by Kate Mosse
‘It is said that the Abbot was asked how he should tell the good Catholics from the heretics: “Tuez-les tous. Dieu reconnâitra les siens”,’ said du Murviel in a hollow voice. “‘Kill them all. God will recognise his own.” Or so it is rumoured that he spoke.’
Trencavel and de Cabaret exchanged glances.
‘Go on,’ ordered Pelletier grimly. ‘Finish your story.’
‘The great bells of Besièrs were ringing the alarum. Women and children crowded into the Church of Sant-Jude and the Church of Santa Maria Magdalena in the upper town, thousands of people crammed inside like animals in a pen. The Catholic priests vested themselves and sang the Requiem, but the Crusaders broke down the door and slaughtered them all.’
His voice faltered. ‘In the space of a few brief hours, our entire city had been turned into a charnel house. The looting started. All our fine houses were stripped bare by greed and barbarity. Only now did the French barons, through greed not conscience, seek to control the routiers. They, in turn, were furious to be deprived of the spoils they had earned, so set the town alight so none could benefit. The wooden dwellings of the slums went up like a tinder-box. The roof timbers of the cathedral caught light and collapsed, trapping all those sheltering inside. So fierce were the flames, the cathedral cracked down the middle.’
‘Tell me this, amic. How many survive?’ said the Viscount.
The musician dropped his head. ‘None, Messire. Save those few of us who escaped the city. Otherwise, all are dead.’
‘Twenty thousand slaughtered in the space of a single morning,’ Raymond-Roger muttered in horror. ‘How can this be?’
Nobody answered. There were no words equal to the task.
Trencavel raised his head and looked down at the musicians.
‘You have seen sights that no man should see, Pierre du Murviel. You have shown great bravery and courage in bringing this news to us. Carcassona is in your debt and I will see you are well rewarded.’ He paused. ‘Before you take your leave, I would ask you one further question. Did my uncle, Raymond, Count of Toulouse, take part in the sack of the city?’
‘I do not believe so, Messire. It was rumoured he remained in the French camp.’
Trencavel glanced at Pelletier. ‘That, at least, is something.’
‘And as you travelled to Carcassona, did you pass anyone on the road?’ Pelletier asked. ‘Has the news of this massacre spread?’
‘I know not, Messire. I stayed away from the main routes, following the old passes through the gorges of Lagrasse. But I saw no soldiers.’
Viscount Trencavel looked to his consuls in case they had questions to ask, but no one spoke.
‘Very well,’ he said, turning back to the musician. ‘You may take your leave. Once more, our thanks.’
As soon as du Murviel had been led away, Trencavel turned to Pelletier.
Why have we received no word? It beggars belief we should not have heard whisperings at least. Four days have passed since the massacre.’
‘If du Murviel’s tale is true, then who is left to carry the news?’ said de Cabaret grimly.
‘Even so,’ said Trencavel, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand. ‘Send out fresh riders immediately, as many as we can spare. We must know if the Host remains yet at Besièrs or already marches east. Their victory will give speed to their progress.’
Everyone bowed as he stood up.
‘Command the consuls to publish this ill news throughout the Ciutat. I go to the capèla Sant-Maria. Send my wife to me there.’
Pelletier felt as if his legs were encased in armour as he climbed the stairs to the living quarters. There seemed to be something around his chest, a band or a ligature, stopping him from breathing freely.
Alaïs was waiting for him at the door.
‘You have brought the book?’ she said eagerly. The look on his face stopped her in her tracks. ‘What is it? Has something happened?’
‘I have not been to Sant-Nasari, Filha. There has been news.’ Pelletier sat heavily down in a chair.
‘What manner of news?’ He heard the dread in her voice.
‘Besiers has fallen,’ he said. ‘Three, four days ago. None survive.
Alaïs stumbled to the bench. ‘All dead?’ she said, horrorstruck. Women and children also?’
We stand now on the very edge of perdition,’ he said. ‘If they are capable of visiting such atrocities on innocent. . .’
She sat down beside him. ‘What will happen now?’ she said.
For the first time he could remember, Pelletier heard fear in his daughter’s voice. We can only wait and see,’ he said.
He sensed rather than heard her draw breath.
‘But this makes no difference to what we agreed,’ she said carefully. ‘You will allow me to take the Trilogy to safety.’
‘The situation has changed.’
A look of fierce determination came over her. With respect, Paire, there is even more reason to let us go. If we don‘t, the books will be trapped within the Ciutat. That cannot be what you want.’ She paused. He made no answer. ‘After everything you and Simeon and Esclarmonde have sacrificed, all the years of hiding, keeping the books safe, only to fail at the last.’
‘What happened in Besièrs will not happen here,’ he said firmly. ‘Carcassona can withstand siege. It will withstand. The books will be safer kept here.’
Alaïs stretched across the table and took his hand.
‘I beseech you, do not go back on your word.’
‘Arèst, Alaïs,’ he said sharply. We do not know where the army is. Already, the tragedy that has befallen Besièrs is old news. Several days have passed since these events took place, even though they are fresh to us. An advance guard might already be within striking distance of the Ciutat. If I let you go, I would be signing your death warrant.’
‘But — ’
‘I forbid it. It is too dangerous.’
‘I am prepared to take the risk.’
‘No, Alaïs,’ he shouted, fear fuelling his temper. ‘I will not sacrifice you. The duty is mine, not yours.’
‘Then come with me,’ she cried. ‘Tonight. Let’s take the books and go, now, while still there is the chance.’
‘It is too dangerous,’ he repeated stubbornly.
‘Do you think I do not know that? Yes, it may be that our journey will end at the point of a French sword. But surely it is better to die in the trying, than let fear of what may come to pass take our courage from us?’
To her surprise, frustration also, he smiled. ‘Your spirit does you credit, Filha,’ he said, although he sounded defeated. ‘But the books stay within the Ciutat.’
Alaïs stared at him aghast, then turned and ran out of the room.
CHAPTER 47
Besièrs
For two days after their unexpected victory at Béziers, the Crusaders remained in the fertile meadows and abundant countryside surrounding the city. To have taken such a prize with so few casualties was a miracle. God could have given no clearer a sign of the justness of their cause.
Above them were the smoking ruins of the once great city. Fragments of grey ash spiralled up into the incongruous blue of the summer skies and were scattered by the winds over the defeated land. From time to time, the unmistakable sound of crumpling masonry and brittle, broken timbers could be heard.
The following morning, the Host struck camp and headed south across open country towards the Roman city of Narbonne. At the front of the column of men was the Abbot of Citeaux, flanked by the Papal Legates, his temporal authority strengthened by the devastating defeat of the city that had dared to harbour heresy. Every cross of white or gold seemed to shimmer like the finest cloth upon the backs of God’s warriors. Every crucifix seemed to catch the rays of the brilliant sun.
The conquering army wound its way like a snake through the landscape of saltpans, stagnant pools and extensive tracts of yellow scrub, whipped by the fierce winds that blew off the Golfe du Lion. Vines grew wild alon
g the roadsides, as well as olive and almond trees.
The French soldiers, untried and unused to the extreme climate of the south, had never seen terrain like it. They crossed themselves, seeing it as proof that they had indeed entered a land abandoned by God.
A deputation led by the Archbishop of Narbonne and the Viscount of the city met the Crusaders at Capestang on the twenty-fifth of July.
Narbonne was a rich trading port on the Mediterranean Sea, although the heart of the city was some distance inland. With rumours of the horrors inflicted upon Béziers fresh in their minds — and hoping to save Narbonne from the same fate — both church and state were prepared to sacrifice their independence and honour. In front of witnesses, the Bishop of Narbonne and the Viscount of Narbonne knelt before the Abbot and made full and complete submission to the Church. They agreed to deliver all known heretics to the Legates, to confiscate all property owned by Cathars and Jews, even to pay a tax on their possessions to subsidise the Crusade.
Within hours, terms had been ratified. Narbonne would be spared. Never had a war chest been won so easily.
If the Abbot and his Legates were surprised at the speed with which the Narbonnais relinquished their birthright, they did not show it. If the men who marched beneath the vermilion colours of the Count of Toulouse were embarrassed by the lack of courage of their countrymen, they did not voice it.
The order was given to change course. They would stay outside Narbonne for the night, then head for Olonzac in the morning. After that, it was but a few days’ march to Carcassonne itself.
The following day, the fortified hilltop town of Azille surrendered, throwing its gates open wide to the invaders. Several families denounced as heretics were burned on a pyre hastily constructed in the central marketplace. The black smoke wound through the narrow, steep streets and slipped over the thick walls of the town to the flat countryside beyond.
One by one, the small châteaux and villages surrendered without a sword being raised. The neighbouring town of La Redorte followed Azille’s example, as did most of the hamlets and clusters of tiny dwellings in between. Other places fortes they found deserted.
The Host helped themselves to what they wanted from the bursting granaries and well-stocked fruit stores and moved on. What little resistance the army did encounter was met with violent and swift reprisals. Steadily, the savage reputation of the army spread, like a malignant shadow stretching out black before them. Little by little, the ancient bond between the people of the eastern Languedoc and the Trencavel dynasty was broken.
On the eve of the Feast Day of Sant-Nasari, a week after their victory at Béziers, the advance guard reached Trèbes, two days ahead of the main army.
During the course of the afternoon, it grew steadily more humid. The hazy afternoon light gave way to a glowering grey. A few rumbles of thunder growled in the sky, followed by a violent crack of lightning. As the Crusaders rode through the gates of the town, left unguarded and open, the first drops of rain began to fall.
The streets were eerily deserted. Everyone had disappeared, stolen away like wraiths or spirits. The sky was an endless expanse of black and purple, as bruised clouds scudded across the horizon. When the storm hit, sweeping across the plains surrounding the town, the thunder cracked and roared overhead as if the heavens themselves were disintegrating.
The horses slithered and slipped on the cobbled stones. Each alleyway, every passage, became a river. The rain pounded ferociously on shield and helmet. Rats scurried to the steps of the church, seeking refuge from the swirling torrents. The tower was hit by lightning, but did not burn.
Soldiers from the north fell to their knees, crossing themselves and praying that God would spare them. The flat lands around Chartres, the fields of Burgundy or the wooded countryside of Champagne offered nothing so extreme.
As quickly as it had struck, like a lumbering beast, the storm passed on. The air became fresh and pleasant. The Crusaders heard the bells in the nearby monastery start to ring out in thanks for their safe deliverance. Taking it as a sign the worst was over, they emerged from the trees and set to work. The squires searched for safe grazing for the horses. Servants began to unpack their masters’ belongings and went in search of dry kindling to lay the fires.
Gradually, the camp took shape.
Dusk fell. The sky was a patchwork of pinks and purples. As the final wisps of trailing white cloud drifted away, the northerners got their first glimpse of the towers and turrets of Carcassonne, revealed suddenly on the horizon.
The Cite seemed to rise out of the land itself, a stone fortress in the sky looking down in grandeur upon the world of men. Nothing they had heard had prepared the Crusaders for this first sight of the place they had come to conquer. Words did not begin to do justice to its splendour.
It was magnificent, dominant. Impregnable.
CHAPTER 48
When he came to his senses, Simeon was no longer in the wood, but in some sort of byre. He had a memory of travelling, a long way. His ribs were sore from the motion of the horse.
The smell was terrible, a mixture of sweat, goat, damp straw and something he could not quite identify: a sickliness, like decaying flowers. There were several harnesses hanging from the wall and a pitchfork propped up in the corner closest to the door, which came no higher than a man’s shoulder. On the wall opposite the door were five or six metal rings for tethering animals.
Simeon glanced down. The hood they’d put over his head was lying next to him on the ground. His hands were still tied, as were his feet.
Coughing and trying to spit the coarse threads of the material out of his mouth, he levered himself up into a sitting position. Feeling bruised and stiff, Simeon slowly shuffled backwards on the ground until he reached the door. It took some time, but the relief of feeling something solid against his shoulders and back was immense. Patiently, he pushed himself to his feet, his head nearly hitting the roof. He banged against the door. The wood groaned and strained, but it was barred from the outside and would not open.
Simeon had no idea where he was, still close to Carcassonne or further afield. He had half memories of being carried on horseback through the woods, then over flat land. From the little he knew of the terrain, he guessed that meant they were somewhere around Trèbes.
He could see a slither of light under the small gap at the bottom of the door, a dark blue, but not yet the pitch black of night. When he pressed his ear to the ground, he could hear the murmur of his captors close by.
They were waiting for someone to arrive. The thought chilled him; evidence, although he barely needed it, that this was no random ambush.
Simeon shuffled his way back to the far side of the byre. Over time, he dozed, slumping sideways and jerking awake, then sliding into sleep again.
The sound of someone shouting brought him to his senses. Immediately, every nerve in his body was alert. He heard the sound of men scrambling to their feet, then a thud as the heavy wooden bar securing the door was removed.
Three shadowy figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright sunlight beyond. Simeon blinked, unable to see much.
‘Où est-il?’ Where is he?
It was an educated northern voice, cold and peremptory. There was a pause. The torch was held higher, picking out Simeon where he stood blinking in the shadows. ‘Bring him to me.’
Simeon barely had time to recognise the leader of the ambush, when he was grabbed by the arms and thrown on his knees in front of the Frenchman.
Slowly, Simeon raised his eyes. The man had a cruel, thin face and expressionless eyes the colour of flint. His tunic and trousers were of good quality, cut in the northern style, although they gave no indication of his status or position.
Where is it?’ he demanded.
Simeon raised his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied in Yiddish.
The kick took him by surprise. He felt a rib snap and he fell backwards, his legs buckling under him. Simeon felt rough hands beneath h
is armpits propping him back in position.
‘I know who you are, Jew,’ he said. ‘There is no sense in playing this game with me. I will ask you once again. Where is the book?’
Simeon raised his head once more and said nothing.
This time, the man went for his face. Pain exploded inside his head as his mouth split open and teeth cracked in his jaw. Simeon could taste blood and saliva, stinging, on his tongue and in his throat.
‘I have pursued you like an animal, Jew,’ he said, ‘all the way from Chartres, to Béziers, to here. Tracked you down, like an animal. You have wasted a great deal of my time. My patience is growing thin.’ He took a step closer so that Simeon could see the hate in his grey, dead eyes. ‘Once more: where is the book? Did you give it to Pelletier? C’est ça?’
Two thoughts came simultaneously into Simeon’s mind. First, that he could not save himself. Second, that he must protect his friends. He still had that power. His eyes were swollen shut and blood pooled in the torn hollows of his lids.
‘I have the right to know the name of my accuser,’ he said through a mouth too broken for speech. ‘I would pray for you.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Make no mistake, you will tell me where you have hidden the book.’
He jerked his head.
Simeon was hauled to his feet. They ripped the clothes from him and threw him flat over a cart, one man holding his hands, the other his legs to expose his back. Simeon heard the sharp crack of the leather in the air just before the buckle connected with his bare skin. His body jerked in agony. Where is it?’ Simeon closed his eyes as the belt whipped down again through the air. ‘Is it in Carcassonne already? Or do you still have it with you, Jew?’ He was shouting in time with the stroke. ‘You will tell me. You. Or them.’
Blood was flowing from the lacerations on his back. Simeon began to pray in the custom of his fathers, ancient, holy words thrown out into the darkness, keeping his mind from the pain.
‘Où — est — le — livre?’ the man insisted, another strike for every word.
