Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

“Seigneur, my gratitude for this service,” she said, stiffening her voice with confidence. “Raise your visor and identify yourself, so I may know the face of my liberator.”

“Is that all the gratitude I get, Dame?” he said, doing as she asked. Alais was relieved to see he was smiling.

He dismounted and drew a knife from his belt. Alais stepped back. “To cut your ties,” he said lightly.

Alais flushed and offered her wrists. “Of course. Merce .”

He gave a brief bow. “Amiel de Coursan. These are my father’s woods.”

Alais gave a sigh of relief. “Forgive me my discourtesy, but I had to be sure you were not…”

“Your caution is both wise and understandable in the circumstances. And you are, Dame?”

“Alais of Carcassona, daughter to Intendant Pelletier, steward to Viscount Trencavel, and wife to Guilhem du Mas.”

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Dame Alai’s.” He kissed her hand. “Are you much hurt?”

“A few cuts and scratches only, although my shoulder pains me a little where I was thrown.”

“Where is your escort?”

Alai’s hesitated a moment. “I am traveling alone.”

He looked at her with surprise. “These are strange times to venture out without protection, Dame. These plains are overrun with French soldiers.”

“I did not intend to ride so late. I was seeking shelter from the storm.”

Alai’s glanced up, suddenly realizing that no rain had yet fallen.

“It’s just the heavens making complaint,” he said, reading her look. “A false tempest, no more.”

While Alai’s calmed Tatou, de Coursan’s men ordered the corpses to be stripped of weapons and clothing. They found their armor and ensigns hidden deeper in the wood where they had tethered their horses. De Coursan picked up the corner of material with the tip of his sword revealing, beneath a coating of mud, a flash of silver on a green background.

“Chartres,” said de Coursan with contempt. “They’re the worst. Jackals, the lot of them. We’ve had more reports of acts-”

He broke off abruptly.

Alai’s looked at him. “Reports of what?”

“It is of no matter,” he said quickly. “Shall we return to the town?”

They rode in single file to the far side of the woods and out on to the plains.

“You have some purpose in these parts, Dame Alai’s?”

“I go in search of my father, who is in Montpelhier with Viscount Trencavel. I have news of great importance that could not wait for his return to Carcassona.”

A frown fell across de Coursan’s face.

“What? What have you heard?”

“You will stay with us the night, Dame Alai’s. Once your injuries have been tended, my father will tell you what news we have heard. At dawn I will escort you myself to Besiers.”

Alai’s turned to look at him. “To Besiers, Messire ?”

“If the rumors are true, it is in Besiers you will find your father and Viscount Trencavel.”

Sweat dripped from his stallion’s coat as Viscount Trencavel led his men toward Beziers, thunder rolling at their heels.

Sweat foamed on the horses’ bridles and spittle flecked in the corners of their mouths. Their flanks and withers were streaked with blood where the spurs and whip drove them relentlessly on through the night. The silver moon came out from behind the torn, black clouds scudding low on the horizon, lighting up the white blaze on his horse’s nose.

Pelletier rode at the viscount’s side, his lips pursed shut. It had gone badly at Montpellier. Given the bad blood that existed between the viscount and his uncle, he had not expected the count to be easily persuaded into an alliance, despite the ties of family and seigneurial obligation that bound the two men. He had hoped, however, that the count might intercede on his nephew’s account.

In the event, he had refused even to receive him. It was a deliberate and unequivocal insult. Trencavel had been left to kick his heels outside the French camp until word came today that an audience was to be granted.

Permitted to take only Pelletier and two of his chevaliers, Viscount Trencavel had been shown to the tent of the abbot of Citeaux, where they were asked to disarm. This they had done. Once inside, rather than the Abbott, the viscount was received instead by two of the papal legates.

Raymond-Roger had barely been allowed to open his mouth while the legates castigated him for allowing heresy to spread unchecked through his dominions. They criticized his policy of appointing Jews to senior positions in his leading cities. They cited several examples of his turning a blind eye to the perfidious and pernicious behavior of Cathar bishops within his territories.

Finally, when they had finished, the legates had dismissed Viscount Trencavel as if he was some insignificant minor landowner rather than the lord of one of the most powerful dynasties of the Midi. Pelletier’s blood boiled even now when he thought of it.

The abbot’s spies had briefed the legates well. Each of the charges, while inaccurate and misrepresented in intention, was accurate in fact and supported by testimony and eyewitness account. That, even more than the calculated insult to his honor, left Pelletier in no doubt that Viscount Trencavel was to be the new enemy. The Host needed someone to fight. With the capitulation of the count of Toulouse, there was no other candidate.

They had left the Crusaders’ camp outside Montpellier immediately. Glancing up at the moon, Pelletier calculated that if they held their pace they should reach Beziers by dawn. Viscount Trencavel wished to warn the Biterois in person that the French army was no more than fifteen leagues away and intent on war. The Roman road that ran from Montpellier to Beziers lay wide open and there was no way of blocking it.

He would bid the city fathers prepare for a siege, at the same time as seeking reinforcements to support the garrison at Carcassonne. The longer the Host could be delayed in Beziers, the longer he would have to prepare the fortifications. He also intended to offer refuge in Carcassonne to those who were most at risk from the French-Jews, the few Saracen traders from Spain, as well as the Bons Homes. It was not only seigneurial duty that motivated him. Much of the administration and organization of Beziers was in the hands of Jewish diplomats and merchants. Under threat of war or no, he wasn’t prepared to be deprived of the services of so many valued and skilled servants.

Trencavel’s decision made Pelletier’s task easier. He touched his hand against Harif’s letter concealed in his pouch. Once they were in Beziers, all he had to do was excuse himself for long enough to find Simeon.

A pale sun was rising over the river Orb as the exhausted men rode across the great arched stone bridge.

Beziers stood proud and high above them, grand and seemingly impregnable behind its ancient stone walls. The spires of the cathedral and the great churches dedicated to Santa-Magdalena, Sant Jude and Santa-Maria glittered in the dawn light.

Despite his fatigue, Raymond-Roger Trencavel had lost nothing of his natural authority and bearing as he urged his horse up through the network of suburbs and steep winding streets that led to the main gates. The fall of the horses’ shoes against the cobbles roused people from their sleep in the quiet suburbs that surrounded the fortified walls.

Pelletier dismounted and called to the watch to open the gates and let them enter. They made slow progress, news having spread that Viscount Trencavel was in the city, but eventually they reached the suzerain’s residence.

Raymond-Roger greeted the suzerain with genuine affection. He was an old friend and ally, a gifted diplomat and administrator and loyal to the Trencavel dynasty. Pelletier waited while the two men greeted each other in the custom of the Midi and exchanged tokens of esteem. Having completed the formalities with unusual haste, Trencavel moved straight to business. The suzerain listened with deepening concern. As soon as the viscount had finished speaking, he sent messengers to summon the city’s consuls to council.