by Bell, Gradyn
He turned to beckon a young soldier who was clutching a flagon of wine in his hand. ‘You’ll meet Alain tomorrow and he’ll explain your duties. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were one of your lot, his mother was! Now go and get something to eat and find somewhere to sleep!”
Pons escaped gladly. Although he realised the sergeant at arms had meant to be kind, his head was swimming with all the information the soldier had given him. Pushing through the crowds of soldiers who were now replete with food and wine, he managed to get to the end of the long board where some of his erstwhile friends were finishing what looked like a very satisfactory meal. Conscious of his stomach growling from lack of use in the past few days, he grabbed a lump of bread and crammed it into his mouth. As he chewed what was his first solid food for days, he looked up over the hunk of bread and saw his friends laughing at him. He hastily swallowed what he had managed to force into his mouth.
“Sorry if I seem like a pig,” he said. “I haven’t really eaten much in the past three days.”
“Don’t apologize,” one of his friends was quick to say. “We’ve all been through it and were mighty glad to arrive here where the food is good! Eat your fill. There’s a flagon of wine there, too. When you’re done we’ll show you where we sleep. You won’t know yourself after a good night’s rest.”
True to his word, Pons’ friend and his companions dragged him off to a small tower room filled with palliasses that had straw poking out of them.
“All the soldiers sleep here. It’s first come, first served, so you want to make a habit of not lingering too long over the wine in the evening. Try to get yourself in a corner—then you won’t have any drunken soldiers climbing over you. You’ll soon get used to it. We did, and it’s not a bad life. Different from what you are used to, but not bad for all that!”
“When is the Count expected back? The sergeant at arms said he might want to speak with me.”
“I should think that unlikely. He doesn’t bother with the likes of us. Not that he isn’t glad we’re here—every man counts—but we take our orders from the sergeant you were speaking to and some other men at arms. Most of us do the cooking, and one or two spend their time mucking out the horses.” He grinned ruefully. “Not very uplifting but useful. And it doesn’t involve any fighting!”
Although Pons was tired from his long walk, his night passed in fitful sleep. Each time his tossing and turning woke him up, he wondered anew where he was and it took several moments to recall how he came to be lying in a room surrounded by several dozen sleeping, and for the most part snoring, men.
Dawn came at last. Finally, he was able to climb out of the tangle of arms and legs belonging to the soldiers who had flung themselves down to sleep without much care about where they landed. They were used to communal living, but to Pons it was a very great novelty. He knew it would take some time to get used to.
Tiptoeing out so as not to wake his companions, he reached the thick oak door that shut out the world from the tower where they slept. Outside, the bright light made him blink. Inside the tower he had been fooled into thinking it was a dull day, but the sun was already up and gave promise of one of those spectacularly clear hot days so redolent of Occitania. Looking across the courtyard, he could see a group of men readying several horses for what looked like a substantial journey. Clearly, the man in charge of the preparations was someone of note, for he moved about with an air that was at once lively and confident. He was dark-complexioned, and Pons could see hair that was black and tightly curled, which, if the gossips were to be believed, was a legacy from his mother’s African ancestors. Wearing the arms of Toulouse, he was recognisable at once as Alain, the oldest bastard son of the Count.
Pons did not know what to do next. His companions were still sleeping, and although the sun was full up, it was still early. On the other side of the courtyard he could see the water pump where servants from the chateau had already begun drawing the water required for the occupants of the Tour du Midi. It seemed a good idea to wash some of the previous day’s dust from himself, so he wandered over to the pump to take his turn at the well. He was soon told in no uncertain terms that his presence was not required at that particular well and that he should wash at the horse trough where all the other soldiers carried out their ablutions. Pons was bewildered. He had not realised there was a hierarchy in the line for water and that this well was solely for the use of the Count and his family and personal servants.
Turning around, screwing his eyes up against the brightness of the sun, he looked around for the nearest trough. What caught his eye was the beckoning arm of the soldier who was obviously in charge of the cavalcade that was readying itself to leave.
“Come here,” he said. “I want a word with you.” Pons looked over his shoulder to see who it was the Count’s son was calling. “You.” The arm beckoned more urgently. Bernard made a move towards Pons, who now realised it was to him the young man was speaking.
“Your name is Pons Boutarra, is it not?” Pons was startled that the Count’s son should know his name. He nodded his head, dumbly. “I have heard from my sergeant at arms that you arrived last night. We have been expecting you since Bertrand Arsen and Arnaud Maury told me of your intentions. They’re good friends of mine. They said you are a lad to be trusted, with a good head on your shoulders, so my papa has asked me to tell you to stay close to the chateau until he returns. Make yourself useful about the place, but keep to yourself. We will speak further upon my return, for, God willing, my papa will be with me. I am to ride to meet him this morning. He will wish to speak with you as soon as he is able.”
He turned and strode away, calling impatiently for his horse. Even more perplexed, Pons watched him mount and ride out of the chateau courtyard. Why would the Count or his son wish to speak to me? The question was still buzzing around in his mind as he dipped his head into the horse trough he had finally found close to the stables.
Chapter Fifteen
Occitania, South of France
Spring 1210 AD
The Campaign
A small cavalcade clopped into the near ruined town of Carcassonne. One of the members of the group—a young boy of about fourteen—twisted in his saddle and gazed in disbelief at the destruction of the city. Was this what war meant? Fighting back the tears that the desolation had brought to his eyes, Guy de Montfort turned to Robert de Poissy, one of Simon’s most trusted henchmen. “What has happened to all the people whose houses lie in ruins? Where are they living now?
De Poissy looked at him kindly. “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “Most of them are dead and no longer have need of lodgings.”
“But the whole city lies in ruins! What kind of victory is that?” Returning from the almost idyllic estate of Bernard de Comminges in the south west of the country, Guy could not believe that such destruction could exist anywhere. For half his young life he had lived with his father’s friend in a country of brilliant sunlight and exuberant vegetation where he had listened to the music of love and grown to admire the chivalric code by which most of his peers lived. Now his father had sent his two staunchest allies, together with twenty men at arms, to wrench his son from the estates of a friend whose loyalty would soon be put to the test. Simon had little doubt that one day in the not-too-distant future he would be fighting on opposite sides to Bernard, for it was well known that the Count de Comminges, although not a believer himself, was tied to the believers’ cause by close family and friends.
As Guy dismounted, his mother rushed towards him, ready to welcome her cub back into the shelter of her makeshift home. How he had changed! She now had a second son who was as tall as a man and almost as broad. When Guy spoke, his voice carried the pleasant lilting tones of the south of the country. In fact, he spoke his own native language with more than a hint of an accent! While Simon drew his men aside to confer with them and to ascertain the mood of his friend Bernard, Alicia took Guy’s arm and dragged him into the chateau where his father had garrisoned som
e of his men. Calling for some refreshment, she sat him down to talk to him for the first time in several years.
Needless to say, his interest was not on what had been happening to him but rather what was happening—or had happened—in Carcassonne. He knew his father was the new Captain General of the army and had been given the titles of Viscount of Carcassonne, Beziers and Albi, but he had not understood at what cost these honours had been bought. Riding into Carcassonne, a city destroyed and laid waste in the name of the Crusade, had brought home the message as no words could have done. To the youth, the destruction was terrifying and he did not wish to think of the toll in human lives that had been the result. This slaughter was all too new for him. He was beginning to understand, finally, what the years of practice with a sword in his hand had really meant. This was, or was going to be, the real thing! It was a troubled Guy who excused himself from his mother’s presence and went to prepare himself for what he knew would be a difficult meeting with the rest of his family and his father’s supporters.
The reunion with his older brother Amaury took place at dinner that night. Amaury was in the thick of things, helping to plan what would be one of the cruellest wars of all time. Guy was not at all sure he wanted to be part of such a campaign, but dared say little in the heat of the discussion. His father was in an expansive and very jovial mood in the hall that evening, surrounded as he was by the whole of his family, for it had been many years since they had dined together like this.
Although Guy was happy to be back with his family and had begun to accept that the Holy War was inevitable, he was sad to think that soon the many friends he had made in Comminges would be fighting as his enemies. He had grown to love the life of the languorous courts of the south of France. He thought longingly of the clear skies and the brilliance of the flowers which seemed never to fade. The people there made music not war, he thought to himself. They had made him welcome wherever he had travelled in Bernard’s retinue. He now spoke the langue d’Oc fluently—so much so that his own language of northern France had begun to disappear, a fact noted by his father, who had earlier predicted that the boy’s facility with his enemies’ language might one day be put to good use.
As Guy descended to the great hall to be welcomed by the rest of his family, his father’s cousins and his mother’s brothers, he tried to push away what he considered disloyal thoughts. The die was cast. There was no stopping the “Devil,” as the locals had begun to call Simon, once he had the bit between his teeth and the fighting had started in earnest. Guy recognised that his father was a great tactician and leader of men. In the space of a few short months, he had achieved such stupendous gains in territory that people had begun to attribute his success to Divine intervention!
However, Simon had not made many inroads in regard to destroying the heresy he had come to exterminate. And there had been no news whatsoever of the fabled linen that the Pope so desired. Try as he might—even going so far as torturing some of his captives—he had had no success in tracking down even a hint of information regarding the shroud. Moreover, it was proving exceedingly difficult to seek out the heretics. If the intention was to “kill them all,” the problem was finding them first. No one was willing to hand over the believers, and their perfecti had shed their giveaway black robes and were clothed like any other citizens. The local nobility had either declared their loyalty to the Catholic Church or disappeared into the mountains. A whole new class of nobility called faidits had arisen—Cathar nobles who became absentee landlords, not from choice but from necessity, and whose land and other possessions were immediately confiscated by the Captain General!
Simon’s biggest problem at this time was his lack of military resources. Many of the original Crusaders had returned home as he had known they would, their forty days’ duty to the Church fulfilled. All those who remained were loyal and composed for the most part of Simon’s personal escort, his relatives and close friends. He could afford to pay for the services of only a few mercenary soldiers. The few knights whose territory he had conquered thus far could afford him only a minimal number of fighting men, most of them with questionable loyalty. He encouraged those knights who stayed to fight with him by handing over the territories belonging to those nobles who had fled into hiding in the mountains. Beziers, Limoux and Mirepoix were soon handed over to those most faithful to him, Mirepoix going to Guy de Levis, his ally and a cousin of Alicia; future conquests were promised to other friends and supporters.
For the first time in his life, here in the great hall of the chateau where the de Montfort family and their retainers were billeted, Guy was able to take the measure of the man he called ‘father’. There was no doubt he was a heroic figure of a man. Tall, charismatic and formidably strong, he was amazingly skilled when it came to fighting. His charm was legendary, as were his amiability and gentleness. Guy watched him now, playing with Pernel, the little sister the boy had met for the first time upon his return. Who could have suspected, Guy thought to himself, that this model of modesty and, indeed, piety could turn into the very devil when it came to a fight where his religious principles were involved. Guy knew from past experience and many hours as a young boy on his knees in the family chapel what God’s service meant to his father.
“He truly is a soldier of Christ,” Guy said, turning to Amaury who looked mystified, not being privy to Guy’s train of thought. “He believes implicitly in what he is doing.”
“His men love him and would follow him to the grave,” Amaury replied. “You don’t get a reputation like that by simply skulking around somewhere in a church. He is all action, but does nothing without consulting his men. He even consults me,” Amaury announced proudly. “He expects nothing more of his men than he would of himself. He’s one of the bravest men I know. I’ll bet you haven’t heard the story of the crossing of the Garonne.” Seeing Guy’s puzzled face he went on. “No, I don’t suppose you would have, stuck over there with de Comminges.”
“Why? What happened?” Guy was beginning to become acutely aware of how much of his family’s life he had missed while staying on Bernard’s estate.
“He had led the major part of his army across the river, which was in full flood. As the river rose higher and higher, some of the infantry and mercenaries became stranded and unable to cross. Papa crossed back over again so as not to leave them alone without a leader. He stayed with them for several days until the height of the river fell a little and the last of them managed to cross. They were all at great risk, including papa! That’s why his men, even the mercenaries, will follow him anywhere. I would, too.”
“Are you convinced what papa is doing is right?” Guy asked. “I know Holy Mother Church is fearful for her children in Occitania, and I’ve seen with my own eyes how the people no longer follow the instructions of the priests. Even Brother Dominic has difficulty with his followers. But the people are content with their lives. Day-to-day, they all live happily with each other, Catholics and Cathars alike. Even Jews are welcome anywhere in domains of Toulouse and his vassals.” Guy looked over his shoulder as he continued. “I wouldn’t want papa to hear this, but I am not sure killing people will bring them back to the arms of the Church. I know something must be done,” he went on hurriedly, “but the land is so peaceful and the people so gentle. They don’t deserve to die for their beliefs.”
By now Amaury had become angry with his younger brother. “You are too young to understand why what must be done will be done! For the past seven years you have lived within the realms of the Count of Foix and on the estates of de Comminges. We all know—and you should know, too—that it’s a veritable nest of vipers there. I’m not surprised you are talking like this. Papa got you away just in time!”
Guy looked his brother in the eye. “For as long as I can remember, you have always said to me, ‘you wouldn’t understand,’ and now I’m not so sure you understand. What do you know of these people? Are you so sure your way is the right way?” Amaury had the grace to be discomfited by
what his younger brother was saying. “The killings are too horrible to contemplate. How can Holy Mother Church win if all her children are dead? Have you seen Carcassonne and Beziers? I hear Beziers ran with the blood of the righteous as well as those you deem unrighteous.”
Amaury looked sternly at his younger brother. “I only know that papa demands complete loyalty, and you of all people must be as loyal to him as we all are here. There is no room for debate. You are either with us or against us.”
“Of course I am with you,” Guy protested, “but I am not sure this is the way to win the war. No hearts will be won by cruelty. You must see that.”
“I see only people who are obdurate in the extreme and who don’t know what is good for them. Papa has come to make them see sense, and I for one am going to help him! If necessary, papa will rule by fear to overcome the stubbornness of an obstinate population!” Amaury looked fierce as he made this pronouncement.
“What is all this serious talk about?” Neither of the boys had heard their father approach. “Come, we must complete our plans if we are to leave the day after tomorrow to begin the campaign in earnest. Your mother is to leave at the same time, but she will travel north to gain more support and supplies for our army. Guy, you will accompany your mother on this most important of journeys, and you, Amaury, will come with me. There may well be an opportunity for you to win your spurs.”
Amaury was delighted by this news. “Where do we go first?”
“Calm yourself, my boy. We must spend tomorrow planning our tactics, for it is very likely the last opportunity we will all have to be together for the foreseeable future. From now on, you and I will travel with the army. And you, my son,” he gestured towards Guy. “Upon your return from the north, you will accompany your mother and seek us out, wherever we may be.”
