by Kate Mosse
Slowly, as quietly as possible, she started to edge her way off the path until she felt the sharp brambles against her legs. Struggling to her knees, she moved her head up and down until she managed to work the hood loose. Are they looking?
No one shouted. Bending her neck, she shook her head from side to side, gently at first, then more vigorously, until finally the material slid off. Alaïs took a couple of deep gulps of air, then tried to get her bearings.
She was just out of their line of vision, although if they turned round and saw her gone, it would take them no time to find her. Alaïs pressed her ear to the ground once more. The riders were coming from Coursan. A party of hunters? Scouts?
A crack of thunder echoed through the wood, setting birds to flight from the highest nests. Their panicked wings beat the air, swooped and fell, before falling back into the protection of the trees. Tatou whinnied and pawed at the ground.
Praying that the gathering storm would continue to mask the sound of the riders until they were close enough, Alaïs pushed herself back into the undergrowth, crawling over the stones and twigs.
‘Ohé!’
Alaïs froze. They’d seen her. She swallowed a scream as the men came running back to where she’d been lying. A clap of thunder overhead drew their eyes up, a look of fear in their faces. They are not accustomed to the violence of our southern storms. Even from here, she could smell the fear. Their skin was rank with it.
Taking advantage of their hesitation, Alaïs pressed on. She was on her feet now, starting to run.
She was not quick enough. The one with the scar launched himself at her, punching her in the side of the head as he brought her down.
‘Hérétique,’ he yelled as he scrambled on top of her, pinioning her to the ground. Alaïs tried to shake him off, but he was too heavy and her skirts were caught in the thorns of the undergrowth. She could smell the blood from his injured hand as he thrust her face down into the twigs and leaves on the ground.
‘I warned you to stay still, putain.’
He unbuckled his belt, breathing heavily as he tossed it aside. Pray he has not yet heard the riders. She tried to shake him off her, but he was too heavy. She let loose a roar from her throat, anything to mask the approach of the horses.
He hit her again, splitting her lip. She could taste the blood in her mouth.
‘Putain.’
Suddenly, different voices. ‘Ara, ara!’Now.
Alaïs heard the twang of a bow and the flight of a single arrow through the air, then again and again as a storm of darts flew out of the evergreen shadows, splintering bark and wood where they made contact.
‘Avança! Ara, avança!’
The Frenchman sprang up just as an arrow thudded into his chest, thick and heavy, spinning him round like a top. For a moment, he seemed to be held in the air, then he started to sway, his eyes frozen like the stone gaze of a statue. A single drop of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, and then rolled down his chin.
His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, as if in prayer, then very slowly tipped forward like a tree felled in the wood. Alaïs came to her senses just in time, scrambling out of his way as the body crashed heavily to the ground.
‘Aval! On!’
The riders rode the other Frenchman down. He had run into the woods for cover, but more arrows flew. One hit his shoulder and he stumbled. The next hit the back of his thigh. The third, in the small of his back, brought him down. His body fell forward to the ground, spasmed, then was still.
The same voice called the halt. ‘Arèst. Hold fire.’ At last, the hunters broke cover and came into view. ‘Hold your fire.’
Alaïs got to her feet. Friends or men also to be feared? The leader was wearing a cobalt-blue hunting tunic under his cloak, both of good quality. His leather boots, belt and quiver were fashioned from pale leather in the local style and his boots heavy, unmarked. He looked a man of moderate means and substance, a man of the Midi.
Her arms were still bound behind her back. She was aware that she had little advantage on her side. Her lip was swollen and bleeding and her clothes were stained.
‘Seigneur, my gratitude for this service,’ she said, stiffening her voice with confidence. ‘Raise your visor and identify yourself, so I may know the face of my liberator.’
‘Is that all the gratitude I get, Dame?’ he said, doing as she asked. Alaïs was relieved to see he was smiling.
He dismounted and drew a knife from his belt. Alaïs stepped back. ‘To cut your ties,’ he said lightly.
Alaïs flushed and offered her wrists. ‘Of course. Mercé.’
He gave a brief bow. ‘Amiel de Coursan. These are my father’s woods.’
Alaïs gave a sigh of relief. ‘Forgive me my discourtesy, but I had to be sure you were not . . .’
‘Your caution is both wise and understandable in the circumstances. And you are, Dame?’
‘Alaïs of Carcassona, daughter to Intendant Pelletier, steward to Viscount Trencavel, and wife to Guilhem du Mas.’
‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Dame Alaïs.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Are you much hurt?’
‘A few cuts and scratches only, although my shoulder pains me a little where I was thrown.’
Where is your escort?’
Alaïs hesitated a moment. ‘I am travelling alone.’
He looked at her with surprise. ‘These are strange times to venture out without protection, Dame. These plains are overrun with French soldiers.’
‘I did not intend to ride so late. I was seeking shelter from the storm.’
Alaïs glanced up, suddenly realising that no rain had yet fallen.
‘It’s just the heavens making complaint,’ he said, reading her look. ‘A false tempest, no more.’
While Alaïs calmed Tatou, de Coursan’s men ordered the corpses to be stripped of weapons and clothing. They found their armour and ensigns hidden deeper in the wood where they had tethered their horses. De Coursan picked up the corner of material with the tip of his sword revealing, beneath a coating of mud, a flash of silver on a green background.
‘Chartres,’ said de Coursan with contempt. ‘They’re the worst. Jackals, the lot of them. We’ve had more reports of acts — ’
He broke off abruptly.
Alaïs looked at him. ‘Reports of what?’
‘It is of no matter,’ he said quickly. ‘Shall we return to the town?’
They rode in single file to the far side of the woods and out on to the plains.
‘You have some purpose in these parts, Dame Alaïs?’
‘I go in search of my father, who is in Montpelhièr with Viscount Trencavel. I have news of great importance that could not wait for his return to Carcassona.’
A frown fell across de Coursan’s face.
‘What? What have you heard?’
‘You will stay with us the night, Dame Alaïs. Once your injuries have been tended, my father will tell you what news we have heard. At dawn I will escort you myself to Besièrs.’
Alaïs turned to look at him. ‘To Besièrs, Messire?’
‘If the rumours are true, it is in Besièrs you will find your father and Viscount Trencavel.’
CHAPTER 27
Sweat dripped from his stallion’s coat as Viscount Trencavel led his men towards Béziers, thunder rolling at their heels.
Sweat foamed on the horses’ bridles and spittle flecked in the corners of their mouths. Their flanks and withers were streaked with blood where the spurs and whip drove them relentlessly on through the night. The silver moon came out from behind the torn, black clouds scudding low on the horizon, lighting up the white blaze on his horse’s nose.
Pelletier rode at the Viscount’s side, his lips pursed shut. It had gone badly at Montpellier. Given the bad blood that existed between the Viscount and his uncle, he had not expected the Count to be easily persuaded into an alliance, despite the ties of family and seigneurial obligation that bound the two men. He had hoped, however, that th
e Count might intercede on his nephew’s account.
In the event, he had refused even to receive him. It was a deliberate and unequivocal insult. Trencavel had been left to kick his heels outside the French camp until word came today that an audience was to be granted.
Permitted to take only Pelletier and two of his chevaliers, Viscount Trencavel had been shown to the tent of the Abbot of Citeaux, where they were asked to disarm. This they had done. Once inside, rather than the Abbott, the Viscount was received instead by two of the Papal Legates.
Raymond-Roger had barely been allowed to open his mouth while the legates castigated him for allowing heresy to spread unchecked through his dominions. They criticised his policy of appointing Jews to senior positions in his leading cities. They cited several examples of his turning a blind eye to the perfidious and pernicious behaviour of Cathar bishops within his territories.
Finally, when they had finished, the legates had dismissed Viscount Trencavel as if he was some insignificant minor landowner rather than the lord of one of the most powerful dynasties of the Midi. Pelletier’s blood boiled even now when he thought of it.
The Abbot’s spies had briefed the legates well. Each of the charges, whilst inaccurate and misrepresented in intention, was accurate in fact and supported by testimony and eyewitness account. That, even more than the calculated insult to his honour, left Pelletier in no doubt that Viscount Trencavel was to be the new enemy. The Host needed someone to fight. With the capitulation of the Count of Toulouse, there was no other candidate.
They had left the Crusaders’ camp outside Montpellier immediately. Glancing up at the moon, Pelletier calculated that if they held their pace they should reach Béziers by dawn. Viscount Trencavel wished to warn the Biterois in person that the French army was no more than fifteen leagues away and intent on war. The Roman road that ran from Montpellier to Béziers lay wide open and there was no way of blocking it.
He would bid the city fathers prepare for a siege, at the same time as seeking reinforcements to support the garrison at Carcassonne. The longer the Host could be delayed in Béziers, the longer he would have to prepare the fortifications. He also intended to offer refuge in Carcassonne to those who were most at risk from the French — Jews, the few Saracen traders from Spain, as well as the Bons Homes. It was not only seigneurial duty that motivated him. Much of the administration and organisation of Béziers was in the hands of Jewish diplomats and merchants. Under threat of war or no, he wasn’t prepared to be deprived of the services of so many valued and skilled servants.
Trencavel’s decision made Pelletier’s task easier. He touched his hand against Harif’s letter concealed in his pouch. Once they were in Béziers, all he had to do was excuse himself for long enough to find Simeon.
A pale sun was rising over the river Orb as the exhausted men rode across the great arched stone bridge.
Béziers stood proud and high above them, grand and seemingly impregnable behind its ancient stone walls. The spires of the cathedral and the great churches dedicated to Santa-Magdalena, Sant Jude and Santa-Maria glittered in the dawn light.
Despite his fatigue, Raymond-Roger Trencavel had lost nothing of his natural authority and bearing as he urged his horse up through the network of alleyways and steep winding streets that led to the main gates. The fall of the horses’ shoes against the cobbles roused people from their sleep in the quiet suburbs that surrounded the fortified walls.
Pelletier dismounted and called to the Watch to open the gates and let them enter. They made slow progress, news having spread that Viscount Trencavel was in the city, but eventually they reached the Suzerain’s residence.
Raymond-Roger greeted the Suzerain with genuine affection. He was an old friend and ally, a gifted diplomat and administrator and loyal to the Trencavel dynasty. Pelletier waited while the two men greeted each other in the custom of the Midi and exchanged tokens of esteem. Having completed the formalities with unusual haste, Trencavel moved straight to business. The Suzerain listened with deepening concern. As soon as the Viscount had finished speaking, he sent messengers to summon the city’s consuls to council.
While they were talking, a table had been set in the centre of the hall covered with bread, meats, cheese, fruit and wine.
‘Messire,’ said the Suzerain. ‘I would be honoured if you would avail yourself of my hospitality while we wait.’
Pelletier saw his chance. He slipped forward and spoke quietly into Viscount Trencavel’s ear.
‘Messire, could you spare me? I would check on our men myself. See that they have all they need. Make sure that their tongues are still and their spirits steady.’
Trencavel looked up at him with astonishment. ‘Now, Bertrand?’
‘If you please, Messire.’
‘I have no doubt our men are being well cared for,’ he said, smiling at his host. ‘You should eat, rest a while.’
With my humble apologies, I would still ask to be excused.’
Raymond-Roger scanned Pelletier’s face for an explanation but found none.
‘Very well,’ he said in the end, still puzzled. ‘You have one hour.’
The streets were noisy and growing ever more crowded as rumours spread. A mass of people was gathering in the main square in front of the cathedral.
Pelletier knew Béziers well, having visited many times with Viscount Trencavel in the past, but he was going against the flow and only his size and authority stopped him from being knocked down in the crush. Holding Harif’s letter tight in his fist, as soon as he reached the Jewish quarter he asked passers-by if they knew of Simeon. He felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see a pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed child.
‘I know where he lives,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
The girl led him into the commercial quarter where the moneylenders had their businesses and through a warren of seemingly identical side streets crammed with shops and houses. She came to a halt outside an unremarkable door.
He cast his eyes around until he’d found what he was looking for: the sign of a bookbinder carved above Simeon’s initials. Pelletier smiled with relief. It was the right house. Thanking her, he pressed a coin into the girl’s hand and sent her away. Then he lifted the heavy brass knocker and struck the door three times.
It had been a long time, more than fifteen years. Would there still be the easy affection between them?
The door opened a fraction, enough to reveal a woman staring suspiciously at him. Her black eyes were hostile. She was wearing a green veil that covered her hair and the lower part of her face, and the traditional wide, pale trousers gathered at the ankle worn by Jewish women in the Holy Land. Her long, yellow jacket reached down to her knees.
‘I wish to speak with Simeon,’ he said.
She shook her head and tried to shut the door, but he wedged it open with his foot.
‘Give him this,’ he said, easing the ring from his thumb and forcing it into the woman’s hands. ‘Tell him Bertrand Pelletier is here.’
He heard her gasp. Straight away, she stood back to let him enter. Pelletier followed her through a heavy red curtain, decorated with golden coins stitched top and bottom.
‘Attendez,’ she said, gesturing he should stay where he was.
The bracelets around her wrist and ankles chinked as she scuttled down the long corridor and disappeared.
From the outside, the building looked tall and narrow, but now he was inside, Pelletier could see it was deceptive. Rooms led off the central corridor to both left and right. Despite the urgency of his mission, Pelletier gazed around with delight. The floor was laid with blue and white tiles rather than wood, and beautiful rugs hung from the walls. It reminded him of the elegant, exotic houses of Jerusalem. It had been many years, but the colours, textures and smells of that alien land still spoke to him.
‘Bertrand Pelletier, by all that’s sacred in this tired old world!’
Pelletier turned towards the sound to see a small figure in a long purple surcoa
t rushing towards him, his arms outstretched. His heart leaped at the sight of his old friend. His black eyes twinkled as bright as ever. Pelletier was nearly knocked over by the force of Simeon’s embrace, even though he was a good head taller.
‘Bertrand, Bertrand,’ Simeon said affectionately, his deep voice booming through the silent corridor. What took you so long, eh?’
‘Simeon, my old friend,’ he laughed, clasping Simeon’s shoulder as he got his breath back. ‘How it does my spirit good to see you, and so well. Look at you,’ he said, tugging his friend’s long black beard, always Simeon’s greatest vanity. ‘A little grey here and there, but still as fine as ever! Life has treated you well?’
Simeon raised his shoulders. ‘Could be better, it could be worse,’ he said, standing back. ‘And what of you, Bertrand? A few more lines on your face, maybe, but still the same fierce eyes and broad shoulders.’ He patted him on the chest with the flat of his hand. ‘Still as strong as an ox.
His arm around Simeon’s shoulder, Pelletier was taken to a small room at the rear of the house overlooking a small courtyard. There were two large sofas, covered with silk cushions of red, purple and blue. Several ebony tables were set around the room decorated with delicate vases and large flat bowls filled with sweet almond biscuits.
‘Come, take off your boots. Esther will bring us tea.’ He stood back and looked Pelletier up and down again. ‘Bertrand Pelletier,’ he said again, shaking his head. ‘Can I trust these old eyes? After so many years are you really here? Or are you a ghost? A figment of an old man’s imagination?’
Pelletier did not smile. ‘I wish I was here under more auspicious circumstances, Simeon.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. Come, Bertrand, come. Sit.’
‘I’ve come with our Lord Trencavel, Simeon, to warn Besièrs of the army approaching from the north. Listen to the bells calling the city fathers to council.’
‘It’s hard to ignore your Christian bells,’ Simeon replied, raising his eyebrows, ‘although they do not usually ring for our benefit!’
‘This will affect the Jews as much as — if not more than — those they call heretics, you know that.’
