by Glen Craney
Esclarmonde shoved Corba aside and rushed past the barricade.
Folques intercepted her. “This is not your court of manners!”
Esclarmonde escaped his grasp and ran to the royal dais. “I beg of you, my lord! Don’t let them burn this girl!
“The heresy spreads like a plague here,” said Almaric, enjoying the fruits of his ploy. “Even ladies of exalted pedigree are not immune to its seductions.”
“She is too young to have offended God,” insisted Esclarmonde.
“That is for the Church to adjudge,” said Almaric.
Count Raymond could not look at Esclarmonde. “My hands are tied.”
“Mine are not!” Trencavel broke through the pressing crowds and leapt to the platform. “Are we to be ordered about by foreign monks who have never drawn a verse or bent a knee to a lady?”
“Hold your tongue, pup,” warned Almaric. “Ere you find it cut out.”
“And who’ll do the cutting?” Trencavel pleaded with Count Raymond, his uncle. “Would your father have permitted these monks to blacken the day of your own christening?”
Almaric was determined to finish the execution before the Toulouse baron wavered. “The order has been given.”
“I demand a trial by combat!” shouted Trencavel.
“This is an ecclesiastic proceeding,” said Almaric.
“Are we not governed by Roman code?” asked Trencavel. “Have I not the right to champion the accused by a test of arms?”
A roar of acclamation drew a tight smile from Count Raymond. “It seems, Abbot, the stripling has bested you on a point of law.”
“The Church has outlawed such barbaric spectacles,” said Almaric.
“As Cistercian General, you have the authority to grant exemptions,” reminded the Count. “Sanction the tournament, or I shall allow my subjects to decide the maid’s fate. Then you can condemn the entire city.”
Finding his stratagem unraveling, Almaric grudgingly acquiesced to the affair. “Who shall defend the Church? Indulgences shall be granted.”
Jourdaine L’Isle climbed to the dais and shoved Trencavel aside. “This tadpole needs to be taught a lesson in obedience.” Simon de Montfort and his brother Guy joined the Gascon on the platform to serve as advocates ecclesia.
Esclarmonde rushed to Trencavel. “You don’t have to do this!”
“I’d not wish to live after witnessing such a day,” said Trencavel.
Roger drew Esclarmonde aside. “Do you know that girl at the stake?”
Esclarmonde hesitated. “She was with those ... in the cave.”
“Then she is a heretic as they charge,” said Roger.
“She saved my life.”
“How do you know that?”
“She could have offered me up to save herself.” Esclarmonde directed his attention toward the smoldering faggots. “If someone had stood up for our mother ...” She realized too late what she had unwittingly revealed.
Roger was stunned. “Who told you?”
A few steps away, Jourdaine watched their animated discussion with a smirk. “There’s a pretty sight! An Oc bitch shaming the Wolf to howl. For certain, it is their old man’s litter.”
The proximity of listeners prevented Roger from interrogating Esclarmonde further on how she had come to learn of their mother’s fate. Although outsized by a hand’s span, he came up fast on the Gascon spoiling for a fight. “You should try an opponent your own size!”
“Loose tongues seem to run in this litter,” said Simon de Montfort.
Raymond of Perella tried to dissuade Roger from being drawn into the scuffle. “Save their spitting for the field.”
Seething, Roger climbed the steps to the dais. “We stand with Trencavel for the maiden.”
Count Raymond gave his hearty imprimatur to the contest before Almaric could retract the ratification. “I call a Pas D’Armes on the morrow! Best of three runs to determine the fate of the accused!”
The crowds shouted wagers and the yeomen rushed to build the railings.
When Esclarmonde was distracted by the jostling, Corba hurried Trencavel behind a tent. “Do you know the town of Mirepoix?”
“A half day’s ride,” said Trencavel.
Corba slipped a note into his hand. “Deliver this with all speed.”
Think ye with what grief and sorrow the twain did asunder part.
- Wolfram Von Eschenbach, Parsifal
IX
Toulouse
The Next Morning
Surrounded by the fluttering pomps and gaudy trappings of pageantry, Raymond de Toulouse arose from his viewing chair on the tournament grandstand and announced, “Any lady who takes issue of Courtesy may strike the helm of the offender.”
Esclarmonde glowered at Jourdaine’s conical headgear as if covering it with a curse. The Gascon’s boorish behavior on the previous day had been sufficient cause for disqualification under the code of chevaliers sans reproache. She forced him to await her decision while she fingered a denier, then whispered to him, “I would see you immortalized this day.”
Jourdaine was impressed that she had so quickly—
She tossed the coin to a minstrel. “To commission a verse. One telling how a courageous boy avenged a petty baron’s insult.” She stepped back and left the Gascon’s helmet untouched, preferring to see him shamed on the field.
Jourdaine lost his grin.
The two teams retired to their respective positions. Those who had not merited seats fought for position along the railings. Thousands of commoners had filled the surrounding hills to witness the rare à outrance joust that offered the possibility of injury and even death.
At the south end of the lists, Roger assisted young Trencavel onto the saddle to face Simon de Montfort for the first encounter. “You’ve made runs?”
“Of course ... against quintains.”
Roger quickly dissembled his misgivings lest the boy be needlessly discouraged. “Keep your lance traverse. You’ll not have time to maneuver it.”
Trencavel was hotfoot to charge. “I’m going to run him through!”
“You need only unhorse him.” Roger sliced away the fancy embroidery on the lad’s gambeson. “The lance will catch. You want the blow glance off.”
Trencavel bridled his rouncy toward the stake in the tilting corridor and found Phillipa shivering in the wind, covered only by a scrim tunic. He placed his riding cloak around her shoulders. “Your healers, my lady, have done much to ease the suffering of my dying father. I would ask the Consolamentum of you.”
Phillipa was astonished that one of noble birth would so publicly request her faith’s most solemn sacrament, given to the uninitiated only when death could be imminent. “You know you must forever abstain from sins of the flesh?” When he nodded, she said, “I must touch you to transmit the blessing.” She spoke a Cathar prayer as he placed his hand to her cheek, “Have no pity on the body of corruption, but have pity on the spirit imprisoned. Go always with the Light.”
“We will meet again,” he promised. “In this world or the next.”
The crowds rustled with a scaling hum of anticipation as Trencavel returned to his starting position. Count Raymond gave the hand signal. The herald blew his long-necked horn and scurried behind the barriers. The field erupted in two converging clouds of sawdust. Esclarmonde held tight to Corba, unable to watch. Halfway to the meeting of lances, de Montfort leaned to reduce his exposure, but Trencavel remained upright with his weapon bouncing wildly.
“Tilt!” screamed Roger.
Trencavel’s shield exploded at impact—he catapulted from the saddle and landed with a sickening thud. The Northerners hooted and threw dung at him.
De Montfort circled his destrier around the stunned boy, splattering him with mud. “My regards to the imbecile who sired you.”
Esclarmonde intercepted the stretcher-bearers. She ripped away Trencavel’s bloodied hauberk and found a shoulder wound. The physic daubed the puncture with a styptic balm, th
en assured her, “He’ll live for more foolishness.”
Corba rushed to Raymond, who had already mounted. “Don’t do this!”
Raymond set his helmet. “Darling, would you fetch me a leg of lamb from the tables? I’m always ravenous after a joust.”
Buoyed by his brother’s easy victory, Guy de Montfort pranced and reared his charger to its hinds in a taunt. Trencavel had barely been carried off the field when the herald scampered into the lists and sounded the second run. Raymond managed an agile start; even and level, his smaller horse stayed the course without veering toward the rails. Their collision was announced by a sharp crack followed by chilling equine whines. When the sawdust cleared, Raymond sat slumped in the saddle as his steed angled aimlessly across the field. Guy de Montfort, sprawled in the ooze, angrily threw off his helmet.
Esclarmonde and Corba hurried to Raymond, who tottered precariously near the rails, dazed by the hit. “I am fine,” he said. “A little tossed is all.”
On the dais, Count Raymond settled back into his high-backed chair and turned to the Lionhearted. “So, it comes down to the Wolf.”
“A hundred francs says the heretic burns,” said Richard.
“Bold wager by a man who just emptied his treasury for ransom.”
“I once passed through Foix,” said Richard. “There’s not a stretch in that sparrow’s nest flat enough to practice a run.”
Folques overheard their exchange and narrowed his eyes in rebuke. “The Church abhors the laying of odds on matters of God’s judgment.”
“Yes, Raymond,” said Richard dryly, having never forgiven their once-mutual friend for abandoning the singing profession. “We must follow the example of our humble holy man here and wager on proper subjects. Such as which of the many asses he’s kissed will one day fart on St. Peter’s throne.”
“You slander me, sir!” said Folques.
Richard curled a sardonic smile. “Another hundred says the Abbot wrangles a bishop’s mitre for his yapping lapdog before year’s end.” When Almaric stood to confront the calumny, Richard met the challenge by arising to hover over the two Cistercians. “You feckless monks exhort the battle, but when the blood flows, you’re always found behind your altars.”
Almaric and Folques could only stew in their enforced silence.
At the south end, Roger blinded his flighty Arabian with leather flaps. Sun flashes came from the far chute. Jourdaine had hung his charger’s neck with a taffeta trapper spangled in tiny bells, a contraption designed to create a ringing hysteria in the ears of the opponent’s horse. When Roger turned to mount, the Gascon surreptitiously slipped an illegal extension onto his lance.
Esclarmonde offered Roger a sip from the wineskin to fortify him. “Be on your guard. That Gascon will resort to any means to obtain what he wants.”
“Then he must be a man of strong faith to so earnestly wish the death of that heretic girl,” said Roger. “Accompany me to her.”
At the stake, Roger studied Phillipa, too long for propriety. He tried to discern from her countenance what it was about her faith that had caused his mother to forfeit family and life. His cold glare of judgment evanesced into a flustered look of dislocation. He seemed to have fallen under the same spell that had seized Esclarmonde in Lombrives. For once, he displayed none of his usual gruffness. “My sister tells me you are worth risking a kingdom to save.”
“I am forever in your debt, my lord,” said Phillipa.
Roger found it difficult to break from Phillipa’s mesmeric eyes. Finally, hearing the crowd clamoring with impatience, he slapped the Arabian to awaken its mettle, then bowed to her and rode to his starting slot.
Jourdaine raised his triangular shield to indicate his readiness. The herald sounded the final blast. Roger charged fast, taking steady aim at Jourdaine’s left breast. Just before impact, the Gascon yanked his shield across his pommel. Roger tried to adjust, but his shifting confused the Arabian and caused it to lose speed. He was driven violently into the cantle—the lance slid from his hands. His destrier careened and fell against his ankle, then bolted up in a panic and dragged him through the dreck. A stunned silence was broken by Esclarmonde’s shriek. Writhing in pain, Roger finally extricated his arms from the harness and flung off his helmet. Phillipa hung her head and waited for the flames.
“God wills it!” shouted Almaric, exultant.
Count Raymond removed a handful of coins from his purse and dropped them into Richard’s lap. With a sigh of remorse, he prepared to signal for the firebrands to be thrown to the faggots when a rumble of surprise creased the assembly. A helmeted knight blazoned with a red cross on his mantle cantered methodically down the hillside. Reaching the viewing pavilion, the stranger pulled a rock from his saddlebag and threw it at the Lionhearted’s feet.
Richard shot up from his chair. “Knave!”
“I’ve come to collect a debt.”
“Reveal your face!” When the knight complied, the English king cursed under his breath. “Montanhagol ... I counted myself rid of you.”
“You promised a gold piece for every stone taken from the walls of Acre.” Guilhelm stole a sharp but fleeting glance at Esclarmonde, as if directing his next admonishment at her as well. “You also owe me my good name.”
“What I owe you is the edge of my sword!” said Richard.
“Let us in on this little mystery,” said Count Raymond. “Who is this Templar who invades my tilting ground as if he owns it?”
“A coward who once refused to obey my orders,” said Richard.
“Orders to commit butchery,” corrected Guilhelm.
Richard paced the dais in agitation. “It was necessary!”
Guilhelm rode down the length of the grandstand. “Three thousand Saracen prisoners were beheaded in a single day by order of that man! Men, women, and children! He is called the Lionhearted only by those who never fought at his side! Some required ten strokes to die! All murdered to slake his rage at losing an engine! When I protested such treatment as contrary to Christian justice, he exiled me with a false report that I had betrayed the King of Jerusalem!”
Esclarmonde flushed with shame. Had she wrongly condemned him?
Richard flung a coin in mock payment, but Guilhelm threw it back. “There is interest due.”
“Damn you!” shouted Richard. “What is it you want?”
“The maid’s life.”
Folques shoved his way to the fore. “This apostate Templar conspired to protect the heretics! The burned sinner confessed it!”
Guilhelm rode closer to the stands and only then recognized his old nemesis. “So, the Pope now employs your prattle.”
Jourdaine confronted Guilhelm. “I and my men won the joust.”
“Then I challenge you.”
“Your vows forbid profane combat,” reminded Folques.
“Salic law allows suspension of the ban if justice requires,” said Guilhelm.
Esclarmonde watched with held breath as Folques and Almaric confided privately. She yearned to go to Guilhelm and beg his forgiveness, but he refused to even acknowledge her. Had he forgotten her? Before she could gather the courage to approach him, the Cistercians broke off their whispered discussion.
“The ordeal shall be allowed on one condition,” said Almaric. “If the Gascon prevails, the Templar must again take up the Cross for the Holy Land.”
The crowds pressed closer to hear Guilhelm’s answer to the demand, which was tantamount to a death sentence. Templars were always positioned in the vanguard of battles and the order’s hierarchy refused to pay ransom for prisoners. A taut muscle twitched in Guilhelm’s neck; he had vowed never to return to that sandpit of Hell. Finally, he nodded his grudging assent.
“And my recompense if I win?” said Jourdaine.
“Name it,” said Guilhelm.
“The hand of the Viscountess de Foix in marriage. With a dowry of five hundred francs and the land of Montsegur.”
A rumble of astonishment met the Gascon’s brazen
proposal. Guilhelm delayed his response, desperate to find some way of circumventing this unforeseen dilemma. “The lady alone can accept such a condition.”
Esclarmonde stood paralyzed by indecision. She could not let Phillipa die, but the thought of marrying the Gascon caused her stomach to curdle. She looked at Guilhelm and for the first time found consternation in his eyes. He had come because of her. A birth always requires a sacrifice. That is the way of the Light. Where had she heard those words before?
Roger took her aside. “You needn’t agree to this.”
At her request, three men had risked life and limb to save the Cathar girl. How could she refuse when she had asked so much of others? She had no choice but to trust that God would deliver Guilhelm’s victory. She turned from Guilhelm’s locking gaze lest she lose resolve. “I accept the terms.”
Jourdaine insisted, “I must also hear it from the Wolf.”
Roger could manage only a bitter nod.
“Broadswords!” announced Raymond of Toulouse. “First blood!”
The two combatants placed their helmets on the dais. While Esclarmonde whispered a prayer over Guilhelm’s gear, the Gascon came aside her and gibed, “No acid-tongued quips this time?” Fighting tears, she walked away.
Jourdaine chased her with a punishing smirk, then retrieved his helmet and took his position in the center of the lists, twirling his broadsword deftly over his head to demonstrate its lightness in his massive hands. Simon de Montfort placed a cube of sugar into his comrade’s mouth to prevent parching.
The herald blew the signal horn. Drooling sweet saliva, Jourdaine lunged and drove his round shield into the Templar’s left shoulder. Guilhelm was plunged to a knee by the force of the impact. The pain in his elbow rang like a tuning fork. Their first clash of blades spawned a crackle of sparks.
On the dais, the Lionhearted dropped another sack of coins into Raymond of Toulouse’s lap. “The Gascon.”
Count Raymond laughed scornfully. “You may pay for this feast yet.”
