“I don’t believe so…”
“I love that lad,” gushed Frederick. “He’s a Magyar. Hungarian. I took him in when he was nothing but a wild thing, and after we cut his hair and gave him a bath and some decent clothes, he turned out to be a better investment than the whole city of Foggia. He has a gift with horses the way I do with birds. I’ve taught him four languages, and algebra, and impeccable manners, and swordsmanship. I like him more than I do my actual children. You can meet him tomorrow. You’ll need a few days to rest and resupply after this journey and, as I said, I can show you my menagerie. You can watch Ferenc wrestle with the tiger.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They’re not really wrestling, of course. They’re just playing.”
CHAPTER 9:
THE KNIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN
Percival could vaguely make out, from the low glister of campfires, a footpath leading out of the village to the north. He followed it into the darkness, striding with casual purpose, as if he knew exactly where he was going. Once the camp noises faded behind him, he paused a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Then he turned to his right and walked purposefully straight into the undergrowth, intending to muscle his way in the direction most likely to lead to a covert path.
This worked for all of one stride. The bushes came to his waist and were far denser than he had anticipated, as interwoven as a tapestry. He could have pushed his way forward by sheer force—could even have used his knife to hack through some of it—but having taken the first impetuous step, he realized how foolish it was to go on. The moon was new and he could barely see the hump of the pog against the stars, let alone discern any way to move up its slopes. He backed out onto the path. He would have to bushwhack by daylight.
Behind him, from the camp, he heard voices, then saw a glimmer of torchlight. He jerked his head away from the direction of the light so as not to ruin his night vision, but even that brief gleam meant that now the darkness around him was darker than before. The footpath was broad enough that he could run, although he was sure there would be outlying sentries further along down the path. He had to get as far away as possible tonight, and then determine how to get around to the far side of the mountain by daylight—surely the army did not entirely surround the mountain.
He ran two hundred paces or so, his eyes re-adjusting to the darkness. He heard the voices behind him gaining—but here suddenly before him, just visible in the starlight, was a fork. One path continued straight north, while the other veered to the west. He paused a moment, to hear how many were after him. Three, he thought, all on foot and all armed, for he heard their weapons rattle. He turned toward the westward trail.
From out of the darkness behind him, a small, strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him backwards into the underbrush onto his ass. “Come with me!” a voice hissed in his ear. “Keep your mouth shut, get your feet under you, and move toward my voice the length of two strides. And then stop. Don’t even breathe.”
He did take a breath, to reply, but was warned, “If you argue with me I’ll disappear and they’ll find you. Your choice.”
Percival pushed himself up far enough off the ground that he could collect his legs under him. Twigs and dead leaves poked and teased him from every angle; he inhaled dead leaves into his mouth. He clasped his sword to his side to avoid a tug-of-war with the undergrowth, and on his knees he moved as quickly as he could through the stubborn brush, up an incline he hadn’t realized was there. Perhaps four knee-strides along, he suddenly felt the brush give way a little.
“Stop,” the voice whispered. “Stay here until they’ve gone.”
The incline allowed a view down the slope, obstructed by the brush. Three soldiers with knives, ropes, and torches had come running, and stopped at the fork. They bootlessly held their torches out and craned their necks to look down the two directions, then back at each other with frustration. The one with the biggest knife pointed up to the hillside. They held the torches high above their heads, and all three sets of eyes scanned the brush. Their night vision was already ruined from running with the torches, and even with the light over their heads their sight was poor here. One man shook his head in disgust: They would find nothing. After some muttering together, they foolishly split up the search party, one man going down either road alone, the third returning to the camp.
When the two scouts were safely out of hearing, the voice hissed in Percival’s ear again. “Can you feel the path we’re on? They don’t know about it. Stay at my heel. Don’t make any noise.”
“Who…”
“Shh!” The nimble figure turned and headed up the path.
For the time it takes to amble a mile, the two of them moved with exasperating slowness through the underbrush. Straight above, the stars were sensational. But Percival could only tell they were on a path because the boy ahead of him kept moving forward; the brush closed in on him regardless, twigs prying into his ears and catching in his hair, small branches tugging at his belt. The smell of dry-rotting leaves filled his nostrils, and much of his attention was spent on squelching sneezes. Cold rose up out of the root-ropey ground, and his knees, taking so much of his weight, grew numb in the cold.
They climbed up, then across, then up, then down, then seemed to turn back on their tracks. The tension of such careful movement generated some little heat, not enough to fight off the chill. He had no way to chart their progress. They did not seem to be getting any closer, and his guide was leading him up an ever-increasing slope that appeared, in the starlight, about to turn into a vertical cliff. Down to their right were the dotted campfires and baritone murmurs of the occupied village.
Very abruptly, the boy stopped. He hissed irritably. “You’re making as much noise as an ox. This is the most important place not to be overheard. So.”
Suddenly the boy had reversed his position, and was facing Percival directly—and had a knife to his chin. “What are you doing here?” the whispered voice demanded.
Percival almost laughed aloud. “Don’t you think you should have asked me that at the bottom of the hill?” he answered calmly. “Rather than bring me halfway to your secret hideout? I would hate to kill a youth but I can snap your neck faster than you can use that knife on me.”
“If you do that, you’ll be stuck on the middle of a mountainside under a new moon with enemies in all directions.”
“Why did you bring me this far?” Percival asked. “Put the knife down, my lad. It is unnecessary and irritating.”
The knife did not move. “Don’t call me your lad. I realize you’re not on their side, given they were chasing you with weapons. As a rule we protect those in need of refuge. But you’ve the stink of meat on your breath, so I know you are not one of us.”
“So you are a Cathar,” Percival said.
“What are you after? Why should I take you any farther up?”
“I am curious to see what is in the chapel.”
A short, breathy laugh. “It’s not a chapel,” he said condescendingly. “Although it is a sanctuary. If you are a pilgrim, then you are welcome.”
“I am not a pilgrim, but I am a monk,” said Percival.
“With a sword?” asked the boy accusingly.
“I belong to an order of warrior-monks. We devote ourselves to the Virgin Mother.” It felt ridiculous to be having this conversation, in a pitched whisper, in this setting.
“How can any follower of the Virgin be violent? That is against everything the Lady stands for. Besides, if you belong to an order of monks then you’re with the Roman church, and so I will not be bringing you any further upwards.”
“If you feel this is the appropriate place for a theological debate,” said Percival calmly, “then I will answer you. I think, however, that perhaps it isn’t. My word is impeccable and I tell you, I am not from Rome. Will you take me up there? I have been seeking this place a long time now and have a dee
p longing to arrive.”
He waited while the boy considered this. He heard the boy’s breathing patterns change as, presumably, his thoughts did. Finally he said, deliberately: “You cannot get up there on your own, so if you want me to lead you there, you’ll have to do what I tell you.”
“Gladly, young sir.”
“Young sir is even worse than my lad. My first demand is that you turn over all of your weapons to me. I see you have a sword and a dagger, and my guess is there’s probably another dagger hidden in your boot.” He held out his hand. “Right now. Give them to me.”
“I will not,” Percival said. “I could use them on you. You do realize that, yes? To force you to show me the way up.”
“Wouldn’t work,” the boy informed him. “I’d kick up a fuss and it would attract the attention of the guards below and we’d be taken in to the army camp, where nobody knows me but you’re wanted for questioning. Did you think I didn’t think this through? Give me your sword.”
“No,” Percival said, resting his left hand on the hilt.
“God be with you, then,” the boy said briskly, and scampered into the bush as neatly as a rabbit.
Percival was alone in the darkness.
He waited a long moment, but there was no sound at all. The scout had left him alone on the bare mountainside. Even without moonlight, to go up or down was impossible without attracting unwanted attention. But he had to go one way or the other, or the cold would stiffen him within an hour.
He had to go up. He felt drawn to something up there, something holy, something somehow connected to his visions. Surely the Lady would show him the way. He prayed for a moment, and then tried, in the shadow of the mountain, to find the path the boy had disappeared along.
There was nothing. In all directions—even directly behind him where he knew he had just trampled—the brush was impossibly thick, appearing never to have been approached by a bird, let alone human traffic. In some places he could just barely make out the traces of snow still resting on the tops of the bushes—absolute proof nobody had come along to disturb the area. With a heavy sigh he groped around directly in front of him and a little to the left, the direction the boy had disappeared. Nothing in the brush gave way. He decided to force himself in that direction nonetheless. Moving slowly was better than not moving at all, and surely there were numerous subtle paths crossing the slope; he would eventually find something, even if it led him back down to the foot. He knew he could be quiet enough not to be detected. It just meant moving very, very slowly.
And very, very slowly he moved. The cold of the mountain kneaded into his knees and feet and hands. His breath felt labored and his muscles tensed, although he was doing almost nothing; it was not the kind of exercise he was accustomed to.
He heard church bells toll and figured he had moved a stone’s throw since the boy had left him, but he had not noticed church bells earlier and so had no idea how to gauge his rate of progress. He did not blame his guide for the decision to depart; the boy was very protective of whoever or whatever was up there, which only clarified for him that this must be a destination worthy of his visions. That knowledge, that certainty, thrilled him so much the sleepy sensation of cold fell away.
After an eternity, he heard the church bell toll again, and estimated he had not moved more than another stone’s throw. That disheartened him, true believer though he was. He allowed himself a sigh of frustration.
“Ready to negotiate?” said the whispered voice at his temple, and at the same moment he felt the knife press against his cheek again. He controlled the impulse to backhand the lad. “I’ve been watching you the whole time,” the boy announced, in a cheeky whisper. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to let an armed man roam around Montségur? What if the French discovered you just as you were discovering one of our footpaths? We can’t have that. Disarm yourself and come with me.”
“Absolutely not,” said Percival. “A knight does not give up his sword.”
“A knight does not find himself in the absurd predicament you’re in, either,” said the boy. “You’ll get your weapons back, provided the bishop and Peire-Roger are satisfied with your answers to their questions.”
“No,” Percival said patiently, as if gently informing a toddler he may not have a tidbit to eat.
“As you prefer,” he said, “God ye goodnight. I won’t come back this time.” And again, like a rabbit, he was gone into the underbrush somewhere above Percival’s head.
“All right!” Percival said in a loud whisper. “I relent. I agree to your terms.”
“About time, I was getting chilled,” the boy whispered, beside him again. “Sword.” He began to unsheathe it but the boy corrected quickly: “The whole thing, belt and all. I don’t want to be crawling around in the dark with a naked blade.” Percival grunted acknowledgement and unbuckled the sword, elbowing the clawing scrub-branches out of the way. He held it out, and the scout’s skinny arms sagged briefly under the weight of it.
“Dagger,” the boy added. This was tucked into Percival’s tunic-belt; he pulled it out and offered it hilt first.
“Knife. I’m sure you have a knife.”
Percival pulled the knife from his belt and offered it, too, hilt first.
“Anything else?”
“No,” Percival said, feeling almost naked.
The lad set the weight of the sword belt down in the space before him, lay the dagger and knife on top of it, and announced, “I choose to believe you.” He reached for his own narrow belt, and unstrapped a wine skin and a small bag. “Here,” he said. “To keep you fortified. Wine, and there is some bread in the bag. You have a wait ahead of you yet.” He picked up the weapons again. “Stay here. I will be back as soon as possible. But you might have an hour to wait.” Before Percival could answer, the stranger disappeared. Even weighted down with the unfamiliar ballast of weapons, he was silent in the dark.
Percival considered the wine and the bread. But not for very long; he was ravenous and thirsty, the cold had crept in despite his rapturous delight that he was near the end of his quest, and he had nothing else to do.
Again the church bells tolled the hours, waking him from a chilled dreamscape full of whirling light. Without warning, the boy was suddenly beside him in the dark again. “I’ve taken your weapons up to the fortress for safekeeping, and now I’ll take you up yourself. You’ll be interrogated and if his lordship has no quarrel with you, you’ll get your armaments back.”
“I am a stranger here. Who is his lordship?”
“Ask questions once you’re up there. Let’s go. Try not to sound like an ox.”
The lad moved forward, now slowly enough for him to follow. It was as if the brush miraculously moved aside to create a path for them that closed up behind Percival.
Less than another stone’s throw, the air grew even colder. The brush abruptly fell sparse, and then altogether away. Ahead of them, barely discernible in the dark, rose a cliff face of limestone. He had brought them to a dead end. Frustrated, Percival stood up.
“Well,” the boy said, “It’s all uphill from here.”
“How can we possibly climb that?”
“We don’t,” said the boy. He reached toward the cliff face, and, as if by an act of magic, proffered a piece of rope from the rock that rose straight up into the dark heights of the cliff. “Take this. I’ll show you how to tie it around yourself to keep your balance.”
Speechless, Percival received the rope. The boy reached into the darkness and magically produced a second one. “Like this,” he said, and showed Percival how to tie it: a length of it around his waist with a long tail, which became a figure-eight loop around his upper thighs.
“We rappel ourselves up the mountain,” the boy whispered. “There are men at the top who will pull us but we have to help them by going hand over hand and shortening the distance as they lift. Yank on the
rope to tell them you are ready. Like this,” he said, with a yank, and effortlessly leapt in the air to the height of the knight’s head. He turned away from Percival toward the cliff-face and began to pull himself up the rope. Because the rope was being lifted from above, it created the impression that he was scampering up the side like a squirrel up a tree. He disappeared into the darkness almost instantly.
CHAPTER 10:
A SEEKER REACHES SANCTUARY
Percival’s eyes hurt from the candlelight by the time he was inside, he had grown so used to the dark of the mountain.
He was in a corner of the small main hall of the fortress. Eccentrically, several hundred people from all walks of life were gathered here for warmth. He had expected a quiet sanctuary, the sort of place Raphael had described as Francis of Assisi’s meditation hut. Here was rude noise and bustle, more soldiers than worshippers—and most bizarrely, hundreds of ordinary people of all ranks and ages, sleeping alongside each other on the floor of the keep.
The lord of the fortress was questioning him. Peire-Roger did not strike Percival as a spiritual warrior of any sort. The expression on his handsome face gave him a look of perpetual anger, although there was nothing, at this moment, to be angry about: The Lord had just provided him with a fully armed knight, something he was surely in need of.
“You have been sent by neither Bertran d’Alion nor Arnaud d’Usson? Then who has sent you?” Eyes widening: “You are not come from Corbario, are you? Or from the Count?”
“But I have told you, I came here on a spiritual pilgrimage,” Percival repeated. He spoke softly, aware of all the interested eyes upon him, the scores of people pretending to be sleeping.
“The only people with the determination to make it to Montségur on a spiritual pilgrimage are Cathars, and you freely admit you are not a Cathar, so I fail to make sense of your claim.”
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