by Kate Mosse
Simeon put his hand on Pelletier’s arm. ‘You worry too much, my friend. My role is over now. I gave you the book entrusted to me. The other two books are also within these walls. You have Esclarmonde and Alaïs to help you. What business would anyone have with me now?’ He fixed his friend with his dark glittering eyes. ‘My place is with my own people.’
There was something in Simeon’s tone that alarmed Pelletier.
‘I will not accept there is anything final in this leave-taking,’ he said fiercely. We’ll be drinking wine together before the month is out, mark my words.’
‘It’s not your words I mistrust, my friend, but the swords of the French.’
‘By next spring I wager it will all be over. The French will have limped home with their tails between their legs, the Count of Toulouse will be seeking a new alliance, and you and I will be sitting reminiscing over our lost youth by the fire.’
‘Pas a pas, se va luènh,’ said Simeon, embracing him. ‘And give my fond regards to Harif. Tell him I’m still waiting for that game of chess he promised me thirty years ago!’
Pelletier raised his hand in farewell as Simeon walked out through the gates. He did not look back.
‘Intendant Pelletier!’
Pelletier carried on looking into the crowd of people making their way towards the river, but he could no longer distinguish Simeon.
‘Messire!’ the messenger, red-faced and breathless, repeated.
What is it?’
‘You are needed at the Porte Narbonnaise, Messire. There’s trouble.’
CHAPTER 45
Alaïs pushed open the door to her chamber and ran in.
‘Guilhem?’
Even though she needed solitude and had no expectation it would be otherwise, she still was disappointed to find the room empty.
Alaïs locked the door, unhooked her purse from her waist, laid it on the table and removed the book from its protective covering. It was the size of a lady’s psalter. The outer wooden boards were covered with leather, completely plain and a little worn at the corners.
Alaïs undid the leather ties and let the book fall open in her hands, like a butterfly displaying its wings. The first page was empty apart from a tiny chalice in gold leaf in the centre, sparkling like a jewel on the heavy cream parchment. It was no bigger than the pattern that appeared on her father’s ring or the merel she’d had so briefly in her possession.
She turned the page. Four lines of black script looked up at her, written in an ornate and elegant hand.
Around the edges were pictures and symbols, a repeated pattern like a running stitch around the hem of a cloak. Birds, animals, figures with long arms and sharp fingers. Alaïs caught her breath.
These are the faces and figures of my dreams.
One by one, she turned the pages. Each was covered with lines of black script, with nothing on the reverse side. She recognised words of Simeon’s language, although she didn’t understand it. Most of the book was written in her own language. The first letter of each new page was illuminated, in red, blue or yellow with gold surrounds, but otherwise they were plain. No illustrations in the margins, no other letters picked out within the body of the text and the words following on one from the other with few gaps or indications to show where one thought ended and another began.
Alaïs reached the parchment concealed in the centre of the book. It was thicker and darker than the pages surrounding it, goatskin rather than vellum. Rather than symbols or illustrations, there were only a few words, accompanied by rows of numbers and measurements. It looked like some sort of map.
She could just pick out tiny arrows pointing in different directions. A few of them were gold, but mostly they were black.
Alaïs tried reading the page from the top from left to right, but that didn’t make sense and she came to a dead end. Next she tried deciphering the page from bottom to top, right to left, like a stained-glass window in a church, but that didn’t make sense either. Finally she read alternate lines or picked out words from every third line, but still understood nothing.
Look beyond the visible images to the secrets concealed beneath.
She thought hard. To each guardian according to their skills and knowledge. Esclarmonde had her ability to heal and cure, so to her Harif had entrusted the Book of Potions. Simeon was a scholar of an ancient Jewish system of numbers, to him the Book of Numbers.
What had led Harif to choose her father as the guardian of the Book of Words?
Deep in thought, Alaïs lit the lamp and went to her nightstand. She took out some parchment, ink and a quill. Pelletier had been determined his daughters should be taught to read and write, having learned the value of these things in the Holy Land. Oriane cared only for accomplishments appropriate to a lady of the household — dancing, singing, falconry and embroidery. Writing was, as she never stopped staying, for old men and priests. Alaïs, however, had grasped the opportunity with both hands. She had been quick to learn and, although there were few opportunities for her to use her skills, she held them close to her.
Alaïs spread her writing materials on the table. She didn’t understand the parchment, nor could she hope to replicate the exquisite workmanship, colours and style. But she could at least make a copy while she had the chance.
It took her some time, but at last she was finished and laid the parchment copy on the table to dry. Then, aware of how her father might return to the Château Comtal at any moment with the Book of Words, Alaïs quickly turned her attention to concealing the book as her father had suggested.
Her favourite red cloak was no good. The material was too delicate and the hem bulged. Instead she picked a heavy brown cloak. It was a winter garment, intended to be worn for hunting, but that couldn’t be helped. With expert fingers, Alaïs unpicked the passementerie at the front until she had made a gap wide enough to squeeze the book inside. Next, she took the thread Sajhë had brought her from the market, which exactly matched the colour of the material, and sewed the book in place at the back, secure.
Alaïs held the cloak up and swung it over her shoulders. It was uneven at present but, once she had her father’s book too, it would be better balanced.
She had only one more task to accomplish. Leaving the cloak draped over the chair, Alaïs went back to the table to see if the ink was dry. Mindful that she could be interrupted at any moment, she folded the parchment and slipped it inside a lavender posy. She stitched the opening shut, so that no one could come upon it by accident, then placed it back under her pillow.
Alaïs looked around, satisfied with what she had accomplished, and started to clear up her sewing materials.
There was a knock at the door. Alaïs rushed to open it, expecting to see her father. Instead, she found Guilhem standing on the threshold, unsure of his welcome. The familiar half smile, the little-boy-lost eyes.
‘May I come in, Dame?’ he asked softly.
Her instinct was to throw her arms about him. Caution held her back. Too much had been said. Too little forgiven.
‘May I?’
‘It is your chamber also,’ she said lightly. ‘I would not deny you admittance.’
‘So formal,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘I would that pleasure not duty made you answer thus.’
‘I am. . .’ she hesitated, thrown off balance by the intense longing sweeping through her. ‘I am happy to see you, Messire.’
‘You look tired,’ he said, reaching to touch her face.
How easy it would be to give in. To give all of herself to him.
She closed her eyes, almost feeling his fingers moving over her skin. A caress, as light as a whisper and as natural as breathing. Alaïs imagined herself leaning towards him, letting him hold her up. His presence made her dizzy, made her feel weak.
I cannot. Must not.
Alaïs forced open her eyes and took a step back. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t.’
Guilhem took her hand and held it between his. Alaïs coul
d see he was nervous.
‘Soon. . . unless God intervenes, we will face them. When the time comes, Alzeu, Thierry, the others, we all will ride out. And might not return.’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, wishing some of the life would return to his face.
‘Since our return from Besièrs, I have behaved ill towards you, Alaïs, without cause or justification. I’m sorry for it and have come to ask your forgiveness. Too often I am jealous and my jealousy leads me to say things — things that I regret.’
Alaïs held his gaze but, unsure of how she felt, did not trust herself to speak.
Guilhem moved closer. ‘But you are not displeased to see me.
She smiled. ‘You have been absent from me so long, Guilhem, I hardly know what to feel.’
‘Do you wish me to leave you?’
Alaïs felt tears spring into her eyes, which gave her the courage to stand firm. She did not want him to see her cry.
‘I think it would be best.’ She reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a handkerchief, which she pressed into his hand. ‘There is yet time for things to be right between us.’
‘Time is the one thing that we do not have, little Alaïs,’ he said gently. ‘But, unless God or the French allow it, I will come again tomorrow.’
Alaïs thought of the books and of the responsibility resting on her shoulders. How soon she would be leaving. I might never see him more. Her heartstrings cracked. She hesitated, and then embraced him fiercely, as if to imprint his outline on hers.
Then, as swiftly as she had taken him, she let him go.
We are all in God’s hands,’ she said. ‘Now, please leave, Guilhem.’
‘Tomorrow?’
We will see.’
Alaïs stood like a statue, hands clasped in front of her to stop them from shaking, until the door had shut and Guilhem was gone. Then, lost in thought, she wandered slowly back to the table, wondering what had driven him to come. Love? Regret? Or something else?
CHAPTER 46
Simeon glanced up at the sky. Grey clouds jostled for position, obscuring the sun. He had journeyed some distance from the Cite already, but wanted to get back to his lodgings before the storm hit.
Once he reached the outskirts of the woods that separated the plains outside Carcassonne from the river, he slowed his pace. He was out of breath, too old to travel so far on foot. He leaned heavily against his staff and loosened the neck of his robe. It was not so far now. Esther would have a meal waiting for him, perhaps a little wine. The thought restored him. Perhaps Bertrand was right? Perhaps it would be over by spring.
Simeon did not notice the two men who stepped out behind him on the path. He was not aware of the raised arm, the club coming down on his head, until he felt the blow and the darkness took him.
By the time Pelletier arrived at the Porte Narbonnaise, a crowd had already formed.
‘Let me through,’ he shouted, pushing everyone out of his way until he reached the front. A man was slumped on all fours on the ground. Blood was flowing from a cut on his forehead.
Two men-at-arms towered above him, their pikes pointed at his neck. The man was evidently a musician. His tabor was punctured and his pipe had been snapped in two and tossed aside, like bones at a feast.
‘What in the name of Sant-Foy is going on?’ Pelletier demanded. ‘What is this man’s offence?’
‘He did not stop when ordered to do so,’ the older of the soldiers replied. His face was a patchwork of scars and old wounds. ‘He has no authorisation.’
Pelletier crouched down beside the musician.
‘I am Bertrand Pelletier, Intendant to the Viscount. What is your business in Carcassona?’
The man’s eyes flickered open. ‘Intendant Pelletier?’ he murmured, clutching Pelletier’s arm.
‘It is I. Speak, friend.’
‘Besièrs es presa,’ Béziers is taken.
Close by, a woman stifled a cry and clasped her hand to her mouth.
Shocked to his core, Pelletier found himself on his feet again.
‘You,’ he commanded, ‘fetch reinforcements to relieve you here and help get this man to the Chateau. If he does not regain his speech through your ill treatment, it will be the worse for you.’ Pelletier spun to the crowd. ‘Mind my words well,’ he shouted. ‘No citizen is to speak of what you have witnessed here. We will know soon enough the truth of the matter.’
When they reached the Chateau Comtal, Pelletier ordered the musician to be taken to the kitchens to have his wounds dressed, while he went immediately to inform Viscount Trencavel. Some little time later, fortified by sweet wine and honey, the musician was brought to the donjon.
He was pale but in command of himself. Fearing the man’s legs would not hold him, Pelletier ordered a stool to be fetched so he could give his testimony sitting down.
‘Tell us your name, amic,’ he said.
‘Pierre du Murviel, Messire.’
Viscount Trencavel sat in the middle, his allies around him in a semi-circle.
‘Benvenguda, Pierre du Murviel,’ he said. ‘You have news for us.’
Sitting bolt upright with his hands on his knees, his face as white as milk, he cleared his throat and began to talk. He had been born in Béziers, although he had spent the past few years in the courts of Navarre and Aragon. He was a musician, having learned his trade from Raimon de Mirval himself, the finest troubadour of the Midi. It was on the strength of this that he’d received an invitation from the Suzerain of Béziers. Seeing an opportunity to visit his family again, he’d accepted and returned home.
His voice was so quiet that the listeners had to strain to hear what he was saying. ‘Tell us of Besièrs,’ said Trencavel. ‘Leave no detail unspoken.’
‘The French army arrived at the walls the day before the Feast Day of Santa Maria Magdalena and pitched camp along the left bank of the river Orb. Closest to the river were the pilgrims and mercenaries, beggars and unfortunates, a tattered rabble of men, bare-footed and wearing only breeches and shirts. Further away, the colours of the barons and the churchmen flew above their pavilions in a mass of green and gold and red. They built flagpoles and felled trees for enclosures for their animals.’
‘Who was sent to parley?’
‘The Bishop of Besièrs, Renaud de Montpeyroux.’
‘It is said he is a traitor, Messire,’ said Pelletier, leaning over and whispering in his ear, ‘that he has already taken the Cross.’
‘Bishop Montpeyroux returned with a list of supposed heretics drawn up by the Papal Legates. I don’t know how many were set down on the parchment, Messire, but hundreds certainly. The names of some of the most influential, most wealthy, most noble citizens of Besièrs were written there, as well as followers of the new church and those who were accused of being Bons Chrétiens. If the Consuls would hand over the heretics, then Besièrs would be spared. If not . . .’ He left the words hanging.
What answer gave the consuls?’ said Pelletier. It was the first indication of whether or not the alliance would hold against the French.
‘That they would rather be drowned in the salt sea’s brine than surrender or betray their fellow citizens.’
Trencavel gave the slightest sigh.
‘The Bishop withdrew from the city, taking with him a small number of Catholic priests. The commander of our garrison, Bernard de Servian, began to organise the defences.’
He stopped and swallowed hard. Even Congost, bent over his parchment, stopped and looked up.
‘The morning of July the twenty-second dawned quietly enough. It was hot, even at first light. A handful of Crusaders, camp followers, not even soldiers, went to the river, immediately below the fortifications to the south of the city. They were observed from the walls. Insults were traded. One of the routiers walked on to the bridge, swaggering, swearing. It so inflamed our young men on the walls, they armed themselves with spears, clubs, even a makeshift drum and banner. Determined to teach the French a lesson, they threw open the gate
and charged down the slope before anyone knew what was happening, shouting at the tops of their voices, and attacked the man. It was over in moments. They threw the routier’s dead body off the bridge into the river.’
Pelletier glanced at Viscount Trencavel. His face was white.
‘From the walls, the townspeople screamed at the boys to come back, but they were too dizzied with confidence to listen. The noise of the brawl drew the attention of the captain of the mercenaries, the Roi as his men call him. Seeing the gate standing open, he gave the order to attack. At last the youths realised the danger, but it was too late. The routiers slaughtered them where they stood. The few that made it back tried to secure the gate, but the routiers were too quick, too well armed. They forced their way through and held it open.
‘Within moments, French soldiers were hammering at the walls, armed with picks and mattocks and scaling ladders. Bernard de Servian did his best to defend the ramparts and hold the keep, but everything happened too quickly. The mercenaries held the gate.
‘Once the Crusaders were inside, the massacre began. There were bodies everywhere, dead and mutilated; we were in blood knee-deep. Children were cut from their mothers’ arms and skewered on the points of pikes and swords. Heads were severed from limbs and mounted on the walls for the crows to pick clean, so it seemed that a line of bloody gargoyles, fashioned from flesh and bone, not stone, gaped down on our defeat. They butchered all who they came upon, without regard to age or sex.’
Viscount Trencavel could remain silent no longer. ‘But how came it that the Legates or the French barons did not stop this carnage? Did they not know of it?’
Du Murviel raised his head. ‘They knew, Messire.’
‘But a massacre of innocent people goes against all honour, all convention in war,’ said Pierre-Roger de Cabaret.
‘I cannot believe that the Abbot of Citeaux, for all his zeal and hatred of heresy, would sanction the slaughter of Christian women and children, in a state of sin?’
