Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

The plains resembled a charnel house. Bodies rotted where they lay, in the heat and feasted on by a plague of black flies. Kites and hawks, circling over the battlefield, picked the bones clean.

On Friday the seventh of August, the Crusaders launched an attack on the southern suburb of Sant-Miquel. For a while, they succeeded in the ditch below the walls, but were repelled by a shower of arrows and stones. After several hours of stalemate, the French withdrew under the continued onslaught, to the jeers and triumph of the Carcassonnais.

At dawn the following day, as the world shimmered silver in the early morning light and a delicate mist floated gently across the slopes where more than a thousand Crusaders stood facing Sant-Miquel, the attack began again.

Helmets and shields, swords and pikes, eyes, glinted in the pale sun. Each man wore a cross pinned to his breast, white against the colours of Nevers, Burgundy, Chartres and Champagne.

Viscount Trencavel had positioned himself on the walls of Sant-Miquel, shoulder to shoulder with his men, ready to repel the attack.

The archers and dardasiers held themselves ready, bows set. Below, the foot soldiers were armed with axes, swords and pikes. Behind them, safe within the Cite until they were required, were the chevaliers .

In the distance, the French drums began to beat. They banged the hard earth with their pikes, a steady, heavy sound that echoed over the waiting land.

And so it begins.

Alais stood on the wall at her father’s side, her attention split between looking for her husband, and watching the Crusaders stream down the hill.

When the Host was within range, Viscount Trencavel raised his arm and gave the order. A storm of arrows immediately darkened the sky.

On both sides, men fell. The first scaling ladder was already on the walls. A bolt from a crossbow whizzed through the air and connected with rough, heavy wood and brought it down. The ladder tilted, then overbalanced. It fell slowly at first, then picked up speed, hurling the men to the ground in a splinter of blood, bone and wood.

The Crusaders succeeded in getting a gata, a siege engine, up to the walls of the suburb. Sheltered beneath the cover, drenched with water, the sappers began to pull rocks out of the walls and dig a cavity to weaken the fortifications.

Trencavel shouted at the archers to destroy the structure. Another storm of missiles and flaming arrows hurtled through the air on the wooden structure. The sky fizzed with pitch and black smoke until finally it caught alight, sending men, their clothes burning, fleeing from the burning cage, only to be cut down by the arrows.

It was too late. The defenders could only watch as the mine the Crusaders had been preparing for days was fired. Alais threw up her hands to protect her face as the explosion threw a violent shower of stone, dust and flame up into the air.

The Crusaders charged through the breach. The roar of the fire drowned out even the screaming of the women and children fleeing the inferno.

The heavy gate between the Cite and Sant-Miquel was dragged open and the chevaliers of Carcassonne launched their first attack. Keep him safe , she found herself murmuring to herself, as if words could repel arrows.

Now the Crusaders were catapulting the heads of the dead, severed from their bodies, over the walls to engender panic and fear. The shouting and shrieking grew louder as Viscount Trencavel led his men into the fray. He was one of the first to draw blood, driving his sword clean through the neck of a Crusader and kicking the body free of his blade with his boot.

Guilhem was not far behind him in the charge, driving his warhorse through the mass of attackers, trampling all those in his path.

Alais caught sight of Alzeu de Preixan at his side. She watched in horror as Alzeu’s horse slipped and went down. Straight away, Guilhem pulled his horse round and went to aid his friend. Frenzied by the smell of blood and the clashing steel, Guilhem’s mighty horse reared up on its hind legs, crushing a Crusader underfoot, buying Alzeu enough time to scramble back on to his feet and out of danger.

They were heavily outnumbered. Hordes of terrified and injured men, women and children fleeing into the Cite got in their way. The Host advanced relentlessly. Street by street fell under French control.

At last, Alais heard the cry go up.

“ Repli! Repli !” Pull back.

Under cover of night a handful of defenders stole back into the devastated suburb. They slaughtered the few Crusaders left on guard, set fire to the remaining houses, at least depriving the French of cover from which to resume their bombardment of the Cite.

But the truth was stark.

Both Sant-Vicens and Sant-Miquel had fallen. Carcassonne stood alone.

On Viscount Trencavel’s wishes, tables had been set up in the Great Hall. Viscount Trencavel and Dame Agnes were moving between them, thanking the men for the service they had done and yet would do.

Pelletier was feeling increasingly unwell. The room was filled with the smells of burned wax, sweat, cold food and warm ale. He wasn’t sure he could stand it much longer. The pains in his stomach were getting worse and more frequent.

He tried to pull himself upright, but without warning, his legs went from under him. Clutching at the table for support, Pelletier pitched forward, sending plates and cups and meat bones flying. He felt as if there was a wild animal gnawing at his belly.

Viscount Trencavel spun round. Someone started shouting. He was aware of servants rushing to help him and someone calling for Alais.

He felt hands holding him up and moving him towards the door.

Francois’ face swam into focus, then out again. He thought he could hear Alais issuing orders, although her voice was coming from a long way away and she seemed to be speaking a language he didn’t understand.

“Alais,” he called out, reaching for her hand in the darkness.

“I’m here. We’ll get you to your chamber.”

He felt strong arms lift him, the night air on his face as he was carried through the Cour d’Honneur, then up the stairs.

They made slow progress. The spasms in his stomach were getting worse, each more violent than the last. He could feel the pestilence working in him, poisoning his blood and his breath.

“Alais…” he whispered, this time in fear.

As soon as they reached her father’s chamber, Alais sent Rixende to find Francois and collect the medicines she needed from her room. She dispatched two other servants to the kitchens for precious water.

She had her father laid on his bed. She stripped his stained outer robes and put them in a pile to be burned. Pestilence seemed to seep from the pores of his skin. The attacks of diarrhea were getting more frequent and more severe, blood and pus now making up the greater part. Alais ordered herbs and flowers to be burned to try to disguise the smell, but no amount of lavender or rosemary could mask the truth of his condition.

Rixende arrived quickly with the ingredients and helped Alais to mix the dried red whortleberries with hot water to form a thin paste. Having stripped his stained robes from him and covered him with a clean, thin sheet, Alais spooned the liquid between his pallid lips.

The first mouthful he swallowed, then immediately vomited up. She tried again. This time, he managed to swallow, although it cost him much to do so, sending his body into spasms.

Time became meaningless, moving neither fast nor slow, as Alais tried to slow the progress of the sickness. At midnight, Viscount Trencavel came to the chamber.

“What news, Dame?”

“He is very sick, Messire .