by Bell, Gradyn
“If it is indeed the shroud of our blessed Lord then you must not flinch from the task that has been set you. The Holy Father has done you a great honour, taking you into his confidence like this. We must not fail him. If it is in the hands of these heretics, think what damage they could do with it.” She looked fierce as she spoke. No one could doubt where her loyalties lay.
Noticing the tired lines on his face, Alicia drew him towards her. “Come. Forget your worries, for a while at least. You will have me to help, and Amaury. He is nearly eighteen and it is time he won his spurs. And don’t forget, God is on our side.” She crossed herself. “He will defend that which is right. But let us not waste our last night together talking; we can talk tomorrow before you leave.”
Simon looked at her with a rueful smile. This woman could charm the birds from the trees. He was putty in her hands. He pulled her towards him. Thank God for women like Alicia, he thought. Although she could not fight on the battlefield, she fought other and sometimes more difficult battles with her own demons. He knew very well she had not wanted him to accept leadership of the Crusade. She had wanted to return to their estates as the other nobles were doing. She wanted to be at home, secure with her family, and no one could blame her for that. He was approaching the fifth decade of his life. Time to settle down, one might think, but here he was, about to start a new and far more dangerous campaign than he had ever undertaken before.
Chapter Fourteen
Occitania, South of France
1209 AD
Lavaur and Toulouse
The Boutarras were sitting at the long scrubbed board that for many years had served as a table for the family of seven, the two oldest of whom—two girls—were now married with children of their own. Although the early morning air was crisp, the yellowy blue of the sky already warned of the immense heat that would be theirs by noon. The new wooden shutters on the two windows at the front of the cottage—which had been all the talk of their neighbours when Pierre had first installed them—were already closed against the heat of the sun. Even so, the sunlight managed to form patterns on the flagstone floor as it poked through the cracks in the wood and the door, which had been left open to let in some of the cool early morning air.
Pons, the Boutarras’ oldest child and only son, had stopped all conversation with his news. At twenty, he was a man full grown and taller than his father.
Pierre looked serious. “Are you sure of your facts, my son?”
“Yes, Papa, I am certain. I heard it in the marketplace this morning when I spoke with Arnaud and Bertrand. There is no doubt. The Count has submitted himself to the Church and has sought forgiveness by accepting a public scourging. He has even joined the Crusade.”
“Joined the Crusade? You can’t be serious!”
“Yes, Papa, I am serious. But let me tell you the reasoning behind the Count’s actions.”
“Go on, my boy.”
“It’s very clever, really. Bertrand explained to me the Count’s plan. If he becomes a Crusader, under the terms of the laws of the church, his property and his people become untouchable. The Crusaders will not be allowed to attack his domains and all of us will be safer! Besides, when you reckon it up, there are as many of us believers in and around Toulouse as there are Catholics. The Count will not want to disturb his business dealings with half his population! This is his attempt to secure a peace for us. Whether it will work or not is another matter.”
“So the Count has pledged to follow the Crusade. I wonder how long he will be able to keep up that pretence. I suppose it will serve to cloak his nefarious dealings, but not for long I shouldn’t wonder. Still, it’s quite a ruse.”
“Papa, the other thing I learned was that the leadership of the Crusade has gone to Simon de Montfort. From what people are saying and what our bishops report from Carcassonne and Beziers, he will stop at nothing to destroy us. He was not in command when they took those two cities, but it is said that he believes the end justifies the means, and since he is a fervent Catholic, he will stop at nothing to wipe us out. I fear we have a wolf at our door!”
“Hush, now.” Saissa looked pointedly at the girls, who were observing them with wide eyes.
Maurina was puzzled. “Why has the Count been punished? He’s a kind man. He always gives us bonbons when he rides by.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Pons dismissed Maurina’s question, but she was persistent.
“Why did he have to go to see the Pope? Why did he have to be scourged?” Maurina hunched her shoulders at the thought of a whip cutting into them.
“A man was killed. Peter of Castelnau. Not a very popular man. A man of the Church. Hated by many of his own people. He was puffed up with pride and arrogance, and somebody killed him.”
“But who killed him? And why?”
“The killer got away in all the confusion. It was said that our Count Raymond was responsible, although he still continues to deny it. The Pope had excommunicated him, making it impossible for all Catholics in Toulouse to attend mass and receive all their other sacraments. The people were upset. They missed their mass and were afraid of eternal damnation, so they called on the Count to make things right. He went to Rome himself to seek some form of absolution, at least for the people. We believers know that being excommunicated from the church is the best thing that could happen to anyone, but, alas, there are still many Catholics by tradition and habit who have not seen the light as we have!”
Pierre looked at his family, knowing, even if they didn’t, the import of this news. Life had been getting progressively more difficult for the believers since the Pope had first called the Crusade the previous year. Nothing much had happened until the fall of Beziers and Carcassonne, but Pierre recognised that the appointment of Simon de Montfort was a new and frightening development. De Montfort’s reputation was well known.
“But the Count is a good Catholic. Why would he want the Legate killed?” Maurina asked her foster father.
“That’s a good question, my dear. Last year, the Count in his wisdom refused to join a group of knights who were to hunt and seek out our perfecti and other believers like us and deliver us up to the Church. He said he would never hunt down his own people, people who had been his tenants, his friends and friends of his father before him. If the Legate was on his way to Rome to make life more difficult for Raymond—and he probably was—it would be reason enough for this tragedy. I believed the Count when he said he knew nothing of the murder. But we all know he has some excitable friends who probably thought they were doing him a good turn.”
“What does this mean for us?” Saissa asked. “Simon de Montfort and the Count?”
“Who knows, exactly? One thing is certain—it can only mean more trouble. The Pope was incensed by the insult and took the killing as a personal affront. And we were blamed—if not directly, then indirectly.”
Sensing the solemnity of the conversation but failing to understand exactly what was going on, Braida was doing her best not to cry. Although she was two weeks older than Maurina, she had not Maurina’s stomach for excitement. Nor had she the depth of insight and intelligence that the young foster child had. “Papa,” she wailed. “Will the soldiers come for us?”
“Hush, child.” Saissa drew Braida towards her. “Of course the soldiers are not coming for us. Our life will go on as usual. You and Maurina will continue with your lessons and you can help me with the house. Everything will be fine.” She kissed the child’s tearstained face. “Come now, I think it’s time for you and Maurina to feed the chickens.”
Maurina began to protest. The conversation was just beginning to get interesting. She had begun to notice that she and her foster sister were invariably shuffled out of the room just as she judged there were more exciting revelations to be made.
“Go now and do your mother’s bidding.” Pierre’s tone brooked no argument. Although a kindly man, he was a firm believer in discipline for a harmonious household. He had never beaten his wife or children b
ecause he never had cause to do so, a fact often remarked upon amongst his friends.
After the two girls had gone outside to the small backyard, the conversation became more serious. That morning, the young man, Pons, had had a long conversation with Bertrand Arsen and Arnaud Maury, Maurina’s real father, who had been in Lavaur to talk to one of the Catharist bishops staying there. The news had not been pleasant. Bertrand had confirmed to the young man that the rumours being extensively passed from person to person were, in fact, not rumours at all. Simon de Montfort had indeed been elected leader of the Crusade, and although Count Raymond would do his best to keep the army out of his domains, life as they knew it was sure to change.
Pons had discussed seriously with both Bertrand and Arnaud an idea he had had for leaving Lavaur to do what he could to help the Count. They had agreed in principal with his ideas, with the warning that he must on no account fight. Bertrand had then handed him a sealed parchment to give to the Count, in person if possible. If for some reason this was not possible, Pons was to destroy it.
The time for change in their lives came sooner than they expected, for their son dropped his bombshell that evening. Although he had been brought up as a believer and, as such, abhorred the idea of killing, Pons recognized that the nobles of his region—who were not Cathars themselves but who sympathised with them—would soon put out a call to which he would have to respond. These noble leaders would not wish to see their own property and people under the boot of northern foreigners and therefore would fight to protect what they considered to be their own.
His decision to join the ranks of men loyal to the Count of Toulouse caused an immense stir in the Boutarra household, for one of the cardinal beliefs of his parents and all Cathars was that killing was immoral. His mother was barely able to kill a chicken for the table, let alone contemplate the killing of a human.
“Don’t you see? I must go,” Pons implored. “Perhaps I will not be called upon to kill, but I must do all I can to protect you and others like us. Perhaps I could be a cook and feed the army or look after the horses. Who knows where I may help, but I cannot sit at home while our world is being destroyed.”
“Do you not see, my boy?” Pierre asked, his tone serious. “Perhaps this is God’s will and he wishes the world as we know it to be destroyed. Perhaps it is not such a great world after all. Perhaps God has something other in store for us. We cannot know; we can only accept what God sends. He does not require your help, my son.” He did not wish to contemplate what might befall his son, who was still a callow youth.
Pons considered his father’s statement for a few moments. As a good Cathar and a believer since birth, he knew the reasoning behind his father’s words. He knew this world was only transitory and that after death his spirit would assume different shapes and bodies until at last he had reached that state of perfection when God would allow him into His kingdom.
“I am not afraid of what might befall me, and neither should you be.” Pons looked at his mother whose tearstained face came close to breaking his resolve. “All my life I have heard you give thanks for the protection Count Raymond has offered our people. He has protected us from violence and helped us to live happy and fruitful lives. Many of us have become rich under his guardianship, and our elders have been able to preach in relative peace. We have grown in numbers because of this peace. Would you have me throw all this back in Raymond’s face?” His parents could only stand and stare at their son’s new resolve.
“I will make you a promise that I will never kill a man and that I will do only those things which my conscience allows me to do. You and maman have brought me up in the truth, and now it is time to test my faith. I know it will be strong enough to face whatever God sends. You must accept this, for I am a man now and must behave as such!” He pulled from his sleeve the parchment that Bertrand had given him to deliver to the Count. “This is the other reason I must go. I have been entrusted with a letter from Bertrand to the Count, and it is my duty to see that it is delivered.”
The sight of the parchment stilled the arguments of his parents, and it was with obvious misgivings that they agreed to his departure.
The goodbyes were difficult. Saissa and Braida cried for days but they knew that what Pons had decided to do was the only thing open to him as a Cathar if he were to help the cause. Pierre stoically accepted his son’s decision, for he knew the boy’s mind would not be changed and he wasn’t sure, anyway, that he wanted to change his son’s mind. Maurina was thrilled and insisted Pons take the wooden carving of the dove that Arnaud had made for her when she was tiny. “It will make you think of us at home,” she had said. Pons had been so touched by this gesture, he had almost given up his idea of going away.
Ever since Pons had broached the idea of going, Maurina had dogged his footsteps. This was just the sort of adventure she longed for. How she envied her older brother. She knew she would never be able to follow where he went, being a girl and all, but that didn’t prevent her imagining what it would be like to work on the Count of Toulouse’s estates. For several days after Pons had departed, she went around with her head so much in the clouds, imagining where he was and what he would be doing, that her mother had cause to reprimand her for her dreaming ways!
Her imaginings were no wilder than the truth. After three days on the road, Pons arrived at the ramparts of Toulouse just before the sun set. To the youth who had never strayed far from his birthplace in the little town of Lavaur, the city of Toulouse looked almost magical in the setting sun. His breath was taken away by the sight of the walls, gilded as they were by tones of orange and purple that deepened rapidly as sunset approached. Towering above him he could feel, rather than see, the huge silhouette of the chateau that stood like a sentinel, guarding the gates to the city where he hoped to join the ranks of the Count’s men.
His heart began to beat rapidly when he thought of what he was about to set in motion. Although he had begun his journey with a sense of bravura, somehow along the way, some of it had dissipated and he now longed for nothing more than the safety of his own home.
His reverie was broken by the sound of a rough voice. “Stand to, young fellow! State your business.”
The loud voice jerked him back to reality. Immediately all thoughts of home fled his mind. “I seek to join the service of His Honour the Count.” His voice trembled only slightly as he spoke.
“And what might a young sprog like you be thinking he could do in the Count’s service?” The voice seemed kind and held a hint of laughter.
“If it please you, sir, I was not thinking of fighting but more something in the line of cooking or fetching water for the horses. I’ve a strong arm and a willing nature.”
“No fighting, eh! That tells me something, but we’ll not go into that. There’s plenty of your sort hereabouts and I do hear they are the most amenable of folks. In fact, my old mother tried to persuade me to follow the teachings, but I was set on fighting and I know the two don’t go together. Can’t say I’ve ever had any trouble with your lot, either. They get on and do as they’re bid with no back chat, and that’s a change from some I could mention. They hold their meetings on a Sunday in the courtyard, which Milord Raymond has agreed to, so I’d say you will be welcome here. Come into the garrison and talk to the sergeant at arms.”
His courage somewhat restored, Pons followed the gate guard into the tower that housed the garrison where a motley group of soldiers in various states of undress were just beginning their supper. Looking around him, Pons was not able to pick out the sergeant at arms from the crowd of men, but he did see several of his friends from Lavaur. Although they would not fight, even in self defence, they could administer medicines or look after injured animals. He was greeted joyfully by several of his erstwhile friends—people who had disappeared one by one quietly in the night, about whom no questions had been asked. He realised now that he hadn’t been the only one with the idea of helping to support the troops of the Count of Toulouse.
&nb
sp; “Who’s this?’ The question came from the mouth of a burly red-faced individual intent on pushing the remains of a fat chicken into his mouth.
“Found him outside, sir, skulking by the gate. I think his intentions are honourable. He wants to help the Count.”
“Does he now? How can you help the Count m’lad, and what makes you think he needs your help?”
Pons found his tongue. “The story is that His Lordship is just back from Rome where he was making amends for the death of the Papal Legate. But we all know that the Whore of Babylon will never forgive the people of Toulouse, and one day, be it sooner or later, there will come a battle.”
“Whore of Babylon, is it? Strong words from a young lad. Lucky for you that many of us here are of like mind. Since His Holiness has excommunicated all of us who support the Count, the Church has lost control of us. Yes, you’re right, there will be a time—not too long in the future—when we will need to fight to protect our own.”
The sergeant at arms’ voice was sombre. “We will take any help we can get and welcome it. The pay is poor but the food is good—at the moment, that is. The lodgings are comfortable and you will sleep safe at night in the garrison. You look a likely lad to me, and if you are the person I think you are, we may have work for you other than tending horses or cleaning weapons. The Count will call on you upon his return.”
“Why would the Count wish to speak to me?” Pons voice held a note of incredulity.
“Never you mind. The Count does what the Count does. It’s best not to ask questions. Now then, until he gets back, familiarise yourself with the chateau. The only place you may not enter unless bidden is that tower over there. That is the Tour du Midi, the Count’s private quarters where he lodges with his wife and son. The little boy is ten years old but he has an older half-brother, Alain, and a half-sister, Guillemette. They’re always around but don’t address them unless they address you first!” He winked. “Our Count’s a real man. Bastards all over the place! He’s been married about four times and heaven knows how many paramours he’s had!”
