighed. "Raymond simply wishes to maintain peace by promising the pope he will do what he can to eliminate the heretics. But of course these are his people, he will not raise a hand against them."
"I do not question his character. He has protected us by not betraying us. I only question his generalship. But enough talk. I must go."
"Where?"
"There..." She nodded in the direction of the milling knights on the meadow beside the road to Toulouse.
Peter of Aragon was almost upon them, but Allesandra did not expect the king of Aragon to unify the southern lords any more than Count Raymond could. The counts of the Languedoc were all too independent, and they had never had to defend their principalities as one against the king of France before. She must help them.
"I'll go with you, then," said Marguerite.
"No, you might be needed here to try to ascertain what the devious Simon de Montfort will do. But you must get out of the clothing that will give you away as a noblewoman. You'll be less easily captured that way. Have your maid bring simple clothing. You must appear to be a townswoman. And I must look like a young man. Can that be managed?"
Marguerite gave orders to her maid, and sent a squire to saddle Allesandra's horse. Soon the ladies' sleeveless supertunics were cast aside, long-sleeved gowns and chemises tossed onto benches
while the two ladies divested themselves of the marks of their stations. Allesandra donned the loose linen braies and hose drawn up over them and tied them to the breech-girdle that held the braies around the waist.
Marguerite could not resist teasing her friend even in the midst of such dire straits.
"You are certainly adept at male underclothing," she said as her own maid laced up a simple gown at her back and then combed Marguerite's long straw-colored hair over it, handing her a wimple.
Allesandra reached for the man's shirt and pulled it over her head. "I was married for many years, madam. I am no stranger to a man's wardrobe."
Over the shirt, she pulled a long-sleeved tunic, not unlike the dress she was used to wearing except for its length, which came only to her knees, revealing the hose beneath. The long slit at the neck of the tunic revealed the linen shirt and the curve of her breast. But the plain nut-brown cloak she drew about her shoulders and tied at her throat would disguise her feminine form to all but the most discerning eye. She loosened the pins that held her hair dressed in plaits and wound over the ears. Long, loose-flowing dark
hair tucked under the cape would more resemble a young man's hair than the coils meant to be hidden by wimple and veil.
"Come," she said to Marguerite, who now appeared to be a housewife to one of the burghers in town.
Marguerite followed Allesandra through the outer chamber, and the maid was about to grasp the handle of the heavy door when a thunder of footsteps sounded on the spiral stairs beyond.
"Wait," said Allesandra. "Something has happened."
She pressed herself to the edge of the door and grasped the handle to pull it open only a crack. In the flicker of light from wall sconces that lit the inner staircase she saw the hated French foot-soldiers fly past, quivers of arrows on their backs, longbows tightly strung in their arms.
A tall knight in hauberk, the chain mail garment that covered
his long-limbed body from chin to toe, clanked down the stone steps and stopped a few feet from where Allesandra peered out. He issued sharp commands to the archers in northern French, which Allesandra understood from a year spent in that region, and she closed the door tighter for fear of discovery.
"What is it?" whispered Marguerite, who had flattened her back to the door at the sound of the hurrying soldiers.
Allesandra opened the door a crack once more, but the knight in command of the infantry had not moved. She lifted a finger to her lips to indicate to Marguerite that they must be silent.
She could see little of his face, hidden by the helmet with nasal bar covering his nose and mail iaced over chin and tied to the helmet with thongs. But his deep baritone voice brooked no argument, and the sleeveless surcoat covering the chain mail to the knee was of rich material, the panels yellow and blue.
The long sheath that hung from his belt was of finely tooled leather, and the sword hilt drew her attention. The cross-guard was inlaid with ivory and gold, and the round pommel carved in regal design. His long, triangular shield was divided into quarters of the same colors as his surcoat.
A knot formed in her abdomen as she watched the archers move past in hurried discipline. Sergeants-at-arms stood behind this commander. When he barked orders to them, they flew down the stairs to take up positions by the north gate. Her throat felt dry. The Frenchmen had planned something.
The troubadour's song Page 1
