Siege Perilous

by E. D. Debirmingham

  The well of Montségur was deep and the water cool. The days grew long until the summer solstice, and the earth baked there beneath the thin air on the mountain face. But the water held, and Credents from the valleys, with Ocyrhoe’s aid, snuck food through the supply lines under cover of night. The Good Ones prayed and meditated, and the endless sorties up the western face of the mountain were always stopped by the garrison. The days were uncomfortable, but never truly frightening.

  Another forty days had come and gone, and still more soldiers came, and more, and more, with no success at all in getting a foothold on the mountainside. The days grew shorter but the army continued to grow in size, if not enthusiasm.

  Even Rixenda frowned a little now, tutted, shook her head in confusion. “Four months,” she said. “No siege by the Catholics ever lasted so long.” They were in the candle-shed melting the beeswax into a vat.

  “You do not know your history,” said Alis, who made candles with them. “The French besieged Toulouse for eight months back in ’17, and finally lost. Long sieges bode ill for them. They are probably more perturbed by the length of the siege than we are.”

  “In that case, let us hope they leave soon,” said Rixenda.

  CHAPTER 5:

  THE KNIGHT’S ARRIVAL

  Percival had recognized the shape of the stark mountain peak from his confusing visions; it called out to him although there were other higher peaks near it. It was not one peak within a range, but a pog, standing out on its own high above all the surrounding plains. At the top—a detail missing from his visions—was a stone building so small it might have been a chapel. It was too small to be a church or a castle, and it was a nonsensical place for a fortress.

  Riding slowly up into the foothills, he saw the disturbance of an army a day before he saw the army itself. His horse grew wary; so did he. Small clusters of houses and farms were deserted, had been ransacked; no livestock remained, barns were emptied of grain and hay, and there was careless destruction everywhere, not only to homesteads but to oak groves, vineyards, and mountain fields. Early snow was ground into mud in places where it should have lain unmolested until thawing. Small roads and footpaths had been trampled into broad avenues, but whoever had first come through here in large numbers had done it months ago. Yet, the scarring on young trees where branches had been ripped away was not new: The area was being patrolled.

  For all the warning signs, when he first saw the army, the size of it surprised him. They were camped on the foothills out of which the limestone peak erupted like a fat stalagmite from the landscape. They were also camped in the fields lying farther out, as if trying to spread their number around the entire perimeter of the pog. Judging by a cluster of smoke plumes, they must have taken over a village at the foot of the mountain.

  As he rode closer, he saw that the masses of men were grouped under a rainbow of insignia—the King of France and at least five banners Percival did not know. There were thousands of men. How ironic, that so many men were bent on destroying a place to small to hold their number; and how ironic again that no matter their number, they could not reach it. But they were entrenched; they were dedicated.

  As he rode closer, Percival saw that most of the troops wore the cross of crusading pilgrims on the shoulders of their tunics. Had the followers of Mohammed taken over the mountain? Confused, he glanced around for papal banners—the crossed keys to the kingdom of St. Peter. He saw none.

  Halting before he attracted attention, Percival considered his choices. The troops of men around the base of the mountain were obviously there to prevent traffic in either direction. If they were completely successful, the little bastion above would have given in by now, for nothing so small could keep stores enough for months, and this army camp had—even in winter—the stench of a place that had been lived in for a while. So there were ways up and down to the fortress, ways the army could not find. But somebody could. There was local support for whoever was up in the eyrie of stone.

  If he could find those supporters, and convince them he was not a soldier of this army, perhaps they would take him up with them. He knew he was meant to be up there, only he did not know why—or how. But fully armed, with a decent horse, he was clearly a soldier; in a region whose language he was not even sure of, he could not possibly talk his way into a stranger’s trust.

  On the other hand, if he presented himself to the leader of the besieging army, he would be expected to join in its efforts. That felt dishonorable, given the size of the attack against whoever had been reduced to cowering in a stone barricade hundreds of feet above the rest of the world.

  His need for information pushed him toward the outskirts of the army camp. Without hesitation now, he rode straight toward a set of guards on the long-trampled footpath. They looked bored until they noticed him. Then they stood up straighter and moved shoulder to shoulder, muttering to each other excitedly. They hoped that he was bringing news.

  Percival was delivered, dismounted, to a sergeant in a large tent. The sergeant crossed his arms over his puffed-up chest and eyed Percival’s ragged, rose-emblazoned tunic with suspicion. “I do not know your blazon,” he said. “Who is your lord?”

  “I am a knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae,” said Percival. When he saw those words meant nothing to the sergeant, he clarified for the man. “I serve the Holy Virgin.” As an afterthought, he crossed himself.

  “Where do you come from?”

  I recently saved Christendom from the Mongol hordes, he thought of saying, but did not, as that would sound immodest. Aloud, only, “I received a message to come here.”

  “Why were you summoned?”

  “I cannot tell you that,” Percival said with absolute candor. “But it is of pressing importance.”

  “How many are you?”

  “Just myself. My mission does not rely on force of arms.”

  The sergeant scrunched closed one eye, to demonstrate what a thoughtful man he was. “Were you summoned by Hugue de Arcis?”

  “I have no knowledge of this man,” Percival said. “Nor does he have the authority to summon me. It is a much higher authority that has sent me here.”

  The man’s eyes widened. He turned to one of the bevy of pages clustered around him. “You,” he said, picking one at random, “Tell his lordship that King Louis has sent a special messenger.”

  Percival smiled and did not correct him.

  The army leadership—both secular and religious, judging by their pennants—were in residence in what had been a village. As Percival followed the sergeant through the well-trodden avenues of the tent-city and across the earthen berm that had failed to protect the town, he noted the outlying areas of now-empty livestock pens. The workshops that had probably been for weavers, tanners, and smiths were now overrun with troops from Carcassonne, the sergeant importantly bragged to him, pointing out the pennant of Hugue de Arcis. The windmill, on a rise just west of the village, was still operating although, Percival guessed, not by its actual owner.

  Moving closer to the source of chimney smoke, he saw what had been huts and shops, now all overtaken as offices and sleeping barracks. These were for the King of France’s own corps who had come all the way from the Isle de France.

  Finally they reached what had been the market green, and around it, snug cottages that had belonged to the burghers of the village. The green was covered over by one enormous pavilion, empty now; it was from the cottages that the smoke, and promise of warmth, arose. Beyond these houses were stables, and then the northern road out of the village, which—Percival made a mental note—led into a dense but low forest that hemmed the northern side of the mountain.

  They approached the largest cottage. The Carcassonne pennant hung limp and damp from a rod protruding above the door. A guard saluted and stood away from the door to let them enter.

  Percival could not remember the last time he ha
d been inside a normal domicile. The relative coziness of it was almost poignant. The main room contained a table and some stools, and the central firepit dug out of the pounded-earth floor. Four young soldiers squatted about this with hands carefully outstretched.

  Beyond the firepit, at the back wall, was a cushioned stool with a back on it, and on this sat the leader of this army. A burly man with a broad face and stout arms, he was wearing leather that was almost the same texture as his skin. Across his lap was a board, and on the board was a platter of what Percival supposed was meat. It was most likely jerky soaked in water and then heated, but the smell of it permeated the room and everyone else was glancing at it with hunger. Percival supposed they would not be given dinner until His Lordship had finished his repast.

  The sergeant crossed to Hugue de Arcis and muttered something quietly at his ear. Hugue raised his eyebrows and nodded. The sergeant bowed, and left the room without another look at Percival.

  Hugue looked expectantly at Percival. “You have brought a message from His Majesty?” asked the husky voice of the Lord of Carcassonne.

  “No,” said Percival pleasantly. “I am here on an errand.”

  “Well, it’s a fool’s errand,” said Hugue lugubriously. “There is no way to get up there. If we cannot freeze them out over the winter—before we freeze ourselves—I don’t see how we can do it. It is impossible to get to the summit.”

  “It is impossible for an army to get to the summit,” agreed Percival. “But individuals are, by stealth, already leaving and approaching the fortress all the time, without difficulty.”

  Hugue bristled. “Is His Majesty’s messenger implying we are incompetent at our work?” he demanded.

  “What is your work?” asked Percival, wondering how quickly he could get an answer, and then how quickly after that he could end this conversation and set about the more interesting task of getting to the summit.

  Hugue looked at him critically. “Show me your seal. How do I know you are who you say you are?”

  “I haven’t said who I am,” Percival replied.

  “You told my men you were from the king.”

  “I did not exactly say that. And I didn’t give them my name. My name is Percival, and I am a knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae.”

  As with the sergeant, there was no flicker of recognition on the man’s face at the mention of the name of the Shield-Brethren. Rather than mocking the man for not knowing his order, Percival smiled politely.

  “And did King Louis send you? What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?” Hugue demanded.

  “I’m on an errand.”

  “What is the errand?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Percival. “But I need to get up the mountain right away.”

  Another frown from Hugue. “How do I know you’re not one of them, and you’re trying to sneak in as reinforcement?”

  Percival shook his head. “That would be dishonorable conduct for a knight,” he said. “And if that were the case, offering myself up to your men would make me extremely stupid. I give you my oath, I will swear upon the Holy Mother’s trust in me.”

  “That’s nothing. The Cathars don’t believe in oaths, so if you’re one of them you could be lying to me right now without violating your beliefs.”

  The Cathars. He knew of the Cathars, but not much about them. Only that they were heretics who refused to acknowledge the authority of the Pope. He remembered no other details, but that was enough for him to suspect he would find more common ground with them than with their besiegers.

  “Put me to a test,” offered Percival. “Let me prove my virtue to you.”

  Hugue considered him a moment. Then he stabbed his table-knife into the small slab of meat on his tray, and handed the knife toward Percival. “Here,” he said. “Eat this.”

  Percival blinked in confusion. “To prove my virtue, I should take food out of your mouth?”

  “Are you refusing to eat it?” Hugue said, and met the eyes of his sergeant by the door. Percival heard the young men around the firepit murmur and nudge each other.

  “I will happily eat your dinner,” said Percival, “but I don’t see how that proves my virtue.”

  “Eat it,” said Hugue, brandishing the knife at him.

  Percival took it from him and dug his teeth into the meat. It was overcooked, but compared to his diet for several years now, it was sumptuous. He made an appreciative noise as he chewed it, and the smile on his face was broad and sincere. “That’s delicious,” he said with his mouth full. “Would you like me to eat all of it?”

  “Swallow it,” said Hugue.

  “I was planning to,” said Percival, and did so. The smile broadened. “I’ll drink your wine as well, if you require it.”

  “Enough,” said Hugue. “Give me back the knife.”

  With a disappointed grin, Percival returned it to him.

  Hugue said grudgingly, after a pause, “Cathars do not eat flesh.”

  “Ah,” said Percival. “I’ll remember that if I find myself among them. There are many kind of folk in the world, and I would not offend anybody’s sensibilities.”

  Hugue stared at him. “They are heretics,” he said. “Damn their sensibilities!”

  “Excuse my manners,” said Percival with a disarming smile. “Have I reassured you I am not a Cathar?”

  “I won’t permit you to go up there unless you tell me what your mission is.”

  “And I can’t tell you my mission, so I suppose that puts us in stalemate,” said Percival, standing. “In which case, thank you for the mouthful of sustenance. I’ll be on my way.”

  Hugue looked nearly flummoxed. “You claim you are here on a mission and you are simply going to walk away from it?”

  “Oh, no, I am going to walk to it,” Percival replied. “But apparently not with your help.”

  “You can’t do that,” said Hugue, incredulous. “I am the commander.”

  “I’m not a member of your army,” Percival reminded him pleasantly. “That’s not why I was sent here.”

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  Percival peaceably pointed out the door and upwards. “There,” he said. “You are not in command of that place so you cannot forbid me to go to it.”

  “How do you intend to get there?” Hugue demanded.

  “By the use of my hands and feet, and the Grace of God,” said Percival, and strode out of the cottage.

  CHAPTER 6:

  ENTER THE OTHER KNIGHT

  Dietrich von Grüningen and a few of Dietrich’s fellow Livonian knights had come to the siege of Montségur on behalf of His Holiness Innocent IV, né Sinibaldo di Fieschi. The Pope himself sent no official troops, needing to reserve his manpower to face down Emperor Frederick. But this was a religious war, so Dietrich was here to keep an eye on things for His Holiness. He and his men shared a tent and ate mess with Hugue’s men, but they were neither French nor local and had found companionship with no-one.

  Dietrich would, of course, do whatever His Holiness requested of him. But freezing his arse off in Occitania, staring up at an impregnable fortress containing a few hundred heretical hermits, was not a satisfying tour of duty for a knight. Day after day, troops would try to force their way up the steep southwestern slopes of the mountain, the only apparent means of ascent. With little effort, the Montségur garrison—no more than a hundred men, the space being too small to hold half that number comfortably—repelled them all with stones and arrows. They had a suspicious amount of artillery for having been isolated for half a year; they slung down arrows, even crossbow arrows, with abandon. Obviously they had a hidden arsenal up there, and very likely were getting reinforcements.

  Dietrich had argued repeatedly in favor of a small band of skilled warriors—his own men, of course—sneaking up the paths under cover of nigh
t, finding their way into the fortress however the locals managed to do it, and reducing the garrison in direct combat. It would be a suicidal mission for most corps, and Hugue always refused him.

  As evening fell, Dietrich felt the cold settle onto his clothes and work its way through layers to his skin. It was hard to find seasoned wood for fires for such a host—there were thousands of men nestled up against the western flank of the pog. When he first arrived, he had tried to impress upon both the Seneschal of Carcassonne and the Archbishop of Narbonne that, as knights in service to His Holiness, Dietrich and his men deserved some consideration above the rest of the soldiers. At the very least, housing in a village hut. Neither Hugue nor the Archbishop of Narbonne, Pierre Amelii, agreed with him.

  At that point—not because he wanted housing but because he wanted respect for his office, at least from the archbishop—Dietrich decided to his disgust that this siege was not really a religious purge, and these two men burned not with spiritual zeal, but only with ambition.

  Crown and church needed each other but they were not, in fact, unified. Dietrich was in awe of the machinations of both sides, but disgusted by the shortsighted, petty bickering that had killed tens of thousands of innocent Catholics over the years, just to root out a few hundred heretics. The crusading army of Simon de Montfort had killed every person in the city then—twenty thousand men, women and children, most of them devout Catholics—and then razed it to the ground.