Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4)

by Mark Butler

  The ground beneath them was soft and malodorous. The marsh was warm too, brushing off the effects of winter quicker than dry land. At the heart of the marsh was a mangrove forest, and Raul aimed the group toward that dark gathering, his steps surer than his sons'.

  They passed under the trees, the shadows falling on them, bringing them close. There were no buildings in sight, and no Christof.

  "Where is he?" Artois asked.

  "This is where it all started," a voice said from above them. The trio spun, eyes searching for the source of the voice. It was a man, half a century old and sitting on a mangrove branch, his bow aimed at Raul.

  "Who are y—" Artois began.

  "This is where it all started," the man repeated. He pulled a rope that had, to Francois' eyes, appeared magically. With a creak of the branches, the man began lowering himself to the ground. "This is where it all started," he said again.

  "That was just a myth, a half-truth proclaimed by the greatest priests and star readers in the world. It's a myth, Christof, you know that," Raul said. His older brother looked at Raul curiously, as though finally recognizing him. With a sigh, he released the string on his bow.

  "My cabin is on the sea side. It would be foolish to live close to land," Christof said, addressing his words to Artois. "You asked where I live, yes? Follow me."

  They followed Christof in silence, and he led them through the marsh, walking on the roots of plants and shifting sandbars with ease. They covered ground quickly and reached Christof's cabin within an hour.

  The building sat in a dry clearing, a perfectly balanced spot between the tangled marshes and open sea. Boar heads were speared in a square around the cabin, their eyes providing fine dining to thousands of insects, their black tongues lolling out of their mouths. Francois felt sick to his stomach. The cabin didn't look better, with rotting boards and a partially caved-in roof. Francois could suddenly see bugs everywhere: flies, cockroaches, snails, and dragonflies.

  "I can't sleep here," Artois said. "Bugs crawling in my nose and ears? Snakes everywhere, ready to eat a man as soon as he rests his eyes."

  "It's better than the Béziers jail, son," Raul answered.

  "Not by much."

  "Insects are not your biggest concern, dear nephew. Now, perhaps we should make proper introductions? I am Christof Coquet, the last of the Cathars," Christof said.

  Raul introduced his sons, and then embraced his brother. He should have been shocked at the squalor his brother lived in, but he was not. Christof was always comfortable in dirty places, content with little, and utterly insane.

  "This is where it all started," Christof said.

  "Not this again," Artois said.

  "The Inquisitors thought there was a source of the Cathar's beliefs. They insisted there was an evil place, a mar on the world where men's minds were poisoned, where their souls were corrupted. They say this is that spot, though none of those yellow Inquisitors or fancy priests will dare investigate the marshes. This is where it all started," Christof explained. "And this is where it ended, when the last vestiges of the Cathars retreated from the royal forces and were killed by the swamp, effectively ending the Albigensian Crusade."

  "That's an idle tale, told by men who want to explain the beliefs of others. It is insulting, to say that a belief system that differs from your own is crazy," Raul said.

  "Everything has been crazy, ever since the Seventh Crusade was announced and we left Troyes," Artois said.

  "This is your real family," Raul said to his sons, still staring at Christof. "We have a tortured history of rebellion, death, and sacrifice. While we are here, you will show the proper respect."

  "Yes, Father."

  "Yes, Father," Francois said, finding it difficult to take his eyes off his uncle. The man was so coarse and filthy, the polar opposite of his mother. She had been elegant and cultured, always ready with her quick wit and calm compassion. Francois' mother had been wealthy, living in the rich estates of Italian wine country, where the world's richest people met with the world's finest culture. It was hard to imagine her as the sister-in-law to Christof, a man who was practically half-beast.

  Chapter Nine

  THE FOUR COQUETS SPENT THE NEXT MONTH solely in one another's company. They hunted in the marshes, swam in the Mediterranean, and, occasionally, Francois visited Béziers for the latest gossip on the Seventh Crusade. It was on his most recent trip, buying bread in the market, when he heard about the French Army's march south. King Louis IX had tired of waiting.

  He was bringing half his force directly at them, although they were really destined for Aigues-Mortes, the port city that had been built specifically as a launching point for the Seventh Crusade. Troops would also be leaving from Marseilles, but the bulk of the crusaders were leaving from Aigues-Mortes.

  "Father!" Francois shouted when he returned to the cabin that evening, sweating and out of breath.

  "What is it?" Christof came out of his cabin immediately, holding a cleaver.

  "Where is my father?"

  "He took Artois hunting through the northern marshes. What's going on?"

  Francois told him everything he had heard. The Seventh Crusade was officially underway, and if the Coquets ever wanted to return to Troyes, they needed to be on that crusade, to be seen and counted among the brave Christians.

  "Why is this cause for distress? You knew this day was coming," Christof said, fingering his cleaver. He had a strange way of speaking, never looking at the other person but always looking near them, as if he couldn't allow them to see into his eyes.

  "How can we, as Cathars, support King Louis? I would sooner gouge out his eyes than offer him my service. But I do not want to spend my days in this swamp, to be consumed by mosquitoes and separated from the human race," Francois answered. Christof didn't respond, but merely smirked and went back into the cabin.

  Chapter Ten

  LOUIS' HAND CREPT AROUND THE GIRL'S WAIST, and then it dropped lower. Her name was Olivia D'mance, and her light blonde hair smelled of honey, teasing his nostrils. Louis' eyes traveled along the girl's jaw line, reaching the corner of her mouth, her supple lips. She was the daughter of a scribe, and she had requested to ease the king's journey south. It was not an uncommon request. Many girls, stuck in the middle class, gave themselves to lords and nobles, hoping to be remembered when they were feeling generous. This girl, Olivia, was more eager than most to satisfy King Louis.

  "Take off your clothes," Louis suddenly demanded. They were in a covered carriage, surrounded by his army as the soldiers marched through the fields and woods of southern France, descending on Aigues-Mortes like bees on a honeycomb.

  Olivia slid the straps of her light-blue dress off her shoulders. She watched Louis' eyes widen as her small breasts were revealed, and she watched his pants, expecting the protrusion. When the dress dropped below her waist, revealing her buttocks, the folds of Louis' brown riding pants were straightened out. "Do I please you?" Olivia asked.

  "Yes, you do," Louis said, pulling his shirt off. Their carriage hit a bump while his tunic was over his eyes, and Louis fell off the cushioned bench, hitting his head on the floor.

  "Apologies, my king!" the driver called from outside.

  Olivia helped Louis to his feet and finished undressing him. Both of them now naked, Louis kissed Olivia fiercely, squeezing her buttocks with one hand and her breast with the other. He was squeezing hard, hurting her, and she let out a little whimper. "Sit and relax, my king, I will take away your troubles."

  He sat with bated breath, and Olivia pleased him, over and over, for the next hour. The carriage became very hot, and the windows fogged with their passionate lovemaking. When Louis spasmed and relaxed for the final time, Olivia redressed and sat opposite him, clutching a pillow and watching one of the most powerful men in the world in all his ignominy and weakness. After he persuaded his trousers back onto his legs, he sat and the lovers stared at each other, wondering at the type of relationship they would share in th
e future.

  "Why did you volunteer for this?" Louis asked. "Your previous life was not bad, if my sources are to be believed."

  "I knew a man, well, a boy. He was brave and true, but when this crusade was announced, he fled the city. He and his father and brother have not been seen or heard from for months, and I am here because I feel ashamed for him," Olivia said, surprising herself with her honesty.

  "Many men do not wish to see the fires and death of combat," Louis said, rubbing a nearby window and looking outside.

  "I thought he was brave."

  "Women can be taken in by boasts and braggadocio, but when the time comes for action, you may be surprised by what happens."

  "He was not a braggart. He was just . . . gentle."

  Louis said nothing, tired of listening to the girl and her story of a long-lost boyfriend. When war is announced, thousands of men, cowards, flee their homes and take up residence in a distant nation, eager to be away from conflict they perceived as someone else's problem. This boy was not a concern for Louis. He was launching the biggest conflict the world had ever known! His predecessors had met with unmitigated disaster when they challenged the dreaded Ayyubids, and Louis didn't wish to join that list of failures in the history books. He wanted future generations to hear of his cunning and resourcefulness, so that they knew he was anointed by God, destined and deserving of superiority.

  "You will go back to the supply wagon, and help with the cooking," Louis said. He leaned his head out the window and shouted, "Driver, stop the carriage, the girl is getting off."

  The carriage halted immediately and Olivia stepped into the brilliant light. The stuffiness of the cabin contrasted with the fresh, breathable air of the outdoors, and Olivia allowed herself a small smile. This is exciting, she told herself, I want to be here.

  That was only partially true. When she had learned that Francois Coquet wouldn't be joining the Seventh Crusade in the normal fashion, she had been relieved. She had been content in the knowledge that he would be safe somewhere, ready to return to her when the time was right. After a time, fear overtook her contentment. Was Francois in danger? Was he in bed with some beautiful foreign girl, forgetting his promise to come back for Olivia? Eventually, she decided to leave Troyes. Her father had protested her decision, but Olivia had always done what she wanted.

  She went to Paris and offered herself as a lady-in-waiting for the king at the palace steps, and after two days, she had been permitted within the palace walls. Louis liked her immediately, and she offered to accompany him on the crusade, to ease his tension and stress each night. He's not unattractive, Olivia thought, But Louis is a tool, and I shall go along with his carnalities until something better comes along. She had heard the Egyptian men were chivalrous and rich, if a bit abusive toward headstrong women.

  The supply wagon had three other women, all close to Olivia's age, inside. The wagon was just one of thousands that followed the army, like a great tail. There were camp prostitutes and cooks, tanners, seamstresses, and civilian armorers. They fed off the army, following in its wake and living in its shadow. Olivia was one of those followers now, except she had direct access to the king, a privilege not unnoticed by her peers.

  "You've been gone all morning," Alexa, a young brunette from Paris, said when she saw Olivia.

  "Louis has a big appetite, like any man," Olivia responded. She had grown to like Alexa, a former lover of the king, with a cynical, world-weary personality.

  "What do you want from him? You don't have to be here, you know?"

  "I wanted to leave the boring village of Troyes. I want to know powerful men and see great battles, and when my life is over, to know that I have lived well."

  "You don't need to whore yourself to the king for those things."

  "He's not so bad," Olivia responded, lowering her voice as the two other women from their supply wagon approached. They were real prostitutes, slightly older women who serviced common soldiers and absorbed their crude, banal attention.

  "We need more women," Bruna, the biggest and oldest of the four, said when she saw Olivia and Alexa.

  "Or less men . . . or more goats!" Alexa replied, earning a chorus of laughter from the others. Olivia smiled and the four of them got into their wagon, a rickety construction pulled by a foul-tempered donkey they had affectionately named Louis. In the wagon, dried strips of beef and dehydrated fruits sat in dozens of barrels, safeguarded and distributed by the women each morning.

  "Are you all going to Egypt?" Olivia asked when they settled.

  "Just Cyprus," Alexa said.

  "Cyprus," Bruna answered.

  "I'm going to Aigues-Mortes, and then back to Paris," Morenna, the fourth girl, answered. Olivia's heart sank. She had found camaraderie among these rough women of the flesh, in their unstable cart in the middle of the French Army. They had taken her in immediately, knowing that even a second-removed connection to the king could count for something, if circumstances aligned correctly. Olivia was more than just a connection to Louis, though. She was young and beautiful, a surefire way to attract the attention of more soldiers, which meant more business and fewer odd jobs for food and money. Of course, Olivia was reserved for Louis alone.

  "Are you going to Egypt?" Alexa asked.

  "I'm not sure yet. If you all aren't going—"

  "Aigues-Mortes! Aigues-Mortes!" a voice screamed from outside. The women jumped out of the wagon and saw a collection of buildings in the distance, sitting next to the ocean, with the tall masts of ships behind them, bobbing in the water.

  "We've arrived," Olivia whispered.

  The army did not enter Aigues-Mortes that night, preferring to spread out in the nearby fields and woods until the following day. The officers and royal staff were permitted to enter the city, though, and Olivia got tidings from Louis, in the form of a cavalryman, as the sun began to set over the western sky.

  "You will follow me," the grim-faced messenger said to Olivia, extending his hand from the saddle of his horse. Olivia took his hand and he pulled her up behind him, and kicked his heels into the horse's flanks. They bounded off in a moment, preparing to enter the city built solely for the Seventh Crusade.

  Chapter Eleven

  "I'M GOING TO AIGUES-MORTES," Artois announced that evening. The Coquets were outside Christof's cabin, each weighing the news that Francois had brought. If the Royal French Army was only a few hours away in Aigues-Mortes, preparing to set off for the Seventh Crusade, the time for procrastination was over.

  "Have you thought this through?" Raul asked.

  "Yes. I was born to fight, and this is . . . I can't find the right words. I have to go on the Seventh Crusade; I want it more than I've ever wanted anything. If I miss this, I'll be missing part of me, I'll be, I don't know . . ." Artois trailed off, trying to make them understand with his eyes. It was times like this when Artois wished for the gift of eloquence that Francois had, where he knew the right words to express his feelings.

  "If you feel so strongly, you should go," Christof said.

  "Christof! He is not your son!" Raul exclaimed. "Artois, do you understand what you're getting into? This won't be one of your tavern brawls or fights with the local constables. These are Ayyubids, murderous Muslims who will castrate you if they capture you. Do not make this decision lightly. There will be many wars in the future, why must you fight in this one, when we are already shunned by the man who you will be pledging to serve?"

  "Sorry, Father. I'm going. I wish I could explain it better," Artois said.

  "Father, you were the best tracker in France, and then your dogs were killed," Francois said.

  "And?"

  "And when that dragon took your— our—dogs, you lost your purpose. Your contribution to the people, to the peasantry, was extinguished. This war is Artois' contribution to France. He won't be fighting for King Louis or for the pope. He'll fight for the common men next to him, who only want to return safely to their wives and children. Artois must do this, and I'm going with
him."

  "What? You intend to—"

  "I'm going as well, brother. I've lived in this swamp all my life, remembering our dead friends and relatives, trying to find meaning in their deaths. I will honor them with my sword, fighting the Muslim dogs, who were never a friend to the Cathars either," Christof said. He clapped a hand on Artois' back and the three of them watched Raul, whose eyes were simultaneously filled with disbelief and pity.

  Raul felt old. Christof was five years older, but he still had the mischievous eyes of a younger man. Raul remembered his own father, a man who drank heavily, fought everyone, and still, somehow, found a way to smile every day. He had died in a brawl involving several prostitutes, and Raul remembered thinking, when he heard the news, that it was the sort of death his father would have wanted—something wild, dangerous, and utterly pointless. Artois was like that, but Francois took after his mother, studious and disciplined. It was their differences that Raul had hoped would eventually separate the brothers, leading them to very, very different lives. But they were together, here and now, with crazy Christof, ready to rush off to a war.

  The marsh air was purer at night, without the sun coaxing out all the chemicals from the plants and water. The marshes were louder at night, too, with mosquitoes buzzing and wolves howling in the distance. This particular night was silent, though, and Raul looked at Christof, Francois, and Artois, standing united and ready to leave him if necessary. Their blood was up, and they were going to fight. The purpose of the fight didn't matter: they needed action, excitement, and the sort of life-threatening danger that curiously makes people feel more alive than anything else. With a deep breath, Raul stretched his arms overhead and looked to the heavens. Mangrove branches obscured the bulk of the sky, but there were a few twinklings of stars, like candles stubbornly clinging to their flame, refusing to give in to the absolute darkness.

  "We should leave in the morning," Raul said. "Let's get a good rest, first."