‘Why then?’
‘I have a son in Burgundy. He is dying.’
‘So why aren’t you there with him?
‘Do you believe in miracles, Loup?’
‘I’ve heard of them, from the priests. But I’ve never seen one.’
‘I believe in miracles. I believe that if I pray to God hard enough He will hear me and answer my prayer for my son. That is why I am going to the Albigeois. There is a woman there who can heal with her hands. I am going to ask her to come back with me to Burgundy and heal my son.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right.’
‘Can I sleep here tonight? By the fire? I promise I won’t steal anything.’
‘Very well. But I shall give you fair warning. If you do try and thieve anything my squire Renaut really will cut your ear off. For all his youth he is as protective of me as a bear with its cub.’
The boy licked his hands for the taste of the pork grease and then lay down between two of the soldiers for the extra warmth. Philip sat for a time watching the breeze stir the ashes in the fire, then he took off his cloak and threw it over the boy. Then he went back to sleep, wondering why he had chosen to tell his troubles to an orphan and a thief. In the morning he was sure the little scoundrel would be gone, along with some bread and someone else’s ring.
*
Philip was awake with the first seeping of the light. He shook the dew off, buckled on his belt and sword. To his surprise, Loup was still asleep where he had left him. He shook the boy awake and called for Renaut. They had the boy show them his mother’s body. He had wondered if it was a lie to engage his sympathy, but a hundred paces from the camp they found her, just as the lad had said, stiff and cold under a chestnut tree.
The body was already foul and the foxes and crows had been at her. He told Renaut to have the men dig her a grave. No priest to see her vouchsafed to heaven, but Philip said a prayer over her when it was done and hoped that would be enough.
When Philip mounted Leyla, Loup stood in front of him, blocking the way. ‘Take me with you,’ he said.
Philip laughed. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘You see,’ Renaut said. ‘He’s like any cur in the street. You’ve given him scraps and he thinks he deserves more.’
‘Don’t leave me here, seigneur.’
‘You’re no good to us boy. And I have my own business to attend to.’
‘I speak the langue d’oc. I won’t slow you down and I might be a blessing when you get among those fops and heretics.’
‘I think thirty armed men shall not be more stoutly preserved by the addition of a runt barely old enough for leggings. And I speak a little of the language. I learned it in Outremer from southern knights.’
Loup caught the reins. ‘Then as a mercy, sir, take me with you as far as Lyons.’ Renaut shook his head, exasperated.
On an impulse, Philip reached down, grabbed Loup under the shoulders and lifted him up on to the saddle. ‘Very well, my little lord Wolf. You’re a beggar and a thief so you should earn your living there well enough.’
‘Thank you, seigneur. I shan’t be any trouble.’
‘No good can come of this,’ Renaut said.
XLIV
Lyons, July 1209
JUST THEIR LUCK to reach Lyons on a market day, Philip thought. They could lose half a day’s ride just getting from one side of this damned city to the other.
The streets were clogged, the toll gates chaos, and there was scarcely space in the main square for all the ox and donkey carts. The market was a grey sea of sheep’s backs and the noise was an assault after the quiet of the road: water-carriers ringing bells, apprentices bumping their barrels over the cobblestones, honking geese, the scream of a bear from a bear-baiting pit and the single deafening braying of a mule. Over it all Philip heard the sound of a jongleur’s lute, and the ripple of laughter from his audience.
The King’s fleur-de-lis was everywhere, the city in a rage of patriotic fervour for the war, as if the Pays d’Oc were an infidel invader.
A priest was already at work outside the church, holding a golden cross aloft, enthusiastic crowds pressing around him. ‘. . . they desecrate the churches and use them for foul orgies of the flesh . . . they worship the Devil openly. They are no longer human but servants of Satan! Even these so-called noblemen, these lords of Trencavel and Foix and Toulouse! We have tolerated these devils too long in our midst. For you do not have to bow down to Satan to crucify Our Lord all over again! Just to harbour such people, to give succour to them, is enough. If you are not for God then you must be against him! But if you join with us in our holy pilgrimage against these devils then you will earn a place in heaven and all sins will be remitted for you have proved your love for God!’
Renaut and Philip stopped their horses to listen. ‘They said the same to us before we went to Outremer,’ Philip said.
‘There are plenty of new converts here, seigneur.’
‘They said the world would come to an end if we did not do something against the Mohammedan, but the only world that ended was mine. I find I do not care so much for heaven now.’
‘Seigneur, you should not speak that way!’
Philip twisted in the saddle and looked at the boy. ‘Did you hear what I said? Do you think me a heretic?’
‘My father – when he was alive, God keep him – would say to me that if a man could be left his peace by making the sign of the cross, then he should do it. And he said if tomorrow someone else came along and said that it should be not a cross but a circle then a circle it was. Is that a heretic, sir?’
Philip laughed. ‘Your father was a practical man.’
‘He was a tinker, sir, and could turn his hand to anything.’
‘And to any religion, too. But this is Lyons, young sir. I have kept my bargain with you. Now be on your way and good luck to you.’
Loup clambered down from the back of the great warhorse, but still clung to one stirrup. ‘Won’t you take me with you, seigneur? I could be useful.’
‘What for?’ Renaut said. ‘As somewhere to store the lice? Be gone with you. My master has shown you kindness enough.’
Philip spurred his horse away and the boy was soon lost to the jostling crowds.
*
While his men-at-arms availed themselves of some watered-down beer in one of the inns near the main square, Philip found a church and went inside. For all his supposed lack of religion, he was not at all godless, for all his bluster. Wasn’t the point of his journey to beg a mercy from God?
Massive iron candlesticks lit the gloom of the church like daylight. The saints painted on the pillars looked almost cheerful.
He found a statue of the Virgin, fell to his knees and whispered: ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena . . .’ Then he said a prayer, as he always did, for his son. Perhaps he did not believe in popes or crusades any more. But he still believed in miracles and he hoped that belief alone might be enough.
There were ragged lines to the confessional, so many people crammed into the church there was hardly time for each to whisper a confiteor and slip their mite into the priest’s hand before it was time for the next furtive sinner. Holy wars were indeed good for business, just as the innkeepers said.
There was a commotion as he left the church. Some burgher, in his fur jacket and silks, was waving his scented handkerchief in the air and looked set to faint. Two of his retainers held a little ruffian between them, and one of them held aloft a velvet purse.
‘It’s here, sire!’ he shouted. ‘We have him fast!’
Philip ran down the steps and put himself between the burgher and his men. Their surprise changed quickly to alarm. It was immediately apparent to them that Philip was a knight and not a man to tangle with.
‘Let him go,’ Philip said, and he grabbed a handful of Loup’s hair to lay proprietory claim.
‘But, seigneur, he is a thief. He stole our master’s –’
Philip rounded on him. ‘
If you are going to address a baron and a knight you will do so on your knees with your voice lowered.’ His hand went to his sword. The man backed away.
Pulling a squealing Loup behind him Philip approached the burgher, and tossed a silver coin in his direction. ‘For your inconvenience, sir. He will cause you no further trouble.’
He dragged Loup away. ‘You seem determined to lose your ears, boy. I should have let them put you in the stocks as a lesson.’
‘Owww, you’re hurting me!’
‘I should hurt you more. The art of being a thief is not to get caught. Did no one ever tell you that?’
‘Where are you taking me? Owww . . .’
Philip was almost at the tavern when he let the boy go. Loup made a show of smoothing down his hair and then tried to kick him. Philip shook his head. ‘Very well, you can come with us. At least until you learn to look after yourself better than you do now.’
Loup grinned. ‘You mean that, seigneur?’
‘I never say anything I do not mean.’ He looked up and saw Renaut standing outside the inn, watching. His squire shook his head. You’re going to regret this, the look seemed to say.
XLV
Saint-Ybars
TWO DAYS SPENT stitching gashes in horses and men, counting their losses and exploring the geography of humiliation. Gilles stayed in his tent and did not come out. Father Ortiz spent the days singing psalms under a tree. The heat was oppressive; the sound of the crickets maddening. Saint-Ybars, this feeble fortress town, had shaken their faith. Normandy had thought it would go easier than this.
On the second evening Gilles called a counsel, and Father Ortiz and Simon were summoned to his silk pavilion along with his knights and squires. There was one other in attendance, whom Simon did not recognize, a slight man with a neat black beard. He sat in the corner, on the only other chair, wearing along with the colours of the house of Trencavel a look of utter terror.
The night drew a ragged breath; the air stuck to the skin and the biting insects made everyone irritable. Gilles sat in a chair before a trestle table on which was a large map, held down at the corners by small rocks.
‘Gentlemen, may I present M’sieur Robèrt Marty, lately bayle of Saint-Ybars. During the night, knowing his duty lay to God and not to his heretic lord, he stole away from the town and made himself known to our sentries, and they brought him here to me. He wishes to show us the way inside the castrum.’
‘Praise be to God,’ Father Oritz said.
‘Can we trust him?’ someone said, a midnight devil with one eye and a red beard. His name was Hugues de Breton and he was the Norman’s most trusted lieutenant. He cracked his knuckles, playing up to the air of menace lent him by his disfigurement.
Gilles turned to Robèrt. ‘Can we trust you?’
‘I have put myself in your hands. You think I would be sitting here if I planned to play you false? I know where my duty as a good Catholic lies.’
‘Truth is he saw what we did at Béziers,’ Hugues de Breton said. ‘He’s shitting his breeches.’
‘He is one of us now,’ Gilles said like an indulgent father. He stood up and indicated the chart that was laid out on the table. ‘He has brought us this, a map of Saint-Ybars. What he wishes us to know is that there is another gate, right here.’ He tapped the paper with his forefinger. ‘There is a secret passage behind it that leads under the castrum and up to the donjon. Robèrt is going to lead us there. Hugues will take half our troops in by this way so that this time we can secure the gate from the inside. But we must do it tonight before Robèrt is missed. If they realize they have been betrayed they will flood the passage.’
‘What is this passage used for?’
‘It is an escape tunnel they have used in the past when they have been besieged by the Count of Toulouse’s men. Most of the villagers left this way after our first attack. Only a few soldiers now remain inside. They plan to wait a further day and then flee also.’
‘Why is he telling us this?’ Hugues said.
Gilles tossed Robèrt a purse. ‘He knows which master is better served.’
‘A man who will betray once, will betray twice.’
‘Once he leads us to the gate he will remain hostage here at the camp. He knows what will happen if he plays us false.’
‘Our prayers have been answered,’ Father Ortiz said. ‘It is a miracle.’
‘Greed is not a miracle,’ Hugues said. ‘Just an inevitability.’
‘Get the men ready. Once Hugues and his men have secured the gates I will take my knights and claim Saint-Ybars for God.’
Am I the only man in this room who does not see the futility of this? Simon wondered. ‘What of the men inside?’ he said. ‘What of their souls?’
Gilles looked at him in astonishment. ‘Their souls? That is God’s concern, not ours.’
‘So we are to slaughter a few men who have remained loyal to their liege lord and reward this Judas?’
There was a heavy-breathing silence. Father Ortiz stared at him in astonishment. ‘These men stood against God’s army,’ Gilles said.
‘God’s army is at Carcassonne,’ Simon said. ‘This has served us nothing.’
Gilles kicked the trestle over. ‘We are ridding the land of heresy as your Church asked us to do! I thought you were here to guide us on matters of religion, Father Jorda? It seems we must now instruct you.’ There was bitter laughter. Then he and his soldiers left the tent to fetch their armour and their arms.
Father Ortiz grabbed Simon by the arm. ‘Never speak again unless I give you leave! Do not forget who is master here and who is the pupil.’
Simon knew it was pointless to argue further. He still could not get the stench of Béziers out of his nostrils: burned and rotting flesh mixed with horse dung and the drone of meat flies. He wondered if he ever would.
XLVI
IN TOULOUSE, IN Carcassonne, in Lyons, in any city in France, the butchers slaughtered sheep and cattle at their shopfronts and let the blood and offal run into the gutters; they would kill chickens in front of their customers so they might have the meat fresh and then throw the heads and feathers into the street. Simon was accustomed to hitching up the hem of his cassock when he walked through this mess, and even though he was a seasoned city dweller he would resort at times to holding a scented handkerchief to his nose on the hot summer days when the smell of bloodied meat and stinking guts made him gag.
But that was sheep; that was cows; and the blood was from domestic animals.
But this.
This . . .
He had never seen or imagined anything like it. One thing to kill a man; for a seasoned soldier such as these it might take one sword stroke, two at most. But why did they do this? They were not chopping the bodies up for meat, they did not have to spread the limbs and torsos through the street and decorate every doorway, every sewer, with them.
Black blood had dried in the gutters, gouts of it, puddles of it; its coppery stink as it dried in the hot sun made him retch and he tumbled from his horse and vomited into the street. Father Ortiz watched him, disgusted.
Simon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What have these men done here?’ he said.
‘I made a mistake with you, I fear.’
‘What did you expect? I thought you wished for a theologian and a preacher on this crusade, not a butcher.’
‘We cannot spend all our time with the hymnal. Was Our Saviour kind when he threw out the moneychangers from the Temple?’
‘He turned over their tables; he did not chop them up like joints for the cook fire. Look at what these men have done!’
‘Gentleness is what we bring to the weak and those in need of our charity. Should we extend it to the enemies of the Church also? Those who seek to bring it down? We are instruments of God and our duty is to save souls. What we do, we do from love, love of God.’
The market square was just dirt with a meagre fountain. There was a smoking ruin on the far side of it. Simon pointed, astonis
hed. ‘They have even burned down the church!’
‘The church had been defiled.’
The limestone walls were charred and the roof had caved in. It was too hot to approach it, for the roof timbers were still burning on the floor of the chancel. But he recognized the taint of burned meat. ‘What happened here?’
‘They were heretics,’ someone shouted behind him.
He turned around. Gilles de Soisson led a procession into the square: a handful of prisoners, Trencavel’s men, chained by the wrists and each with a loop of rope around his neck, the end of which was tied to the saddle of his warhorse. His knights and a troop of foot soldiers followed.
‘But they had sanctuary! They were inside a church!’
‘It was no longer sacred. They were heretics in a place they had themselves defiled. So we burned it down.’
‘You cannot know that these people you slaughtered were heretics!’
‘They shielded heretics and that is the same thing.’
‘Because a man has a heretic for a neighbour does not make him a bad Christian.’
Gilles turned to Father Ortiz. ‘Father, instruct your socius, will you? He overreaches himself.’ Gilles jumped down from his horse. ‘God will know His own. When they are all in heaven let His greater wisdom divide them into the saved and the damned. You should understand, Father Jorda, that when we do this, it encourages others to be more diligent in their prayers. That’s what you want in your flock, isn’t it? Diligence?’
‘The seigneur is right,’ Father Ortiz said. ‘Do you think a good Christian could live cheek by jowl with the Devil?’
Simon realized it was useless to argue further. He dropped to his knees and began a prayer for the souls of the dead.
‘Oh, spare me the piety,’ Gilles said. ‘You want your Church saved for you but it distresses you to see it done. You are hypocrites, all of you.’
Simon looked at the huddle of prisoners, wretched men who had fought bravely and been betrayed at the last by their own bayle. ‘What will you do with them?’ he said.
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