"Wait." Pierre had turned toward the fortress. He stood. "Something is wrong."
Another figure was climbing down the fortress wall. This one was in trouble. The rope swung out from the side. The climber slid down, feet flailing in the air. Antoine grabbed Pierre's arm. He saw the climber lose his grasp on the rope, but the climber did not scream. He heard a series of sickening thuds, then silence. Antoine still held Pierre's arm. His knuckles were white. He released his hold and listened.
"He did not fall all the way," Antoine murmured, glancing at the command tent. Silence there, too. Very well. He leaned down, gathering ropes that sat beside the siege engine.
"What are you doing?"
"Someone is hurt down there. We have to go down and get him up," Antoine whispered, but his voice was fierce.
"You go ahead. I am not risking my life to climb down there and rescue some fool of a Cathar who decided to do a little night climb," Pierre grumbled.
"Risk your life? Ha! What about the time you climbed the face of the `Lady's Breast' at home to impress my Cecile?" Antoine wound the rope around his arm. "This is a walk through the meadow compared to that climb!"
He secured the rope around the post next to the siege engine and stared at Pierre. "Will you join me?"
Pierre shrugged. "Climb, then."
Antoine inched down the sheer face, halting often to listen, straining his ears for the soft, rasping sound that would lead them to the climber-the sound of breathing. Pierre followed closely. Far below, the faint light of a torch from the village that hugged the base of the mountain winked at him. The village night watch was posted, then. He counted knots he had tied into the rope, each measuring the height of a man. Twenty knots, now thirty. The slope bulged outward, then receded until both he and Pierre hung anxiously from the ropes. Finally, Antoine felt the mountain wall beneath his feet again. He nodded to Pierre.
He thought he heard bubbles popping, a gurgling. What was that? He leaned out from the side, holding firmly on his rope, and saw the climber. The twisted body was stuck between two rocks. Antoine gave a low whistle, gazing into the abyss.
"This is what stopped him." he pointed to the jagged teeth of the rocks. The climber had come to rest on top of the lower, but the upper had claimed a piece of his body. His right arm reached above his head at an impossible angle. "Broken, for sure," Antoine said, then moved closer. "Blessed Mother!" He waved Pierre back, but his friend did not heed him.
"Is he dead?"
Pierre swallowed; Antoine heard his friend's throat working. "If you are going to lose your dinner, do it now," he said. He stopped next to the twisted form. The woman's breath was warm on his face. "No, she is not dead," he answered. "She is still alive."
Pierre shuddered. "It is a woman?"
Her injuries were terrible. Even in the dark, Antoine could see many wet places where broken bones had pushed through the skin of her arms and legs, through the wool gown and leggings she wore. The whole side of her face had been shattered, and blood poured steadily from her mouth. Her teeth showed through her torn cheek.
Pierre moaned. "Will she wake up?" he asked. "I hope she will not."
"I do not know. She is bleeding a lot from the mouth, so she will not live very long." Antoine shifted his weight. Maybe if he took her shoulders while Pierre took her feet, they could move her.
"How do you know that?" Pierre's voice sounded muffled.
Antoine looked up at his friend. "I have seen this before. When they bleed this much from the mouth they do not last."
The woman's eyes opened She breathed in with a bubbling sound and tried to speak. Her eyes were rimmed with white, and quivered.
"Do not speak and do not move." Antoine whispered to her in the language of the region, the langue d'oc. "We will try to help you. I am Antoine and he is Pierre."
Panic left her face. She looked from Antoine to Pierre, who hung onto the mountain and stared upon her with undisguised horror. Her lips spread in a faint, lopsided smile. The left side of her face would not move.
"I am Diana," she said, just as she would if they had met in the marketplace rather than hanging on the side of a mountain. The injury to her face muted and slurred her speech, but her voice sounded calm. "I know you cannot help me; you must not worry. You must leave me here, but I would like you to stay until I am gone."
She looked at Antoine, who was regarding her silently. "I am not in pain. I cannot move or feel my body, but I know I am grievously wounded and do not have long. There is something I must pass on to you for safekeeping." Her accent sounded refined, even through the distortion from her injuries, finer than the accents of the knights above in the command tent.
Antoine shook his head and waved his free hand, clinging to his rope with the other, but she pinned him with her gaze.
"You must take it," she said. "It is a package wrapped in silk inside a sling under my cloak."
"How do you know we are not with the French King's army? Would you have whatever this thing is -- this thing you want to give to us -- fall into their hands?"
"I know you are here with the French." Her eyes closed briefly, then opened again. "But the thing I carry cannot choose wrongly. It is not for me to say who it chooses, if you are with the French then so be it. I can see your hearts are good, and I think you will keep it safe." She looked at him a few heartbeats longer and then Antoine slipped his hand under her cloak and felt around her torso, trying to jostle her as little as possible. He finally pulled out a bulky package wrapped in silk, as she had told him it would be. Her face relaxed.
"Good," she said, then coughed. More blood trickled out of her mouth, the coppery, salty warm smell of it hanging in the still air around them.
Pierre swallowed, his throat making a dry, clicking sound. "Blessed Mother," he whispered.
She looked at him and one side of her mouth stretched into a faint smile again. "Do not worry. I received the consolamentum -- our kiss of peace -- before I left Montsegur." She looked again to Antoine. "Please keep what is in the package. It has passed to you now."
Antoine saluted her as he would a soldier. Her eyes brightened a moment, then blood spurted from her mouth, soaking her clothes and staining the snow. Her eyes glazed.
When he tried to free her head from the rock, Antoine felt a slender chain around her neck give way. He caught it before it fell down the mountainside. Pierre was at her feet, pulling them free from the rock cleft. Antoine slipped the chain into his mantle with the package she had given him.
"They will be able to see this blood in the morning, my friend," he told Pierre. "We had better start working on our story now."
"But I thought we were taking her to Bauçais." Pierre was wrapping her cloak around her broken body.
"No," Antoine decided. "He would only burn her, then they would ask us if she carried anything." He touched the package inside his mantle. A curious tingling moved from his fingers up his arm and to his chest, settling in a warm glow around his heart. He looked up at the sky. They had time yet until dawn. He peered at the path they had cleared to allow the French to take the ridge. "We will take her below," he said, "and bury her."
HE CARRIED her body cradled against his chest, in a loose halter of ropes crossing his back. She was a little thing, really. Pierre walked behind him, doing his best to clear the traces of their journey. When the slope grew steeper, they took turns climbing and handing her down. Time had no meaning now, there was only the narrow, treacherous path to the valley below.
When they reached the base, they both crouched and breathed, the air pumping out of their lungs in white plumes. The torch of the night watch shone through pines and scrub. Antoine tied Diana's body to his back. The two men skirted the village, running silently, and into the forest that stretched out into the distance toward Navarre, toward home. Antoine carried Diana's body deep into the forest, placing her between the roots of a long-needled pine. There was little snow under the trees here, but they had left their footsteps on the ground behind
the houses.
"Pierre," he whispered, "Take some deadfall branches and clear our tracks."
Pierre nodded and melted into the tree shadows. Antoine turned toward the dead Cathar, Diana. "I must bury you here." He spoke to her still form, gazing through night shadows at oak and ash, at scrub pine and hawthorn. "It is near the village, so you will be among Christians. Not Cathars. At least, I don't think they are Cathars. But this is the best I can do." He cleared a space between the tree roots and sank into the layers of needles. "You know, my family would consider this a holy place-these trees, the nearness of the mountain." He searched for sharp rocks, found three with good, flat sides that fit in the palm of his hand. Then he attacked the frozen earth. "So you will have both the Christ and the Guardian to watch over you."
Pierre rejoined him, his powerful hands tearing into the soil. When they had dug so deep that they could barely see above the surface of the hole, they lowered Diana's body carefully into the grave. Pierre placed the last bit of earth onto the grave and they both spread needles over it. Finally, Antoine stood and stared at their work. In the dark, at least, the forest floor looked undisturbed.
Antoine turned to Pierre. "What shall we say?"
Pierre shrugged, then leaned down and drew an equal-armed cross in the earth, surrounded by a circle. He stood and brushed the dirt off his hands.
"Who are these Cathars, anyway?" Antoine asked. "I do not know any Christian blessings or words for the dead. Do you know any for Cathars?"
"I knew a Cathar once," Pierre murmured. "He told me that everything you see around you is really made of light, but that a king of all evil imprisoned the light into the world, so everything here is evil." He rubbed his belly and grimaced. "As if the Guardian's own earth could be evil! He was a good man, but I never understood him."
The package inside Antoine's mantle was warm. He was reluctant to part with it, but if his tent were searched it would be found. "Pierre," he said, pulling out the package and the necklace. "I am going to bury her necklace with her, and this," he unwrapped the silk, "I will bury nearby." It was an old stone cup. The outer surface was bumpy with letters or carving and there seemed to be something inside it. He touched the inner rim. A stone lay inside, but it did not move when he touched it. It must be wedged tight. When he touched the cup's surface, his belly warmed and a curious sense of peace flowed out to his heart, to his arms. He wrapped the silk around it again and buried it across from the grave.
Pierre looked at the sky. "Whatever you do, we must be going now, if we are to return before we are missed."
Antoine placed the necklace under the needles that marked Diana's grave. "You were a brave lady," he said. "We will do our best to keep your cup safe." He rubbed fallen oak leaves over his hands and face to take away the traces of blood and dirt. Then he and Pierre started their journey back.
HUGHES DES ARCIS reclined in his sturdy chair and examined the plan for the surrender of Montsegur. While he turned the vellum pages, he glanced up at his second-in-command, Henri de Bauçais.
Henri had busied himself with his incessant carving and was now deeply engrossed, making notches in what looked like the tail of a mermaid. He never went anywhere without his knives and small blocks of wood. Hughes had to admit his carvings were actually quite beautiful. When the Pope had put Hughes in charge of the siege of Montsegur, Hughes had asked for Henri. He had known Bauçais since Henri was a wild, sweet and guileless boy. Hughes had watched him grow, had congratulated Henri's father on his three fine sons -- Gilles, Henri and Guy -- had even taken Henri as squire for a time.
Henri was humming while he carved. What tune was that? Something religious? Of course. Hughes knew Henri had been sent to the abbey to take training as a monk. How could Henri's father have allowed that? There were rumors, of course. Something about a girl. Ysabel? Some disgrace. And wasn't his mother mad? Hughes had heard she still wore a hair shirt. She would have her beautiful son chaste forever in an abbey, but Henri's older brother died. And his father, too.
Hughes folded the surrender agreement. A brilliant plan, really. It would put an end to this siege that had lasted nearly a year. Entirely too long, but the people of this region were clearly on the side of the heretics. Oh, they did nothing overt. But Hughes had the devil of a time keeping conscripts from deserting. And his supply lines were always disintegrating. Henri had changed that. His decision to use the Basque mercenaries had brought them the first real break they had in this campaign. And now this surrender agreement.
Hughes cleared his throat; Henri stopped carving and slipped the half-formed block of wood into a pocket on his mantle. A strong face, Hughes thought, a beautiful face. But the younger man's eyes were cold.
"This is a very good plan," Hughes stated. "How many do you think will recant? How high should our pyres be built?"
"What are you saying? Most of them will recant," Henri said, waving his hand.
"You think so?" Hughes raised his eyebrows but did not comment further.
"Anyone faced with burning to death will certainly see that it is much better to live than to die so horribly. I have a meeting with the guide I told you about," Henri said, "Jean Bernart. The one who can get us up to the eastern tower."
Hughes nodded. "How long do you think it will take to get us up there?"
Henri frowned. "It will take careful planning. I must climb the route myself first so I can see how long it takes, and how many of our men can get up there before the heretics know what we are doing." He reached inside his mantle. The knife he had used in his carving caught the light as his fingers played over the hilt. "I will not ask my men to do what I have not done myself." He turned to walk out the door.
Hughes smiled. Henri had never lacked courage. The soldiers of the king were certainly devoted to him. But the local inhabitants often shied away from Henri and made a curious sign with the pointing and smallest fingers of their hands when he strode past them. Hughes had meant to ask what this sign meant. Ah, well, he thought, we may never know.
"There is another thing," Hughes said as Henri reached the door. Henri turned to face him.
Hughes leaned back in his chair and selected his words with care. "There was an incident around Christmas," he said. "Someone from Montsegur tried to climb down and fell."
Henri nodded. "There was blood all over the snow."
"But no body was ever found," Hughes remarked mildly.
"Two of the Basques from my aunt's town had been on watch that night. Both claimed they had fallen asleep. I could not find fault with either story; except of course, there was the fact that they had fallen asleep on duty. Since everyone was doing double-shifts at that time, I was not surprised." Something flared within Henri's eyes. "I moved both of the guards who were on duty that night to the day watch just a few days after the incident." Henri's body was rigid now, and Hughes was favored with his icy stare, a gaze that many had warned Hughes would `wither his bones.' Ridiculous, of course. Yet Hughes could not dampen the shiver that trembled his spine. The stare of a basilisk. Useful. But it could not wither one who had known him when he was a boy.
"Good," Hughes said. "I want you to keep an eye on them. The two Basques."
Henri raised his brows. The knife disappeared into his mantle.
"My sources have told me that something of value may have come down from Montsegur that night." Hughes paused, watching Henri's face thaw, watching the spark flare again in his eyes. "Something of great value."
"I will have them watched." Henri inclined his head, then swept out of the room.
A BLACK moon. There had been chanting earlier from the fortress above, but all was silent now. Henri had watched the black hulk of Montsegur for so long his neck ached. Jean Bernart, the guide they had bribed, stood sweating nearby. Henri knew that if they could secure the eastern tower, then they would control the entire eastern face and the siege would be nearly over, but he hated dealing with this traitor. He could smell him, an acid scent of both excitement and fear. The sme
ll of the abbey.
His thoughts veered away, as always, from any memory of his time in the Fornault Abbey. His fingers found his carving knife and he nicked the skin of his ring finger. The sting brought him back to the task before him. He turned to Jean. "Lead me up there," he said.
ANTOINE lifted another iron bar and set it into place. It was nearly over for him and Pierre. The fortress had fallen soon after Bauçais took the east tower. Antoine had gone to the paymaster again as soon as the trumpet was sounded, signaling surrender. But the blasted wretch had simply smiled. "We have a task for such a strong man," the paymaster had said.
So he was here now with Pierre again. Building a cage.
"Why do they want a cage?" Pierre had asked. "Will they put the prisoners inside here? Why not in the dungeon of the fortress?"
"Maybe there is no dungeon." But Antoine felt uneasy. They were building this cage so fast that it could not hold any number of folk for long. The bars would collapse if too much pressure were placed on them over time. True, they only had a few days now until the people inside would deliver themselves to the pope's men. But how long would the soldiers hold them? He shook his head. This cage was simply not strong enough. He hoped they would not blame him when the bars collapsed.
Antoine paused and glanced up as Henri de Bauçais strode past him, searing him with that icy stare. The man looked demented. But Henri had won. He had given the people inside Montsegur fourteen days to prepare themselves for the surrender. They would have time to decide whether they would put aside their Cathar beliefs and live, or refuse to recant, and die.
Antoine stared at Henri's retreating back. Henri paced all of the time, now. But Antoine could feel the restless heat behind his cold eyes. There was a passionate heart within that man. Antoine turned back to the cage and saw men dragging bales of straw onto the platform he had helped to build. What was the straw for?
Henri stopped at the edge of Hughes' tent. His stomach burned all of the time now. The silence after the constant crashing of the siege engine made the ears ring, and a curious tension had rippled through the men surrounding the fortress since the heretics announced their surrender. Henri could see that his men were jumpy. Quarrels broke out everywhere, several of his men were coughing without reason, some had developed tics as muscles in their jaws or around their eyes twitched uncontrollably. He was at a loss. How could he deal with this?
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