The mason stared at two apprentices who, overcome by the heat and the carrying of heavy stones, had collapsed with their backs to the wall.
“I don't think I need to remind our new friend Bernard here of what these Crusaders are capable of,” said the mason.
The two youths flushed red and immediately jumped up. They started lugging the heavy stone back to the section of the wall we were now working on.
I continued my work with the mason as we rebuilt the walls of the Castellar suburb. This man was truly a heretic, or even worse, for it seemed that he did not even follow the false precepts of that heresy. He was a man completely without faith, without God, and without hope. He must have pitied me, as he believed my family dead at Béziers. He was more patient with my clumsiness, with my questions than he was with the other men who worked with us.
And, I was learning. I was a youth who had spent my boyhood at the scriptorium and I could not keep up with the others for brute force, but I was clever and the mason saw that. After Guillaume's accident with the stone, the mason set me to work mixing the mortar that would be used between the large stones composing the inner wall.
“You have to keep knocking up the mortar or it will not be smooth and uniform. And whatever you do, don’t add too much water. You’ll ruin it,” said the mason.
The work was difficult and the mason kept a close eye on me to begin with, but I slowly learned to judge just when to add a bit more water and when to beat the mortar that had been prepared from three parts sand and one part lime two days before by a master mortar maker. The mason did not leave me alone with this task and kept checking on me, but he was short of skilled workers and had to make do as best he could. There was so much to do to repair all the walls and reinforce the towers and most of the skilled mortar makers had been taken by the Viscount for his works in the city itself.
The sun was hot and my arms and hands, which God had designed for serving him through prayer and the copying of holy texts burned with pain. My fingers were blistered, but I wrapped them in cloth and hid them from the mason, for I knew that I was destined to be here. I knew in that instant that I could do more for our cause than just to report the gossip of the city streets to our Lord Abbot, tidbits of information that any fool could contribute. I would work hard and gain the mason's trust and there would come a moment when I could betray it, betray the very foundations of this city.
For I was growing fond of the mason. I admired his discipline and knowledge and his quest for perfection. I did not want him to burn forever in the eternal hellfire of damnation. I believed he could still be saved. For he was not a heretic, only ignorant of the truth. And how could he help his ignorance when he lived in this cesspool of wickedness? When the Father Abbot took control of this city and this region men like the mason would be instructed in the true Christian faith and they would cling to it, as all men must when they hear the beauty of the truth.
“Good work, Bernard,” said the Master Mason. “The consistency of the mixture is very good. We may make a mortar maker out of you yet.” He laughed, but it was with good humor.
Yes, I would save this man from the damnation he must surely suffer, but I knew my Father Abbot would not be weak with the heretics, like that girl who was even now trying to steal my brother's soul, as she feigned healing his body. Constance, her name was, or so Guillaume told me. Her name was fitting for I could see that she was constant in her deception, constant in her treachery, constant in her blasphemy, and constant in her heresy. A girl such as she should be married - either as a bride of Christ, as our holy sisters in the monastic life, or to a man who would give her many children and keep her life too busy for sin. I would be glad to see her burn, so that she could no longer drag souls down to hell with her, seducing them with her worldly charms into an eternity of damnation.
I considered again moving Guillaume before he succumbed to her temptations, but instead decided to continue my prayers and to trust in the Lord to protect him. For I was learning too much. I had witnessed their foul consecration ceremony already. I watched a soul damned for all eternity and while I wanted to scream out, to interrupt this foul transaction, smacking of the cloven hooves of Satan, I did nothing. For I knew that I could save many more souls by my silence than by any action at that moment. When I wrote to the Father Abbot tonight with my latest report, I would include a description of this wretched deed. For only by learning of their ways can we destroy them. I thought to myself that I might not survive this task given to me by my Holy Father Abbot but I remained peaceful, sure that the knowledge I gained by placing my brother's soul in jeopardy would not go to waste.
The mason walked over, inspected the mortar, and pronounced it ready. Immediately, the men came with their trowels to take the mortar and continue repairing the wall. I continued stirring, knowing my aching body would earn me a heavenly reward.
Gauda
Saturday, August 1, 1209, evening
I took the Viscountess' undergarments of linen from the red, cracked hands of the laundress. We stood in a basement room of the castle, steaming water rising around us. The smells of ashes and tartar floated in the heavy steam and stung my throat.
“Thank you,” I said to the laundress. She was a heavy set woman of middle years with a face pink and sweaty.
“I don't suppose you will be doing much laundry soon,” I said.
Her face broke into a small smile.
“I hope the siege is short and we are freed from these wicked invaders soon, but on my soul, I would not regret a few days rest from this toil. The water is only for drinking now. This is my last batch of laundry until the siege is lifted,” she said. “Which I pray will be a very short time from now.”
Her face grew serious.
“And I pray we are alive to tell of it at the end,” she said.
“And, I, too,” I said.
I, above all, wished this siege to be over sooner than anyone else in this castle.
I returned to Viscountess Agnes’ chambers with her garments, entering in silence. I walked over to the chest by the foot of Agnes’ bed and began folding her garments, placing each in the chest as I finished. Agnes looked up at me from where she sat in her bed, hands folded over her stomach.
“So you’ve heard the news about your little boyfriend?” Agnes said. “So sad.”
I looked up sharply. I did not know who Agnes was talking about, but I felt a clench in my stomach and knew I must tread carefully.
“I am sorry, Viscountess, but I do not understand. What has happened?”
“Your little juggler with the pretty eyes and the pocked face,” said Agnes. “He’s dead. Set upon by bandits; they found his body today.”
My eyes welled up with tears and I turned away from Agnes. Let her think he was my lover, the poor boy. I thought of his earnest face as he sang to me one of his songs, crafted so artlessly, but with such passion. He might have been very good one day, but he would have no time to hone his skills now. Then, the clench in stomach traveled deeper to become a chill in my bowels. What of my letter? And what kind of bandits operated outside the gates of fully fortified city surrounded by an army of tens of thousands?
“Where did they find him?” I asked. “Was everything stolen?”
“They found him by the river this morning, stripped naked and robbed of all his earthly goods,” said Agnes. “He didn’t make it very far, wherever he was going.”
I moved from the bed and looked out of a small window overlooking the courtyard. The dull clanging of the blacksmiths in the yard continued as they fixed pieces of armor and shoed the horses. And, in the distance, I could hear the murmur of men's voices as they worked on the walls or towers late into the night. But the city seemed strangely quiet and expectant. For better or worse, we were all locked inside these walls now.
Everyone was waiting - waiting for the call of a lone watchman on a tower. Waiting for the first stone to fly across the city walls. Waiting to hear the thunder of horses' hooves on a char
ge. Waiting for a sign that it had begun.
DAY 2 OF THE SIEGE OF CARCASSONNE
Sunday, August 2, 1209
Trencavel
Sunday, August 2, 1209, dawn
At dawn, Trencavel rose and went to the ramparts. The Crusader camp was waking. The smoke from their campfires rose against the pink sky. Blacksmiths' hammers rang out on the steel of blades and breastplates, shields and helmets. Already the heat had begun to rise from the earth. Trencavel looked out on this army, greater than any he had ever seen. He turned and looked north to the Black Mountains, where he had spent so much of his youth with his guardian Bertrand de Saissac, after his father had died when he was only nine years old. He had learned to fight in those mountains, defending his father's lands and those of his vassals, but he had never faced a foe such as this.
Trencavel heard heavy footsteps behind him. He turned around.
“It's a good day to fight, no?” asked Bertrand de Saissac, as he joined Trencavel at the ramparts. He sniffed the air and threw back his head in a bellow.
“Cabaret's a pimple on the Pope's ass,” said Bertrand. “You were right yesterday. We should have attacked these Northern fools last night while they were fucking their whores and drunk on their shitty wine.”
“The men went with him. I could not attack without them,” said Trencavel. “And maybe he was right after all.”
Trencavel and Bertrand both looked at the endless sea of tents, stretching all the way from the river bank into the hazy distance. They could now see more small figures moving about, saddling horses and sharpening swords. Below them, a garrison of soldiers defended the wooden palisade protecting the path from the city to the river Aude. The suburb of St. Vincent, which sprawled on either side of the palisade, was unprotected by walls. It looked oddly quiet.
“All the citizens left St. Vincent during the night,” said Trencavel. “They must be within the city walls now.”
“They know they'll be the first target,” said Bertrand. “Ah fuck, more mouths to feed, exactly what you don't need.”
They stood quietly in the morning sun for a few minutes.
“Find your squire and get ready, Viscount,” said Bertrand. “They are going to pay in blood today for their arrogance.”
Bertrand and Trencavel went into the castle to prepare for battle.
After putting on his armor, Trencavel’s squire brought him his warhorse. Trencavel rode it to the gates of the city wall and now sat on horseback, waiting inside the gates for the sign to come from the watchtower. Trencavel felt the heat of the sun beating down and the sweat trickling down his back. His body was encased in a chain mail shirt, his legs in chain boots and his hands in chain gloves. He wore a tunic of gold and his shield carried the Trencavel arms - yellow horizontal stripes alternated with black against white stripes. His sword felt heavy at his side. His horse stood steady beneath him, caparisoned in the Trencavel colors over armor. They had ridden into battle together many times and knew each other well.
Trencavel turned and looked at the four hundred men seated on horseback behind him. He saw the yellow sun against red on the shield of the Lord of Montreal and the red lion against white on that of the Lord of Termes. The Count of Foix's shield sported red and yellow vertical stripes. The men and horses were a blur of bright colors, stripes, stars, lions, crosses, and crescents. Trencavel turned to his right and was glad to see the white and red horizontal stripes of Bertrand de Saissac.
Bertrand took off his helmet and looked at Trencavel.
“Ready to surprise those bastards?” he said.
Trencavel put his helmet on over his chain mail hood. He looked at Cabaret, who nodded gravely at him. Suddenly, they heard the shout from the watch tower. The Crusaders had begun the attack. In an instant, all the bowmen on the towers let loose with their first volley of arrows. The first screams filled the air. They heard the pounding of hooves and the clanking of steel on steel.
Wait, thought Trencavel, wait. Let them cross the river and come up the slope. Let them think we will let the garrison at the palisade fend for themselves. Let them send more of their men over the river to fight.
The men on horseback inside the city walls were tense, expectant. All talking had ceased, all helmets were in place. Horses neighed and jostled against each other in the pack of men spilling up the city street from the gate.
Trencavel raised his sword. At the signal, men feverishly began cranking on pulleys to raise the city gate. The gate seemed to come up achingly slowly. Wait, thought Trencavel, again, wait. Finally, the gate was open.
Trencavel dropped his sword and spurred his horse forward at a charge. Four hundred men followed. They spilled down the hill, swords in hand. The foot soldiers attacking the garrison halted for a second as they watched the tidal wave of horse-mounted warriors descend on them. Then they fell, their bodies tumbling down the hill by the force of the assault. Heads fell in the dirt and rolled down to the banks of river. A horse shrieked as it lost its footing and fell down the bank, taking its rider with it.
The garrison, relieved, began to cheer. More foot soldiers came from the gates of the city to reinforce the garrison at the palisade.
Trencavel led the charge to the banks of the river and stopped. He looked around him. The bodies of the Crusaders lay scattered on the hillside and the banks of the Aude. In the Crusader camp, all was madness. Squires rushed to arm knights and saddle horses.
On their side of the river, all was eerily still, apart from the shrieks of the dying. The bowmen waited with their arrows in hand. The path to the river was secure and the garrison reinforced. Trencavel gave the sign to return to the castle. He turned to lead the men back up the hill and into the city gate when a thunderous noise filled his ears. He turned back to the river. On the other bank, Crusaders on horseback were charging the city. They roared across the plain, their horses fresh. Only the narrowness of the bridge kept them from a blanket assault. Trencavel led a charge to the bridge and began fighting the knights as they came across. Bertrand let out a roar and followed. They fought in close quarters, dropping many men, but still more came. Then, a rush of foot soldiers swarmed across the bridge and ran up the embankment to the palisade. Men on both sides dropped from the arrows of the archers high up on the city wall. The garrison fought to defend the palisade, which was now burning. The deserted houses in the suburb of St. Vincent also began to burn. The men who had been hiding in them for refuge, emerged on fire, and ran shrieking into the river Aude. Horses caught sparks in their tails and ran off with their riders.
Trencavel looked up and saw another line of knights forming on the other side of the bridge. All was lost. He screamed to his men to run for the city gates and turned to ride up the hill. The other knights followed. Trencavel made it to the gates of the city and watched as his surviving men rode back in. The wounded lay whimpering and howling in the streets just inside the gate. The palisade was lost and the few men left in the garrison tried to run up the hill to the safety of the city. Right behind them rode the latest wave of Crusader knights. Trencavel ordered the gates closed. He looked into the eyes of the men as they saw their exit cut off and forced himself to watch from the tower as they were cut down by the Crusaders.
Trencavel looked down at the smoking ruins of the suburb and palisade, littered with the dead and dying, and knew fear.
Constance
Sunday, August 2, 1209, midday
“You are not well enough to get out of bed,” said Constance. She tried to hold Guillaume back, but she was no match for his strength.
“There are not enough beds, and worse wounded than I,” said Guillaume. “I want to help.”
“I don't think you're going to be much help with your head still wrapped in bandages, but I don't have time to argue with you,” she said. “Just stay out of our way.”
Constance angrily wiped her hands on her skirt and turned to the patient who had already been placed in Guillaume's still warm cot. He was a foot soldier. His leather tuni
c had protected his torso from a Crusader's sword, but not his arm. The cut was deep and had severed the sinews of his shoulder. His arm hang at an unlikely angle from, Constance was sure, a broken collarbone. He bled. Constance called to a young girl.
“Bring me cloths,” she yelled over the noise of soldiers clanking armor and screaming men.
The girl quickly brought a clean batch. Constance wrapped the wound closed tightly.
“Hold this here with a lot of pressure,” said Constance to the girl. “We have to stop the bleeding. I will be right back.”
Constance went to Azalais’ drying room. Herbs and plants hung upside down from every part of the ceiling. The heady scent of so many mingled herbs in the hot afternoon sun gave the room a fecund smell. The walls were covered with shelves, each filled with glass bottles, stopped with corks. Constance thought quickly. Dried yarrow flowers would help stop the bleeding. She looked along the upper shelf and took a bottle down. She opened it to smell- yes, aniseed, but tannic. Yarrow. And balm. She took down another glass bottle. The dried leaves still smelled slightly of lemons. And blackberry leaves. Constance took the leaves to a large stone table in the center of the room and began crushing them. She brushed the broken leaves into ceramic cup and hurried back to the foot soldier.
The young girl's face was red with exertion as blood continued to seep through the bandages. The soldier's face was becoming very pale and he kept whispering that he was cold. Constance stood next to the girl.
“Get me more bandages,” she said.
Constance dressed the wound with the herbs, packing them into the bloody slit. The girl returned with more bandages. Constance began wrapping the wound, very tightly, using strip after strip. She finished and placed her hands on the soldier's arms and waited for a minute. No blood seeped through the bandages. She turned to the girl.
“See how I am holding his arm?” Constance asked. “You have to do it with a lot of pressure. It will be tiring, but it is the only way to keep him from dying. Do you understand?”
The Song of the Troubadour Page 4
