Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Once he reached the outskirts of the woods that separated the plains outside Carcassonne from the river, he slowed his pace. He was out of breath, too old to travel so far on foot. He leaned heavily against his staff and loosened the neck of his robe. It was not so far now. Esther would have a meal waiting for him, perhaps a little wine. The thought restored him. Perhaps Bertrand was right? Perhaps it would be over by spring.

Simeon did not notice the two men who stepped out behind him on the path. He was not aware of the raised arm, the club coming down on his head, until he felt the blow and the darkness took him.

By the time Pelletier arrived at the Porte Narbonnaise, a crowd had already formed.

“Let me through,” he shouted, pushing everyone out of his way until he reached the front. A man was slumped on all fours on the ground. Blood was flowing from a cut on his forehead.

Two men-at-arms towered above him, their pikes pointed at his neck. The man was evidently a musician. His tabor was punctured and his pipe had been snapped in two and tossed aside, like bones at a feast.

What in the name of Sant-Foy is going on?“ Pelletier demanded. ”What is this man’s offence?“

“He did not stop when ordered to do so,” the older of the soldiers lied. His face was a patchwork of scars and old wounds. “He has no authorization”

Pelletier crouched down beside the musician. “I am Bertrand Pelletier, Intendant to the Viscount. What is your business in Carcassona?”

The man’s eyes flickered open. “Intendant Pelletier?” he murmured, clutching Pelletier’s arm.

“It is I. Speak, friend.”

“ Besiers es presa .” Beziers is taken.

Close by, a woman stifled a cry and clasped her hand to her mouth.

Shocked to his core, Pelletier found himself on his feet again.

“You,” he commanded, “fetch reinforcements to relieve you here and help get this man to the Chateau. If he does not regain his speech through your ill treatment, it will be the worse for you.” Pelletier spun to the crowd. “Mind my words well,” he shouted. “No citizen is to speak of what you have witnessed here. We will know soon enough the truth of the matter.”

When they reached the Chateau Comtal, Pelletier ordered the musician to be taken to the kitchens to have his wounds dressed, while he went immediately to inform Viscount Trencavel. Some little time later, fortified by sweet wine and honey, the musician was brought to the donjon .

He was pale but in command of himself. Fearing the man’s legs would not hold him, Pelletier ordered a stool to be fetched so he could give his testimony sitting down.

“Tell us your name, amic ,” he said.

“Pierre de Murviel, Messire .”

Viscount Trencavel sat in the middle, his allies around him in a semicircle.

“ Benvenguda , Pierre de Murviel,” he said. “You have news for us.”

Sitting bolt upright with his hands on his knees, his face as white as milk, he cleared his throat and began to talk. He had been born in Beziers, although he had spent the past few years in the courts of Navarre and Aragon. He was a musician, having learned his trade from Raimon de Mirval himself, the finest troubadour of the Midi. It was on the strength of this that he’d received an invitation from the Suzerain of Beziers. Seeing an opportunity to visit his family again, he’d accepted and returned home.

His voice was so quiet that the listeners had to strain to hear what he was saying. “Tell us of Besiers,” said Trencavel. “Leave no detail unspoken.”

“The French army arrived at the walls the day before the Feast Day of Santa Maria Magdalena and pitched camp along the left bank of the River Orb. Closest to the river were the pilgrims and mercenaries, beggars and unfortunates, a tattered rabble of men, bare-footed and wearing only breeches and shirts. Further away, the colours of the barons and the churchmen flew above their pavilions in a mass of green and gold and red. They built flagpoles and felled trees for enclosures for their animals.”

“Who was sent to parley?”

“The Bishop of Besiers, Renaud de Montpeyroux.”

“It is said he is a traitor, Messire ,” said Pelletier, leaning over and whispering in his ear, “that he has already taken the Cross.”

“Bishop Montpeyroux returned with a list of supposed heretics drawn up by the Papal Legates. I don’t know how many were set down on the parchment, Messire , but hundreds certainly. The names of some of the most influential, most wealthy, most noble citizens of Besiers were written there, as well as followers of the new church and those who were accused of being Bons Chretiens . If the Consuls would hand over the heretics, then Besiers would be spared. If not…” He left the words hanging.

“What answer gave the consuls?” said Pelletier. It was the first indication of whether or not the alliance would hold against the French.

“That they would rather be drowned in the salt sea’s brine than surrender or betray their fellow citizens.”

Trencavel gave the slightest sigh.

“The Bishop withdrew from the city, taking with him a small number of Catholic priests. The commander of our garrison, Bernard de Servian,: began to organise the defences.”

He stopped and swallowed hard. Even Congost, bent over his parchment, stopped and looked up.

“The morning of July the twenty-second dawned quietly enough. It was hot, even at first light. A handful of Crusaders, camp followers, not even soldiers, went to the river, immediately below the fortifications to the south of the city. They were observed from the walls. Insults were traded. One of the routiers walked on to the bridge, swaggering, swearing. It so inflamed our young men on the walls, they armed themselves with spears, clubs, even a makeshift drum and banner. Determined to teach the French a lesson, they threw open the gate and charged down the slope before anyone knew what was happening, shouting at the tops of their voices and attacked the man. It was over in moments. They threw the routier’s dead body off the bridge into the river.”

Pelletier glanced at Viscount Trencavel. His face was white.

“From the walls, the townspeople screamed at the boys to come back, they were too dizzied with confidence to listen. The noise of the brawl drew the attention of the captain of the mercenaries, the r oi as his men call him. Seeing the gate standing open, he gave the order to attack. At last the youths realised the danger, but it was too late. The routiers slaughtered them where they stood. The few that made it back tried to secure the gate, but the routiers were too quick, too well armed. They forced their way through and held it open.

“Within moments, French soldiers were hammering at the walls, armed with picks and mattocks and scaling ladders. Bernard de Servian did his best to defend the ramparts and hold the keep, but everything happened too quickly. The mercenaries held the gate.

“Once the Crusaders were inside, the massacre began. There were bodies everywhere, dead and mutilated; we were in blood knee-deep. Children were cut from their mothers’ arms and skewered on the points of pikes and swords. Heads were severed from limbs and mounted on the walls for the crows to pick clean, so it seemed that a line of bloody gargoyles, fashioned from flesh and bone, not stone, gaped down on our defeat. They butchered all who they came upon, without regard to age or sex.”

Viscount Trencavel could remain silent no longer. “But how came it that the Legates or the French barons did not stop this carnage? Did they not know of it?”

Du Murviel raised his head. They knew, Messire .“