Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

A hushed silence descended over the assembled company.

“Some weeks ago, I received reports that my uncle had submitted himself to a ritual of such humiliation that it shames me to speak of it. I sought verification of these rumors. They were true. At the great cathedral church of Sant-Gilles, in the presence of the papal legate, the count of Toulouse was received back into the arms of the Catholic Church. He was stripped to the waist and, wearing the cord of a penitent around his neck, he was scourged by the priests as he crawled on his knees to beg forgiveness.”

Trencavel paused a moment, to allow his words to sink in.

“Through this vile abasement, he was received back into the arms of the Holy Mother Church.” A murmur of contempt spread through the Council. “Yet there is more, my friends. I have no doubt that his ignominious display was intended to prove the strength of his faith and his opposition to the heresy. However, it seems even this was not enough to avert the danger he knew was coming. He has surrendered control of his dominions to the legates of His Holiness the Pope. What I learned today-” He paused. “Today I learned that Raymond, Count of Toulouse, is in Valence, less than a week’s march away, with several hundred of his men. He waits only for word to lead the northern invaders across the river at Beaucaire and into our lands.” He paused. “He has taken the Crusaders’ cross. My lords, he intends to march against us.”

Finally, the hall erupted in howls of outrage. “Silenci” Pelletier bellowed until his throat was hoarse, vainly trying to restore order to chaos. “Silence. Pray, silence!”

It was an unequal battle, one voice against so many.

The viscount stepped forward to the edge of the dais, positioning himself directly beneath the Trencavel coat of arms. His cheeks were flushed, but the battle light shone in his eyes and defiance and courage radiated from his face. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the chamber and all those within it. The gesture hushed all.

“So I stand here before you now, my friends and allies, in the ancient spirit of honor and allegiance that binds each of us to our brothers, to seek your good counsel. We, the men of the Midi, have only two paths left open to us and very little time to choose which to take. The question is this. Per Carcassona!” For Carcassonne. “Per lo Miegjorn.” For the lands of the Midi. “Must we submit? Or shall we fight?”

As Trencavel sat back in his chair, exhausted by his efforts, the noise levels in the Great Hall billowed around him.

Pelletier could not help himself. He bent forward and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Well spoken, Messire ,” he said quietly. “Most nobly done, my lord.”

For hour upon hour, the debate raged.

Servants scuttled to and fro, fetching baskets of bread and grapes, platters of meat and white cheese, endlessly filling and refilling the great jugs of wine. Nobody ate much, but they did drink, which fired their anger and dimmed their judgment.

The world outside the Chateau Comtal went on just the same. The bells of the churches marked the devotional hours of the day. The monks sang and the nuns prayed, cocooned within Sant-Nasari. In the streets of Carcassonne, the townspeople went about their business. In the suburbs and dwellings beyond the fortified walls, children played, women worked, merchants and peasants and guildsmen ate and talked and played dice.

Inside the Great Hall, reasoned argument started to give way to insults, recriminations. One faction wanted to stand firm. The other argued in favor of an alliance with the count of Toulouse, arguing that if estimates of the size of the army mustered at Lyon were accurate, then even their combined strength was not sufficient to withstand such an enemy.

Every man could hear the drums of war beating in his head. Some imagined honor and glory on the battlefield, the clash of steel on steel. Others saw blood covering the hills and the plains, an endless stream of the dispossessed and wounded stumbling defeated across the burning land.

Pelletier tirelessly wandered up and down the chamber, looking for signs of dissent or opposition or challenges to the viscount’s authority. Nothing he observed gave him real cause for concern. He was confident that his seigneur had done enough to bind all to him and that, regardless of individual interests, the lords of the Pays d’Oc would unite behind Viscount Trencavel, whatever decision he reached.

The battle lines were drawn on geographical rather than ideological grounds. Those whose lands were on the more vulnerable plains wanted to put their faith in the power of talk. Those whose dominions lay in the highlands of the Montagne Noire to the north or the mountains of the Sabarthes and the Pyrenees were determined to stand firm against the Host and fight. Pelletier knew that it was with them that Viscount Trencavel’s heart lay. He was cast from the same metal as the mountain lords and shared their fierce independence of spirit.

But Pelletier knew too that Trencavel’s head told him that the only chance of keeping his lands intact and protecting his people was to swallow his pride and negotiate.

By late afternoon, the chamber smelled of frustration and arguments gone stale. Pelletier was weary. He was worn out by picking over the bones, by all the fine phrases that turned round and round upon themselves without ever reaching an end. Now, his head was hurting too. He felt stiff and old, too old for this, he thought, as he turned the ring he wore always on his thumb, reddening the callused skin underneath.

It was time to bring matters to a conclusion.

Summoning a servant to bring water, he dipped a square of linen into the pitcher and handed it to the viscount.

“Here, Messire ,” he said.

Trencavel took the wet cloth gratefully and wiped his forehead and neck.

“Do you think we have allowed them long enough?”

“I believe so, Messire ,” Pelletier replied.

Trencavel nodded. He was sitting with his hands resting firmly on the carved wooden arms of his chair, looking as calm as he had when he had first taken to his feet and addressed the Council. Many older, more experienced men would have struggled to keep control of such a gathering, Pelletier thought. It was his strength of character that gave him the courage to carry it through.

“It is as we discussed before, Messire ?”

“It is,” Trencavel replied. “Although they are not all of one mind, I think that the minority will follow the wishes of the majority in this…” He stopped and for the first time a note of indecision, of regret, colored his words. “But, Bertrand, I wish there was another way.”

“I know, Messire,” he said quietly. “I feel the same. But, however much it offends us, there is no alternative. Your only hope of protecting your people lies in negotiating a truce with your uncle.”

“He might refuse to receive me, Bertrand,” he said quietly. “When last we met, I said things I ought not to have said. We parted on bad terms.”

Pelletier put his hand on Trencavel’s arm. “That’s a risk we have to take,” he said, although he shared the same concern. “Time has moved on since then. The facts of the matter speak for themselves. If the Host is indeed as great as they say-even if it is half that size-then we have no choice. Within the Cite we will be safe, but your people outside the walls… Who will protect them? The count’s decision to take the Cross has left us-left you, Messire -as the only possible target. The Host will not be disbanded now. It needs an enemy to fight.”

Pelletier looked down into Raymond-Roger’s troubled face and saw regret and sorrow. He wanted to offer some comfort, say something, anything, but he could not. Any lack of resolve now would be fatal. There could be no weakening, no doubt. More hung on Viscount Trencavel’s decision than the young man would ever know.