by Mark Butler
They set out at false dawn. Their boots and clothes reeked from the long hike through the marshes, but they reached the main road before noon. None of them knew the road's name, but it twisted north and east, straight into Aigues-Mortes. The sun was directly overhead when they took their first break, and Raul took the opportunity to speak sense to the group.
"How are we going to explain to the officers that we did not answer the king's summons months ago?" he asked.
"We'll say we never heard it," Artois answered. The other three looked at him, and he looked down, confident that his simple solution would work.
"Christof?"
"Tell them you came to fetch me, knowing I wouldn't receive any messages in the marsh. Once the bastards see the four of us, Artois especially, they'll be satisfied."
"If we tell them about the marshes, they'll figure out that we are Cathar descendants. That's not the best start, I think," Raul said. Christof's idea was slightly better than Artois', but still lacking. He turned to his younger son, "Francois?"
"If we are asked why we did not come sooner, which is not a certainty, we should speak the truth. We are Cathar descendants, and we still want to fight. We can say that we are no longer outcasts or rebels, just simple Frenchmen who wish to fight against Muslim tyranny. If we are forthcoming, our detractors, if there are any, will be disarmed," Francois said.
Aigues-Mortes came into sight the next day. The town was constructed for one purpose—to ferry troops out of France. The layout of the town gave credence to its purpose, and every large, well-constructed building was close to the water, whether it was a warehouse for storing supplies or an elongated wharf, with extra-large moorings for the largest ships in the French fleet. Farther from the water, the cottages of the people of Aigues-Mortes became smaller and smaller. After those, a fence was erected around the perimeter of the entire town. It was not a barricade, to hold off hordes of savages while the residents fled to their boats; this was the French coast, one of the safest places on Earth. If a foreign nation ever dared attack Aigues-Mortes, the hammer of the mighty French Army would fall on it with full force. For true safety, deterrence is often the best defense.
People were everywhere. Battalions drilled in the fields around the town, and the entire scene resembled an anthill that had been kicked by a child. French flags, blue with gold fleur-de-lis, were waving proudly from every ship's mast and commanders' positions. Behind the modern, stylish town, the Mediterranean Sea glistened for hundreds of miles, its blue depths more beautiful to Francois than any grandeur the French Crown could manufacture.
"We'll be with the infantry," Christof said. "Latecomers get the worst postings. At the first battle, we'll whet our blades with Muslim blood before anyone else. I'm looking forward to this, all danger and no glory."
"We can still turn back," Raul said.
"No, we can't," Artois growled.
"Father, you don't need to do this," Francois said. He was attuned to his father's reluctance more keenly than Christof and Artois, who were obsessed with going to war. They lived for the glory, the danger, and suffering that could only be found in combat. Men such as Raul wanted to build, innovate, and create a better world, where pain was lessened and humankind's banal existence elevated. At first glance, the men were seemingly cut from the same mold, but below the surface, they couldn't be more different.
"If you all are going, I'm going," Raul answered. Francois knew that if he chose not to go, he could convince his father to join him, leaving Artois and Christof. It wouldn't be an easy decision, but Francois was confident he could persuade the old man if he wanted to. He wanted to fight too, though his high-powered insight couldn't be turned inward to figure out why.
"Let's do this," Christof said, walking straight toward the nearest French flag. In a few moments, the decision to join or shun the Seventh Crusade would no longer be theirs, as they were absorbed into the ranks of King Louis IX.
Chapter Twelve
FRANCOIS WAS EXPECTING A COMMOTION. He thought their arrival would ignite some sort of emergency assembly, where all of the high-ranking commanders would appear and have a heated debate on what to do with the Coquets. Instead, a lowly lieutenant waved them over to his position, which appeared to be a watchtower facing north. The nearest troops were 200 yards away, a cavalry platoon going over battle horns.
"Who are you?" the lieutenant yelled from his post. It was really just a small building with a ladder in the back that led to the roof, so a man could stand there and see very far. He had a bow and arrow, too, though Francois doubted it was well-used in his hands.
"We are the Coquets, from Toulouse," Raul said proudly, like he was announcing their presence to the king himself.
"Are you here to join the crusade? Slow farmers and merchants have been trickling in all day, the last arrivers for the big party."
"Where do we sign up?" Artois bellowed. He did not like being considered a farmer or merchant, though he wasn't truly a soldier, either. Regardless, this lieutenant looked young and had an obnoxious grin on his face, like some middle-class whelp who took every opportunity to remind peasants of their station.
"Go into Aigues-Mortes and locate the four cottages standing alone, on the west side. New recruits are being processed there," the lieutenant said. He said "recruits" as if it was some foul word, a designation for people not worthy to even speak to him.
"Aye, we will," Christof said.
"Aye, sir," the lieutenant said.
"Aye, sir," Francois echoed, ushering his family past the snide lieutenant. They didn't need to make any enemies, and Artois was getting that crazy gleam in his eye, as if he might climb the ladder to the lieutenant and throttle the man.
"I apologize, sir, but I don't remember hearing your name," Raul said as they walked by.
"I am Pierre Dimon, from Paris."
Raul didn't respond and they kept walking. His hands were clenched into fists, Francois noticed, and veins on his neck were showing where they usually didn't.
"What is it, Father?" Francois asked.
"The Dimons are prominent among the Inquisitors, and I believe I knew that young soldier's father," Raul said.
"You knew him?"
"Last time I saw Pierre Dimon senior, he was missing his head," Raul responded. To Francois' surprise, Christof laughed.
"Ha! Those were good days," he said.
They killed him because he was an Inquisitor, Francois thought. Calling other men evil is easy, until you are doing exactly as they have done, or worse.
Aigues-Mortes, as a fortified town occupied by the king, was closely guarded. The Coquets were stopped three times on their way to the recruit houses, and they were always allowed to pass, though a few guards cast uneasy glances at Artois. Appropriate that, too, because he was big and raring for a fight. Francois knew the time would come when they would join a unit, and Artois would be expected to complete some sort of initiation. Francois would complete one, too, but he doubted he would kill anyone in the process.
They did nothing at the recruit cottages except give their names. After that, they were led to a training yard where two dozen other men waited, sitting on the ground around a huge, square sandpit. The sand was yellow and brown, compacted to be as hard as brick. After an hour, an officer entered the arena and looked at the assembled recruits.
"I am Jacques Dimon," he said. "You are here because we do not know where else to place you. You will each pick up a sword and fight me, one-on-one, to determine your skill level and unit placement." Dimon, whom Francois could only assume was Lieutenant Dimon's older brother, produced two swords and threw one on the ground a few feet in front of him.
"We are fighting to first blood or exhaustion, whichever comes first. The edges of these blades are dulled, so do not worry about killing blows. Now, who is first?"
Artois rose, but Raul grabbed his son's hand and yanked him back to the ground.
"Never be first!" Raul hissed, "Use your brain, and learn from another man's mis
takes."
A simple-looking farmer walked to the center of the arena. He was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, and had thinning hair and extra weight around his midsection. He had probably never used a sword in his life, but had swung plenty of axes and hoes, and he assumed those skills were easily transferrable. He picked up the sword and took a few practice swings, getting comfortable with the weight of the blade and grip of the hilt.
"Ready?" Dimon asked.
"Yes, sir," the man said. The words were barely out of his mouth when Dimon moved, sending a straight lunge at the farmer's belly. To his credit, the farmer leaped to his left, but Dimon's foot was already there, and the fat farmer was sent crashing to the ground. Dimon's sword was at his throat a moment later. "Surrender?"
"Yes, sir," the farmer said, gasping for breath.
"Again. This time, do not run from my blade, block it," Dimon instructed. They reset and Dimon swung an exaggerated, slow, overhand strike that the farmer easily blocked, though he flinched and shrank away from the impact of the blades. With that small window, Dimon kicked the man in the stomach and he fell over, his face red, holding his gut.
"Teachable. You are in group three," Dimon said. "Go back to the recruit cottages and tell the sergeant you are in group three, and you will be instructed from there. Next!"
Artois and another man, a dark-haired Spaniard by the looks of him, stood at the same time. Dimon gave Artois a look and indicated he should wait, and the Spaniard took up the sword in the center of the arena.
"Begin," Dimon said.
The Spaniard was clearly terrified, and he swung wildly. Dimon saw his telegraphed attacks with the practiced ease of a veteran, and the Spaniard's swings began to slow, his arms tiring. After one particularly bad attack, Dimon struck the man in the back of the head with the sword, and the Spaniard fell to the ground, motionless.
"Get up," Dimon said. The man didn't move. "Get up!" Dimon shouted, kicking the man in the ribs.
"Let me check him," Francois jumped up and ran to the Spaniard before Raul could stop him. He pressed his fingers to the man's neck and felt no pulse, and then he checked the spot below the thumb, on the wrist. No pulse. He rolled the man over and opened his eyes, but they were vacant. "He's dead," Francois said.
"You can take him to the sick tent. When you get there, tell them you're a new assistant, because you seem so keen on helping the hurt," Dimon said, dismissing Francois with a wave of his hand. Francois gave one final look back at his family, not expecting to be parting from them in this sort of fashion, and then he hauled the Spaniard over his shoulder and wobbled out of the arena.
Artois was like a giant with a twig when he picked up the sword. Dimon didn't appear intimidated, but he still gave Artois plenty of room while he took a few practice swings. After a time, Dimon said, "Strike me, if you can."
Dimon opened his legs in a wide stance and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for Artois. When Artois approached, Dimon sidestepped quickly and attacked Artois' flank, but he saw the attack coming and dodged it, moving unnaturally fast for a man his size.
"Well done," Dimon grunted, resetting his stance.
"Get him, Artois!" Christof roared from the sideline.
"Don't chase him, let him come to you!" Raul yelled.
Dimon came in again, feinting a strike to the head, suddenly dropping his weight, changing levels, and aiming for Artois' midsection. The blow landed cleanly, but Artois' hand snapped out and he grabbed Dimon's arm, pulling him close. He hooked his leg behind Dimon's and they collapsed to the ground, Artois on top. With a savage yank, he tore the blade from Dimon's hand and reversed it, letting the cold steel linger at his throat.
"Enough," Dimon gasped, having difficulty breathing with Artois on top of him. With a sneer, Artois stood.
"You will come with me, now," Dimon said. "I am recommending you for the king's bodyguard."
Raul and Christof watched Dimon lead Artois away. They were alone, two older, Cathar brothers without any friends or connections in the French Army. And they were going on the Seventh Crusade.
Chapter Thirteen
OLIVIA WAS SUFFOCATING. With a massive effort she pushed her arms against the bed and turned her face, so that she was no longer smothered by the oversized goose-feather pillow in Louis' bed. He was behind her, thrusting furiously and pushing her neck down, grunting and sweating while she prayed that he would finish quickly. This was so unlike the gentle lover she had known in Paris, where he would hold her close and whisper in her ear. The closer they got to leaving Aigues-Mortes, the more violent and agitated he became, and he took his anxiety out in the bedroom. Normally, Olivia could absorb the worst of Louis and brush it off, but this was becoming too much.
With a final thrust, Louis' body spasmed and he collapsed on Olivia, his member still inside her. It was a primal moment, and Olivia could feel goose bumps on Louis' legs as he lay on her, and she moved forward and rolled, separating herself from him.
"That was . . . good," he said.
"I exist to please you, my king."
"I will be bringing you on the crusade, it seems. It is not my decision, but his," Louis said, showing her his limp prick. Olivia dutifully laughed.
"May I be dismissed, lord? I must attend my duties."
"Yes, of course," he answered, his eyes taking on the faraway look of a man suddenly reminded of his responsibilities.
Olivia had trouble keeping her balance as she stepped out into the bright sunlight. It was the middle of summer in southern France, and she smiled at the sun. She liked the idea of her skin darkening and her hair lightening, giving her skin an exotic tone that would attract more than ugly French farm boys and sneering nobles. She moved down the roads of Aigues-Mortes, not eager to return to the other whores and their dusty wagon, yet. She wanted to explore the town, to meet with faraway people and—
Something was dripping down her leg. Olivia looked down and saw blood on her inner thigh, a trail of redness streaking down her leg and staining her shoes. Olivia looked to make sure she was not being watched, and she put her hand in her most tender of areas. It hurt very badly. Throwing off ideas of exploring Aigues-Mortes, Olivia went toward the sick cottages, where the army's doctors had set up a temporary clinic. She hoped there was a female doctor on staff.
The cabins were built far from the rest of the town. They were a half-mile east and north of the mass of buildings, to isolate the sick and infected from the healthy. As she neared the open-roofed, free standing buildings, a man walked by her, carrying another man on his shoulder. She couldn't see the bearer's face, but she imagined it was kind, for him to carry another all the way to the doctors.
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked. To her surprise, the man stopped completely.
"What?" he said. His voice was familiar to her, but far-off, like she knew it well but in a different world, a different time.
"I said, can I help you?"
"Olivia?" Francois said, turning.
"Francois!" Olivia nearly threw her arms around him in relief, but the broken man on his shoulder and her own vaginal injuries halted her. "What are you doing? Have you decided to go to Egypt?"
"Yes, my family convinced me. What are you doing here? Are you bleeding?" he asked, looking at her legs. Olivia opened her mouth to reply, to tell him everything and find forgiveness and understanding, but she couldn't. Her shame was overwhelming.
"I must see a physician, excuse me," Olivia said, ignoring Francois' questioning gaze and rushing to the sick cottages. Francois followed her, but his strength was failing him and he moved slowly. Olivia went into the cottage on the left, and Francois followed her inside, nearly collapsing under the weight of the Spaniard that Dimon had crippled.
The stench of the cabin was putrefying. Flesh, blood, and shit mixed in a gas that the open roof of the cottage couldn't evacuate. The odor clung to the floors, the beds, the walls. There were three physicians in the cottage, all of them men, moving through the space and checking on their patient
s. Olivia looked around, turned and brushed past Francois. Evidently, she had not found whatever she was looking for. Francois poked his head out of the cottage and saw her go to the other one. Maybe she just didn't want to be around him? With a groan, Francois lowered the Spaniard to the ground and greeted the physician who approached him.
"I've been instructed to bring this man here and announce myself as a new assistant," he said.
Olivia was mortified to only see male physicians in the second cabin, as well. One of them was kind enough to tell her of a medicine woman who lived in the nearby hills, but her methods were controversial and her reputation dubious at best. It didn't matter. Olivia would rather see any woman and tell her what happened than any male doctor. With a bit of reluctance, the doctor pointed her in the general direction of the hills.
"It's along the coast, about a mile east. The building is shrouded by trees and shrubs, so if you go farther than two miles, you've missed it. Good luck," he said. His face was so kind and understanding that Olivia almost decided to ask him for help, but she couldn't. She just couldn't.
The afternoon was giving way to the shadows of early twilight, and Olivia hurried down the dark road toward the medicine woman's house. She was becoming dizzy from her blood loss, which had not slowed since her tryst with Louis, nearly an hour before. Seeing Francois and reuniting with him had nearly overwhelmed her, and she brushed him from her mind as she half-jogged, the blood on her leg beginning to coagulate.
The cabin would have been easy to miss, but Olivia was desperate and her eyes searched furiously after she measured a mile in steps. It was there, with a roof thatched with leaves and twigs. Its support beams were the same color of the nearby trees, and the cabin camouflaged nicely into the foliage. There was a rarely-used dirt path that led to the front door, and Olivia approached the cabin cautiously, the blood still draining from her body. She felt very cold.
She raised her hand to knock and the door flung open. A squat, grinning woman stood before her. Olivia processed grey hair, wrinkles and powerful hands before she passed out on the doorstep.
