by Kate Mosse
Either way, the end result was the same. He was in trouble.
The heavy door leading to the Great Hall stood open. Guilhem hurried up the steps, taking them two at a time.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the corridor, he saw the distinctive outline of his father-in-law standing outside the entrance to the Hall itself. Guilhem took a deep breath and carried on walking, his head down. Pelletier put out his arm, blocking his path.
‘Where were you?’ he said.
‘Forgive me, Messire. I did not receive the summons — ’ Pelletier’s face was a deep, thunderous red. ‘How dare you be late?’ he said in a voice of steel. ‘Do you think that orders do not apply to you? That you are so celebrated a chevalier that you can choose to come and go as you please rather than as your Seigneur bids you?’
‘Messire, I swear on my honour that if I had known — ’
Pelletier gave a bitter laugh. ‘Your honour,’ he said fiercely, jabbing Guilhem in the chest. ‘Don’t play me for a fool, du Mas. I sent my own servant to your rooms to give you the message in person. You had more than enough time to make yourself ready. Yet I have to come and fetch you myself. And, when I do, I find you in bed!’
Guilhem opened his mouth, then shut it again. He could see pools of spittle forming in the corners of Pelletier’s mouth and in the grey bristles of his beard.
‘Not so full of yourself now, then! What, nothing to say? I am warning you, du Mas, the fact that you are married to my daughter will not prevent me from making an example of you.’
‘Sire, I did — ’
Without warning, Pelletier’s fist slammed into his stomach. It was not a hard punch, but it was forceful enough to catch him off balance.
Taken by surprise, Guilhem stumbled back against the wall.
Straight away, Pelletier’s massive hand was around his throat, pushing his head back against the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, Guilhem could see the sirjan at the door leaning forward to get a better view of what was going on.
‘Have I made myself clear?’ he spat in Guilhem’s face, increasing the pressure again. Guilhem couldn’t speak. ‘I can’t hear you, gojat,’ Pelletier said. ‘Have I made myself clear?’
This time, he managed to choke out the words. ‘Oc, Messire.’
He could feel himself turning puce. The blood was hammering in his head.
‘I am warning you, du Mas. I’m watching. I’m waiting. And if you make one wrong step, I will see that you live to regret it. Do we understand one another?’
Guilhem gulped for air. He just managed to nod, scraping his cheek against the rough surface of the wall, when Pelletier gave a last, vicious shove, crunching his ribs against the hard stone, and released him.
Rather than go back into the Great Hall, Pelletier stormed out in the opposite direction into the courtyard.
The moment he’d gone, Guilhem doubled over, coughing and rubbing his throat, taking in great gulps of air like a drowning man. He massaged his neck and wiped the smear of blood from his lip.
Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Guilhem straightened his clothes. Already his head was filled with the ways in which he would bring Pelletier to account for humiliating him like this. Twice in the space of one day. The insult was too great to be ignored.
Suddenly aware of the steady murmur of voices spilling out of the Great Hall, Guilhem realised he should join his comrades before Pelletier came back and found him still standing outside.
The guard made no attempt to hide his amusement.
‘What are you staring at?’ Guilhem demanded. ‘You keep your tongue in your head, do you hear, or it will be the worse for you.’
It wasn’t an idle threat. The guard immediately dropped his eyes and stood aside to let Guilhem enter.
‘That’s more like it.’
With Pelletier’s threats still ringing in his ears, Guilhem slipped into the chamber as unobtrusively as he could. Only his high colour and the rapid beating of his heart betrayed anything of what had taken place.
CHAPTER 6
Viscount Raymond-Roger Trencavel stood on a platform at the far end of the Great Hall. He noticed Guilhem du Mas slipping in late at the back, but it was Pelletier he was waiting for.
Trencavel was dressed for diplomacy, not war. His red, long-sleeved tunic, with gold trim around the neck and cuffs, reached to his knees. His blue cloak was held at the neck by a large, round gold buckle that caught the light from the sun shining in through the high windows that ran along the top of the southern wall of the chamber. Above his head was a huge shield bearing the Trencavel coat of arms, with two heavy metal pikes forming a diagonal cross behind it. The same ensign appeared on banners, ceremonial clothes and armour. It hung above the portcullis of the moated gateway of the Porte Narbonnaise, both to welcome friends and to remind them of the historic bond between the Trencavel dynasty and its subjects. To the left of the shield was a tapestry of a dancing unicorn, which had hung on the same wall for generations.
On the far side of the platform, set deep into the wall, was a small door that led to the Viscount’s private living quarters in the Tour Pinte, the watchtower and oldest part of the Château Comtal. The door was shielded by long blue curtains, also embroidered with the three strips of ermine that made up the Trencavel arms. They gave some protection from the bitter draughts that whistled through the Great Hall in winter. Today they were held back with a single, heavy gold twist.
Raymond-Roger Trencavel had spent his early childhood in these rooms, then returned to live within these ancient walls with his wife, Agnès de Montpellier, and his two-year-old son and heir. He knelt in the same tiny chapel as his parents had knelt; he slept in their oak bed, in which he had been born. On summer days like these, he looked out of the same arched windows at dusk and watched the setting sun paint the sky red over the Pays d’Oc.
From a distance, Trencavel appeared calm and untroubled, with his brown hair resting lightly on his shoulders and his hands clasped behind his back. But his face was anxious and his eyes kept darting to the main door.
Pelletier was sweating heavily. His clothes were stiff and uncomfortable beneath his arms, clinging to the small of his back. He felt old and unequal to the task ahead of him.
He’d hoped the fresh air would clear his head. It hadn’t. He was still angry with himself for losing his temper and allowing his animosity towards his son-in-law to deflect him from the task in hand. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of thinking about it now. He would deal with du Mas later if need be. Now, his place was at the Viscount’s side.
Simeon was not far from his mind either. Pelletier could still feel the cauterising fear that had gripped his heart as he rolled the body over in the water. And the relief when the bloated face of a stranger stared, dead-eyed, up at him.
The heat inside the Great Hall was overwhelming. More than a hundred men, of church and state, were packed into the hot, airless chamber, which reeked of sweat, anxiety and wine. There was a steady drizzle of restless and uneasy conversation.
The servants standing closest to the door bowed as Pelletier appeared and rushed to bring him wine. Immediately opposite, across the chamber, was a row of high-backed chairs of dark, polished wood, similar to the choir stalls of the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari. In them sat the nobility of the Midi, the seigneurs of Mirepoix and Fanjeaux, Coursan and Termenès, Albi and Mazamet. Each had been invited to Carcassonne to celebrate the feast day of Sant-Nasari, yet now found himself instead summoned to Council. Pelletier could see the tension in their faces.
He picked his way through the groups of men, the consuls of Carcassonne and leading citizens from the market suburbs of Sant-Vicens and Sant-Miquel, his experienced gaze taking in the room without appearing to do so. Churchmen and a few monks were skulking in the shadows along the northern wall, their faces half-hidden by their robes and their hands folded out of sight inside the capacious sleeves of their black habits.
The chevaliers of Carcassonne, Gui
lhem du Mas now among them, were standing in front of the huge stone fireplace that stretched from floor to ceiling on the opposite side of the chamber. The escrivan Jehan Congost, Trencavel’s scribe — and the husband of Pelletier’s eldest daughter Oriane — was sitting at his high desk at the front of the Hall.
Pelletier came to a halt in front of the dais and bowed. A look of relief swept across Viscount Trencavel’s face.
‘Forgive me, Messire.’
‘No matter, Bertrand,’ he said, gesturing that Pelletier should join him. ‘You’re here now.’
They exchanged a few words, their heads close together so that nobody could overhear them. Then, on Trencavel’s word, Pelletier stepped forward.
‘My lords,’ he bellowed. ‘My lords, pray silence for your Seigneur, Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Viscount of Carcassona, Besièrs and Albi.’
Trencavel stepped into the light, his hands spread wide in a gesture of greeting. The Hall fell silent. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
‘Benvenguda, my lords, loyal friends,’ he said. Welcome. His voice was as true as a bell and as steady, giving the lie to his youth. ‘Benvenguda a Carcassona. Thank you for your patience and for your presence. I am grateful to you all.’
Pelletier cast his eye over the sea of faces, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. He could see curiosity, excitement, self-interest and trepidation, and understood each emotion. Until they knew why they had been summoned and, more significantly, what Trencavel wanted of them, none of them knew how to behave.
‘It is my fervent hope,’ Trencavel continued, ‘that the Tournament and Feast will go ahead at the end of this month as planned. However, today we have received information that is so serious and with such far-reaching consequences that I believe it right to share it with you. For it affects us all.
‘For the benefit of those not present at our last Council, let me remind you all of how the situation stands. Frustrated by the failure of his legates and preachers to convert the free people of this land to show obedience to the Church of Rome, at Easter one year ago, His Holiness Pope Innocent III preached a Crusade to rid Christendom of what he called the “cancer of heresy” spreading unchecked through the lands of the Pays d’Oc.
‘The so-called heretics, the Bons Homes, were, he claimed, worse than the very Saracens. However, his words, for all their passion and rhetoric, fell on deaf ears. The King of France was unmoved. Support was slow to come.
‘The target of his venom was my uncle, Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse. Indeed, it was the intemperate actions of my uncle’s men — who were implicated in the murder of the Papal Legate, Peter de Castelnau — that caused His Holiness to turn his eye on the Pays d’Oc in the first instance. My uncle was indicted on a charge of tolerating the spread of heresy in his lands and — by implication — ours.’ Trencavel hesitated, then corrected himself. ‘No, not of tolerating heresy, but of encouraging the Bons Homes to seek a home within his domains.’
A fiercely ascetic-looking monk standing near the front raised his hand, seeking permission to speak.
‘Holy brother,’ said Trencavel swiftly, ‘if I may beg your patience a while longer. When I have finished what I have to say, then all will have their chance. The time for debate will come.’
Scowling, the monk let his arm fall back.
‘The line between tolerance and encouragement, my friends, is a fine one,’ he continued softly. Pelletier nodded to himself, silently applauding his astute handling of the situation. ‘So, whilst I freely acknowledge that my esteemed uncle’s reputation for piety is not what it might be — ’ Trencavel paused, drawing them into the implied criticism, ‘and whilst I also accept that his behaviour is hardly above reproach, it is not for us to judge the rights and wrongs of the matter.’ He smiled. ‘Let the priests argue theology and leave the rest of us in peace.’
He paused. A shadow fell across his face. Now, there was no light left in his voice.
‘This was not the first time the independence and sovereignty of our lands had been threatened by invaders from the North. I did not think anything would come of it. I could not believe that Christian blood would be spilled on Christian soil with the blessing of the Catholic Church.
‘My uncle Toulouse did not share my optimism. From the start, he believed the threat of invasion was real. To protect his lands and sovereignty, he offered us an alliance. What I said to him, you will remember: that we, the people of the Pays d’Oc, live in peace with our neighbours, be they Bons Homes, Jews, even Saracens. If they uphold our laws, if they respect our ways and our traditions, then they are of our people. That was my answer then.’ He paused. ‘And it would be my answer still.’
Pelletier nodded his approval at these words, watching as a wave of agreement spread through the Great Hall, sweeping up even the Bishops and the priests. Only the same solitary monk, a Dominican from the colour of his habit, was unmoved. ‘We have a different interpretation of tolerance,’ he muttered in his strong, Spanish accent.
From further back, another voice rang out.
‘Messire, forgive me, but all this we know. This is old news. What of now? Why are we called to Council?’
Pelletier recognised the arrogant, lazy tones of the most troublesome of Bérenger de Massabrac’s five sons, and would have intervened had he not felt the Viscount’s hand on his arm.
‘Thierry de Massabrac,’ said Trencavel, his voice deceptively benign, ‘we are grateful for your question. However, some of us here are less familiar with the complicated path of diplomacy than you.’
Several men laughed and Thierry flushed.
‘But you are right to ask. I have called you here today because the situation has changed.’
Although nobody spoke, the atmosphere within the Hall shifted. If the Viscount was aware of the tightening of tension, he gave no indication of it, Pelletier was pleased to note, but continued to speak with the same easy confidence and authority.
‘This morning we received news that the threat from the northern army is both more significant — and more immediate — than we previously thought. L’Ost — as this unholy army is calling itself — mustered in Lyon on the feast day of John the Baptist. Our estimate is that as many as 20,000 chevaliers swamped the city, accompanied by who knows how many thousand more sappers, priests, ostlers, carpenters, clerics, farriers. The Host departed Lyon with that white wolf, Arnald-Amalric, the Abbot of Citeaux, at its head.’ He paused and looked around the Hall. ‘I know it is a name that will strike like iron in the hearts of many of you.’ Pelletier saw older statesmen nodding. With him are the Catholic Archbishops of Reims, Sens and Rouen, as well as the Bishops of Autun, Clermont, Nevers, Bayeux, Chartres and Lisieux. As for the temporal leadership, although King Philip of France has not heeded the call to arms, nor allowed his son to go in his stead, many of the most powerful barons and principalities of the North have done so. Congost, if you please.’
At the sound of his name, the escrivan ostentatiously put down his quill. His lank hair fell across his face. His skin, white and spongy, was almost translucent from a lifetime spent inside. Congost made great play of reaching down into his large leather bag and pulling out a roll of parchment. It seemed to have a life of its own in his sweaty hands.
‘Get on with it, man,’ Pelletier muttered under his breath.
Congost puffed out his chest and cleared his throat several times, before finally beginning to read.
‘Eudes, Duke of Burgundy; Hervé, Count of Nevers; the Count of Saint-Pol; the Count of Auvergne; Pierre d’Auxerre; Hervé de Genève; Guy d‘Evreux; Gaucher de Chatillon; Simon de Montfort . . .’
Congost’s voice was shrill and expressionless, yet each name seemed to fall like a stone into a dry well, reverberating through the Hall. These were powerful enemies, influential barons of the north and east with resources, money and men at their disposal. They were opponents to be feared, not dismissed.
Little by little, the size and nature of the army massing against the South took shape
. Even Pelletier, who had read the list for himself, felt dread shiver down his spine.
There was a low, steady rumble in the Hall now: surprise, disbelief and anger. Pelletier picked out the Cathar Bishop of Carcassonne. He was listening intently, his face expressionless, with several leading Cathar priests — parfaits — by his side. Next, his sharp eyes found the pinched, hooded features of Bérenger de Rochefort, the Catholic Bishop of Carcassonne, standing on the opposite side of the Great Hall with his arms folded, flanked by priests from the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari and others from Sant-Cernin.
Pelletier was confident that, for the time being at least, de Rochefort would maintain allegiance to Viscount Trencavel rather than to the Pope. But how long would that last? A man with divided loyalties was not to be trusted. He would change sides as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Not for the first time, Pelletier wondered if it would be wise to dismiss the churchmen now, so that they could hear nothing they might feel obliged to report to their masters.
‘We can stand against them, however many,’ came a shout from the back. ‘Carcassona is impregnable!’ Others started to call out too. ‘So is Lastours!’ Soon there were voices coming from every corner of the Great Hall, echoing off every surface like thunder caught in the gulleys and valleys of the Montagne Noire. ‘Let them come to the hills,’ shouted another. ‘We’ll show them what it means to fight.’
Raising his hand, Raymond-Roger acknowledged the display of support with a smile.
‘My lords, my friends,’ he said, almost shouting to make himself heard. ‘Thanks for your courage, for your steadfast loyalty.’ He paused, waiting for the noise level to fall back.
‘These men of the North owe no allegiance to us, nor do we owe allegiance to them, except for that which binds all men on this earth under God. However, I did not expect betrayal by one who is bound by all ties of obligation, family and duty to protect our lands and people. I speak of my uncle and liege lord, Raymond, Count of Toulouse.’
