And moved, very slowly, up the slope.
By the next day, Raphael—without ever getting up onto the battlements to see for himself—had convinced the entire fortress that the trebuchet was being pushed up the side of the pog. Even the women and children took a turn up on the battlements to watch these attempts, in stupefied amazement. For the rest of the day, people could talk of nothing else. Peire-Roger declared to everyone, over the very thin bread and gruel that passed as dinner, that the French would defeat themselves, for obviously at some point the thing would either topple over or roll back down all the way to the watchtower. If nothing else, he claimed, the movement up the mountainside would take so long that the French would starve or freeze before they got too close—there were now several hundred Frenchman camping full time on the unprotected mountaintop.
His speech was bravado intended to calm an increasing terror. While there was something slightly farcical in the look of the trebuchet in motion, the reality of its approach was horrifying, especially now that all of them were penned in this extremely small, unhygienic, claustrophobic, unheated fortress, which since the start of the bombardment had fewer options for laying in supplies.
Meanwhile the bombardment never ceased. The rocks, about eighty a day, gradually got larger as their path of travel shortened. The French had mined and shaped so many before the bombardment even started that they had enough to last for weeks. The only benefit to this was that they themselves now had some ammunition, and Bacalaira very grandly slung a few projectiles toward the attackers. The rocks fell short by two-score paces.
“At least that means they’re still quite far away,” Percival pointed out.
The days slowly, slowly lengthened but the supplies got ever tighter. It was not safe to be on the mountaintop at all now, ever. There could be no scouting missions, and no supplies could be smuggled through the lines under cover of night, because the mountaintop was covered with crusaders. Even the entrance to their primary tunnel was endangered; all that remained for access to the outside world was the southern tunnel, a very narrow tributary into which only Ocyrhoe could fit. The tunnel-head was in the courtyard, beneath the southern wall. She went down every other day to check for messages, but in the bleakness of midwinter the Credents of the valleys had no food left to offer.
Except for when she was in the southern tunnel, Ferenc and Ocyrhoe were together almost every moment, waking and sleeping. Some spell seemed to have fallen over the fortress and not even the Good Ones—not even Rixenda or the Bishop—objected. They would sleep, full-clothed but nestled close, among the Credents on the first floor of the keep, and by day their tasks were varied, often arduous, but almost always together. Even when Ferenc was assigned to the wall, Ocyrhoe was put on runners’ duty, to carry messages and bring fresh quivers of arrows.
Despite their miserable surroundings and the miserable weather, everything seemed to glow for Ocyrhoe. The relentless, harsh pounding of the catapulted boulders continued, several times each hour all night, less often during the day when the French would stop shooting to move it slowly up the slope; to her it was a background rumble. The snow, frost, sleet, and hail caused minor chills and all melted away, unremarkable, as long as Ferenc was in sight. Their lives were constantly in danger but she felt safe; they were freezing but she felt warm; they were hungry but she felt sated; they never had a moment of privacy but she felt wrapped in a cocoon alone with him.
There was hardly a moment in all that time even for another kiss, and yet they both knew—indeed, the whole fortress seemed to be in collusion with them—that they were now permanently bound together. Prone to thinking too much, she hardly thought at all—she was present, constantly, keeping vigil over the safety of the fortress but also her own happiness.
Eventually, the French trebuchet moved far enough up the slope that it began to sling rocks directly into the courtyard of the fortress. After a horrified reaction from the civilians, the defenders set up a simple warning system: A scout in the barbican kept a trained eye on the French trebuchet and sounded a shrill whistle when he saw the counterbalance start to drop. This gave anyone in the courtyard enough time to sprint to shelter either in the donjon or against the eastern wall. Since the trebuchet sent rocks flying to almost the same place each time (until it was repositioned, as happened once or twice a day), the courtyard traffic always diverted around the area of likeliest danger. The women and children spent almost the entire day cramped in the donjon, emerging en masse for air a few moments after each rock landed, or to relieve themselves, or to check on the well-being of a kinsman. The morning romps and snowball fights faded to memory.
Piere Bonnet had not returned yet, and now there would be no way to get him up the mountain. The store of food began, for the first time, to dwindle noticeably, as did their store of arrows and beeswax candles. And yet, with the foolish excitement of new love, all of this felt like a game to Ocyrhoe. Such giddiness as hers insisted that somehow, in the end, all would be well.
Best of all, Percival avoided her, although she knew he did not wish to. Something about Ferenc must have warned him off, for often she would catch a glimpse of him, on duty on the walls, or speaking with Raphael or Vera, and always his eyes would rest on her and follow her. But as long as she was with Ferenc, he never would approach her. Good, she thought, repair your madness on your own. She never thought about the cup—or rather, when she did, it was a passing thought and she knew now that when the time came to depart, she’d simply leave it behind with Rixenda. It had no hold on her now. Her fixation on it seemed ridiculous. A silly, adolescent obsession with an object in which she had invested far too much.
It had snowed overnight, with perhaps a handspan collecting on the ground by morning. What was not shoveled to the sides was ground into the dirt of the courtyard within an hour. Raphael, Vera, and Percival were meeting outside with Peire-Roger and Bishop Marti, in part for privacy but largely for fresh air. Raphael, now using only a cane, was still stymied from action by circumstances and growing irritable. He had demanded this parley. Anxiously awaiting for weeks now the sulphur they needed to make fire arrows, they were debating the merits of asking the Count of Toulouse to supply it. The fresh snowfall meant that it would be easier for the French scouts to track Ocyrhoe if they sent her down the tunnel. But there were other issues to consider, too.
A boulder had just landed in the courtyard. As soldiers rolled it toward their own siege machine, the scouts in the barbican called out that the French were preparing the trebuchet for movement farther up the hill. At least that meant there would be no more boulders until some time after noon. The Montségur archers rained arrows down on the French crusaders’ efforts, but with little effect; half of the Frenchmen on the mountainside were there only to protect the other half with shields held high, the edges overlapping.
Raphael saw Ferenc and Ocyrhoe across the yard, speaking to Rixenda. He stared into the back of Ferenc’s head with such intensity the young man seemed to feel it and turned. Raphael gestured him toward the group with a single finger. On reflex, Ferenc reached out toward Ocyrhoe’s shoulder as she continued to speak to Rixenda; Raphael shook his head once: No.
Ferenc paused. He whispered something to Ocyrhoe, then began to jog across the muddy snow to join them. Behind him, Rixenda watched him a moment; then her eyes strayed to Raphael and the group he stood with. For a heartbeat she stared hard at them, then gestured toward the donjon door. Ocyrhoe was already headed in that direction, and Rixenda walked slightly behind her, her eyes glancing back several times to watch Ferenc approach the group.
“Fine squire you are,” Raphael said drily as the youth approached. “I do not think we’ve even spoken in a week.”
Ferenc pursed his lips sheepishly. “My failing, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Just don’t get her pregnant, lad,” said Peire-Roger cheerfully.
Ferenc turned crimson and gave Peire-Roger a mor
tified look. “Milord, you misjudge me,” he protested, hardly able to speak over his embarrassment.
Peire-Roger laughed. “You mean I’ve overestimated you,” he chortled.
“Underestimated, rather,” said Raphael, putting a hand on Ferenc’s shoulder. “Thank you for joining us. It’s Ocyrhoe we are discussing, and I wanted you to be in on it.”
Ferenc frowned protectively. “Why Ocyrhoe?” he said.
Raphael cleared his throat and drummed his gloved fingers across the top of his cane, staring at them.
“We will soon be in a position to destroy the trebuchet with fire-arrows,” Peire-Roger said.
“And then we are leaving,” said Raphael. “As soon as I can travel without being an encumbrance.”
“Until then, we’re staying here,” said Vera.
“We will be leaving very soon,” Raphael continued to his fingertips.
“There’s some disagreement about when we’re leaving,” Vera said to Ferenc.
“But we are leaving,” said Raphael.
“Not all of us,” said Percival; at the same moment, Peire-Roger said “At some point” and Bishop Marti commented, “Later on.”
“Very well,” said Ferenc, uncertainly.
“But here’s the thing,” said Raphael, even more intently drumming his fingertips on the handle of the cane as he spoke. “They want Ocyrhoe to stay.”
“We need Ocyrhoe to stay,” Peire-Roger corrected hurriedly. “We are in trouble if she leaves with you.”
“Why?” Ferenc asked.
“Nobody knows the tunnels like she does,” Peire-Roger explained. “A couple of the men, perhaps—the Bonnet brothers, but of course Peire is gone and Matheus will be leaving again soon. A few others, but we need them in the garrison. She’s the only one familiar with the tunnels and the transport and communication channels, whom we don’t also need full-time somewhere else. And while we have access only to the southern tunnel, she’s the only one who can get up and down at all.”
“Does she know all this?” Ferenc asked.
“I’m sure she hasn’t thought about it,” said Peire-Roger. “But if she did, she’d realize it’s true.”
Ferenc bit his lip. “I see.” Raphael, still staring at his gloved fingers on the cane handle, felt more than saw Ferenc look at him. “And you are telling me this because you assume I’ll want to stay with her.”
“Oh, I wish it were that simple, Ferenc,” Raphael said with a sigh. “That is of course a concern, which you and I can discuss privately in a moment. First, however, Percival refuses to leave Montségur unless…” Without looking at his fellow knight, he pointed at him briefly and then resumed tapping his fingertips on the cane handle. “Why don’t you explain yourself, Percival, since I cannot rationally describe something I find irrational.”
“Of course,” said Percival seriously, as if he had not just been insulted. He gave Ferenc a look of mesmerizing, solemn earnestness. “I was brought here by a vision.”
“I know about all that,” said Ferenc quickly.
“I am meant to have the grail. And I am sure she is the cup-bearer. I will not force it from her, but I must not leave her company until…”
“What exactly,” Ferenc demanded in a suddenly tense voice, “is a grail?”
“It’s a cup,” said Percival. “A metal cup, I think it’s silver, although sometimes in my visions it’s gold. It’s nothing special to look at but it contains tremendous powers.”
Raphael watched a spectrum of emotions flash across Ferenc’s face: confusion, surprise, distaste, impatience, irritation, and then dread. “What else did she tell you about the cup?” he demanded.
Surprised, Raphael exchanged glances with an astonished Vera and a delighted-looking Percival. “Well, that’s the challenge,” said Percival, with the relieved warmth of a man who had discovered an unexpected comrade. “She hasn’t told me anything. She refuses to talk about it.”
Ferenc squinted and blinked. “Then why is her name being mentioned in conjunction with it?”
“Because I know she has it,” said Percival. “She used it. Everyone has heard the story, but in the story it was an angel—and I know, in my soul, I know that it was not an angel, but Ocyr—”
“What story?” Ferenc demanded, rigid, jaws clenched.
“There was an incident at a farm in the foothills,” Raphael said, deciding that Percival’s rendition would do nothing to calm Ferenc. “He mentioned it when we first arrived, but I don’t think he mentioned the grail. Supposedly a female angel bearing a chalice appeared to a group of men, and prevented one of them—Vidal, in fact—from betraying the Cathars.”
“I have spoken to Vidal,” said Percival. He did not notice, as Raphael did, the increasing distress on Ferenc’s face. “And I have no doubt that the supposed angel was Ocyrhoe, and that she caused him to have a change of heart, and saved the fortress, by whatever force is in the grail. She is the cup-bearer, but I believe—”
“You want the cup?” Ferenc spat. “Is that how mad you are?” His face darkened; his breathing was instantly ragged; his voice tightened as if someone were choking him. “You want that evil, poisonous cup that causes death and madness? How can you possibly think there is any good to come out of it?”
“I just told you the—” Percival began, looking slightly perplexed by Ferenc’s outburst. The youth stormed on.
“And why the hell does Ocyrhoe still have that fucking thing?” he shouted, shaking his fists at the knight. “Why did she not tell me? Only madmen want that cup and only evil comes from it!” He shouted, a long, loud, almost wailing cry without words. Every person in the courtyard turned to stare at him. Raphael, concerned, reached out a calming hand, but he angrily snatched his arm out of reach and stepped away from the rest of the group. He looked around the courtyard. “Ocyrhoe!” he yelled. Nobody responded, except a few guards on the walls who called out crude jokes about his mistress going missing. Looking almost apoplectic, he turned back to Percival. “Where is she?” he demanded in a low, accusing growl.
“You’re the one whose side she hasn’t left for weeks now,” Percival said. “I should be the one asking you that.”
Ferenc shook his head as if he wanted to fling away this entire conversation. “You don’t want that cup,” he said. “And I don’t want to believe the cup is here. It best not be. If it is, we’re all in trouble.” He turned and looked around the courtyard wildly. “Where could she be hiding it?” he muttered, then exclaimed, “Oh!”
He ran toward the gate, gesturing to a bemused Ferrer to open it. Ferrer didn’t move. Raphael, Percival, Vera, and the Montségur leaders pursued him, Raphael using the cane to propel him with unsafe speed, and Bishop Marti struggling to keep up.
“Where are you going?” Raphael demanded sharply.
“To the Perfecti village,” Ferenc shouted over his shoulder. “She must have hidden it there. If it were anywhere in the fortress I’d have known.”
“You can’t go to the village!” Peire-Roger shouted at Ferenc’s back. The youth was nearly at the gate. “Do not leave the safety of these walls!”
Ferenc shoved Ferrer out of the way and began to unbolt the heavy, oiled gate. The older man stumbled to his knees; by the time he was able to get up, Ferenc was already out the gate.
“Stop him!” Bishop Marti yelled, uselessly. Ferrer grabbed the gate and pulled it closed, uncertain if he should bolt it with Ferenc now outside.
As Raphael, Vera, and Percival reached the gate, the door to the keep opened and Ocyrhoe stepped out. Raphael saw her. Ocyrhoe looked at them all; perhaps something in Percival’s exuberant expression said more than it meant to, but suddenly she seemed to know exactly what had happened. Looking alarmed, she broke into a run.
“What?” she asked breathlessly as she approached.
“Something about a cup,” Raphael said qui
etly. “Ferenc’s running to the village looking for it.”
Ocyrhoe looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “Oh, shit,” she hissed and with stunning abruptness, pushed Ferrer out of the way, opened the gate, and ran out after Ferenc, ignoring Peire-Roger and Bishop Marti’s urgent orders not to leave. Ferrer miserably pulled the gate closed.
“When will this be finished?” Raphael snapped at Percival.
“Brother, it almost is,” Percival said. “It must be in the village. Ferenc is going to take it from her.”
“And chuck it off the mountain, by his behavior,” Raphael said. “At least I hope so.”
“They are both unarmed,” Vera said sharply. “And they’ve just run into no-man’s land—perhaps it is even enemy territory now.”
Raphael grimaced and glanced at Peire-Roger. “With your permission, commander?” he said grimly.
“All of us,” Peire-Roger said. “Let’s go.”
Ferrer stepped away from the gate; Vera pushed it open, and they all rushed out. Outside the gate, the snow lay slick and frozen where no human foot had trampled it yet. Down the slope toward the abandoned Good Ones’ village, Ocyrhoe and Ferenc were two small, colliding figures. Ocyrhoe was grabbing at Ferenc, who kept pushing her off as if she had a disease he was afraid he’d catch. She was sobbing by the time the two of them reached the gate to the village. On level ground again, they each righted themselves and ran out of sight.
At least the French took no interest in the little drama, their collective attention focused on the movement of their siege machinery.
Raphael glanced at his cane and was about to toss it aside when Percival stepped in front of him with a grin. “Allow me, brother,” said the Frank, then bowed in toward Raphael, clasped his arm behind Raphael’s back to bend his friend over his shoulder, and stood up again, the Levantine dangling over his shoulder like a child. “Thank God you’re not in armor,” said Percival. “Hold on.” He half-slid, half-walked down the slope, grabbing at the stone wall for stability along the way. At the level entrance to the terrace, he set Raphael down and gestured that he would follow him. His face was shining.
Siege Perilous Page 24
