by Kate Mosse
Thierry’s injuries were serious. He’d been struck several times. His ankle was broken and a lance had pierced his thigh, shattering the bone inside the leg. Alaïs knew he had lost too much blood, but for Guilhem’s sake she did everything she could. She heated a decoction of knitbone root and leaves in hot wax, and then applied it in a compress once it had cooled.
Leaving Guilhem to sit with him, Alaïs turned her attention to those who had the best chance of survival. She dissolved powder of angelica root in carduus water and with the help of scullions from the kitchen carrying the liquid in pails, she spooned the medicine into the mouths of any who could swallow. If she could keep infection at bay and their blood stayed pure, then their wounds had a chance of healing.
Alaïs returned to Thierry whenever she could to refresh the dressings, even though it was clear there was no hope. He was no longer conscious and his skin had taken on the blue-white taint of death. She put her hand on Guilhem’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t be long now.’
Guilhem only nodded.
Alaïs worked her way to the far end of the hall. As she passed, a young chevalier, little older than she was, cried out. She stopped and knelt down beside him. His child’s face was creased with pain and confusion, his lips were cracked and his eyes, which had once been brown, were tortured with fear.
‘Hush,’ she murmured. ‘Do you have no one?’
He tried to shake his head. Alaïs smoothed his brow with her hand and lifted the cloth that covered his shield arm. Immediately, she let it drop. The boy’s shoulder was crushed. Fragments of white bone jutted through torn skin, like a wreck at low tide. There was a gaping hole in his side. Blood was flowing steadily from the wound, creating a pool where he lay.
His right hand was frozen around the hilt of his sword. Alaïs tried to ease it from his grasp, but his rigid fingers would not let it go. Alaïs ripped a piece of material from her skirt and plugged the deep wound. From a vial in her purse, she took a tincture of valerian and dropped two measures on to his lips to ease the pain of his passing. There was nothing else she could do.
Death was unkind. It came slowly. Gradually, the rattling in his chest grew louder as his breathing became laboured. As his eyes darkened, his terror grew and he cried out. Alaïs stayed with him, singing to him and stroking his brow until his soul left his body.
‘God take your soul,’ she whispered, closing his eyes. She covered his face, then moved on to the next.
Alaïs worked all day, administering ointment and dressing wounds until her eyes ached and her hands were streaked red with blood. At the end of the day, shafts of evening sunlight broke through the high windows of the Great Hall. The dead had been taken away. The living were as comfortable as their injuries permitted.
She was exhausted, but thoughts of the night before, lying once more in Guilhem’s arms, sustained her. Her bones ached and her back was stiff from bending and crouching, but it no longer seemed to matter.
Taking advantage of the frenzy of activity in the rest of the Château Comtal, Oriane slipped away to her chamber to wait for her informer.
‘About time,’ she snapped. ‘Tell me what you have discovered.’
‘The Jew died before we learned much, although my lord believes that he had already given his book into your father’s safe-keeping.’
Oriane gave a half smile, but said nothing. She had confided in no one what she had discovered sewn into Alaïs’ cloak.
What of Esclarmonde de Servian?’
‘She was brave, but in the end she told him where the book would be found.’
Oriane’s green eyes flashed. ‘And you have it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But it is within the Ciutat? Lord Evreux knows this?’
‘He is relying on you, Dame, to provide him with that information.’
Oriane thought a moment. ‘The old woman is dead? The boy too? She cannot interfere in our plans? She cannot get word to my father.’
He gave a tight smile. ‘The woman is dead. The brat eludes us, although I do not believe he can do any damage. When I find him, we will kill him.’
Oriane nodded. ‘And you told Lord Evreux of my . . . interest.’
‘I did, Dame. He was honoured that you should consider being of service in such a way.’
‘And my terms? He will arrange safe passage out of the Ciutat?’
‘Provided you deliver the books to him, Dame, he will.’
She stood up and started to pace. ‘Good, this is all good. And you can deal with my husband?’
‘If you tell me when and where he will be at the given hour, Dame, then easily.’ He paused. ‘It will, however, be more costly than before. The risks are considerably higher, even in such times of unrest. Viscount Trencavel’s escrivan. He is a man of status.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ she snapped in a cold voice. ‘How much?’
‘Three times what was paid for Raoul,’ he replied.
‘That’s impossible!’ she said immediately. ‘I cannot possibly lay my hands on that amount of gold.’
‘Nevertheless, Dame, that is my price.’
‘And the book?’
This time, he smiled properly. ‘That is a matter for separate negotiation, Dame,’ he said.
CHAPTER 57
The bombardment resumed and continued into the night, a steady thud of missiles, rock and stone, which sent clouds of dust into the air when a strike was made.
From her window, Alaïs could see that the dwellings on the plains had been reduced to smoking rubble. A noxious cloud was hovering above the tops of the trees like a black mist, as if caught in the branches. Some of the inhabitants had made it across the open ground to the rubble of Sant-Vicens and, from there, had sought refuge in the Cite. But most had been cut down as they fled.
In the chapel the candles burned on the altar.
At dawn on Tuesday the fourth of August, Viscount Trencavel and Bertrand Pelletier mounted the ramparts once more.
The French camp was shrouded in the early-morning river mist. Tents, stables, animals, pavilions, an entire city seemed to have taken root. Pelletier looked up. It would be another fiercely hot day. The loss of the river so early in the siege was devastating. Without water, they could not hold out for long. Drought would defeat them, even if the French did not.
Yesterday, Alaïs told him there was rumour of the first case of siege sickness reported in the quartier around the Porte de Rodez, which had taken most of the refugees from Sant-Vicens. He had gone to see for himself and although the Consul of the quartier had denied it, he feared Alaïs was right.
‘You are deep in thought, my friend.’
Bertrand turned to face him. ‘Forgive me, Messire.’
Trencavel waved away his apology. ‘Look at them, Bertrand! They are too many for us to defeat . . . and without water.’
‘Pedro II of Aragon is said to be only a day’s ride away,’ Pelletier said. ‘You are his vassal, Messire. He is bound to come to your aid.’
Pelletier knew an appeal would be difficult - Pedro was a staunch Catholic and also brother-in-law to Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse, even though there was no love lost between the two men. Still the historic bond between the House of Trencavel and the House of Aragon was strong.
‘The King’s diplomatic ambitions are closely tied up with the fate of Carcassona, Messire. He has no wish to see the Pays d’Oc controlled by the French.’ He paused. ‘Pierre-Roger de Cabaret and your allies support this course of action.’
Trencavel placed his hands on the wall in front of him.
‘They have said so, yes.’
‘So you will send word?’
Pedro heeded the call and arrived late in the afternoon of Wednesday the fifth of August.
‘Open the gates! Open the gates for lo Rèi!’
The gates of the Chateau Comtal were thrown open. Alaïs was drawn to her window by the noise and ran down to see what was happening. At first,
she intended only to ask for news. But when she looked up at the windows of the Great Hall high above her, her curiosity at what was taking place inside got the better of her. Too often she heard news third- or fourth-hand.
There was a small alcove behind the curtains that separated the Great Hall from the entrance to Viscount Trencavel’s private quarters. Alaïs had not tried to get inside the space since she was a girl and would creep down to eavesdrop on her father as he worked. She wasn’t sure if she’d even be able to slip into the narrow gap.
Alaïs climbed up on the stone bench and reached for the lowest window of the Tour Pinte that gave on to the Cour du Midi. She hauled herself up, wriggled over the stone ledge and threaded herself in through the narrow gap.
She was in luck. The room was empty. Alaïs jumped down to the ground, taking care to make as little noise as possible, then slowly opened the door and slipped into the space behind the curtain. She shuffled along until she was as close to the gap as she dared be. She was so close to where Viscount Trencavel stood, his hands clasped behind his back, that she could have reached out and touched him.
She was only just in time. At the far end of the Great Hall, the doors were thrown open. She saw her father stride in, followed by the King of Aragon and several of Carcassonne’s allies, including the seigneurs of Lavaur and Cabaret.
Viscount Trencavel fell to his knees before his liege lord.
‘No need for that,’ said Pedro, bidding him rise.
Physically the two men were strikingly different. The King was Trencavel’s senior by many years, of an age with her father. Tall and broad, a bull of a man, his face bore the marks of many military campaigns. His features were heavy, brooding, made more so by his thick, black moustache against his dark skin. His hair, although still black, like her father’s was going grey at the temples.
‘Bid your men withdraw,’ he said curtly. ‘I would talk privately with you, Trencavel.’
With your leave, Sire King, I would ask permission for my steward to remain. I value his counsel.’
The King hesitated, and then nodded.
‘There are no words that can give adequate expression to our gratitude . . .’
Pedro interrupted. ‘I’ve not come to support you, but to help you to see the error of your ways. You have brought this situation upon yourself by your wilful refusal to deal with heretics in your dominions. You have had four years - four years — to address the matter, but yet you have done nothing. You allow Cathar bishops to preach openly in your towns and cities. Your vassals openly support the Bons Homes — ’
‘No vassal . . .’
‘Do you deny that attacks on holy men and priests have gone unpunished? The humiliation of the men of the church? In your lands, heretics worship openly. Your allies give them protection. It is common knowledge the Count of Foix insults the Holy Relics by refusing to bow before them and his sister has slipped so far from grace as to take her vows as a parfaite, a ceremony the Count saw fit to attend.’
‘I cannot answer for the Count of Foix.’
‘He is your vassal and your ally,’ Pedro threw back at him. ‘Why do you allow this state of affairs to flourish?’
Alaïs felt the Viscount draw in his breath. ‘Sire, you answer your own question. We live side by side with those you call heretics. We grew up together, our closest kins-men are among them. The parfaits lived good and honest lives ministering to an ever-growing flock. I could no more expel them than I could prevent the daily rising of the sun!’
His words did not move Pedro. ‘Your only hope is to be reconciled with the Holy Mother Church. You are the equal of any of the northern barons the Abbot has with him and they will treat you as such if you seek to make amends. But if, for a moment, you give him cause to believe you too hold these heretical thoughts, in your heart if not by your actions, then he will crush you.’ The King sighed. ‘Do you really believe you can withstand this, Trencavel? You are outnumbered a hundred to one.’
We have plenty of food.’
‘Food, yes, but not water. You have lost the river.’
Alaïs saw her father dart a glance at the Viscount, clearly fearing he would lose his temper.
‘I do not wish to defy you or put myself beyond your good offices, but can you not see they come to fight for our land, not our souls? This war is not waged for the glory of God but for the greed of men. This is an army of occupation, Sire. If I have failed the Church — and so offended you, Sire — I ask your pardon. But I owe no allegiance to the Count of Nevers or the Abbot of Citeaux. They have no right, spiritual or temporal, over my lands. I will not betray my people to the French jackals for so base a cause.’
Alaïs felt a surge of pride. From the expression on her father’s face, she knew he felt it also. For the first time, something of Trencavel’s courage and spirit seemed to affect the King.
‘These are noble words, Viscount, but they will not help you now. For the sake of your people, whom you love, let me at least tell the Abbot of Citeaux you will hear his terms.’
Trencavel walked away to the window and spoke under his breath.
We do not have enough water to satisfy all those within the Ciutat?’
Her father shook his head. We do not.’
Only his hands, white against the stone sill of the window, betrayed how much the words cost him to speak.
‘Very well. I will hear what the Abbot has to say.’
For a while after Pedro had departed, Trencavel said nothing. He stayed where he was, watching the sun sink from the sky. Finally, when the candles were lit, he sat. Pelletier ordered food and drink to be brought from the kitchens.
Alaïs dared not move for fear she would be discovered. She had cramp in her arms and her legs. The walls seemed to be pressing in upon her, but there was nothing she could do.
Beneath the curtains, she could see her father’s feet as he paced up and down and hear the low murmurings of conversation from time to time.
It was late when Pedro II returned. From the expression on his face, Alaïs knew straight away the mission had failed. Her spirit sank. It was the last chance to get the Trilogy away from the Cite before the siege began in earnest.
‘You have news?’ said Trencavel, rising to greet him.
‘None that I would give, Viscount,’ Pedro replied. ‘It offends me even to deliver his insulting words.’ He accepted a cup of wine and downed it in one. ‘The Abbot of Cîteaux will allow you and twelve men of your choosing to leave the Château tonight, unmolested, bearing all you can carry.’
Alaïs saw the Viscount’s hands ball into fists. ‘And Carcassona?’
‘The Ciutat and everything, everyone else passes to the Host. After Besièrs, the lords will be looking for recompense.’
For a moment after he’d spoken, there was silence.
Then, Trencavel finally gave vent to his temper and hurled his cup against the wall. ‘How dare he offer such an insult!’ he roared. ‘How dare he insult our honour, our pride! I will not abandon a single one of my subjects to these French jackals.’
‘Messire,’ murmured Pelletier.
Trencavel stood, hands on his hips, breathing heavily, waiting until his rage had passed.
Then he turned again to the King. ‘Sire, I am grateful for your intercession and for the offices you have undertaken on our behalf. However, if you will not — or cannot — fight with us, then we must part company. You should withdraw.’
Pedro nodded, knowing there was nothing more to be said.
‘May God be with you, Trencavel,’ he said unhappily.
Trencavel met his gaze. ‘I believe he is,’ he said defiantly.
As Pelletier accompanied the King from the hall, Alaïs took her chance to slip away.
The Feast of the Transfiguration of the Virgin passed quietly, with little progress made on either side. Trencavel continued to shower down arrows and missiles on the Crusaders, while the mindless thud, thud of the catapult sent rock and stone thundering into the walls. Men
fell on both sides, but little ground was gained or lost.
The plains resembled a charnel house. Bodies rotted where they lay, swollen in the heat and feasted on by a plague of black flies. Kites and hawks, circling over the battlefield, picked the bones clean.
On Friday the seventh of August, the Crusaders launched an attack on the southern suburb of Sant-Miquel. For a while, they succeeded in occupying the ditch below the walls, but were repelled by a shower of arrows and stones. After several hours of stalemate, the French withdrew under the continued onslaught, to the jeers and triumph of the Carcassonnais.
At dawn the following day, as the world shimmered silver in the early morning light and a delicate mist floated gently across the slopes where more than a thousand Crusaders stood facing Sant-Miquel, the attack began again.
Helmets and shields, swords and pikes, eyes, glinted in the pale sun. Each man wore a cross pinned to his breast, white against the colours of Nevers, Burgundy, Chartres and Champagne.
Viscount Trencavel had positioned himself on the walls of Sant-Miquel, shoulder to shoulder with his men, ready to repel the attack.
The archers and dardasiers held themselves ready, bows set. Below, the footsoldiers were armed with axes, swords and pikes. Behind them, safe within the Cite until they were required, were the chevaliers.
In the distance, the French drums began to beat. They banged the hard earth with their pikes, a steady, heavy sound that echoed over the waiting land.
And so it begins.
Alaïs stood on the wall at her father’s side, her attention split between looking for her husband, and watching the Crusaders stream down the hill.
When the Host was within range, Viscount Trencavel raised his arm and gave the order. A storm of arrows immediately darkened the sky.
On both sides, men fell. The first scaling ladder was already on the walls. A bolt from a crossbow whizzed through the air and connected with rough, heavy wood and brought it down. The ladder tilted, then overbalanced. It fell slowly at first, then picked up speed, hurling the men to the ground in a splinter of blood, bone and wood.
