by Mark Butler
Beasts of the Seventh Crusade
Mark Butler
Copyright 2014 Mark Butler
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond the copying permitted by US Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts), without written permission from the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Part 1 The Road to War
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part 2 The Seventh Crusade
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Novels by Mark Butler
Part 1
The Road to War
Chapter One
Troyes, Paris
March 1248
CONDEMNED MEN OFTEN LOOK to the woods for refuge. There is darkness, hiding places, anonymity and most importantly, no boundaries. Once a condemned man reaches the woods, with sufficient skills and will, he can disappear. Go anywhere.
This particular bandit was named "Leaf." He had taken at least three girls from their homes and ended their lives in the woods of northern France, and now he was running through those same woods, seeking shelter. Not while I still have breath, Francois thought, and not while my kin and I hunt him down.
Francois Coquet was eighteen years old, smart, and ambitious. He had high, hard cheekbones and blue eyes. His long legs and slim frame helped him keep pace with his older brother, Artois, who was running alongside him. Their father was a few paces behind, but he was forty years old and not as fit as his sons. Angry barks were audible ahead, echoing through the dense woods and eliciting a grin from Artois.
"Leaf will be tired soon; he'll need to climb a tree if he wants any rest tonight," Artois said.
"Unless he can find a cave," Francois answered. The woods ahead were hilly with light undergrowth, and Francois knew Leaf would find no peace among the reeds, not while their dogs were out. On cue, the bloodhounds barked again.
"Get them back here," Francois' father hissed from behind. His name was Raul Coquet, and he was the only hunter in Troyes who used the stocky bloodhounds for fugitive tracking. He had trained his two young sons to trust the animals and to train the bloodhounds' supernatural senses to pick up on any trail. Leaf was moving fast, but the dogs would find him and hold him until the small family laid rough hands on him.
It was simple after that. Bind him, take him to the constable, and collect the ten gold pieces that were on Leaf's head. He would go to Paris next for a routine trial and eventual execution. As far as Raul was concerned, the dogs barking in the distance would ensure that his own family survived the winter, and that the victims' families would have closure on the darkest chapter of their lives.
"He loosed his bowels nearby," Francois said, crinkling his nose. He glanced at Artois, who nodded, keenly aware of the sweet, pungent odor that was permeating the air.
"I don't care; bring the hounds in. Leaf hasn't eaten in three days, and we haven't eaten in one. He'll rest tonight or he'll die of exposure. Either way, we'll get our gold."
Francois put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and the dogs began to return. Francois, Artois and Raul stopped running, counting the bloodhounds as they came back from the ridge. Six, seven, eight . . . that was it . . . eight bloodhounds and three men to capture one criminal. Artois immediately began setting camp, pulling a lumberjack axe from his pack and knocking limbs off the nearby trees. Francois used his hands to clear away a swath of snow, and they started piling the wood. Raul pulled a small piece of flint from his own pack, and soon they had a warm blaze in the frozen woods.
"I hope the bastard doesn't freeze tonight. I want him to face the fathers of those girls he killed," Artois said.
"That's not our job, boy. We're just catching him, and that's all there is to think about," Raul answered, settling himself to the ground. "Don't let your emotions ruin the job. Don't think too much about those little girls who died, it won't change a damn thing."
"I'm going to hunt," Francois said, leaving his pack at the fire and only taking his bow. "We crossed a frozen stream two miles back. If I travel against the wind, I might kill some game taking water."
"Leaf is out there, Fran, be careful," Raul said.
"Okay, Father."
The darkness came slowly to the woods. Wolves howled in the distance and the shadows of night multiplied quickly, lending urgency to Francois’s hare coursing. First, he killed two rabbits. They were together, crouching by a cold stream and alert to their many predators. They didn't detect Francois, though, and his first arrow flipped the poor bunny in the air, killing it instantly. Its friend dashed off immediately, but Francois was ready with another arrow, and he took that rabbit in its haunches, not quite killing it. He had to break its neck before he was able to remove his arrow from the lifeless flesh.
A great, ugly black bird screeched at the top a tree. Francois considered putting an arrow through its worthless beak, but thought better of it. Why make more commotion than absolutely necessary? His father had taught him that, back when he was a bright-eyed youth who had never hunted a man down before. Now, Francois was as obsessed about the hunt as Raul was and definitely more than Artois, who really just loved gold. Well, Artois loved the things gold could buy him, mainly female attention. That vice didn't plague Raul's loins yet, and he decided not to kill the black bird in the tree.
Francois gave up hunting when he could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face. He returned to his father and brother with a total of three rabbits, and they cooked and ate them quickly before settling for the night. The bloodhounds formed a protective circle around the three men, awake and vigilant.
False dawn woke them. Francois got up first, gazing at the purple and pink sky. And then he realized that he was not up first. The bloodhounds were watching him expectantly, and he let out a sigh of annoyance.
"Father, are the dogs eating this morning?" he asked.
"Not until the job is done, sorry. Send them out, I'm getting up. Artois!" Raul said, nudging his older son with his foot, "Get up."
Artois rolled over and yawned, looking at the camp and the hungry dogs with disappointment, as if he expected to be waking in some brothel surrounded by women and drinks. "Why won't Leaf just give up? He knows he's doomed," Artois complained.
"You answered your own question, now get up," Francois said.
"Oh, so you're the leader now, huh?" Artois said, grabbing Francois' ankle. The
younger brother tried to pull back, but Artois had an iron grip and huge strength, and he pulled Francois right off his feet.
"You'll pay for that, you lazy bear," Francois bellowed, diving on top of Artois and pinning his hands with his knees. Artois deftly kicked Francois off him and spun his brother around, landing on top of him.
"Get some meat on your bones, little brother," Artois said, holding Francois down and laughing. "You're not in Italy anymore!"
That was Artois' favorite thing to say. He was referring to the country where Francois grew up with his mother, before he was sent to live in France with his male relatives. He was twelve when he went to live with his then-nineteen-year-old brother and father. They had taken care of him, though, and he doubted his mom would recognize him if they ever met again.
"Stop wrestling and get up, daylight is wasting," Raul growled at his sons, although the sun was still hiding behind distant mountains. The brothers separated and Francois sent the dogs out, giving them a sniff of one of Leaf's shirts before they tore off into the countryside.
"There's a huge valley a few miles ahead, with steep cliffs all around. If we can corner Leaf against the cliffs, he'll have nowhere to go," Raul said.
They were moving within three minutes of waking up. A stream of snot froze between Francois' nose and lips, and his feet ached from running for the past few days. This should not have happened. Leaf was arrested and shackled in Troyes's jail after two different farmers said they saw him going into the woods with the girls. Francois could still picture Leaf being dragged before the magistrate and thrown to the cold ground, bleeding and crying. He had begged for his life, claiming that he knew nothing about any young girls.
The magistrate didn't have the authority to execute him, so he was held in the town jail until he could be taken to Paris. Leaf had used that one night to burrow under the walls and escape into the woods. The constables came for Raul then, and he gladly accepted the proposed reward. Leaf had a six-hour start, but they were closing the gap. And now Francois was running through the hills at an ungodly hour, with sore knees and tasting snot.
"Spread out," Raul commanded. His sons silently fanned out, always aware of the nearby bloodhounds straining to find Leaf's scent. Francois knew that Leaf was strange the first time he saw him. Leaf almost seemed slow, unable or unwilling to talk with other adults. He shuffled his feet when he walked, too, as if he was making himself smaller, less likely to attract attention. It's strange, Francois thought, Some men prefer the company of children. It was an unsettling thought.
"I've got something!" Artois yelled. Francois and Raul rushed toward his voice, and they found Artois standing in a clearing, looking at a tall elm. The bark was scraped around the lower branches, like a man had climbed the tree by making his own footholds. A shred of blue cotton was also there, torn from Leaf's shirt during his panicked climb.
"This is where he slept last night, but when did the bastard leave?" Raul asked. "Look for footprints."
Francois found them first. They were not easy to find in the slowly melting snow, but the evenly spaced indentations on the ground, coupled with another blue piece of Leaf's shirt, sent the men east.
"The fool's going straight toward Paris," Artois remarked, as they followed the trail.
"He'll never enter the city, not with the bounty on his head. No, at the first sign of those tall walls, he'll go right back to the wilderness. Probably try to find a farmstead with kids, and their blood will be on our hands," Raul said.
"You're losing focus, Father," Francois gently chided him. "You're exhausted; we all are, including Leaf. We'll get him today."
The trail disappeared in a tangle of thorn bushes and brambleberry. The dogs were already there, worrying at the edge of the vegetation. One of the hounds was jumping excitedly at one of the bushes.
"What is it, boy?" Francois went to the bush and found what was making the dog's heart race. Blood. Leaf had reached this impasse and turned south, but he cut himself on a thorn, giving them a new direction to follow.
"I've got blood here, Father," Francois said. Raul went to the bush and nodded.
"Send the hounds back out, we're less than an hour behind him."
Francois and Artois found new energy in their legs. Leaf, that miserable bastard, was not far off now. He had a six-hour start, but they had closed that gap in two days. Raul didn't have the endless energy of youth anymore, but he remembered the lessons of his own father, so many years ago. Keep breathing, just breathe. Breath is life.
The thorn tangle ended at the valley Raul had spoken of. The cliffs were high and trying to descend that rocky precipice, with loose gravel and protruding plants, would be suicidal. The three men stopped at the cliffs, suddenly able to see for miles.
"Got him," Artois said, pointing to the valley.
Francois saw him, crawling through the dirt. He appeared to have a broken leg, and Francois realized the hounds had driven Leaf over the cliff. Raul's eyes were not as sharp as his sons' were, and he didn't want to admit that he couldn't see Leaf.
"Go get him, I'm tired," Raul said.
"You want us to go over that cliff?" Artois asked.
"No, Artois, you're too heavy. Francois, go and take a rope with you. We'll lower you over the side, and you can tie an end to one of Leaf's legs. We'll haul him up, and then we'll haul you."
They went to the spot where Leaf had likely gone over. The dogs were there, jumping and growling. The hounds had the sense to not go over the cliff, but they still salivated and stared at the fugitive, who was slowly crawling away fifty feet below them.
"Let's get this over with," Francois said.
They lowered him slowly into the rocky valley. The snowdrifts were not as high, perhaps from the valley's overhang, and Francois' boots were soon touching the rock-strewn bottom. He slipped the rope off his body and gave it two swift tugs, to let them know he was okay. He jogged over to Leaf, who was watching the young Frenchman with terrified eyes.
"Please, I'm innocent," he said.
"Not my concern," Francois said, pulling bindings from his pockets. He started to reach for Leaf, but the man rolled over and started crying like a baby. It was bizarre, but then Francois noticed Leaf's snapped shinbone, jutting out of his skin. A bad break, he'll lose that leg in a day or two, Francois thought. And then, a darker thought, He needs to be executed before an infection finishes him off.
He reached for Leaf and was kicked by the man's good leg. Francois' temper broke, and he jumped on top of Leaf, battering him with his hands. Leaf stopped fighting after a moment, he was already starving and exhausted, and Francois smashed him in the face one more time for good measure.
"Come along nice and easy, or I'll feed you to the dogs," Francois said. Leaf nodded faintly, his face swollen and bleeding. Francois grabbed Leaf's uninjured leg and dragged him across the valley, back to the rope. They hauled Leaf up first, and then Francois.
At the top, Raul stared at Leaf's broken leg, and said furiously, "You stupid fool! You can't even walk now! How are we supposed to get you back to Troyes? How?"
Leaf had the good sense to not answer. He didn't want to go back to Troyes, where his former neighbors and friends had condemned him. He couldn't face the parents of the girls, the people who wanted him to suffer beyond imagination.
"Drag him, use the dogs," Artois said.
"These are not pack beasts! They are the finest tracker hounds in France," Raul answered.
"Could we take his head? He doesn't need to be alive for the full reward," Artois said.
"He must face justice," Francois insisted.
"To hell with it, use the dogs to drag him," Raul finally decided. Above all, he hated wasting time.
Chapter Two
THE COQUET COTTAGE was the first in the village, bordering the wild lands. It was a simple thing: three rooms and a well in the back. The roof was thatched with straw and water reeds, and a furnace in the heart of the structure kept the men alive during the coldest months; unle
ss, of course, they were out tracking fugitives.
One long road, called the Rue de tuos les lieux, went right through Troyes and past their cottage, and then into the country and eventually Paris. It was the same road where Francois last saw his mother, when she took him to his father to be raised as a man.
Artois untied Leaf before they reached the city proper. He flung the murderer over his back like a sack of grain and carried him up the Rue de lieux, smiling and waving at the neighbors as he neared the jail. Francois and Raul walked behind Artois; they left the bloodhounds in their pen back at the cottage.
At the jail, Artois unceremoniously dumped Leaf in the main entry.
"Somebody been looking for this guy?" Artois asked the room of constables. They looked at him in shock before registering Leaf's presence, and they took the convict right to a cell.
"How did you find him so quickly?" the chief asked, appearing from a back room. He was called Louis, a name for kings and royalty. Raul knew Chief Louis to be a cunning man, capable of manipulating the system to enforce his will.
"The hounds did the real work; we just followed them," Raul told the chief, standing behind his massive, older son.
"If anyone else could train those pups, we could get rid of crime in Troyes overnight."
"Perhaps."
Chief Louis led the three men through the jail and into an adjacent courtyard, where he produced a sack of gold. "This is your payment, as we agreed," he said.
Raul opened the sack and counted the coins, while his sons looked on silently. Raul finished, looked at the chief, and then counted them again, his face reddening.
"We agreed on ten gold pieces. I count eight."
"Taxes," Louis shrugged.
"Pay my father what you owe him," Artois said, looming over Louis.
"Peace, Artois, peace. You can go home, and take Francois with you. I'll be here for a while yet."
Francois and Artois left the jail, glaring at everyone as they left. They both knew the reason that their father was being swindled. He was a descendant of Cathars, the religious sect that had broken away from the church years ago. Cathars were considered extremists and pagans, although they only differed from the mainstream church on a few matters of arcane theology. The Cathars were nearly wiped out during the Albigensian Crusade decades before, but their descendants were still treated as lower-class citizens. Fortunately, as half-Italian, half-French, Artois and Francois had escaped the label that their father's parents had died for.
