by Kate Mosse
A hushed silence descended over the assembled company.
‘Some weeks ago, I received reports that my uncle had submitted himself to a ritual of such humiliation that it shames me to speak of it. I sought verification of these rumours. They were true. At the great cathedral church of Sant-Gilles, in the presence of the papal legate, the Count of Toulouse was received back into the arms of the Catholic Church. He was stripped to the waist and, wearing the cord of a penitent around his neck, he was scourged by the priests as he crawled on his knees to beg forgiveness.’
Trencavel paused a moment, to allow his words to sink in.
‘Through this vile abasement, he was received back into the arms of the Holy Mother Church.’ A murmur of contempt spread through the Council. ‘Yet there is more, my friends. I have no doubt that his ignominious display was intended to prove the strength of his faith and his opposition to the heresy. However, it seems even this was not enough to avert the danger he knew was coming. He has surrendered control of his dominions to the legates of His Holiness the Pope. What I learned today — ’ He paused. ‘Today I learned that Raymond, Count of Toulouse, is in Valence, less than a week’s march away, with several hundred of his men. He waits only for word to lead the northern invaders across the river at Beaucaire and into our lands.’ He paused. ‘He has taken the Crusaders’ cross. My lords, he intends to march against us.’
Finally, the Hall erupted in howls of outrage. ‘Silenci,’ Pelletier bellowed until his throat was hoarse, vainly trying to restore order to chaos. ‘Silence. Pray silence!’
It was an unequal battle, one voice against so many.
The Viscount stepped forward to the edge of the dais, positioning himself directly beneath the Trencavel coat of arms. His cheeks were flushed, but the battle light shone in his eyes and defiance and courage radiated from his face. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the chamber and all those within it. The gesture hushed all.
‘So I stand here before you now, my friends and allies, in the ancient spirit of honour and allegiance that binds each of us to our brothers, to seek your good counsel. We, the men of the Midi, have only two paths left open to us and very little time to choose which to take. The question is this. Per Carcassona!’ For Carcassonne. ‘Per lo Miègjorn.’ For the lands of the Midi. ‘Must we submit? Or shall we fight?’
As Trencavel sat back in his chair, exhausted by his efforts, the noise levels in the Great Hall billowed around him.
Pelletier could not help himself. He bent forward and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
Well spoken, Messire,’ he said quietly. ‘Most nobly done, my lord.’
CHAPTER 7
For hour upon hour, the debate raged.
Servants scuttled to and fro, fetching baskets of bread and grapes, platters of meat and white cheese, endlessly filling and refilling the great jugs of wine. Nobody ate much, but they did drink, which fired their anger and dimmed their judgement.
The world outside the Chateau Comtal went on just the same. The bells of the churches marked the devotional hours of the day. The monks sang and the nuns prayed, cocooned within Sant-Nasari. In the streets of Carcassonne, the townspeople went about their business. In the suburbs and dwellings beyond the fortified walls, children played, women worked, merchants and peasants and guildsmen ate and talked and played dice.
Inside the Great Hall, reasoned argument started to give way to insults, recriminations. One faction wanted to stand firm. The other argued in favour of an alliance with the Count of Toulouse, arguing that if estimates of the size of the army mustered at Lyon were accurate, then even their combined strength was not sufficient to withstand such an enemy.
Every man could hear the drums of war beating in his head. Some imagined honour and glory on the battlefield, the clash of steel on steel. Others saw blood covering the hills and the plains, an endless stream of the dispossessed and wounded stumbling defeated across the burning land.
Pelletier tirelessly wandered up and down the chamber; looking for signs of dissent or opposition or challenges to the Viscount’s authority. Nothing he observed gave him real cause for concern. He was confident that his Seigneur had done enough to bind all to him and that, regardless of individual interests, the lords of the Pays d’Oc would unite behind Viscount Trencavel, whatever decision he reached.
The battle lines were drawn on geographical rather than ideological grounds. Those whose lands were on the more vulnerable plains wanted to put their faith in the power of talk. Those whose dominions lay in the highlands of the Montagne Noire to the north or the mountains of the Sabarthès and the Pyrenees to the south and west were determined to stand firm against the Host and fight.
Pelletier knew that it was with them that Viscount Trencavel’s heart lay. He was cast from the same metal as the mountain lords and shared their fierce independence of spirit. But Pelletier knew too that Trencavel’s head told him that the only chance of keeping his lands intact and protecting his people was to swallow his pride and negotiate.
By late afternoon, the chamber smelled of frustration and arguments gone stale. Pelletier was weary. He was worn out by picking over the bones, by all the fine phrases that turned round and round upon themselves without ever reaching an end. Now, his head was hurting too. He felt stiff and old, too old for this, he thought, as he turned the ring he wore always on his thumb, reddening the calloused skin underneath.
It was time to bring matters to a conclusion.
Summoning a servant to bring water, he dipped a square of linen into the pitcher and handed it to the Viscount.
‘Here, Messire,’ he said.
Trencavel took the wet cloth gratefully and wiped his forehead and neck.
‘Do you think we have allowed them long enough?’
‘I believe so, Messire,’ Pelletier replied.
Trencavel nodded. He was sitting with his hands resting firmly on the carved wooden arms of his chair, looking as calm as he had when he had first taken to his feet and addressed the Council. Many older, more experienced men would have struggled to keep control of such a gathering, Pelletier thought. It was his strength of character that gave him the courage to carry it through.
‘It is as we discussed before, Messire?’
‘It is,’ Trencavel replied. ‘Although they are not all of one mind, I think that the minority will follow the wishes of the majority in this . . .’ He stopped and for the first time a note of indecision, of regret, coloured his words.
‘But, Bertrand, I wish there was another way.’
‘I know, Messire,’ he said quietly. ‘I feel the same. But, however much it offends us, there is no alternative. Your only hope of protecting your people lies in negotiating a truce with your uncle.’
‘He might refuse to receive me, Bertrand,’ he said quietly. ‘When last we met, I said things I ought not to have said. We parted on bad terms.’
Pelletier put his hand on Trencavel’s arm. ‘That’s a risk we have to take,’ he said, although he shared the same concern. ‘Time has moved on since then. The facts of the matter speak for themselves. If the Host is indeed as great as they say – even if it is half that size – then we have no choice. Within the Cite we will be safe, but your people outside the walls . . . Who will protect them? The Count’s decision to take the Cross has left us — left you, Messire — as the only possible target. The Host will not be disbanded now. It needs an enemy to fight.’
Pelletier looked down into Raymond-Roger’s troubled face and saw regret and sorrow. He wanted to offer some comfort, say something, anything, but he could not. Any lack of resolve now would be fatal. There could be no weakening, no doubt. More hung on Viscount Trencavel’s decision than the young man would ever know.
‘You have done everything you can, Messire. You must hold firm. You must finish this. The men grow restless.’
Trencavel glanced at the coat of arms above him, then back to Pelletier. For a moment, they held one another’s gaze.
‘
Inform Congost,’ he said.
With a deep sigh of relief, Pelletier walked quickly to where the escrivan was sitting at his desk, massaging his stiff fingers. Congost’s head shot up, but he said nothing as he picked up his feather and sat poised to record the final decision of the Council.
For the last time, Raymond-Roger Trencavel rose to his feet.
‘Before I announce my decision, I must thank you all. Lords of Carcasses, Razes, Albigeois and the dominions beyond, I salute your strength, your fortitude and your loyalty. We have talked for many hours and you have shown great patience and spirit. We have nothing to reproach ourselves with. We are the innocent victims of a war not of our making. Some of you will be disappointed at what I am about to say, others pleased. I pray that we will all find the courage, with God’s help and mercy, to stand together.’
He drew himself up. ‘For the good of us all — and for the safety of our people – I will seek an audience with my uncle and liege lord, Raymond, Count of Toulouse. We have no way of knowing what will come of this. It is not even certain my uncle will receive me and time is not on our side. It is therefore important that we keep our intentions hidden. Rumour spreads fast and if something of our purpose reaches the ears of my uncle, it might weaken our bargaining position. Accordingly, preparations for the Tournament will continue as planned. My aim is to return well before the Feast Day, I hope with good news.’ He paused. ‘It is my intention to leave tomorrow, at first light, taking with me only a small contingent of chevaliers and representatives, with your leave, from the great house of Cabaret, as well as Minerve, Foix, Quillan . . .’
‘You have my sword, Messire,’ called one chevalier. ‘And mine,’ cried another. One by one, men fell to their knees around the Hall.
Smiling, Trencavel held up his hand.
‘Your courage, your valour, honours us all,’ he said. ‘My steward will inform those of you whose services are required. For now, my friends, I bid you grant me leave. I suggest you all return to your quarters to rest. We will meet at dinner.’
In the commotion that accompanied Viscount Trencavel’s departure from the Great Hall, nobody noticed a single figure in a long blue hooded cloak slide out of the shadows and slip away through the door.
CHAPTER 8
The bell for Vespers had long since fallen silent by the time Pelletier finally emerged from the Tour Pinte.
Feeling every one of his fifty-two years, Pelletier lifted aside the curtain and walked back into the Great Hall. He rubbed his temples with tired hands, trying to ease the persistent, hammering ache in his head.
Viscount Trencavel had spent the time since the end of Council with the strongest of his allies, talking about how best to approach the Count of Toulouse. Talking for hour upon hour. One by one, decisions had been taken and messengers had galloped out from the Chateau Comtal bearing letters not only to Raymond VI, but also to the Papal Legates, to the Abbot of Citeaux and Trencavel’s consuls and viguiers in Béziers. The chevaliers who were to accompany the Viscount had been informed. In the stables and the smithy, preparations were already in hand and would continue most of the night.
The chamber was filled with a hushed but expectant silence. Because of tomorrow’s early departure, instead of the planned banquet there was to be a more informal meal. Long trestle tables had been set out, unclothed, in rows running from north to south across the room. Candles flickered dimly in the centre of each table. In the high wall sconces, the torches were already burning fiercely, setting the shadows dancing and flickering.
At the far end of the room, servants came in and out, carrying dishes that were more plentiful than ceremonial. Hart, venison, chicken drumsticks with capsicum, earthenware bowls filled with beans and sausage and freshly baked white bread, purple plums stewed in honey, rose-coloured wine from the vineyards of the Corbières and pitchers of ale for those with weaker heads.
Pelletier nodded his approval. He was pleased. In his absence, François had deputised well. Everything looked as it should and of a level of courtesy and hospitality Viscount Trencavel’s guests had the right to expect.
François was a good servant, despite his unfortunate start in life. His mother had been in the service of Pelletier’s French wife, Marguerite, and was hanged for a thief when François was no more than a boy. His father was unknown. When his wife had died nine years ago, Pelletier had taken François on, trained him and given him a position. From time to time, he allowed himself to feel satisfaction at how well François had turned out.
Pelletier walked out into the Cour d’Honneur. The air was cool here and he lingered a while in the doorway. Children were playing around the well, earning a slap on the legs from their nurses when the boisterous games got too rowdy. Older girls strolled arm in arm in the twilight, talking, whispering their secrets to one another.
At first he didn’t notice the small, dark-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the wall by the chapel.
‘Messire! Messire!’ cried the boy, scrambling to his feet. ‘I got something for you.’
Pelletier took no notice. ‘Messire,’ The boy persisted, tugging at his sleeve to attract his attention. ‘Intendant Pelletier, please. Important.’
He felt something being pushed into his hand. He looked down to see it was a letter written on heavy, cream parchment. His heart lurched. On the outside was his own name, inscribed in a familiar, distinctive hand. Pelletier had persuaded himself he’d never see it again.
Pelletier grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck. ‘Where did you get this?’ he demanded, shaking him roughly. ‘Speak.’ The boy wriggled like a fish on a line, trying to get free. ‘Tell me. Quick, now.’
‘A man gave it to me at the gate,’ the boy whimpered. ‘Don’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing.’
Pelletier shook him harder. ‘What sort of man?’
‘Just a man.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he said harshly, his voice rising. ‘There’s a sol in it for you if you can tell me what I want to know. Was the man young? Old? Was he a soldier?’ He paused. ‘A Jew?’
Pelletier fired question after question until he’d dragged the facts out of the boy. They didn’t amount to much. Pons told him he’d been playing with friends in the moat of the Chateau Comtal, trying to get across from one side of the bridge to the other without the guards catching them. At dusk, when the light was just beginning to fade, a man had approached them and asked if anybody knew Intendant Pelletier by sight. When Pons said he did, the man had given him a sol to deliver the letter. He said it was very important and very urgent.
There was nothing special about the man that marked him out. He was of middle years, neither old nor young. He was not especially dark, nor fair either. His face was unmarked, unblemished by either pox or fight. He hadn’t noticed if the man wore a ring, because his hands were concealed underneath his cloak.
Finally satisfied he had learned all he could, Pelletier reached into his purse and gave the boy a coin.
‘Here. This is for your trouble. Now, go.’
Pons didn’t wait to be told a second time. He wriggled out of Pelletier’s grasp and ran, as fast as his legs would carry him.
Pelletier headed back inside, holding the letter tight to his chest. He registered no one as he swept through the corridor leading to his chamber.
The door was locked. Cursing his own caution, Pelletier fumbled with the keys, his haste making him clumsy. François had lit the calèlhs, the oil lamps, and set his night tray with a jug of wine and two earthenware goblets on the table in the centre of the room, as he did every night. The highly polished brass surface of the tray gleamed in the flickering, golden light.
Pelletier poured himself a drink to steady his nerves, his head full of dusty images, memories of the Holy Land and the long, red shadows of the desert. Of the three books and the ancient secret contained within their pages.
The coarse wine was sour on his tongue and hit the back of his throat with a sting. He downed it in one, t
hen refilled the goblet. Many times he’d tried to visualise how he would feel at this moment. Yet now it had finally come, he felt numb.
Pelletier sat down, placing the letter on the table between his outstretched hands. He knew what it said. It was the message he’d been both anticipating and dreading for many years, ever since he’d arrived in Carcassonne. In those days, the prosperous and tolerant lands of the Midi had seemed a safe hiding place.
As the seasons rolled one into the next, over time Pelletier’s expectations of being called upon diminished. Day-to-day life took over. Thoughts of the books faded from his mind. In the end, he had almost forgotten that he was waiting at all.
More than twenty years had passed since he’d last set eyes upon the author of the letter. Until this moment, he realised, he’d not even known if his teacher and mentor was still alive. It was Harif who had taught him to read in the shade of the olive groves on the hills outside Jerusalem.
It was Harif who’d opened his senses to a world more glorious, more magnificent than anything Pelletier had ever known. It was Harif who’d taught him to see that Saracens, Jews and Christians were following but different paths to the one God. And it was Harif who’d revealed to him that beyond all that was known lay a truth far older, more ancient, more absolute than anything the modern world had to offer.
The night of Pelletier’s initiation into the Noublesso de los Seres was as sharp and clear in his mind as if it was yesterday. The shimmering robes of gold and the bleached white altar cloth, as dazzling as the forts that glinted high on the hills above Aleppo among the cypress trees and orange groves. The smell of the incense, the rise and fall of the voices whispering in the darkness. Illumination.
That night, another lifetime ago, or so it seemed to Pelletier now, was when he had looked into the heart of the labyrinth and made a vow to protect the secret with his life.
He pulled the candle closer. Even without the authenticity of the seal, there could be no doubt that the letter was from Harif. He would recognise his hand anywhere, the distinctive elegance of his letters and the exact proportions of his script.
