Helena P. Schrader's Blog, page 62
March 2, 2013
The Devil's Knight - Chapter 7
Minerve
July 12, 1210 Smoke and ashes billowed up from the gorge and hung over the town like an evil smelling cloud, darkening the air and making it hard to breathe. The crackle of burning wood and the mixture of shouts, screams and groans that reached the town from the gorge below were muffled and indistinct, over-powered by the more immediate sounds. De Montfort had turned over the property of the heretics who refused to return to the Church to his angry troops as consolation for being denied the rest of the town. They were busy plundering what they could and destroying the rest.
Since the rest of the citizens were being kept on the bridge where they could not defend their property, only the fear of de Montfort himself ensured the troops did not overstep the bounds set them, but as more and more of the heretics chose death rather than reconciliation with the church, it looked like the troops would have little to complain about anyway.
Hughes guided his horse between the remnants of barrels, chests and cupboards which had been dragged out into the street by the plundering soldiers and hacked apart in a frenzy of destruction. Shattered pottery littered the gutters along with the corpses of those dogs foolish enough to defend their master's goods. Here and there one of the soldiers sat quenching his thirst with wine, but it was too early for many of them to be truly drunk yet, and the supplies in the town were seriously depleted anyway. Now and again Hughes drew up and asked after Guy, but the soldiers generally shook their heads. At the cross-roads of two narrow alleys, he found Pierre guarding one of the houses that belonged to a Catholic citizen.
"I'm looking for Guy. Have you seen him?"
"I think he went up to the castle. All the heretics have been taken up there."
"I thought they were in the gorge?"
De Montfort had ordered stakes set up in the gorge just below the bridge so that the townspeople would all have an excellent view of the burnings.
“No. There aren't enough stakes. They are to go down in groups of twelve."
Hughes could not fathom the logic behind this decision. While the other villagers were kept on the bridge watching the burnings from start to finish, the heretics themselves were kept in the castle until their time came. But then he understood very little of the logic behind any of de Montfort's decisions, Hughes admitted with weary resignation.
Hughes continued to the narrow end of the bastides, where the castle blocked and guarded the only level access onto the plateau beyond. The banners of de Montfort and the pope flapped languidly over the keep. Norbert had the watch at the lowered draw-bridge of the postern gate, which gave access from the town.
"Is Guy inside?" Hughes asked, leaning forward and resting his elbow on the high pommel of his saddle. His leg wound was still extremely tender and he was more exhausted than usual.
“Yes, in the hall. That's where they've confined the heretics. Have you seen how many there are?" Norbert asked, clearly amazed. "I counted more than a hundred and twenty, and that after two dozen have been taken down into the gorge. Women as well as men. Only children under 12 are being spared."
Hughes nodded. He had not realized it was as many as that, but he felt as if nothing could shock him anymore.
"Can they cling so hard to their heresy that they are prepared to die for it? to burn for it? I don’t understand." Norbert admitted, shaking his head. "I don’t understand."
Hughes shook his head again, this time to indicate that he didn't understand either.
"Guy has done everything to try to save them." Norbert continued. "He is frantic, and the harder he tries to persuade them to repent, the more smug Arnaud-Amaury looks, when they refuse! It is as if Arnaud-Amaury wants Guy to fail! As if he really prefers these poor souls to go to damnation, rather than accept Christ!"
Hughes refrained from comment. His own thoughts were too turbulent and murky.
"At least we aren't being forced to watch." Norbert murmured in a voice so low that there was no risk of being overheard.
Hughes leaned out of the saddle to lay a hand on Norbert's shoulder in sympathy and approval. Not all of them were so reluctant to be witnesses. To his dismay, Bert had actually asked permission to attend the executions. After nearly being sick while watching Hughes' wound cauterized, he was suddenly eager to see men and women slowly roasted alive. It made no sense to Hughes, who felt as Norbert did: relief that he did not have to be a witness. If he were to see people burning with his own eyes, the process would no longer be unimaginable.
He straightened abruptly in his saddle at the sight of de Montfort riding out of the castle gate. "What are you doing here?" De Montfort demanded sharply, suspicion glinting in his black eyes.
"I’m looking for Father Guy. Arnaud-Amaury has sent for him."
De Montfort jerked with his head back toward the castle. "He's in there." He started to ride past Hughes, and then drew up and ordered. "Try to make him see this as God's Will and stop taking things so personally." Then he rode on.
Hughes exchanged a look with Norbert, baffled by de Montfort's ability to make God responsible for his own actions.
"And something else!" De Montfort had stopped a second time. He twisted around in his saddle. "I don't want to ever hear of you meddling between Amiel and myself again! Your efforts to turn him against me make me seriously doubt your loyalty! Do you understand!?"
The question was rhetorical and already de Montfort was trotting away. Hughes stood gaping after him, too stunned to fully comprehend. He could only have learned about that talk with Pierre from Pierre himself.
"Don't blame Pierre." He heard Norbert saying. "He is wax in de Montfort's hands."
Hughes gave Norbert an impenetrable look, and rode on into the bailey of the castle.
Dismounting painfully and leaving his stallion in the shade, Hughes followed the muffled sound of voices up the spiral steps to the first floor hall of the castle. His wounded leg was now so stiff that he dragged it up behind him, one step at a time. He arrived at the landing sweating and paused to catch his breath. The scene spread out before him filled him with discomfort.
Those citizens who had refused to embrace the Catholic Church were kneeling in crude lines the length of the hall. Their hands and feet were bound. Sergeants patrolled the lines of heretics delivering the odd kick or cuff to keep them from talking to one another or making any attempt at escape. Not that any of them looked like they wanted to escape. Their expressions were too dazed or exhausted.
At the high table, Guillaume de Minerve sat with his wife and the village priest. They alone had been exempted from watching the executions. It had been a chivalrous gesture on de Montfort's part, but looking at the haggard grey man staring blindly down the hall, Hughes was certain that the Viscount felt no gratitude. His wife held his limp hands between her own fretful ones and her expression as she glanced toward the people on their knees, their tormentors and now to Hughes was openly frightened.
The priest seated on the other side of the Viscount was helping himself to wine from a pottery jug. From the uncoordinated and uncertain movements of his hands, it was evident that he was already very drunk. Hughes remembered hearing that the priest had been drunk when they found him ― snoring in the sacristy of the church. Arnaud-Amaury had announced loudly that it was no wonder the town was full of heretics with this creature as a representative of the Church. The drunken priest, evidently ignorant of Arnaud-Amaury's identity, spat back, "if the pompous Abbot had had the pleasure of trying to preach the Love of God to the pig-headed villagers" he would turned to drink himself. Arnaud-Amaury had walked away disdainfully, leaving the task of trying to save the souls ― and skins ― of the stubborn villagers to Guy.
Hughes at last caught sight of Guy, kneeling before an old woman, clasping her hands in his in a gesture of joint prayer. Hughes limped into the room, drawing unwanted attention from the damned and their guards. Only the Viscount seemed oblivious to his presence, staring in the same empty way as if he were spiritually dead. The priest saluted him tipsily and up-ended the jug to drink the dregs from it directly.
Hughes halted beside Guy. He caught his breath at the sight of the young Benedictine. The lines on his face seemed drawn with ink, his eyes sunken and ringed in black. His voice rasped as if he had not had anything to drink for hours. "Please, please, give Him a chance. He loves you. He does not want to see you burn ― not now and not in hell. Please."
The old woman was shaking her head. "He ― He has killed everyone, who was dear to me. I do not want to live. I want to die. I want to join my children―"
"But not like this! Not burned alive!" Guy protested. Hughes was slightly shocked that Guy was openly appealing to fear rather than faith, but on second thought decided Guy's charity was admirable. Guy started coughing violently, and Hughes hastened to offer him a gulp of water from his own flask. Guy took it gratefully and at once offered the flask to the old woman. "Here. Please."
She shook her head. "Leave me be. I'm an old woman. I want to die. The flames are short ― living is Hell!"
Guy looked at her helplessly and then up at Hughes.
"Arnaud-Amaury has sent for you." Hughes replied, evading the real question and plea. "He has found some more ―" Hughes had been about to say heretics, but then he corrected himself and said simply "people."
Guy tried to stand, stepped on his own cassock and almost fell. Hughes caught him under the arm just in time. Guy was staring at him almost as blankly as the Viscount. "None of them." He murmured. "None of them will listen to me."
Hughes escorted Guy back to the house at the foot of the town where Arnaud-Amaury was waiting for them. Guy stared at the destruction of the town with wide, horrified eyes ― as if it were the first time he had seen a town plundered. Then at a solid, stone house where Arnaud-Amaury waited impatiently. He started to address Guy even before the Benedictine had been able to dismount.
"There are two women here, who have been heredicated and now claim to be ‘perfect’."
"They are hardly the only ones." Guy replied wearily, as he dropped down from his placid mule.
"These women are noble. If you can get them ― or even one of them ― to renounce her heresy, I will see that you are given the next available Abbey."
Guy stopped dead in his tracks, turned furious on Arnaud-Amaury and demanded. "Do you think earthly rewards will increase my ardour?!" But as quickly as his temper flared, it gave way to sadness, and Guy remarked, "How little you know me, Arnaud."
If Arnaud-Amaury had been ashamed for a fraction of a second, he recovered quickly. "If you have so little ambition, than forget I mentioned a reward. I want these women to abjure their heresy, do you understand?!" Hughes registered that Arnaud-Amaury increasingly employed de Montfort's own turn of phrase and imitated his penchant for asking rhetorical questions. "It will not please His Holiness, if we have to burn noblewomen!"
"Then don't." Guy suggested, more to himself than to the Papal legate.
"I will burn every soul who denies Christ!" Arnaud-Amaury replied angrily. "And even if it is the Count of Toulouse himself. I mean to eradicate this heresy. Is that clear?"
Guy just nodded and disappeared through the door of the house. Arnaud-Amaury looked up at Hughes, his pale blue eyes still glittered with fervour. "You best stay here and make sure that no harm comes to Father Guy from our troops."
Hughes nodded. It was a more agreeable task than being asked to escort the condemned to their barbarous executions. Arnaud-Amaury then mounted his white stallion ― an affectation that many made fun of behind his back ― and spurred up the street toward the castle.
Hughes sat for several minutes, undecided if he should guard the door mounted, or follow Guy into the house. The heat of the sun, the smoke and ashes in the air, and a certain curiosity induced him to dismount and enter the house. He tied his stallion outside the house, confident that his arms, prominently sewn upon the trapper, would protect the horse from theft or harm.
Ducking through the low, carved door-frame he entered a cool and darkened passage. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the glaring sun outside, and then he followed his ears down the passage to the tiny courtyard at the back of the house.
Once upon a time, a garden had bloomed here, but the lack of water had turned it into a desert, strewn with the corpses of dead plants. A Roman sarcophagus of dirty marble had served as a water trough at some time, but it was now dry as a bone. Beyond, a stairway supported by a blind arch led up to a second story, and a door way gave access into a kitchen, from which the murmur of voices emanated.
Hughes stepped down into the kitchen whose flagstone floor was almost two feet below the level of the garden. Two windows on the opposite wall gave him a view over the gorge to the chalky banks beyond where he had camped until two days ago. He could even make out his siege engine squatting amidst the scrub-brush, idle and abandoned now that Minerve had surrendered.
By the empty fire-place, a sick-bed had been set up, and here an old, toothless woman lay, attended by a young woman dressed in severe black. The old woman lay with her eyes closed apparently dozing fitfully, and the young woman knelt behind the bed looking at Guy, who bent over both them. As Hughes approached, the young woman shifted her gaze, and her eyes widened in terror at the sight of a knight. The insult hit him hard, until he remembered that she had every reason to assume he was her executioner.
She did not take her eyes from him as he approached, and stared up at him with parted lips as he stopped behind Guy. He could see her pulse palpitating at her temples and smell the sweat of terror on her unwashed body. At close range he noted that she was a conventionally pretty woman with smooth, rounded features, a small nose and full lips.
"Madame." He nodded to her.
"What ― what do you want?" She addressed Hughes, rather than Guy.
Hughes shook his head. "We want only to save you, Madame. Is this your mother?" He indicated the old woman.
She shook her head. "My mother-in-law. It was her wish to be heredicated. She begged me on the soul of my husband to bring the Good Man to her. She has taken the Consolamentum - and so have I." Her eyes flickered between Hughes and Guy as the words spilled out breathlessly. "The ― the Abbot said we will be burned alive."
"Only if you persist in rejecting Christ, Madame!" Guy answered earnestly. "You need only embrace the Catholic Faith again. Agree to return to the Church that loves you. You made a mistake, but that is understandable ― after all the misery of the siege. Your mother-in-law mislead you in her senility. God does not blame you. He can forgive you, Madame. Come back to Him." Guy opened his arms to embrace her, but she shook her had like a frightened child, and drew back slightly.
"Don't be a fool, Madame." Hughes declared in exasperation. "What harm is there in saying you were confused and mislead? Let Father Guy take you to safety."
"But ― but" she looked from him to Guy to her mother-in-law, and then back to him. "I can't do that. If I do that I will be damned."
"No, no, no!" Guy cried out, his desperation made his voice crack, and Hughes glanced at him in concern. "If you don't let me save you, Madame, your body will be burned alive, and your soul will burn for all eternity."
Her eyes were wide and her body had started to tremble, but she shook her head vigorously. "No, my mother-in-law says we must not ― not now that we have taken the Consolamentum. Now we must welcome death--"
"Your mother-in-law is an old woman! She can welcome death easily." Hughes was annoyed by the woman's apparent stupidity, her inability to think for herself. "You are young. You ought to live. Your husband--"
"My husband is dead. He died for Minerve. He died for the Good Men! He died...."
Guy gave Hughes a sharp, reproachful look. The woman was obviously in mourning, after all, wearing even a black wimple. Hughes sighed, and Guy turned again to the woman. "Madame, I can see that you have lost your Faith. Too much evil has befallen you in these past weeks ― the siege, the death of your husband, the illness of your mother-in-law, and now the fall of the town and the ― the arrest of so many neighbours and friends. I know you are confused and you cling to the advice of those you have been taught to respect. But let me take you into my care, let me show you the Love Christ has for you!"
"Leave her be!" It was the protest of the old woman. She had opened her eyes and lifted her head from the pillow to glare furiously at Guy. "How dare you try to lay your bloody, hateful hands upon our souls! You know nothing of God ― you are the slave of the Roman Anti-Christ! You are blind! Corrupt! A tool of the Devil! You wish to hold us here, only because you cannot yourself go to God! Leave us alone!"
Her protest was so vehement that it made Guy recoil, as if he had been struck. Hughes was simply angered. He was perfectly willing to admit that many priests lived less than exemplary lives, and he was not so naive that he did not view the Pope, Cardinals, Bishops and Abbots as essentially secular lords with secular interests in power and wealth. But it was absurd to accuse Guy des Vaux of being an instrument of the Devil or to call him hateful.
A banging sound and the violent shaking of the younger woman's head, made Hughes spin around before he could reply. At the far end of the room, a cupboard had opened and a young girl was scrambling down. Her fine, red hair hung in disordered strands from what had once been a braid. Her face, hands and skirts were dirty, as if she had been crawling about in the dust, but the dress had once been a pretty yellow cotton with green satin ribbons and silk embroidery around the neck and hem-line.
At the sight of her, the young woman called out something in the Languedocand the girl stopped, looked from her mother to Hughes, and started to back toward the door.
Hughes, thinking of the rampaging mercenaries in the street, sprang to block the door-way and Guy cried out. "Madame! For your child's sake, you cannot throw your life and soul away! You must let me help you both!"
"Death is freedom!" Screeched the old woman before her daughter-in-law could reply. "The child should never have been born. They are the Devil's men, Bette! They are trying to seduce you with lies! If you do not resist them, they will keep you imprisoned in hell for all eternity. You will have to do their bidding, grovel before their idols and kiss their feet for all your lifetimes to come. Don't give into them, Bette. Think of God!"
“Are you still here?" It was Arnaud-Amaury's voice from behind Hughes. "De Montfort has lost patience with you, Guy. He says, if you can't convert even an old woman, you should stop wasting our time. He wants these women delivered to the castle at once."
The old woman started laughing hysterically. Arnaud-Amaury turned and signalled to two sergeants, who stepped down into the room. The sergeants, smelling of sweat and caked with smoke, their faces black with it, advanced toward the sick-bed, readying the rope as they advanced.
The younger woman started to back away from them. Guy was pleading with her, telling her she still had time. It wasn't too late. One word would suffice. But she was incapable even of this. One of the soldiers lifted the old woman and flung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She was still laughing and unresisting. The other sergeant backed the younger woman against the wall and then took her wrists in one hand and looped the rope around them deftly. He acted efficiently but without apparent maliciousness. He did not even seem to notice that she was pretty. He seemed completely numbed ― almost as empty as his victim, who limply followed him out of the kitchen without so much as a glance at her daughter cowering by the doorway.
Arnaud-Amaury levelled his glance at Guy, who sank against the chimney, shaking with exhaustion. "Don't let de Montfort see you like this," he advised. Then he swung back and looked at Hughes, at the girl, and at Hughes again. "You'd best get the girl out of here, before our troops find her." Then he was gone.
The girl started, tried to break free of him and follow her mother, but Hughes held her firmly, shaking his head. Guy pulled himself together and, ‘though pale, he suggested rationally. "Take her to the Hospitallers at Homps for now, and I'll write to the good sisters at Valmange. They'll care for her."
Hughes nodded, and led the girl out, across the garden, and back to the front of the house. In the street, the smoke was much heavier, and he could hear men brawling somewhere. He lifted the girl up into his saddle and then clamping his teeth against the pain, hauled himself up behind her. He pulled the girl into his lap with one arm around her waist. She was trembling violently. "There's nothing to be afraid of." He tried to tell her, thinking that, indeed, the Hospitallers would provide for the girl until more permanent arrangements could be made. There was no point thinking of the other children, who were being orphaned today. He could not help them all.
He turned his horse away from the brawling soldiers, and guided it up the other street. Here the smoke was thicker, billowing up from the gorge to his left. It stank abominably, and shouting mixed with drawn out screams made his hair stand on end. The girl gasped and twisted in his arm, straining to look past him toward the bridge and the gorge. He tightened his hold, and forced her head against his chest so she could not see. "Be still. There is nothing you can do for your mother. You'll be safe with the Hospitallers. They won't let anything happen to you."
She said something in the langue 'doc, which he did not understand. He realized then that she could not understand him either, and somehow that made her fate seem worse. He wanted to ask her how old she was, she looked 9 or 10 ― the age he had been when Hebron and then Ascalon fell to Saladin. But at least he had fled with his mother, sisters and their faithful servants. He hadn't been alone and carried off by one of the enemy soldiers.
She spoke to him again, in a tone that was pleading and desperate. She was crying now as she looked up at him with golden eyes that reminded him of Emilie. If they had a daughter, she might one day look very much like this girl, Hughes thought, and he was conscious of how light and fragile she was in his arms. He was suddenly certain that he would never, never have allowed a daughter of his to be trapped in a town under siege. Hadn't his mother taken him from Hebronbefore the Saracens surrounded it, and taken him from Ascalon as soon as the siege began?
How could this girl's father have allowed her be trapped here? he asked angrily. How could her mother place her pseudo-religion ahead of her daughter's welfare? What kind of mother would discard a child, a girl child, in a town full of rampaging soldiers? The woman's helplessness, her willingness to let her dying mother-in-law speak for her, her limp submission to the sergeants filled him with raging contempt. He could imagine the way his mother would have reacted, if Muslim soldiers had laid hands upon one of his sisters ― she would have torn their eyes out with her bare hands, or died trying.
For the first time since he had arrived in the Languedoc, Hughes hated the enemy. He was glad to be able to rescue this child, not only from the mercenaries, but from her own parents, who evidently cared so little for her.
He paused to wipe the tears from her face with the corner of his surcoat, and although he knew she could not understand his words, he tried to reassure her with his tone of voice and his gestures. "You're going to be alright. I won't let anyone harm you. I'm taking you to the Hospitallers. The Hospitallers are kind and then, when Father Guy has arranged it, the Sisters at Valmagne will give you a new home. You will be well cared for and safe. Valmagne is a beautiful abbey." Hughes had never been there, but it didn't matter. She couldn't understand him anyway. "We will ride all afternoon, but when we get to Homps, you can have a bath, and then, after a good meal with all the water you can drink, you'll sleep in a soft, clean bed."
She was gazing at him wide-eyed, trying to understand what he said.
He searched his memory for some phrases of the langue d'oc, and finally remembered how to ask her name. It was a question he had heard often enough during interrogations of captives.
To his own surprise the girl understood him, starting and widening her eyes in astonishment, before whispering timidly. "Julienne, Monsieur. Julienne de St. Jean."
In horror, Hughes recognized the name uttered by the Toulousan knight he'd killed.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
July 12, 1210 Smoke and ashes billowed up from the gorge and hung over the town like an evil smelling cloud, darkening the air and making it hard to breathe. The crackle of burning wood and the mixture of shouts, screams and groans that reached the town from the gorge below were muffled and indistinct, over-powered by the more immediate sounds. De Montfort had turned over the property of the heretics who refused to return to the Church to his angry troops as consolation for being denied the rest of the town. They were busy plundering what they could and destroying the rest.
Since the rest of the citizens were being kept on the bridge where they could not defend their property, only the fear of de Montfort himself ensured the troops did not overstep the bounds set them, but as more and more of the heretics chose death rather than reconciliation with the church, it looked like the troops would have little to complain about anyway.
Hughes guided his horse between the remnants of barrels, chests and cupboards which had been dragged out into the street by the plundering soldiers and hacked apart in a frenzy of destruction. Shattered pottery littered the gutters along with the corpses of those dogs foolish enough to defend their master's goods. Here and there one of the soldiers sat quenching his thirst with wine, but it was too early for many of them to be truly drunk yet, and the supplies in the town were seriously depleted anyway. Now and again Hughes drew up and asked after Guy, but the soldiers generally shook their heads. At the cross-roads of two narrow alleys, he found Pierre guarding one of the houses that belonged to a Catholic citizen.
"I'm looking for Guy. Have you seen him?"
"I think he went up to the castle. All the heretics have been taken up there."
"I thought they were in the gorge?"
De Montfort had ordered stakes set up in the gorge just below the bridge so that the townspeople would all have an excellent view of the burnings.
“No. There aren't enough stakes. They are to go down in groups of twelve."
Hughes could not fathom the logic behind this decision. While the other villagers were kept on the bridge watching the burnings from start to finish, the heretics themselves were kept in the castle until their time came. But then he understood very little of the logic behind any of de Montfort's decisions, Hughes admitted with weary resignation.
Hughes continued to the narrow end of the bastides, where the castle blocked and guarded the only level access onto the plateau beyond. The banners of de Montfort and the pope flapped languidly over the keep. Norbert had the watch at the lowered draw-bridge of the postern gate, which gave access from the town.
"Is Guy inside?" Hughes asked, leaning forward and resting his elbow on the high pommel of his saddle. His leg wound was still extremely tender and he was more exhausted than usual.
“Yes, in the hall. That's where they've confined the heretics. Have you seen how many there are?" Norbert asked, clearly amazed. "I counted more than a hundred and twenty, and that after two dozen have been taken down into the gorge. Women as well as men. Only children under 12 are being spared."
Hughes nodded. He had not realized it was as many as that, but he felt as if nothing could shock him anymore.
"Can they cling so hard to their heresy that they are prepared to die for it? to burn for it? I don’t understand." Norbert admitted, shaking his head. "I don’t understand."
Hughes shook his head again, this time to indicate that he didn't understand either.
"Guy has done everything to try to save them." Norbert continued. "He is frantic, and the harder he tries to persuade them to repent, the more smug Arnaud-Amaury looks, when they refuse! It is as if Arnaud-Amaury wants Guy to fail! As if he really prefers these poor souls to go to damnation, rather than accept Christ!"
Hughes refrained from comment. His own thoughts were too turbulent and murky.
"At least we aren't being forced to watch." Norbert murmured in a voice so low that there was no risk of being overheard.
Hughes leaned out of the saddle to lay a hand on Norbert's shoulder in sympathy and approval. Not all of them were so reluctant to be witnesses. To his dismay, Bert had actually asked permission to attend the executions. After nearly being sick while watching Hughes' wound cauterized, he was suddenly eager to see men and women slowly roasted alive. It made no sense to Hughes, who felt as Norbert did: relief that he did not have to be a witness. If he were to see people burning with his own eyes, the process would no longer be unimaginable.
He straightened abruptly in his saddle at the sight of de Montfort riding out of the castle gate. "What are you doing here?" De Montfort demanded sharply, suspicion glinting in his black eyes.
"I’m looking for Father Guy. Arnaud-Amaury has sent for him."
De Montfort jerked with his head back toward the castle. "He's in there." He started to ride past Hughes, and then drew up and ordered. "Try to make him see this as God's Will and stop taking things so personally." Then he rode on.
Hughes exchanged a look with Norbert, baffled by de Montfort's ability to make God responsible for his own actions.
"And something else!" De Montfort had stopped a second time. He twisted around in his saddle. "I don't want to ever hear of you meddling between Amiel and myself again! Your efforts to turn him against me make me seriously doubt your loyalty! Do you understand!?"
The question was rhetorical and already de Montfort was trotting away. Hughes stood gaping after him, too stunned to fully comprehend. He could only have learned about that talk with Pierre from Pierre himself.
"Don't blame Pierre." He heard Norbert saying. "He is wax in de Montfort's hands."
Hughes gave Norbert an impenetrable look, and rode on into the bailey of the castle.
Dismounting painfully and leaving his stallion in the shade, Hughes followed the muffled sound of voices up the spiral steps to the first floor hall of the castle. His wounded leg was now so stiff that he dragged it up behind him, one step at a time. He arrived at the landing sweating and paused to catch his breath. The scene spread out before him filled him with discomfort.
Those citizens who had refused to embrace the Catholic Church were kneeling in crude lines the length of the hall. Their hands and feet were bound. Sergeants patrolled the lines of heretics delivering the odd kick or cuff to keep them from talking to one another or making any attempt at escape. Not that any of them looked like they wanted to escape. Their expressions were too dazed or exhausted.
At the high table, Guillaume de Minerve sat with his wife and the village priest. They alone had been exempted from watching the executions. It had been a chivalrous gesture on de Montfort's part, but looking at the haggard grey man staring blindly down the hall, Hughes was certain that the Viscount felt no gratitude. His wife held his limp hands between her own fretful ones and her expression as she glanced toward the people on their knees, their tormentors and now to Hughes was openly frightened.
The priest seated on the other side of the Viscount was helping himself to wine from a pottery jug. From the uncoordinated and uncertain movements of his hands, it was evident that he was already very drunk. Hughes remembered hearing that the priest had been drunk when they found him ― snoring in the sacristy of the church. Arnaud-Amaury had announced loudly that it was no wonder the town was full of heretics with this creature as a representative of the Church. The drunken priest, evidently ignorant of Arnaud-Amaury's identity, spat back, "if the pompous Abbot had had the pleasure of trying to preach the Love of God to the pig-headed villagers" he would turned to drink himself. Arnaud-Amaury had walked away disdainfully, leaving the task of trying to save the souls ― and skins ― of the stubborn villagers to Guy.
Hughes at last caught sight of Guy, kneeling before an old woman, clasping her hands in his in a gesture of joint prayer. Hughes limped into the room, drawing unwanted attention from the damned and their guards. Only the Viscount seemed oblivious to his presence, staring in the same empty way as if he were spiritually dead. The priest saluted him tipsily and up-ended the jug to drink the dregs from it directly.
Hughes halted beside Guy. He caught his breath at the sight of the young Benedictine. The lines on his face seemed drawn with ink, his eyes sunken and ringed in black. His voice rasped as if he had not had anything to drink for hours. "Please, please, give Him a chance. He loves you. He does not want to see you burn ― not now and not in hell. Please."
The old woman was shaking her head. "He ― He has killed everyone, who was dear to me. I do not want to live. I want to die. I want to join my children―"
"But not like this! Not burned alive!" Guy protested. Hughes was slightly shocked that Guy was openly appealing to fear rather than faith, but on second thought decided Guy's charity was admirable. Guy started coughing violently, and Hughes hastened to offer him a gulp of water from his own flask. Guy took it gratefully and at once offered the flask to the old woman. "Here. Please."
She shook her head. "Leave me be. I'm an old woman. I want to die. The flames are short ― living is Hell!"
Guy looked at her helplessly and then up at Hughes.
"Arnaud-Amaury has sent for you." Hughes replied, evading the real question and plea. "He has found some more ―" Hughes had been about to say heretics, but then he corrected himself and said simply "people."
Guy tried to stand, stepped on his own cassock and almost fell. Hughes caught him under the arm just in time. Guy was staring at him almost as blankly as the Viscount. "None of them." He murmured. "None of them will listen to me."
Hughes escorted Guy back to the house at the foot of the town where Arnaud-Amaury was waiting for them. Guy stared at the destruction of the town with wide, horrified eyes ― as if it were the first time he had seen a town plundered. Then at a solid, stone house where Arnaud-Amaury waited impatiently. He started to address Guy even before the Benedictine had been able to dismount.
"There are two women here, who have been heredicated and now claim to be ‘perfect’."
"They are hardly the only ones." Guy replied wearily, as he dropped down from his placid mule.
"These women are noble. If you can get them ― or even one of them ― to renounce her heresy, I will see that you are given the next available Abbey."
Guy stopped dead in his tracks, turned furious on Arnaud-Amaury and demanded. "Do you think earthly rewards will increase my ardour?!" But as quickly as his temper flared, it gave way to sadness, and Guy remarked, "How little you know me, Arnaud."
If Arnaud-Amaury had been ashamed for a fraction of a second, he recovered quickly. "If you have so little ambition, than forget I mentioned a reward. I want these women to abjure their heresy, do you understand?!" Hughes registered that Arnaud-Amaury increasingly employed de Montfort's own turn of phrase and imitated his penchant for asking rhetorical questions. "It will not please His Holiness, if we have to burn noblewomen!"
"Then don't." Guy suggested, more to himself than to the Papal legate.
"I will burn every soul who denies Christ!" Arnaud-Amaury replied angrily. "And even if it is the Count of Toulouse himself. I mean to eradicate this heresy. Is that clear?"
Guy just nodded and disappeared through the door of the house. Arnaud-Amaury looked up at Hughes, his pale blue eyes still glittered with fervour. "You best stay here and make sure that no harm comes to Father Guy from our troops."
Hughes nodded. It was a more agreeable task than being asked to escort the condemned to their barbarous executions. Arnaud-Amaury then mounted his white stallion ― an affectation that many made fun of behind his back ― and spurred up the street toward the castle.
Hughes sat for several minutes, undecided if he should guard the door mounted, or follow Guy into the house. The heat of the sun, the smoke and ashes in the air, and a certain curiosity induced him to dismount and enter the house. He tied his stallion outside the house, confident that his arms, prominently sewn upon the trapper, would protect the horse from theft or harm.
Ducking through the low, carved door-frame he entered a cool and darkened passage. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the glaring sun outside, and then he followed his ears down the passage to the tiny courtyard at the back of the house.
Once upon a time, a garden had bloomed here, but the lack of water had turned it into a desert, strewn with the corpses of dead plants. A Roman sarcophagus of dirty marble had served as a water trough at some time, but it was now dry as a bone. Beyond, a stairway supported by a blind arch led up to a second story, and a door way gave access into a kitchen, from which the murmur of voices emanated.
Hughes stepped down into the kitchen whose flagstone floor was almost two feet below the level of the garden. Two windows on the opposite wall gave him a view over the gorge to the chalky banks beyond where he had camped until two days ago. He could even make out his siege engine squatting amidst the scrub-brush, idle and abandoned now that Minerve had surrendered.
By the empty fire-place, a sick-bed had been set up, and here an old, toothless woman lay, attended by a young woman dressed in severe black. The old woman lay with her eyes closed apparently dozing fitfully, and the young woman knelt behind the bed looking at Guy, who bent over both them. As Hughes approached, the young woman shifted her gaze, and her eyes widened in terror at the sight of a knight. The insult hit him hard, until he remembered that she had every reason to assume he was her executioner.
She did not take her eyes from him as he approached, and stared up at him with parted lips as he stopped behind Guy. He could see her pulse palpitating at her temples and smell the sweat of terror on her unwashed body. At close range he noted that she was a conventionally pretty woman with smooth, rounded features, a small nose and full lips.
"Madame." He nodded to her.
"What ― what do you want?" She addressed Hughes, rather than Guy.
Hughes shook his head. "We want only to save you, Madame. Is this your mother?" He indicated the old woman.
She shook her head. "My mother-in-law. It was her wish to be heredicated. She begged me on the soul of my husband to bring the Good Man to her. She has taken the Consolamentum - and so have I." Her eyes flickered between Hughes and Guy as the words spilled out breathlessly. "The ― the Abbot said we will be burned alive."
"Only if you persist in rejecting Christ, Madame!" Guy answered earnestly. "You need only embrace the Catholic Faith again. Agree to return to the Church that loves you. You made a mistake, but that is understandable ― after all the misery of the siege. Your mother-in-law mislead you in her senility. God does not blame you. He can forgive you, Madame. Come back to Him." Guy opened his arms to embrace her, but she shook her had like a frightened child, and drew back slightly.
"Don't be a fool, Madame." Hughes declared in exasperation. "What harm is there in saying you were confused and mislead? Let Father Guy take you to safety."
"But ― but" she looked from him to Guy to her mother-in-law, and then back to him. "I can't do that. If I do that I will be damned."
"No, no, no!" Guy cried out, his desperation made his voice crack, and Hughes glanced at him in concern. "If you don't let me save you, Madame, your body will be burned alive, and your soul will burn for all eternity."
Her eyes were wide and her body had started to tremble, but she shook her head vigorously. "No, my mother-in-law says we must not ― not now that we have taken the Consolamentum. Now we must welcome death--"
"Your mother-in-law is an old woman! She can welcome death easily." Hughes was annoyed by the woman's apparent stupidity, her inability to think for herself. "You are young. You ought to live. Your husband--"
"My husband is dead. He died for Minerve. He died for the Good Men! He died...."
Guy gave Hughes a sharp, reproachful look. The woman was obviously in mourning, after all, wearing even a black wimple. Hughes sighed, and Guy turned again to the woman. "Madame, I can see that you have lost your Faith. Too much evil has befallen you in these past weeks ― the siege, the death of your husband, the illness of your mother-in-law, and now the fall of the town and the ― the arrest of so many neighbours and friends. I know you are confused and you cling to the advice of those you have been taught to respect. But let me take you into my care, let me show you the Love Christ has for you!"
"Leave her be!" It was the protest of the old woman. She had opened her eyes and lifted her head from the pillow to glare furiously at Guy. "How dare you try to lay your bloody, hateful hands upon our souls! You know nothing of God ― you are the slave of the Roman Anti-Christ! You are blind! Corrupt! A tool of the Devil! You wish to hold us here, only because you cannot yourself go to God! Leave us alone!"
Her protest was so vehement that it made Guy recoil, as if he had been struck. Hughes was simply angered. He was perfectly willing to admit that many priests lived less than exemplary lives, and he was not so naive that he did not view the Pope, Cardinals, Bishops and Abbots as essentially secular lords with secular interests in power and wealth. But it was absurd to accuse Guy des Vaux of being an instrument of the Devil or to call him hateful.
A banging sound and the violent shaking of the younger woman's head, made Hughes spin around before he could reply. At the far end of the room, a cupboard had opened and a young girl was scrambling down. Her fine, red hair hung in disordered strands from what had once been a braid. Her face, hands and skirts were dirty, as if she had been crawling about in the dust, but the dress had once been a pretty yellow cotton with green satin ribbons and silk embroidery around the neck and hem-line.
At the sight of her, the young woman called out something in the Languedocand the girl stopped, looked from her mother to Hughes, and started to back toward the door.
Hughes, thinking of the rampaging mercenaries in the street, sprang to block the door-way and Guy cried out. "Madame! For your child's sake, you cannot throw your life and soul away! You must let me help you both!"
"Death is freedom!" Screeched the old woman before her daughter-in-law could reply. "The child should never have been born. They are the Devil's men, Bette! They are trying to seduce you with lies! If you do not resist them, they will keep you imprisoned in hell for all eternity. You will have to do their bidding, grovel before their idols and kiss their feet for all your lifetimes to come. Don't give into them, Bette. Think of God!"
“Are you still here?" It was Arnaud-Amaury's voice from behind Hughes. "De Montfort has lost patience with you, Guy. He says, if you can't convert even an old woman, you should stop wasting our time. He wants these women delivered to the castle at once."
The old woman started laughing hysterically. Arnaud-Amaury turned and signalled to two sergeants, who stepped down into the room. The sergeants, smelling of sweat and caked with smoke, their faces black with it, advanced toward the sick-bed, readying the rope as they advanced.
The younger woman started to back away from them. Guy was pleading with her, telling her she still had time. It wasn't too late. One word would suffice. But she was incapable even of this. One of the soldiers lifted the old woman and flung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She was still laughing and unresisting. The other sergeant backed the younger woman against the wall and then took her wrists in one hand and looped the rope around them deftly. He acted efficiently but without apparent maliciousness. He did not even seem to notice that she was pretty. He seemed completely numbed ― almost as empty as his victim, who limply followed him out of the kitchen without so much as a glance at her daughter cowering by the doorway.
Arnaud-Amaury levelled his glance at Guy, who sank against the chimney, shaking with exhaustion. "Don't let de Montfort see you like this," he advised. Then he swung back and looked at Hughes, at the girl, and at Hughes again. "You'd best get the girl out of here, before our troops find her." Then he was gone.
The girl started, tried to break free of him and follow her mother, but Hughes held her firmly, shaking his head. Guy pulled himself together and, ‘though pale, he suggested rationally. "Take her to the Hospitallers at Homps for now, and I'll write to the good sisters at Valmange. They'll care for her."
Hughes nodded, and led the girl out, across the garden, and back to the front of the house. In the street, the smoke was much heavier, and he could hear men brawling somewhere. He lifted the girl up into his saddle and then clamping his teeth against the pain, hauled himself up behind her. He pulled the girl into his lap with one arm around her waist. She was trembling violently. "There's nothing to be afraid of." He tried to tell her, thinking that, indeed, the Hospitallers would provide for the girl until more permanent arrangements could be made. There was no point thinking of the other children, who were being orphaned today. He could not help them all.
He turned his horse away from the brawling soldiers, and guided it up the other street. Here the smoke was thicker, billowing up from the gorge to his left. It stank abominably, and shouting mixed with drawn out screams made his hair stand on end. The girl gasped and twisted in his arm, straining to look past him toward the bridge and the gorge. He tightened his hold, and forced her head against his chest so she could not see. "Be still. There is nothing you can do for your mother. You'll be safe with the Hospitallers. They won't let anything happen to you."
She said something in the langue 'doc, which he did not understand. He realized then that she could not understand him either, and somehow that made her fate seem worse. He wanted to ask her how old she was, she looked 9 or 10 ― the age he had been when Hebron and then Ascalon fell to Saladin. But at least he had fled with his mother, sisters and their faithful servants. He hadn't been alone and carried off by one of the enemy soldiers.
She spoke to him again, in a tone that was pleading and desperate. She was crying now as she looked up at him with golden eyes that reminded him of Emilie. If they had a daughter, she might one day look very much like this girl, Hughes thought, and he was conscious of how light and fragile she was in his arms. He was suddenly certain that he would never, never have allowed a daughter of his to be trapped in a town under siege. Hadn't his mother taken him from Hebronbefore the Saracens surrounded it, and taken him from Ascalon as soon as the siege began?
How could this girl's father have allowed her be trapped here? he asked angrily. How could her mother place her pseudo-religion ahead of her daughter's welfare? What kind of mother would discard a child, a girl child, in a town full of rampaging soldiers? The woman's helplessness, her willingness to let her dying mother-in-law speak for her, her limp submission to the sergeants filled him with raging contempt. He could imagine the way his mother would have reacted, if Muslim soldiers had laid hands upon one of his sisters ― she would have torn their eyes out with her bare hands, or died trying.
For the first time since he had arrived in the Languedoc, Hughes hated the enemy. He was glad to be able to rescue this child, not only from the mercenaries, but from her own parents, who evidently cared so little for her.
He paused to wipe the tears from her face with the corner of his surcoat, and although he knew she could not understand his words, he tried to reassure her with his tone of voice and his gestures. "You're going to be alright. I won't let anyone harm you. I'm taking you to the Hospitallers. The Hospitallers are kind and then, when Father Guy has arranged it, the Sisters at Valmagne will give you a new home. You will be well cared for and safe. Valmagne is a beautiful abbey." Hughes had never been there, but it didn't matter. She couldn't understand him anyway. "We will ride all afternoon, but when we get to Homps, you can have a bath, and then, after a good meal with all the water you can drink, you'll sleep in a soft, clean bed."
She was gazing at him wide-eyed, trying to understand what he said.
He searched his memory for some phrases of the langue d'oc, and finally remembered how to ask her name. It was a question he had heard often enough during interrogations of captives.
To his own surprise the girl understood him, starting and widening her eyes in astonishment, before whispering timidly. "Julienne, Monsieur. Julienne de St. Jean."
In horror, Hughes recognized the name uttered by the Toulousan knight he'd killed.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
February 23, 2013
The Devil's Knight - Chapter 6
MinerveJune 1210
Bert was babbling cheerfully about this and that, but Hughes found it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying. His senses were preoccupied with the throbbing pain in his leg, the aching stiffness of his other muscles as he stirred, and the nauseous feeling of his stomach. Guy must have laced the wine with powerful herbs, he noted fighting the queasiness. Probably that was why the cauterizing had seemed less vicious than he had remembered from the last wound he'd had. Certainly he had fallen asleep faster. He must have slept for a long time, judging by the stiffness of his muscles.
He had no desire to wake, but he had to adjust his position, and at once Bert's voice was nearer. "Ah ha! I thought you were just faking it, sir. Come on. Father Guy said to give you this as soon as you woke up."
Hughes could feel Bert leaning over him. He squinted up at the youth reluctantly and scowling. "I don't want any more of Father Guy's―" He stopped as he saw Bert was holding out not a goblet, but a slice of toasted bread. It looked good.
He reached out his hand for it, squinting against the light that hurt his eyes.
"That's right," Bert approved like the best nanny.
"You weren't looking so cheerful last time I saw you." Hughes reminded his squire unkindly. The youth had gone chalk white and nearly been sick as he assisted Guy during the cauterizing. At once Hughes regretted his maliciousness. Bert, being highly sensitive about his general lack of experience in warfare, looked mortified at the memory. As he stumbled to find an answer, Hughes waved vaguely with his hand. "Forget it. You should have seen me, the first time I had to help amputate a hand." He sought the memory with effort. "It was one of Jean de Brienne's knights and we were in Normandy, too far from a castle or monastery to seek professional help. Jean de Brienne insisted on performing the operation himself and told me to hold the man's shoulders. I ended up closing my eyes." Hughes admitted. Bert grinned briefly in thanks for the confidence, but continued to look embarrassed.
It was necessary to deal with wounds before they became poisoned, Hughes reflected sinking back onto the pillows, and even if certain doctors claimed it was possible to prevent the flesh from festering by the application of certain herbs, fighting men rarely had time for such experiments. It was more important to become proficient at both amputation and cauterization. Still he felt nostalgia for lost innocence as he saw Bert fussing beside him with averted eyes. If he had not brought Bert with him, he might have lived out his entire life without ever having to watch glowing iron being applied to a man's flesh.
"Do you have any more toast? I could stand it." Hughes sought to distract Bert's thoughts, and the squire at once jumped up eagerly. Hughes’ eyes followed him, registering that he was back in his own tent and the sun was quite low in the west. He must have slept well over 12 hours. The whiney of a horse and voices drew his attention to the door-flap. The next minute the entry-way was blocked by Charles ducking through, followed by Norbert.
The faces of both men were pale and drawn, and though Charles managed a smile, when he realized Hughes was awake, Norbert continued to look worried. "Well?" Charles inquired as he helped himself to a stool and drew it beside Hughes’s pallet. "Are you going to survive?"
"Most likely. Did you doubt it?"
"Let's just say you looked less cheery last time we met."
Bert brought Hughes the requested toast and then disingenuously turned to the visitors with hands clasped behind his back and asked, "Can I get you anything, sirs?"
Hughes told himself for the umpteenth time that he must make a greater effort to teach the country-bumpkin manners. Fortunately, Sir Charles was too affable to take offence, and Sir Norbert seemed distracted, hardly noticing the squire.
"Ah, well, a glass of wine wouldn't be amiss." Sir Charles answered, and Sir Norbert nodded agreement absently.
"Sit down, Norbert." Hughes invited, indicating another stool, and the tall knight obediently dragged it over and folded up to sit like a huge bird on a tiny perch.
"Are you feeling better?" Norbert asked with a tense face that touched Hughes with the extent of his apparent concern. If he had been asked yesterday, if any of his companions cared much about his health, Hughes would have denied it.
"Yes, I'm fine. I should be up and about in a day or two. Let's hope Minerve holds out that long. I don't feel much like riding yet."
They both nodded, and Charles took it upon himself to say. "No sign of any change on that front."
"Is something else bothering you?" Hughes was convinced that they couldn't truly be this upset about his wound; certainly not now that it was already on its way to healing.
His visitors exchanged a look. Then Bert came up with the wine. "Sorry I can't serve you in the silver goblets, sirs, but somehow I've misplaced them." It was said in jest. Hughes and Emilie owned only three such goblets between them, and they had been very consciously left under lock and key at Betz. Hughes wished his squire had not drawn attention to the fact that his goblets were of tin, but to reproach him would only make things worse.
"What's the matter?" Hughes persisted. "Something de Montfort has done?"
Charles drew a deep breath and stared into his wine. Norbert answered. "He's punished Pierre."
Hughes let de Montfort's threats run through his mind again. "He didn't really accuse him of treason?"
"No, just neglect, incompetence, drunkenness, manslaughter, stupidity ― did I leave anything out?" Charles asked Norbert. Norbert shook his head. "Nothing important."
"Hardly fair." Hughes observed dryly.
"That's not the worst of it." Charles warned. Taking a deep breath, he added, "He had him flogged in front of the entire army and put in the stocks."
"Pierre is a knight!" Norbert belaboured the obvious, his outrage finding its voice.
Hughes glanced from one to the other.
"We all know that Pierre isn't exactly the most effective knight, and he does bare his share of the blame for what happened last night." Charles was saying in a reasonable voice. "But I personally think this is going too far. None of our soldiers will respect him after this!"
"De Montfort says he'll never be allowed to command soldiers again." Norbert added.
"That's not for de Montfort to say." Hughes retorted shortly. "Pierre Amiel will now be forced to seek service with another lord, and that is probably for the best. I've said for some time now that he is not suited to this kind of warfare, which does not mean he can't do another job perfectly well."
Charles shrugged and nodded. "I agree, but who is going to give him a chance after a public disgrace like this?"
The prospects were slight, but Hughes refused to believe that there was no place in all France, where Pierre could find an honourable, if less demanding, position.
"I've always disliked Pierre." Norbert admitted, with the gravity of youth. "it’s unfair for de Montfort to humiliate him like this! He should have just dismissed him."
"That wouldn't have shocked the rest of us." Charles countered. "He had to do something public, but he went too far."
"Did anyone protest?" Hughes asked weakly. He knew the answer before the others shook their heads.
"It wouldn't have done any good," Charles rationalized, while Norbert explained defensively. "He was in the worst mood I've seen yet. Even Arnaud-Amaury caught the rough side of his tongue. He would have flogged any man, who so much as looked disapproving!"
"Good that I wasn't there." Hughes murmured. It was not that he would have risked humiliation for another man's honour, but he was glad that he did not have to live with himself after letting another man be so disgraced.
Guy des Vaux tried to look nonchalant as he wandered idly among the tents. The sun was down now, and most of the mercenaries were collected around the canteen wagons, either queuing for their porridge or eating it. In clusters they stood about swilling watered wine and exchanging rude stories or rumours. They paid no particular heed to the Benedictine, though they invariably made way for him politely, if they noticed him. Mercenaries were not always so deferential to priests, Guy knew, but de Montfort insisted upon it and could enforce his will.
A glance at the unshaved, unwashed men spearing the chunks of meat in the stew with their daggers made Guy shudder. They shovelled bread into their mouths with dirty hands on which the fingernails stood out black with grime. They laughed and spoke with their mouths full, and picked at the food stuck between crooked, broken teeth with the tips of their knives. They reeked of onion and garlic-laden sweat and chain mail oil. On their faces, necks and hands were the scars of old wounds. Their mismatched clothes, armor and weapons recorded their history of haphazard plundering. But de Montfort had no trouble keeping this rabble under control, Guy reflected, was it any wonder that he, a mere scholar, could not find the courage to defy him?
These were men, who faced the risk of death laughing. Men who could hack off their own hand with no more than a sigh of regret, if need be. These were men who could slaughter women and children, without apparent emotion one moment, and risk their own lives to rescue an old man from a burning building the next. They might share a woman with one another one night, and, on the next kill, each other in a drunken squabble. If men such as these were as docile as sheep when de Montfort roared, why should he reproach himself for his own cowardice?
Ah, but they werewolves and wolves always followed their leader, whereas he had, up to now, prided himself on being a man. Man had the spark of divine inspiration, did he not? He had the choice between his base animal instincts and spiritual elevation. A man could strive toward perfection. A priest was, indeed, committed to following the example of Our Lord.
Guy felt his stomach turn over, and he swallowed compulsively. The palms of his hands sweated, and his sides were soaked with perspiration, all because he was planning to defy de Montfort's orders and perform a simple act of kindness for a friend. Inside his wide sleeves, he clutched at the wine-skin as he glanced guiltily over his shoulders.
It was darker now. Men were dispersing about the camp as the cooks scraped the cauldron's empty, offering seconds to those who lingered. From the horse-lines came the contented snorting of the steeds and pack-animals as the hay was distributed. The tents of the knights started to glow luminously, as lamps were lit inside.
Guy glanced surreptitiously toward de Montfort's tent. It was brightly lit, and he could see shadows moving about inside. Abbot Arnaud-Amaury, Alain de Roucy and Lambert de Thury were gathered, as so often, for a small "council" meeting. Squires served them wine and food.
Guy started toward his destination, conscious of a desire to urinate. His body always responded to fear with this primeval urge. He ignored it, knowing it was not real. Daniel had entered the lion's den itself, he reminded himself. He did not need to go so far. The stocks were set up in front of de Montfort’s tent.
He paused behind the canteen wagon to collect his courage. His heart was pounding, and the air seemed too heavy to draw into his laboring lungs. Christ, for Your Sake, make me strong, he pleaded silently -- and keep him in his tent.
He inched out of the protective shadow of the canteen wagon, across the barren open space before the tent. The stocks loomed up dark against the fading sky. Guy consciously imagined Calvary. They had given Him only vinegar.
It was 12 hours since Pierre Amiel had been flogged and placed in the stocks. The blood had dried upon his lacerated back. His body slumped as if unconscious, held in place only by the wooden clamps around ankles and wrists. Pierre's head hung on his chest. But then, even before Guy reached him, Pierre shifted slightly in a hopeless attempt to make himself more comfortable. Guy heard the low groan of pervasive pain and hopelessness, and it stiffened his resolve. He lifted his head and advanced more resolutely. He could feel the ominous shadow of de Montfort at his back, but he knew that Christ was with him.
He reached the stocks and, to keep from speaking, touched his fingers gently to Pierre's shoulder. The knight flinched away with a cry of terror that twisted instantly into a groan of pain. The sudden motion had wrenched his cramped muscles and torn open the barely crusted wounds on his back. "Pierre!" Guy whispered close to his ear. "It's me. Guy. I've brought you some wine. It will help."
"Nothing can help." Pierre whimpered, but he lifted his head so Guy could tip the wine-skin to his cracked and swollen lips.
Guy had only managed a couple of swallows before he burst into a fit a coughing. He shook his head, refusing any more wine.
"Please." Guy urged. "It will ease your pain."
Pierre shook his head. It wasn't the pain that was killing him, it was the disgrace. He could still feel the stares of the knights and soldiers crawling across his exposed body. He kept his eyes closed even now, unable to endure looking at Guy. He had been there like all the rest. He could not face any of them ever again. He would never be able to look any of them in the face, without seeing the contempt or amusement or pity that had been in their faces this morning, as they watched him being stripped and flogged and put on display.
Pierre hated de Montfort that he wanted to kill him. He imagined a thousand tortures for him. He wished he could spit in his face.
"Please drink a little more. I can't risk coming back again." Guy pleaded urgently.
Pierre did not want Guy's pity. Pierre craved respect not pity. If only one person would treat him like he was someone worth knowing!
De Montfort had. He reminded himself, unconsciously accepting the offered wine. When he had presented himself to de Montfort, de Montfort had asked him about himself. He had stumbled over his father's name and de Montfort had interrupted him in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't give a damn, if you are a bastard or a Turk. All that matters to me is that you’re loyal to me above all else. Is that clear?" He had asked the question with a smile, holding out his hand as he got to his feet, welcoming, accepting....
Pierre had kept his part of the bargain. No one, not even Arnaud-Amaury, was more loyal. Arnaud-Amaury was using de Montfort for his own purposes, and de Montfort was a fool, if he thought Alain and Lambert were loyal to him! Pierre was indignant at the thought. They were nothing but self-serving sycophants! How could a man as clever as de Montfort be taken in by them?! Why couldn't de Montfort see that all the others were loyal not out of love for him, but only for what he could give them. They were greedy, unscrupulous men, who would turn their backs on him the moment he suffered a setback. Why didn't de Montfort understand?!
"Who's there?" It was the bellow of de Montfort's voice. "What are you doing lurking about the stocks?! Get over here!"
Pierre could feel Guy stiffen.
"Get over here this instant or I'll make you eat shit!"
Guy had no choice.
"What were you doing over there--give me that! Wine? For Amiel? Just because you're a c*** -s*** priest, do you think you can defy my orders!" De Montfort was roaring, if Guy managed any kind of an answer, it was inaudible.
"Get out of my sight, you little fart!" There was a dull sound that might have been a kick or a blow. Guy gave a stifled grunt. Pierre could hear no more, but he could feel the earth shaking as de Montfort approached.
Pierre's throat closed on itself. His terror made him squirm and writhe in the stocks senselessly. The pain at least distracted him from the paralyzing terror. He could feel de Montfort staring at him, but Pierre kept his eyes closed tight. He would not look at de Montfort. He would not meet his eyes. He did not want to see what was written in them.
"GUARD!" From somewhere to the left came a clatter and curse, as someone sprang to answer de Montfort's summons. "Unlock the stocks!"
"My lord?"
"HOW OFTEN DO I HAVE TO GIVE AN ORDER?!"
"At once!" The man could be heard running for the keys. When he returned panting, the keys clanked and turned in the lock. The upper bar was lifted and Guy fell helplessly onto the ground with a gasping groan as his lacerated skin hit the dusty, stony ground.
"Well, don't just stand there staring! Help him!" De Montfort roared. "If he were my comrade-in-arms I wouldn't have let my commander flog him in the first place! I would have defended him with my sword, if need be! But you ass-lickers don't have any sense of comradeship! All you f****s think about is your own purses!"
Alain and Lambert were now hovering over Pierre, trying to lift him up off the ground.
"Take him to my tent!" De Montfort ordered, and strode off ahead of them.
* * * * * *
July 1210
"The Viscount Guillaume de Minerve came personally." Bert told Hughes excitedly, as he helped him dress. Guy had just changed the bandages and they were white and neat above his knee. Hughes sat on a stool while Bert knelt before him. "The gates opened completely unexpectedly, and he rode straight out with a huge white banner and made straight for de Montfort's tent. His horse must have gone for days without water! It was listless and stumbled, and then it scented the water from our horse-lines and went wild. It all but threw the Viscount, and he lost control of it as it went straight through our troops like an arrow! Men jumped left and right to get out of its way. All right?" He asked as he slipped Hughes’ hose over the wound.
Hughes nodded. "Tell me about the Viscount not his horse. What sort of man is he?"
"Old ― well, completely grey. He wasn't even wearing armor. He wore a long robe with loose sleeves like a doctor or something, except that there were bands of bright embroidery at the neck and cuffs. And he wore parti-colored hose and low shoes all painted and a funny hat. He looked ridiculous really." Bert decided.
"Did he kneel to de Montfort?"
"No. Should he have?"
Hughes smiled mirthlessly. "No. They are equals in rank. How did de Montfort respond?"
Bert shrugged. "He invited him into his tent and sent for Arnaud-Amaury."
Arnaud-Amaury was scratching his chin thoughtfully but his eyes were hard and betrayed no indecision to match his fretful hands. "I do not understand, my lord. Why here, of all places, where we lost over two-dozen of our men, do you want to show mercy?"
De Montfort shrugged his massive shoulders and one could hear the faint, chinking of chainmail rings colliding. De Montfort was alone in his tent with Arnaud-Amaury; the Viscount of Minerve had been sent out to await de Montfort's decision. "You don't understand terror, my lord abbot." De Montfort told the Cistercian. "It works best when people do not know what to expect."
"I'm not interested in terror." The abbot retorted. "I am interested in serving His Holiness, Pope Innocent III, by eliminating a poisonous heresy that seeks to discredit and undermine the authority of the Church and the Pope. This town is a viper’s nest. That is why we attacked it. Literally dozens of depraved heretics have been harbored by that godless old man. He protects even the priests of their vile dogma. They deny that Our Saviour ever lived and reject all the sacraments of Holy Church."
"Most especially the ordination of priests and the right of the clergy to grant or deny absolution,” de Montfort added. “I'm perfectly aware of what the Cathars teach." De Montfort had no patience for Arnaud-Amaury's preaching. He could see perfectly well that the Cathars were a threat to the power of Rome because they denied the authority of the Church and encouraged their followers to scorn it. As a consequence neither tithes nor other fees were paid, and the Pope had lost most of his influence and ― more important ― his revenues in this vast, rich area. De Montfort was perfectly willing to support the Pope in his campaign to regain his power because de Montfort expected to profit from his efforts materially ― and he had.
"I want the Cathars in this town to be an example to the world," Abbot Arnaud-Amaury insisted.
"Bram wasn't enough for you?"
"Bram was a step in the right direction, but I told you then that I wanted them dead."
"You had 20,000 dead at Beziers, and it didn't have much of an effect." De Montfort reminded him acidly.
"I made a fatal mistake at Beziers. I should never have allowed the murder of good ― or even pretend ― Catholics. Particularly not the priests."
"Humpf!" De Montfort was both surprised and gratified to hear Arnaud-Amaury admit this. He’d thought the decision had been wrong at the time, but had allowed himself to be swayed by the abbot's fanaticism.
"We must make a clear distinction between Catholics and heretics." The papal legate continued. "We must punish the Catholics for harboring and tolerating heretics, but we must also forcefully and impressively demonstrate that the sins of the faithful can be forgiven -- after sufficient penance has been done. Heresy, in contrast, can never be forgiven, because a heretic is beyond the mercy of the Church."
"What do you propose?"
"If we blind the heretics, they become beggars, a burden on society, who not only litter the towns and roadsides but are also objects of pity." Ignoring de Montfort's look of impatience, Arnaud-Amaury continued self-righteously. "People forget that they earned their fate by the blindness of their souls and see in them only unfortunate victims of a cruel justice. The fate of the heretics must henceforth be a reminder of the fate of all heretics in the hereafter. The souls of heretics will burn for all eternity in the fires of hell. I think their neighbors and relatives ― all those who have been polluted by close contact with them ― should be reminded of what that means."
De Montfort gazed at him steadily for a long moment. "You want me to burn them alive."
"Yes."
They gazed at one another for a moment, than de Montfort strode to the door of the tent and ordered the guards to fetch Sirs Alain and Lambert. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "And Father Guy des Vaux."
When the others were collected, de Montfort told them of the Viscount's offer of surrender. Guillaume de Minerve requested a safe-conduct for all residents. He had offered, in a quavering voice, to abandon the town and castle in exchange for the lives and limbs of all the residents.
Now, leaning back against a table with his arms and legs crossed, de Montfort listened alertly, but calmly, as his lieutenants argued. Lambert and Alain were both adamant and relatively hot-tempered in rejecting any surrender that was not unconditional, and not particularly enthusiastic about Arnaud-Amaury's suggestion either.
Lambert pointed out that with the Viscount in their hands, they could quickly force him to order the surrender, and then things would be over by the next day. "As for burning the heretics," he shrugged, "see if I care, but you won't have much of a fire! They'll all pretend to convert to avoid that!" Lambert scoffed.
"And so go free to preach their heresy the moment we turn our backs!" Alain seconded him in a tone of disgust. He had never heard such a stupid idea out of the mouth of Arnaud-Amaury before.
"I don't think so." Arnaud-Amaury replied calmly, picking at a scab on his chin methodically. "First of all, heretics that abjure their faith will not just be set free, but put under Church supervision and required to do penance. Secondly, I don't think many of these fanatics will abjure their faith. They would rather die because they mistakenly believe that Hell is here on earth. They will only learn the truth after death. Their relatives and neighbors, in contrast, may yet be rescued, by being reminded of what hell means."
"And what about the garrison and faydits that gave them protection?" Alain wanted to know angrily. He was less concerned with a handful of heretics, who were not fighting men, than their militarily trained protectors, who would continue to make life difficult for the occupation forces, if they were allowed to go free.
"Damn it!" Lambert joined in hotly, "it wasn't just these so called ‘perfects’ that have defied us for five weeks and, by God, it was no ‘perfect’ who attacked the siege engine! Every God-damned citizen of this town has consciously given refuge to your enemies, my lord, and thumbed their nose at your authority. If they're trying to bargain with us now, it won't be long until they collapse completely. I say wait it out, and then give the troops a free hand, or we pressure the Viscount into surrendering unconditionally at once. Once we have possession of the town, the survivors can be blinded or castrated or burned for all I care!"
"Alain?" De Montfort asked calmly.
"I agree, my lord. This bastide openly invited the heretics to come here, explicitly offered them refuge and protection. They should learn what that means. No quarter for any of them."
Guy felt very much out of place in this inner-circle of de Montfort's intimates ― especially after the incident with Pierre. True, after the initial outburst of rage, de Montfort seemed to have completely forgotten it. He had released Pierre from the stocks and attached him directly to his own household, while he treated Guy as if nothing had happened.
But the absence of punishment for defying orders only confused him. He was more nervous in de Montfort's presence than ever before. He listened with only half-an-ear to the exchange, because he was trying to figure out why de Montfort had included him.
Too soon, de Montfort turned to him. "Well, Father," (he made the title sound like a pet-name) "what do you think we should do?"
Guy moved nervously from one foot to the other.
"If you need a pee, hurry up about it." De Montfort suggested good-humoredly, and the others laughed.
Guy hated de Montfort for the effect he had, for knowing that he had that effect, and drawing attention to it. He ignored the crude joke, and answered primly, “you will do what is best, my lord."
"I know I will, but I want to know what you think." De Montfort countered. "Come on, Father," he coaxed. "You're a learned and thinking man. I want to hear your opinion."
"It's a difficult question, my lord."
De Montfort was losing his patience, but with effort he retained a friendly tone. "We all know that, Father. That's why we are giving it so much thought. Now, I want to hear what you think we should do."
Guy sensed the annoyance simmering beneath de Montfort's feigned patience. In that split second, he had to decide between supporting the opinions of de Montfort's favorites and his real opinion. Why would de Montfort have sent for him if he just wanted to hear what Alain and Lambert could tell him? "My lord, no one doubts that you can destroy Minerve and other towns ― no one in these parts has forgotten Beziers. You can gain more by showing that there is a way out for those who submit to your mercy."
"He let the Catholics at Bram off with nothing but a fine!" Lambert de Thury reminded them in an exasperated tone.
"The image of the blinded tied together and stumbling across the countryside to Cabaret-Lastours was much more evocative than the fate of the others." Guy pointed out. He was committed now and drew courage from this fact. "Furthermore, many heretics abjured their faith, when they realized what punishment they faced, but we did not let them return to God. Are we not therefore responsible for their damnation? Will God not call us to account for taking from Him souls that He desperately loved?"
De Montfort raised an eyebrow in evident approval. He turned to look at Lambert and Alain, who dismissed this in a tone of impatience and contempt, but Arnaud-Amaury, still picking thoughtfully at his chin, snapped: "Father Guy is right. We have to give them a chance to reject their false beliefs, and we have to welcome them back to the bosom of the Church, if they sincerely repent."
"There is nothing sincere about repenting just to avoid burning alive!" Alain retorted, irritated by Arnaud-Amaury's religious fervor. The more enemy killed, the more land could be distributed, and the richer he could become.
"I tell you they won't do that." Arnaud-Amaury stated unequivocally, staring defiantly at Lambert.
The fighting man gave an exasperated shrug. "See if I give a damn!"
"Then we'll do as the Abbot says." De Montfort decided uncrossing his legs and shoving himself upwards from the table he'd been leaning against. "We'll agree to spare the life, limb and property of every soul in Minerve – as long as they vow adherence to the Holy Catholic Church, and are prepared to put themselves at her mercy. Those who do not, will be deemed heretics and burnt at the stake."
Hughes could only hobble awkwardly, but it was good to be on his feet again, good to get out of the tent into the sunlight. Bert hovered beside him solicitously.
"Let me guess,” Hughes remarked, “you have laid wagers on whether I can stay on my feet from here to the latrine and want to make sure you win?"
Bert blushed, but answered quickly. "No, I bet you would trip over the gully here, and―"
"And thought you'd give me a little help. Very good." Hughes nodded as he stepped cautiously down into the dip and up again. Concentrating on his footing he did not notice Pierre Amiel coming over to him.
"Sir Hughes! It's good to see you on your feet again!" The warmth of Pierre´s greeting was genuine. Hughes was the only knight, who had not witnessed Pierre's flogging, and Pierre needed his friendship to replace all the illusions of fellowship that had been shattered that morning six days ago. "My lord asked me to seek you out, and inquire whether you will be able to ride with him, when he accepts the surrender of the town?"
Hughes looked up startled. "They've already come to terms?"
Pierre nodded vigorously. "My lord agreed to spare everyone, who accepts the True Faith ― life, limb and property. Only those who refuse to adjure their heresy will be harmed." Pierre spoke with the kind of wondering approval that baffled Hughes. Hughes had not forgotten the alacrity with which Pierre had advocated the immediate blinding of the heretics of Bram. But then he reminded himself that Pierre approved of any decision de Montfort made, whether it was brutal or merciful. Apparently he even approved the treatment he had himself received….
"Guillaume de Minerve has returned to the town, and has promised to open the gates at nones. My lord would like you to accompany him when he takes possession."
"You mean all of us."
"Yes, but you personally. He says you earned the honor of riding directly behind him and Arnaud Amaury."
Hughes was flattered and pleased, but he tried not to show it. He also reminded himself that it was not always an advantage to be within close range of de Montfort's tongue. Still it was undoubtedly an honor, and the first step to greater opportunities and rewards ― provided he did not disappoint or offend him.
"Pierre...."
"Yes?" Pierre sensed the softening of his tone, and felt a tension grasp him that was the dangerous prelude to vulnerability. He wanted Hughes to be his friend.
"There's something I don't understand."
Pierre waited encouragingly, and Hughes looked toward Bert, who was standing almost in his shadow listening to every word with the same eagerness with which a dog watches for scraps. "Bert."
"Sir?" He leaned even nearer.
Hughes waved his hand at him. "Sir Pierre and I have things to discuss which are not for your tender ears."
"Oh, my ears aren't tender any more, Sir. They've gotten tough as leather." He pulled at one.
"Clear off!" Hughes ordered.
"Sir!"
As soon as Bert was out of hearing, Hughes turned back to Pierre, who at once offered him the support of his arm. Hughes looked side-long at the slender man beside him. He noted the dark circles under his eyes, the straggly beard and hunched shoulders. He looked exhausted and nervous, but his offer of assistance had been spontaneous and genuine. "I've got an excellent ointment," he was saying, "It will help ease the stiffness of your wound."
"You're a good man, Pierre."
Pierre flushed.
"You deserve better than what de Montfort has given you."
Pierre stiffened and the answered defensively. "I don't know what you mean."
Hughes considered him, but Pierre refused to meet his eyes.
"It's an honor to serve him personally," Pierre persisted.
Hughes nodded. "Yes. But Simon de Montfort is not the only lord in Christendom. You could find favor with many another man."
"De Montfort is the most famous."
Hughes didn't deny it. He merely thought it sad that Pierre was willing to accept humiliations and ill-treatment for the sake of basking in de Montfort's glory. He had, by accepting the position as household knight, squandered all the sympathy he had gained as a victim of de Montfort's excessive punishment. Didn't he realize how the others made fun of him behind his back? Hughes could still hear Alain's biting remark about "once an ass-kisser always an ass-kisser" echoing in his ears. Charles had shrugged and asked: "If he places so little value on his own dignity, why should we care what de Montfort does to him?"
"It's your decision, Pierre, but I couldn't serve a man who had done to me what de Montfort did to you ― not even had it been the king himself."
Pierre's face closed. He sensed that Hughes meant well and part of him was grateful, but he felt a huge gulf between them. Hughes had been born a wealthy, nobleman's son ― pampered and loved and spoilt. What did he know of the humiliations a bastard faced? Who was he to judge what a man should accept?
And for all Hughes’s pedigree, he had not risen to Viscount either! Who was he to judge de Montfort? Of course de Montfort was sometimes hot-tempered, over-hasty and unfair. Pierre still burned at the humiliation of the flogging, but he knew that he bore the responsibility for his troops and they had been slaughtered. And who else but de Montfort had ever given him a chance? And not one chance, but two?
"You might have options, but I don't." He told Hughes bitterly.
Hughes could sense the barrier Pierre had erected, and he sighed. "I'd be willing to recommend you."
"To the king?" Pierre probed and saw Hughes flinch.
"No, not Phillip ― that would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But I could recommend you to the Bishop of Poitiers. My wife knows him well --"
Pierre shook his head and his lips were a tight line. "Thanks, but no thanks. I am not a charity case!"
Hughes sighed inwardly. "Tell de Montfort that I'll be mounted by nones."
Pierre nodded, and let go of his arm, hurrying away officiously. Bert rejoined Hughes instantly. "Did you manage to offend de Montfort's door-mat?"
"What?"
"Didn't you know? That's what all the troops call him. The door-mat!" Bert giggled at the joke, but Hughes didn't find it funny. He glanced back toward Pierre and felt profoundly sorry for him. Not least because he was, in his own way, intensely proud.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
February 15, 2013
The Devil's Knight - Chapter 5
Minerve
June 26, 1210
Lighted by torches and candles, the canvas of de Montfort's command tent seemed luminous against the darkness, and the shadows cast by the occupants were large and distorted. From inside came the unmistakable sound of voices and laughter, the clatter of cutlery and fragments of music. When servants entered or left, briefly opening the flap-door, the scent of heavily spiced meat escaped. The soldiers of de Montfort's army glanced occasionally toward the tent from their own camp-fires, and although some were envious of the better rations afforded their betters, most were content to hear their leader in such good humour. De Montfort's booming laugh could be distinguished easily above all the others.
Seated in the centre of the trestle table, de Montfort threw back his head and guffawed with delight at the jokes Alain and Lambert fed him from his left side. Arnaud-Armaury, seated as always on his right, leaned forward straining to partake in the repartee. Squires squeezed along behind the table, sweating from the effort of keeping the wine flowing in sufficient quantities.
Since he had joined de Montfort, this was not the first such feast he had witnessed, and Hughes had long since learned to hate them. De Montfort could easily drink all of his knights under the table, and he enjoyed proving his superiority at this no less than his superiority at everything else. Whereas Hughes admired de Montfort's military skills, Hughes saw nothing particularly admirable about being able to consume gallons of wine without feeling the effects. What was worse, de Montfort's "hospitality" would leave the bulk of his guests ill and unfit for the next 24 hours. It all seemed such a waste. They would probably consume more wine this night than he and Emilie had in their cellars.
The thought of Emilie depressed Hughes and made him restless. Her last letter spoke of bleeding and spasmodic pain. He could read her fear in the crossed out sentences, in the attempts at self-ridicule and bravado. She was terrified and she wanted him with her, and he was sitting here guzzling expensive wine and gorging himself on over-spiced meat. All for the sake of a silver mark a week. If only they didn't need that silver mark so desperately!
"Well?" a hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Something not to your liking?" The tone was friendly, and Charles climbed over the bench to sit beside Hughes. "Our gallant leader doesn't like anyone to be glum when he had decided to distribute good cheer."
"Did he send you over?" Hughes asked, glancing toward de Montfort suspiciously. Before Bram, de Montfort had taken no note of him at all, now his attentions seemed entirely disapproving; Hughes was acutely aware of how dangerous that could be.
"Nay, but I heard him remark sourly to Alain that you were sitting over here and pouting like a sullen child."
"Kind of him to notice." Hughes remarked sharply, offended by the insult and angry with himself for caring what de Montfort thought.
"You've got to get up and dance on the table." Guy joined in the conversation, clambering over the bench on Hughes's other side. "Ever since Sir Lambert did that last year, he has been in great favour."
Hughes looked over at the Benedictine, uncertain if this was meant in earnest or jest. "And I thought it was because he was so good at mutilation."
"Now, now. Don't be unfair." Guy warned. "Mutilation would not be welcomed tonight. Tonight he has decreed we are to be carelessly happy. And by God you had better be merry and uninhibited, or he'll make sure you regret it!" Guy had brought his own wine-cup with him and clomped it on the table to emphasize his words.
"Does he really think he can order merriment in the same way he does obedience?" Hughes inquired with a tinge of contempt. No one, not even a king, could command another man’s feelings.
"Hasn't he succeeded?" Charles pointed out with a sweeping gesture.
The tent was full of laughing, singing, drinking knights. Even as he looked, a pair got up and started dancing together to roars of approval from de Montfort. Even Norbert, otherwise quite diffident and restrained, had lost all his inhibitions and now clambered over the bench to join the dancing. De Montfort started clapping to give the dancers the pace, and then took up a tune to keep them dancing. The other knights joined in: singing, clapping or stamping their feet in time with de Montfort. Sir Charles and Guy both joined in, swaying in rhythm to the music.
Hughes felt the gulf of alienation yawning around him. Guy slipped his arm through Hughes' and nudged him until he swayed with them on the bench. Smiling and nodding, Guy induced Hughes to join in the singing. But that did not make Hughes feel less alien inside.
De Montfort started clapping faster and faster. The dancers were forced to pick up the pace. The singers, catching on to the game, sang louder and faster. The dancers were red and sweating from the exertion. Montfort stood up and even clapped faster until one of the knights tripped and sprawled face first onto the packed dirt of the floor. De Montfort flung back his head and laughed, but then he called the three dancing knights up to his table and flung his arm around Norbert's shoulders as he shared his own goblet with them each in turn.
Hughes could see the way Norbert flushed under de Montfort's attentions, flattered. He noted that Pierre Amiel was as usual trying to draw de Montfort's attention to himself, this time with a new attempt at dancing. De Montfort only scowled in irritation. He made some remark that Hughes did not catch. He saw Pierre Amiel wince visibly and draw back, red and smouldering with shame. A moment later he was reaching for a wine jug.
Since Pierre had urged de Montfort to the atrocity at Bram, Hughes had pointedly distanced himself from Pierre, coldly rejecting his renewed attempts at friendliness. Now he found himself asking in a mixture of disgust and incomprehension "Why does Pierre try so hard for de Montfort's approval? The Viscount would respect him more if he grovelled less." Hughes directed his remark to Guy, who was humming happily in tipsy contentment.
"Ah, Pierre. Pierre is a bastard, you know."
"What?"
"Yes. His mother was the daughter of one of his father's vassals. He got her pregnant, and to appease her angry father, he agreed to recognize and knight the son she'd borne him. Pierre feels a desperate need to prove worthy of that knighting, but" Guy shrugged eloquently "he doesn't have a natural aptitude."
Hughes looked back at Pierre in a new light. It was not easy to be born illegitimate in a world in which one’s entire status in life revolved around one’s birth. It was hard enough being a younger son, but older brothers could die, mothers had dower lands to pass on to younger sons, and heiresses could occasionally be won by sufficient good blood and connections. But all that was denied a bastard. Usually they ended up serving their more fortunate legitimate kin as stewards, clerks or purveyors – all things, Hughes reflected, that Pierre would have been far better suited to doing than fighting. Pierre had no natural aptitude for fighting; he was too slight of build and singularly uncoordinated.
It was not Pierre's fault that he had not been granted the athletic agility and physical strength to make him a good knight, but Hughes blamed him for trying to make up for his natural inadequacies by proving that he could at least drink as much as his commander. Every thing Pierre did, he did for de Montfort´s approval, Hughes registered. Indeed, on reflection, Pierre was a good man in every respect -- except that he obsessively sought to please de Montfort. "Pierrewould be perfectly suited to garrison duty or, God knows, serving in the household of some bishop or abbot. Why, in the Name of God, does he feel he has to prove himself under a man like de Montfort?"
"Because, I believe, de Montfort was the first man to give him a chance," Guy answered sleepy with wine.
Hughes gaped at Guy in startled dismay as he grasped the implications.
"Forgive me for saying this, sir," Guy continued, the wine freeing his tongue more than normal, "but you and Sir Charles and the others are only dependent upon de Montfort for fame and fortune. Pierreis dependent upon him for his very identity. Regardless of what you all think of him, he is still one of de Montfort´s commanders. Without de Montfort, he is only a bastard."
Norbert, meanwhile, had left de Montfort's table and came over to address Hughes. "My lord wants to know what is bothering you. He says you’re spoiling the whole feast."
"I'm flattered," Hughes retorted sarcastically, "that he credits me with so much influence."
"What's the point in offending him in something so minor?"
"I don't trust a man whose changes in mood are so rapid. Yesterday he was ready to have us all decapitated for some ridiculous, not to say imagined, imperfection in the siege lines, and today we are supposed to laugh and joke with him as if he were benevolence incarnate."
Norbert shrugged. "It was his behaviour yesterday - not today - that I find offensive. I don't see anything wrong in a lord being jovial and generous with his household. Isn't the king like this?"
"Never." Hughes answered, and then at the thought of miserly, sour-tempered King Philip ever entertaining his household knights lavishly, he broke out laughing. "He's too cheap."
The others were tipsy enough to enjoy hearing such a candid description of their monarch and hooted with delighted laughter.
"Somehow, I don't think that is the proper term of respect to our august and devout king." Sir Charles admonished, pretending reproach.
"King Philip is about as devout as a priest's concubine." Hughes returned, thinking of the absolute indifference with which the King had reacted to his excommunication at the time of his unfortunate marriage with Princess Ingeborg. He lived outside the Church for years, and it had taken an interdict against all of France before he agreed to acknowledge as the Danish princess, who had displeased him in a single night, as his queen.
The others laughed even harder; they had never heard anyone speak so forthrightly about their king. Charles remarked, "I'm beginning to understand, why you aren't still in royal service."
Hughes shrugged. "Philip wouldn't have been offended by what I said. He doesn't consider devoutness a virtue ― seeing how his devout father was routinely trounced and mocked by the irreverent Henry Plantagent. It might surprise Abbot Arnaud-Amaury, but the king used to remark that the relationship between power and piety is inverse."
"Are you saying power is all that matters?" It was the deep voice of de Montfort himself as he suddenly leaned over them. The hastily shifted away from Hughes, instinctively seeking to distance themselves from the target of de Montfort's disapproval.
"If a king is to keep his kingdom, yes." Hughes answered without flinching. He was no more anxious to be target of de Montfort displeasure than the others, but he knew that evasion would evoke de Montfort's contempt as well as his anger.
"That's not the answer I would have expected from you ― not after the squeamishness you showed at Bram."
"Brutality and power are not synonymous."
"Quite right!" De Montfort agreed, snapping his fingers and pointing at Hughes. "But you still have to learn that from a position of weakness calculated brutality is a weapon one can't afford to scorn. Only the already powerful can afford mercy. So," He raised his goblet to Hughes, who was obliged to stand and raise his own in answer. "To power!" De Montfort threw back his head and guzzled the wine down with loud gulps, signalling Hughes to do the same imperiously.
Tired and over-fed, the wine blurring his senses, Hughes made his way back from the command tent. In the light of the rising moon, he could clearly see the bastide of Minerva perched upon a narrow ridge formed by the Cesse Gorge. It was pale in the darkness, an arid island high above a parched river-bed. Hughes did not know if water ever flowed in the gorge. Certainly there was no water at this time of year. There had been no rain in months, and the scrub-growth and cultivated fields were coated with white dust. Any movement sent corresponding clouds of white power into the air where it hung, waiting to be breathed in. Hughes craved a deep drink of spring water, and he pitied the villagers, now cut off from their only water source.
The well at Minerve, located at the base of the town, could only be reached by a narrow, covered stair-case. De Montfort, who had learned of the location of the well and staircase from an local enemy of the Viscount of Minerve, had targeted the base of the stairway and after a week of incessant bombardment by their largest siege-engine, the base of the stairs and the well-head had been shattered, cutting the besieged town off from their only source of water. Since then, Hughes had observed the several, increasingly frantic, efforts of Minerve's men to bridge the gap between the end of the stairway and the well. Eventually, a couple of men had managed to lower themselves on ropes to the well-head –only to discover the well was blocked with rubble, the water no longer accessible.
That had been three days ago, and Hughes reckoned other liquids must be getting scarce by now. It would not be long before the town surrendered. Maybe he could make it home to Betz in time for Emilie´s confinement after all, he hoped.
A weary voice challenged him as he approached, and then apologised. "Sorry, sir. I didn't recognize you at first."
"Is everything quiet?" Hughes asked the sergeant of the watch.
"Too quiet."
With a conscious effort, Hughes dragged his thoughts out of the fumes of alcohol and focused upon the sergeant. "What do you mean?"
"The crickets went still a while back and I've heard nothing from that sector of the line for at least ten minutes." He pointed to the sector of the siege ring held by Pierre Amiel's troops. "If you listen, you can usually hear low voices. Tonight, they were quite loud at first, then settled down, but then ― abruptly ― all went deathly silent. Not like them at all." The man broke off with a shrug.
"We better go over and investigate." Hughes decided, increasingly alert. "Don't raise the alarm yet. I'll send someone back if it's necessary. Stay at your post." Moving into the camp around his own tent, Hughes bent and shook men from their sleep as quietly as possible, signalling them to bring their arms and follow him. He would be making a perfect fool of himself, if there was nothing wrong in the adjacent sector, but better that, than to make no response and find out something had happened.
Pierre Amiel did not have the respect of most of his troops, Hughes reflected, wondering if they too knew he was born a bastard. Probably. Mercenaries were quick to hear and share any rumours about their leaders, and with so many men from so many different parts of France, there was always someone who knew someone who had served with someone else…. He sighed, picturing the way his own men must talk about his poverty, his elderly wife, his lost inheritance behind his back.
In Pierre's case the rumours of his base birth would be particularly dangerous because they would compound the difficulties his incompetence brought with them. A king might be forgiven his incompetence and an effective commander forgiven his illegitimacy, but a base-born man of average military skills was doomed to face the contempt and insolence of mercenaries. Hughes could well imagine that Pierre's troops ignored his orders, particularly when they were inconvenient. No doubt they had been drinking heavily. Probably they had failed to set a proper watch.
To his right, a man gasped and then cursed. "Sir Hughes!" The moon was higher and even before Hughes reached the man who had called, he could make out the corpse on the chalky earth. Looking closer, he noted that the corpse's throat had been cut literally from ear to ear. The head hung to one side awkwardly, the face already waxy, but the body was still warm, the blood still running.
Hughes did not have to give the order. Around him, swords rasped from their scabbards. He signalled only for the men to spread out a bit more, and they advanced in a ragged line across the gullied and rock-strew landscape. From the cooking fires, the embers still glowed faintly, and the men around them appeared to be sleeping soundly, wrapped in their blankets. Nothing seemed amiss. Hughes glanced at Pierre Amiel's tent, and saw a flickering light within. The shadows leapt and danced as the canvass shivered in a light breeze. Pierre was being undressed by his squire.
Hughes and his men had reached the campfires of Pierre Amiel’s men, but Hughes felt no shock when he discovered they were all dead. Around him, his own men were cursing and exclaiming with increasing anger as they went from man to man, from fire-to-fire, but Hughes’s mind raced ahead. Had it been a group of men from Minerve breaking out of the encirclement for freedom ― or relief forces coming in from outside? The Bastide of Minerva was held by the Viscount himself and he was brother-in-law to Raymond der Termes. Termes had a large following of so-called faydits, disinherited knights and lords, who he might have ―
It was the peculiar smell of fire that cut through his thoughts. In the same instant, his brain made the right association. Behind the camp the silent silhouette of Pierre Amiel's siege engine waited ominously. And there, along the base, Hughes could make out moving shadows and now a lurid, flickering light. The enemy was trying to set fire to the engine.
Hughes grabbed the man nearest him and hissed. "Get word back to de Montfort!" With his sword he pointed to the siege engine.
The man stared blankly for a moment before he grasped what Hughes was pointing at and talking about. Then he cursed under his breath and spun about to run back toward their own camp. Growling at his men as best he could without making too much noise, Hughes drew them together and led them up the slope toward the siege engine where at most a dozen men were struggling to set a fire. Only when they were paces away did Hughes shout "A Montfort!" and his men took up the cry.
The enemy assaulting the siege engine only had time only to turn around, surprise still on their faces, then Hughes's men were on top of them. They defended themselves, but most proved to be no serious match for the veterans with Hughes, and they were outnumbered by more than two to one.
At the siege engine itself, one man ignored the attackers and taking an axe tried frantically to sabotage it. Hughes advanced directly at him, aware in the ever brighter moonlight that this man was in a suit of chain mail and wore a surcoat with heraldic arms. Hughes surmised he was the leader of the band of attackers. "Yield! Your men are dead!"
The knight looked over his shoulder at Hughes. He was a lanky, young man with a long face. His eyes took in the slaughter of his followers, then shifted to Hughes sword, and with an inarticulate cry he flung his axe. If he hadn't seen the other man’s eyes shift, the axe might have taken Hughes by surprise. As it was, it forced him to duck and spring to one side, giving the stranger time to draw his sword. He faced Hughes with his sword circling slowly, his eyes alert.
"We can over-power you easily." Hughes pointed out, hearing his panting men coming up behind him one by one, after they finished off the others.
"Then do it," answered Hughes’ adversary in heavily accented French.
"Why not yield instead?"
"And have my eyes put out?"
"Are you a heretic?"
"Do you care? You murdered a thousand men, women and children, who had taken refuge in St Mary Magadelen in Beziers! You even butchered the priests holding the Eucharist before the alter!"
"Shall we take him, Sir?" The voice was eager in Hughes’s ear.
Hughes shook his head, and stepped forward. His opponent had the siege engine at his back and he could not afford to take his eyes off his numerous enemies to watch his footing. He tried to manoeuvre to the left, but Hughes's men had started to spread out, calling mockingly to their quarry.
"What are you afraid of? If we kill you, you get born again, don't you?" The mercenaries laughed.
"Maybe next time, you'll have more luck and will be born French."
"Or a woman."
"More likely he'll be born an ass." The mercenaries shouted with laughter at their own jokes.
The knight lunged at Hughes. Hughes had anticipated the move and parried the thrust. Neither had shields and so they grasped their swords two-handed. For several minutes they struggled, the clang of the blades and their own rasping breath the only sounds that registered in Hughes’s brain. He did not even realize his own men cheering and jeering.
After the excesses of de Montfort's feast, Hughes was sweating profusely. He smelt the garlic and wine on his sweat with repulsion. His opponent seemed dry, but his breath was rank from too little food. As they came together, Hughes could see the split and swollen lips of a man suffering from thirst. Hughes knew the effects of extreme thirst, he had experienced them in Palestine.
Distracted, he responded a fraction too late to a new thrust. He sprang back, but not quite fast enough. He felt the sting of the sword as it cut through his chain mail just above his knee. Later it would hurt, but for the moment it caused him only alarm. Too late, he realized that he was at a severe disadvantage because he did not want to die, whereas his opponent's only goal was to take as many men as possible with him to his death.
"Let us take him!" Hughes's men urged him, enraged that the southerner had drawn blood.
The Toulousan, meanwhile, sensed Hughes' surprise and hesitation. He pressed his attack harder, his face contorted with effort, thirst and hatred. He had no breath left for curses or cries, but he eyes spoke eloquently. Hughes was frightened, and dropped sharply on his wounded knee. His opponent loomed over him, the sword flashed in the moonlight, and all around the invaders were shouting hoarsely, furious, anxious to rescue Hughes.
Hughes brought his own sword upward, piercing silk, mail, leather and skin. Too late the Toulousan knight realized that Hughes had tricked him with feigned weakness. His face cleared of hatred long enough to register surprise, almost approval, and then his strength gushed out of him with his blood and innards and he fell upon the sword that had killed him so that it went clean through him as it bore his murderer onto the chalky earth.
Hughes went over backward under the other's dead weight and for a moment they lay entwined together like lovers. Then Hughes started struggling to free himself from the weight of the dying man and pull his sword free. For a second, Hughes paused to catch his breath and his gaze fell on the Toulousan knight lying on his belly his face turned to one side. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved. Hughes leaned forward and caught a whisper in the langue d'oc that he could not decipher ― except he thought he heard the words "Christ" and "Julienne."
"How badly are you hurt?" It was the rough bellow of de Montfort himself, and the next thing Hughes knew his commander had his massive hand under his arm and was helping him to his feet. Behind him a stallion snorted and pranced in discomfort at the smell of blood. Behind the horse were a dozen mounted knights.
"Most of the blood is his. I’m not badly hurt." Hughes answered embarrassed.
De Montfort still had hold of him firmly. "Are you sure? I can't afford to lose you. You'll return with me to my tent and have your wounded tended to properly."
"It's--"
"You'll do as I say! Where's Sir Pierre?"
Hughes felt his stomach tense. He had never even thought to send for Pierre- not given the condition he had been in on leaving de Montfort's tent. Only now did it occur to him that this had been unfair. "I didn't have time to send for him. I--"
De Montfort raised his head and roared. "AMIEL!" The shout cut through the night as all the men, who had been excitedly talking among themselves fell silent in the face of de Montfort's bellow of fury. "A-M-I-E-L!"
"It's not his--"
"Shut up!" De Montfort snarled. "Sir Pierre has to answer for himself." Then to one of the mounted men he ordered. "Fetch Sir Pierre Amiel from his tent and bring him here at once."
The man spurred away. De Montfort turned back to Hughes and lectured in a stern almost abusive tone. "Next time, I don't want any heroics! You let your men come to your assistance, is that clear? You aren't at some royal tournament! You are fighting a bloody war. You can be sure he--" he pointed to the Toulousan knight who was now dead "would not have given you the same courtesy of a fair fight. And I can't afford to have my knights wounded ― there are too bloody few of you as it is. Otherwise, you did a good job. I'm impressed."
Praise from de Montfort was so rare that Hughes found himself glowing with pride, even though his knee was now starting to throb and ache painfully. De Montfort's approval was the first step to gaining more than his meagre pay. Vague but tempting visions of castles, bastides and lordships formed in the night air.
And then Sir Pierre could be seen running towards them from his tent. He was wearing only his shirt and trying to pull his hauberk on as he scampered on tender bare feet across the rocky ground. Watching him come, Hughes's joy over de Montfort's praise drained out of him. Pierre's men had been murdered and his siege engine attacked, and all the while he had been in his tent and never noticed a thing.
"My lord, I was―" Pierre started before he reached de Montfort. Then he saw de Montfort holding Hughes, saw the dark, still glistening smear of blood across Hughes entire chest and could not know it was not his. He blanched in genuine horror. "Hughes!" Then he saw the corpse behind him. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "What - what --"
"Well you might ask!" De Montfort let Hughes go and strode toward Pierre Amiel. He struck out with his fist, smashing the small, thin knight over backwards with a single blow to his face. Blood gushed down from Pierre's nose and he reeled as he tried to lift himself. He stuttered something and coughed up blood.
"All your men slaughtered in their sleep! Your siege engine attacked, and the whole time you did nothing but puke in your tent!" De Montfort bent over the Pierre, and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt he started shaking him violently back and forth. "I could have you hanged for neglect of duty! For the murder of your men!" As he raged de Montfort's voice grew louder and harsher and more uncontrolled. "Or for treason!"
"We can't afford to do that." Arnaud-Amaury remarked in his distinct, cold voice. He sat astride a tall, lean horse and looked down at commander and victim with an expressionless round face. "We have lost enough men this night already."
De Montfort in his rage turned upon the abbot and pointing at him shouted. "I don’t tell you how to read Mass, and you don't tell me what to do with my own men! If I want to hang Sir Pierre by his balls until his worthless brains rot, I'll do it!"
Hughes swallowed, but his throat was dry. He found himself praying that Arnaud-Amaury or someone else would have the courage he did not have to intervene on Pierre's part.
But the Abbot, offended by de Montfort's tone, chose to turn his horse around and ride away in protest.
"Bind him and bring him to the command tent!" De Montfort ordered Hughes’s troops, and then turning back and ordered Hughes to mount on his own horse.
Hughes, numb, limped over to the great bay stallion, and the next thing he knew de Montfort had lifted him off the ground with startling ease. He had only to fling his leg over the saddle, and then de Montfort sprang up behind him. "Set a watch and then clear the dead away." De Montfort ordered Sir Alain, who was among the men who had escorted him. "These," he indicated the knight and men from the besieged town, "you can roll down into the gorge for the vultures. Our own men need a Christian burial."
Hughes crossed himself, and silently said a prayer for the man he'd killed. "Jesus, Maria, have mercy on his soul." After a moment he added, "and mine."
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
June 26, 1210
Lighted by torches and candles, the canvas of de Montfort's command tent seemed luminous against the darkness, and the shadows cast by the occupants were large and distorted. From inside came the unmistakable sound of voices and laughter, the clatter of cutlery and fragments of music. When servants entered or left, briefly opening the flap-door, the scent of heavily spiced meat escaped. The soldiers of de Montfort's army glanced occasionally toward the tent from their own camp-fires, and although some were envious of the better rations afforded their betters, most were content to hear their leader in such good humour. De Montfort's booming laugh could be distinguished easily above all the others.
Seated in the centre of the trestle table, de Montfort threw back his head and guffawed with delight at the jokes Alain and Lambert fed him from his left side. Arnaud-Armaury, seated as always on his right, leaned forward straining to partake in the repartee. Squires squeezed along behind the table, sweating from the effort of keeping the wine flowing in sufficient quantities.
Since he had joined de Montfort, this was not the first such feast he had witnessed, and Hughes had long since learned to hate them. De Montfort could easily drink all of his knights under the table, and he enjoyed proving his superiority at this no less than his superiority at everything else. Whereas Hughes admired de Montfort's military skills, Hughes saw nothing particularly admirable about being able to consume gallons of wine without feeling the effects. What was worse, de Montfort's "hospitality" would leave the bulk of his guests ill and unfit for the next 24 hours. It all seemed such a waste. They would probably consume more wine this night than he and Emilie had in their cellars.
The thought of Emilie depressed Hughes and made him restless. Her last letter spoke of bleeding and spasmodic pain. He could read her fear in the crossed out sentences, in the attempts at self-ridicule and bravado. She was terrified and she wanted him with her, and he was sitting here guzzling expensive wine and gorging himself on over-spiced meat. All for the sake of a silver mark a week. If only they didn't need that silver mark so desperately!
"Well?" a hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Something not to your liking?" The tone was friendly, and Charles climbed over the bench to sit beside Hughes. "Our gallant leader doesn't like anyone to be glum when he had decided to distribute good cheer."
"Did he send you over?" Hughes asked, glancing toward de Montfort suspiciously. Before Bram, de Montfort had taken no note of him at all, now his attentions seemed entirely disapproving; Hughes was acutely aware of how dangerous that could be.
"Nay, but I heard him remark sourly to Alain that you were sitting over here and pouting like a sullen child."
"Kind of him to notice." Hughes remarked sharply, offended by the insult and angry with himself for caring what de Montfort thought.
"You've got to get up and dance on the table." Guy joined in the conversation, clambering over the bench on Hughes's other side. "Ever since Sir Lambert did that last year, he has been in great favour."
Hughes looked over at the Benedictine, uncertain if this was meant in earnest or jest. "And I thought it was because he was so good at mutilation."
"Now, now. Don't be unfair." Guy warned. "Mutilation would not be welcomed tonight. Tonight he has decreed we are to be carelessly happy. And by God you had better be merry and uninhibited, or he'll make sure you regret it!" Guy had brought his own wine-cup with him and clomped it on the table to emphasize his words.
"Does he really think he can order merriment in the same way he does obedience?" Hughes inquired with a tinge of contempt. No one, not even a king, could command another man’s feelings.
"Hasn't he succeeded?" Charles pointed out with a sweeping gesture.
The tent was full of laughing, singing, drinking knights. Even as he looked, a pair got up and started dancing together to roars of approval from de Montfort. Even Norbert, otherwise quite diffident and restrained, had lost all his inhibitions and now clambered over the bench to join the dancing. De Montfort started clapping to give the dancers the pace, and then took up a tune to keep them dancing. The other knights joined in: singing, clapping or stamping their feet in time with de Montfort. Sir Charles and Guy both joined in, swaying in rhythm to the music.
Hughes felt the gulf of alienation yawning around him. Guy slipped his arm through Hughes' and nudged him until he swayed with them on the bench. Smiling and nodding, Guy induced Hughes to join in the singing. But that did not make Hughes feel less alien inside.
De Montfort started clapping faster and faster. The dancers were forced to pick up the pace. The singers, catching on to the game, sang louder and faster. The dancers were red and sweating from the exertion. Montfort stood up and even clapped faster until one of the knights tripped and sprawled face first onto the packed dirt of the floor. De Montfort flung back his head and laughed, but then he called the three dancing knights up to his table and flung his arm around Norbert's shoulders as he shared his own goblet with them each in turn.
Hughes could see the way Norbert flushed under de Montfort's attentions, flattered. He noted that Pierre Amiel was as usual trying to draw de Montfort's attention to himself, this time with a new attempt at dancing. De Montfort only scowled in irritation. He made some remark that Hughes did not catch. He saw Pierre Amiel wince visibly and draw back, red and smouldering with shame. A moment later he was reaching for a wine jug.
Since Pierre had urged de Montfort to the atrocity at Bram, Hughes had pointedly distanced himself from Pierre, coldly rejecting his renewed attempts at friendliness. Now he found himself asking in a mixture of disgust and incomprehension "Why does Pierre try so hard for de Montfort's approval? The Viscount would respect him more if he grovelled less." Hughes directed his remark to Guy, who was humming happily in tipsy contentment.
"Ah, Pierre. Pierre is a bastard, you know."
"What?"
"Yes. His mother was the daughter of one of his father's vassals. He got her pregnant, and to appease her angry father, he agreed to recognize and knight the son she'd borne him. Pierre feels a desperate need to prove worthy of that knighting, but" Guy shrugged eloquently "he doesn't have a natural aptitude."
Hughes looked back at Pierre in a new light. It was not easy to be born illegitimate in a world in which one’s entire status in life revolved around one’s birth. It was hard enough being a younger son, but older brothers could die, mothers had dower lands to pass on to younger sons, and heiresses could occasionally be won by sufficient good blood and connections. But all that was denied a bastard. Usually they ended up serving their more fortunate legitimate kin as stewards, clerks or purveyors – all things, Hughes reflected, that Pierre would have been far better suited to doing than fighting. Pierre had no natural aptitude for fighting; he was too slight of build and singularly uncoordinated.
It was not Pierre's fault that he had not been granted the athletic agility and physical strength to make him a good knight, but Hughes blamed him for trying to make up for his natural inadequacies by proving that he could at least drink as much as his commander. Every thing Pierre did, he did for de Montfort´s approval, Hughes registered. Indeed, on reflection, Pierre was a good man in every respect -- except that he obsessively sought to please de Montfort. "Pierrewould be perfectly suited to garrison duty or, God knows, serving in the household of some bishop or abbot. Why, in the Name of God, does he feel he has to prove himself under a man like de Montfort?"
"Because, I believe, de Montfort was the first man to give him a chance," Guy answered sleepy with wine.
Hughes gaped at Guy in startled dismay as he grasped the implications.
"Forgive me for saying this, sir," Guy continued, the wine freeing his tongue more than normal, "but you and Sir Charles and the others are only dependent upon de Montfort for fame and fortune. Pierreis dependent upon him for his very identity. Regardless of what you all think of him, he is still one of de Montfort´s commanders. Without de Montfort, he is only a bastard."
Norbert, meanwhile, had left de Montfort's table and came over to address Hughes. "My lord wants to know what is bothering you. He says you’re spoiling the whole feast."
"I'm flattered," Hughes retorted sarcastically, "that he credits me with so much influence."
"What's the point in offending him in something so minor?"
"I don't trust a man whose changes in mood are so rapid. Yesterday he was ready to have us all decapitated for some ridiculous, not to say imagined, imperfection in the siege lines, and today we are supposed to laugh and joke with him as if he were benevolence incarnate."
Norbert shrugged. "It was his behaviour yesterday - not today - that I find offensive. I don't see anything wrong in a lord being jovial and generous with his household. Isn't the king like this?"
"Never." Hughes answered, and then at the thought of miserly, sour-tempered King Philip ever entertaining his household knights lavishly, he broke out laughing. "He's too cheap."
The others were tipsy enough to enjoy hearing such a candid description of their monarch and hooted with delighted laughter.
"Somehow, I don't think that is the proper term of respect to our august and devout king." Sir Charles admonished, pretending reproach.
"King Philip is about as devout as a priest's concubine." Hughes returned, thinking of the absolute indifference with which the King had reacted to his excommunication at the time of his unfortunate marriage with Princess Ingeborg. He lived outside the Church for years, and it had taken an interdict against all of France before he agreed to acknowledge as the Danish princess, who had displeased him in a single night, as his queen.
The others laughed even harder; they had never heard anyone speak so forthrightly about their king. Charles remarked, "I'm beginning to understand, why you aren't still in royal service."
Hughes shrugged. "Philip wouldn't have been offended by what I said. He doesn't consider devoutness a virtue ― seeing how his devout father was routinely trounced and mocked by the irreverent Henry Plantagent. It might surprise Abbot Arnaud-Amaury, but the king used to remark that the relationship between power and piety is inverse."
"Are you saying power is all that matters?" It was the deep voice of de Montfort himself as he suddenly leaned over them. The hastily shifted away from Hughes, instinctively seeking to distance themselves from the target of de Montfort's disapproval.
"If a king is to keep his kingdom, yes." Hughes answered without flinching. He was no more anxious to be target of de Montfort displeasure than the others, but he knew that evasion would evoke de Montfort's contempt as well as his anger.
"That's not the answer I would have expected from you ― not after the squeamishness you showed at Bram."
"Brutality and power are not synonymous."
"Quite right!" De Montfort agreed, snapping his fingers and pointing at Hughes. "But you still have to learn that from a position of weakness calculated brutality is a weapon one can't afford to scorn. Only the already powerful can afford mercy. So," He raised his goblet to Hughes, who was obliged to stand and raise his own in answer. "To power!" De Montfort threw back his head and guzzled the wine down with loud gulps, signalling Hughes to do the same imperiously.
Tired and over-fed, the wine blurring his senses, Hughes made his way back from the command tent. In the light of the rising moon, he could clearly see the bastide of Minerva perched upon a narrow ridge formed by the Cesse Gorge. It was pale in the darkness, an arid island high above a parched river-bed. Hughes did not know if water ever flowed in the gorge. Certainly there was no water at this time of year. There had been no rain in months, and the scrub-growth and cultivated fields were coated with white dust. Any movement sent corresponding clouds of white power into the air where it hung, waiting to be breathed in. Hughes craved a deep drink of spring water, and he pitied the villagers, now cut off from their only water source.
The well at Minerve, located at the base of the town, could only be reached by a narrow, covered stair-case. De Montfort, who had learned of the location of the well and staircase from an local enemy of the Viscount of Minerve, had targeted the base of the stairway and after a week of incessant bombardment by their largest siege-engine, the base of the stairs and the well-head had been shattered, cutting the besieged town off from their only source of water. Since then, Hughes had observed the several, increasingly frantic, efforts of Minerve's men to bridge the gap between the end of the stairway and the well. Eventually, a couple of men had managed to lower themselves on ropes to the well-head –only to discover the well was blocked with rubble, the water no longer accessible.
That had been three days ago, and Hughes reckoned other liquids must be getting scarce by now. It would not be long before the town surrendered. Maybe he could make it home to Betz in time for Emilie´s confinement after all, he hoped.
A weary voice challenged him as he approached, and then apologised. "Sorry, sir. I didn't recognize you at first."
"Is everything quiet?" Hughes asked the sergeant of the watch.
"Too quiet."
With a conscious effort, Hughes dragged his thoughts out of the fumes of alcohol and focused upon the sergeant. "What do you mean?"
"The crickets went still a while back and I've heard nothing from that sector of the line for at least ten minutes." He pointed to the sector of the siege ring held by Pierre Amiel's troops. "If you listen, you can usually hear low voices. Tonight, they were quite loud at first, then settled down, but then ― abruptly ― all went deathly silent. Not like them at all." The man broke off with a shrug.
"We better go over and investigate." Hughes decided, increasingly alert. "Don't raise the alarm yet. I'll send someone back if it's necessary. Stay at your post." Moving into the camp around his own tent, Hughes bent and shook men from their sleep as quietly as possible, signalling them to bring their arms and follow him. He would be making a perfect fool of himself, if there was nothing wrong in the adjacent sector, but better that, than to make no response and find out something had happened.
Pierre Amiel did not have the respect of most of his troops, Hughes reflected, wondering if they too knew he was born a bastard. Probably. Mercenaries were quick to hear and share any rumours about their leaders, and with so many men from so many different parts of France, there was always someone who knew someone who had served with someone else…. He sighed, picturing the way his own men must talk about his poverty, his elderly wife, his lost inheritance behind his back.
In Pierre's case the rumours of his base birth would be particularly dangerous because they would compound the difficulties his incompetence brought with them. A king might be forgiven his incompetence and an effective commander forgiven his illegitimacy, but a base-born man of average military skills was doomed to face the contempt and insolence of mercenaries. Hughes could well imagine that Pierre's troops ignored his orders, particularly when they were inconvenient. No doubt they had been drinking heavily. Probably they had failed to set a proper watch.
To his right, a man gasped and then cursed. "Sir Hughes!" The moon was higher and even before Hughes reached the man who had called, he could make out the corpse on the chalky earth. Looking closer, he noted that the corpse's throat had been cut literally from ear to ear. The head hung to one side awkwardly, the face already waxy, but the body was still warm, the blood still running.
Hughes did not have to give the order. Around him, swords rasped from their scabbards. He signalled only for the men to spread out a bit more, and they advanced in a ragged line across the gullied and rock-strew landscape. From the cooking fires, the embers still glowed faintly, and the men around them appeared to be sleeping soundly, wrapped in their blankets. Nothing seemed amiss. Hughes glanced at Pierre Amiel's tent, and saw a flickering light within. The shadows leapt and danced as the canvass shivered in a light breeze. Pierre was being undressed by his squire.
Hughes and his men had reached the campfires of Pierre Amiel’s men, but Hughes felt no shock when he discovered they were all dead. Around him, his own men were cursing and exclaiming with increasing anger as they went from man to man, from fire-to-fire, but Hughes’s mind raced ahead. Had it been a group of men from Minerve breaking out of the encirclement for freedom ― or relief forces coming in from outside? The Bastide of Minerva was held by the Viscount himself and he was brother-in-law to Raymond der Termes. Termes had a large following of so-called faydits, disinherited knights and lords, who he might have ―
It was the peculiar smell of fire that cut through his thoughts. In the same instant, his brain made the right association. Behind the camp the silent silhouette of Pierre Amiel's siege engine waited ominously. And there, along the base, Hughes could make out moving shadows and now a lurid, flickering light. The enemy was trying to set fire to the engine.
Hughes grabbed the man nearest him and hissed. "Get word back to de Montfort!" With his sword he pointed to the siege engine.
The man stared blankly for a moment before he grasped what Hughes was pointing at and talking about. Then he cursed under his breath and spun about to run back toward their own camp. Growling at his men as best he could without making too much noise, Hughes drew them together and led them up the slope toward the siege engine where at most a dozen men were struggling to set a fire. Only when they were paces away did Hughes shout "A Montfort!" and his men took up the cry.
The enemy assaulting the siege engine only had time only to turn around, surprise still on their faces, then Hughes's men were on top of them. They defended themselves, but most proved to be no serious match for the veterans with Hughes, and they were outnumbered by more than two to one.
At the siege engine itself, one man ignored the attackers and taking an axe tried frantically to sabotage it. Hughes advanced directly at him, aware in the ever brighter moonlight that this man was in a suit of chain mail and wore a surcoat with heraldic arms. Hughes surmised he was the leader of the band of attackers. "Yield! Your men are dead!"
The knight looked over his shoulder at Hughes. He was a lanky, young man with a long face. His eyes took in the slaughter of his followers, then shifted to Hughes sword, and with an inarticulate cry he flung his axe. If he hadn't seen the other man’s eyes shift, the axe might have taken Hughes by surprise. As it was, it forced him to duck and spring to one side, giving the stranger time to draw his sword. He faced Hughes with his sword circling slowly, his eyes alert.
"We can over-power you easily." Hughes pointed out, hearing his panting men coming up behind him one by one, after they finished off the others.
"Then do it," answered Hughes’ adversary in heavily accented French.
"Why not yield instead?"
"And have my eyes put out?"
"Are you a heretic?"
"Do you care? You murdered a thousand men, women and children, who had taken refuge in St Mary Magadelen in Beziers! You even butchered the priests holding the Eucharist before the alter!"
"Shall we take him, Sir?" The voice was eager in Hughes’s ear.
Hughes shook his head, and stepped forward. His opponent had the siege engine at his back and he could not afford to take his eyes off his numerous enemies to watch his footing. He tried to manoeuvre to the left, but Hughes's men had started to spread out, calling mockingly to their quarry.
"What are you afraid of? If we kill you, you get born again, don't you?" The mercenaries laughed.
"Maybe next time, you'll have more luck and will be born French."
"Or a woman."
"More likely he'll be born an ass." The mercenaries shouted with laughter at their own jokes.
The knight lunged at Hughes. Hughes had anticipated the move and parried the thrust. Neither had shields and so they grasped their swords two-handed. For several minutes they struggled, the clang of the blades and their own rasping breath the only sounds that registered in Hughes’s brain. He did not even realize his own men cheering and jeering.
After the excesses of de Montfort's feast, Hughes was sweating profusely. He smelt the garlic and wine on his sweat with repulsion. His opponent seemed dry, but his breath was rank from too little food. As they came together, Hughes could see the split and swollen lips of a man suffering from thirst. Hughes knew the effects of extreme thirst, he had experienced them in Palestine.
Distracted, he responded a fraction too late to a new thrust. He sprang back, but not quite fast enough. He felt the sting of the sword as it cut through his chain mail just above his knee. Later it would hurt, but for the moment it caused him only alarm. Too late, he realized that he was at a severe disadvantage because he did not want to die, whereas his opponent's only goal was to take as many men as possible with him to his death.
"Let us take him!" Hughes's men urged him, enraged that the southerner had drawn blood.
The Toulousan, meanwhile, sensed Hughes' surprise and hesitation. He pressed his attack harder, his face contorted with effort, thirst and hatred. He had no breath left for curses or cries, but he eyes spoke eloquently. Hughes was frightened, and dropped sharply on his wounded knee. His opponent loomed over him, the sword flashed in the moonlight, and all around the invaders were shouting hoarsely, furious, anxious to rescue Hughes.
Hughes brought his own sword upward, piercing silk, mail, leather and skin. Too late the Toulousan knight realized that Hughes had tricked him with feigned weakness. His face cleared of hatred long enough to register surprise, almost approval, and then his strength gushed out of him with his blood and innards and he fell upon the sword that had killed him so that it went clean through him as it bore his murderer onto the chalky earth.
Hughes went over backward under the other's dead weight and for a moment they lay entwined together like lovers. Then Hughes started struggling to free himself from the weight of the dying man and pull his sword free. For a second, Hughes paused to catch his breath and his gaze fell on the Toulousan knight lying on his belly his face turned to one side. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved. Hughes leaned forward and caught a whisper in the langue d'oc that he could not decipher ― except he thought he heard the words "Christ" and "Julienne."
"How badly are you hurt?" It was the rough bellow of de Montfort himself, and the next thing Hughes knew his commander had his massive hand under his arm and was helping him to his feet. Behind him a stallion snorted and pranced in discomfort at the smell of blood. Behind the horse were a dozen mounted knights.
"Most of the blood is his. I’m not badly hurt." Hughes answered embarrassed.
De Montfort still had hold of him firmly. "Are you sure? I can't afford to lose you. You'll return with me to my tent and have your wounded tended to properly."
"It's--"
"You'll do as I say! Where's Sir Pierre?"
Hughes felt his stomach tense. He had never even thought to send for Pierre- not given the condition he had been in on leaving de Montfort's tent. Only now did it occur to him that this had been unfair. "I didn't have time to send for him. I--"
De Montfort raised his head and roared. "AMIEL!" The shout cut through the night as all the men, who had been excitedly talking among themselves fell silent in the face of de Montfort's bellow of fury. "A-M-I-E-L!"
"It's not his--"
"Shut up!" De Montfort snarled. "Sir Pierre has to answer for himself." Then to one of the mounted men he ordered. "Fetch Sir Pierre Amiel from his tent and bring him here at once."
The man spurred away. De Montfort turned back to Hughes and lectured in a stern almost abusive tone. "Next time, I don't want any heroics! You let your men come to your assistance, is that clear? You aren't at some royal tournament! You are fighting a bloody war. You can be sure he--" he pointed to the Toulousan knight who was now dead "would not have given you the same courtesy of a fair fight. And I can't afford to have my knights wounded ― there are too bloody few of you as it is. Otherwise, you did a good job. I'm impressed."
Praise from de Montfort was so rare that Hughes found himself glowing with pride, even though his knee was now starting to throb and ache painfully. De Montfort's approval was the first step to gaining more than his meagre pay. Vague but tempting visions of castles, bastides and lordships formed in the night air.
And then Sir Pierre could be seen running towards them from his tent. He was wearing only his shirt and trying to pull his hauberk on as he scampered on tender bare feet across the rocky ground. Watching him come, Hughes's joy over de Montfort's praise drained out of him. Pierre's men had been murdered and his siege engine attacked, and all the while he had been in his tent and never noticed a thing.
"My lord, I was―" Pierre started before he reached de Montfort. Then he saw de Montfort holding Hughes, saw the dark, still glistening smear of blood across Hughes entire chest and could not know it was not his. He blanched in genuine horror. "Hughes!" Then he saw the corpse behind him. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "What - what --"
"Well you might ask!" De Montfort let Hughes go and strode toward Pierre Amiel. He struck out with his fist, smashing the small, thin knight over backwards with a single blow to his face. Blood gushed down from Pierre's nose and he reeled as he tried to lift himself. He stuttered something and coughed up blood.
"All your men slaughtered in their sleep! Your siege engine attacked, and the whole time you did nothing but puke in your tent!" De Montfort bent over the Pierre, and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt he started shaking him violently back and forth. "I could have you hanged for neglect of duty! For the murder of your men!" As he raged de Montfort's voice grew louder and harsher and more uncontrolled. "Or for treason!"
"We can't afford to do that." Arnaud-Amaury remarked in his distinct, cold voice. He sat astride a tall, lean horse and looked down at commander and victim with an expressionless round face. "We have lost enough men this night already."
De Montfort in his rage turned upon the abbot and pointing at him shouted. "I don’t tell you how to read Mass, and you don't tell me what to do with my own men! If I want to hang Sir Pierre by his balls until his worthless brains rot, I'll do it!"
Hughes swallowed, but his throat was dry. He found himself praying that Arnaud-Amaury or someone else would have the courage he did not have to intervene on Pierre's part.
But the Abbot, offended by de Montfort's tone, chose to turn his horse around and ride away in protest.
"Bind him and bring him to the command tent!" De Montfort ordered Hughes’s troops, and then turning back and ordered Hughes to mount on his own horse.
Hughes, numb, limped over to the great bay stallion, and the next thing he knew de Montfort had lifted him off the ground with startling ease. He had only to fling his leg over the saddle, and then de Montfort sprang up behind him. "Set a watch and then clear the dead away." De Montfort ordered Sir Alain, who was among the men who had escorted him. "These," he indicated the knight and men from the besieged town, "you can roll down into the gorge for the vultures. Our own men need a Christian burial."
Hughes crossed himself, and silently said a prayer for the man he'd killed. "Jesus, Maria, have mercy on his soul." After a moment he added, "and mine."
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
February 8, 2013
The Devil's Knight - Chapter 4
Bram, County of Toulouse
April 1210
The wind shifted slightly and the smoke billowing up from inside the town suddenly veered and blew directly at them. Hughes squinted, but the smoke was too thick and at once his eyes began to sting and water. His stallion snorted and started to fidget, flinging up his head and stamping his feet. Hughes let him swing his haunches to the smoke, as he tried to clear his eyes by blinking. Finally, he was forced to pull off his right chain mail mitten and use his naked fingers to rub his eyes until the stinging let up. Then he wiped away the tears on his sooty face leaving a smear across his cheeks and beard, and squinted again toward the town. The fires had been set by burning quarrels that Lambert de Thury's troops had managed to shoot over the walls of the town, and clearly the fires were spreading. There had been no rain in the region for over a month. The roof-thatch was dry. The stiff breeze fanned the flames and blew sparks too quickly for the villagers to contain the flames.From the town came the dull, garble of shouts and cries, now and again pierced by a more penetrating shriek. The rumble of things being rolled or dragged away from the flames and the crash of collapsing beams provided further counterpoint to the man-made noise. High-pitched whinnies and the barking of dogs added to the cacophony. Hughes had been through dozens of sieges in the last two decades, but each one reminded him of his first -- the siege of Ascalon by Saladin. He had been 10 at the time, and had fled with his mother and sisters from Hebron. They had been forced to abandon Hebron without a fight because all the fighting men had accompanied Hughes's father and elder brothers when the King of Jerusalem called for men to aid in the relief of Tiberias. On the Horns of Hattin the royal army had been decimated in the most disastrous battle in the history of Christian Palestine. The King of Jerusalem, the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and the Templars, the bishop of Acre with the True Cross, and countless other noblemen and knights had been killed or captured. Hughes's mother had known the fate of neither her husband nor her eldest sons. The shock had been so great that the Lady of Hebron despaired. Collecting her valuables, her servants and her younger children she had fled for the safety of Ascalon ― only to find that city as devoid of defenders as Hebron itself. When Saladin appeared before the walls of the port city a few weeks later, the defence had been feeble and the surrender quick. The Lady of Hebron had only just managed to take ship with her children for Tyre. It remained the most terrifying moment of Hughes's life, and to this day he could not see smoke from a distance without being reminded of the smudge of smoke soiling the horizon as they sailed away from Ascalon.Since then, however, Hughes had more often been with the besieger than the besieged. The feel of sweat soaking the inside of his quilted, linen aceton and the intense heat of his chain mail when, as now, it was exposed to a hot sun was as familiar to him as the smell of siege-smoke.Beside Hughes, the crew of the siege engine he commanded strained to reload and re-cock the catapult. The men sweated profusely and cursed as they worked, they were weary and aching. For four days and nights they had, alternating with another crew every four hours, kept this siege engine in unrelenting operation night and day. They had, as a result, managed to weaken the wall. Cracks were gradually spreading and shattered masonry was piling up at the foot of it, but Hughes assessed the damage professionally and knew the wall was far from collapsing. The town, he judged, would fall before the wall did. It was completely encircled by de Montfort’s forces. No less than four siege engines were engaged, and the archers with both sharp and flaming quarrels moved from place to place so that the citizens could never know whence the next barrage would come. Furthermore, a battering ram was nearing completion, and the assault was planned for the next day, despite the fact that it was Good Friday.With a shout and a collective grunt from the crew, the catapult was brought to ready. Hughes shifted his attention back to town as he lifted his arm to signal the next volley. Something caught his eye, and with a frown he squinted against the still gusting smoke and tried to see what it was. Amidst the smoke that billowed up particularly thick and black before the church tower, something waved and flashed. He wiped his eyes again to reduce the stinging and then looked again to the spire. There was something white amidst the smoke."They're signalling surrender!" The shout went up from just to the right. Bert galloped up, hooting in triumph. "They're surrendering! They're surrendering!" Hughes ordered his crew to hold their volley, and waited expectantly for Bert to rein in beside him. The youth was grinning from ear to ear. "They raised a white flag of surrender over the Church!" He told Hughes breathlessly. "And a delegation of citizens shouted to de Roucy for a parlay! I was with de Roucy's troops when it happened!" Hughes had to smile at his squire's uninhibited delight. It was, he reminded himself, the youth's first siege and so his first victory. He didn't even know how exceptional it was to press a siege so hard and to crack a town so quickly. But he was learning, Hughes reminded himself. In the training at Carcassone, the squires no less than the knights and soldiers had been drilled and trained mercilessly. He was considerably less worried about Bert’s ability to survive now than he had been when the left Betz. "Stay here with the crew," Hughes ordered and set off at once for the command tent to get his orders. One after another, the knights who had been spread out around the perimeter of the town rode up. De Montfort came out of his tent, and stood staring toward the town sceptically. At last, Sir Alain de Roucy trotted up. In the preceding three months, Hughes had come to respect Sir Alain's competence with weapons generally, but Sir Alain remained extremely aloof, fraternizing only with Sir Lambert de Thury. Sir Alain and Sir Lambert also enjoyed a privileged status with de Montfort ― drinking, carousing, consulting and conspiring with him and Arnaud-Amaury to the exclusion of the others.Hughes knew that Sir Charles resented the favouritism de Montfort showed Roucy and Thury. After all, Sir Charles had brought more troops than either of the others, and he had every right to be included in any inner-circle of bannerets. He sat his heavy stallion with an almost sullen expression, resenting Roucy´s easy victory here.Others, including the youthful Norbert and insecure Pierre, openly courted the favour of de Montfort's favourites. Hughes recognized intellectually that he would be wise to do the same. He had 14 years experience at a royal court, and he knew how dangerous it was to offend the intimates of one's lord. Yet even though Hughes knew objectively that he was as dependent as the others, he could not overcome his pride and bring himself to curry favour like some courtier. Certainly not from men like Roucy and Thury, who were mere parvenus. Sir Lambert de Thury was the worse of the two, he reflected, casting a guardedly hostile look at the tall man with curly black hair. Thury was dressed in a brilliant red and yellow silk surcoat and his coif and gauntlets were embellished with bronze edging. But his finery could not alter the fact that he was illiterate. A man of obscure, possibly even base background, who owed all he had to de Montfort. Roucy came from an impoverished family in Gasgony -- although one would not know it given the jewels glinting from the hilt of his sword or the heavy gold rings revealed when he removed his gauntlets. He was not totally illiterate, apparently able to read French, but he could not speak Latin and never wrote anything but his name. Hughes found it difficult to respect either man, and his reservations about de Montfort's favourites compounded the reservations that he was beginning to harbour about de Montfort himself. He recognized de Montfort´s energy and competence. Certainly, there could be no question that in just three months de Montfort had transformed the odd-collection of adventurers, criminals, fanatics and mercenaries into a cohesive and effective fighting force. Yet Hughes felt vaguely uneasy about de Montfort's leadership. Too often he had insulted and ridiculed men publicly and in a manner that was unnecessarily humiliating. He could be blindly unjust when verbally attacking and Hughes had seen him punish men for things they had not done or could not change. He had a penchant for assigning tasks to precisely those individuals, who were least qualified to perform them. This was, within limits, a means of making men stretch their capabilities, but no amount of reaching will make a short man tall.So far de Montfort had not “favoured” Hughes with extraordinary tasks, and so he had not been exposed to the hazard of failure, but Hughes felt slighted by de Montfort's disinterest in his capabilities. If de Montfort did not give him any particular responsibility, how was he ever going to turn this service into something profitable for himself and Emilie and their unborn child? Sir Alain de Roucy had drawn up before de Montfort. He was grinning. "There is a delegation of citizens requesting an audience, my lord.""Ha!" The mighty Simon de Montfort jumped up with amazing agility for such a burly man. Then he turned and seized an astonished Arnaud-Amaury by the arm and like a sailor in his cups jigged three steps to the left and three to the right shouting all the time. "HA! HA! HA!" Around him, the astonished knights broke into uncertain grins, while the fanatical abbot laughed in some embarrassment and tried to keep up with the dancing Viscount. Even Hughes was not immune. Up to now, he had experienced de Montfort only as a demanding, unrelenting task-master. He had never seen him so uninhibitedly delighted. His childlike delight reminded Hughes of Bert, and his ability to forget his dignity and show his elation like a green youth was winning.Then, as abruptly as he started his victory jig, de Montfort stopped, and asked in an energetic tone. "So, where are these citizens? Who are they?""There is no lord or knight in Bram. The citizens are represented by their mayor and an elderly man, whose function I could not decipher.""Bring them here." De Montfort ordered with obvious satisfaction. Jumping into the air and kicking his heels together for a second time as he gave one last shout of sheer glee. This time his triumph proved contagious and smiles spread across the weary faces, while several even took up their leader's hoot of victory. "For God!" Arnaud-Amaury shouted, anxious to direct their thoughts in the proper channels."For God!" They roared back at him, as it started to dawn on them that the ordeal of the siege was already over.
The mood was still decidedly one of satisfaction, when they collected again in the church of Bram, but by now weariness was starting to over-power the elation of triumph. After accepting the surrender of the town, they had been tasked to put out the fires they had set, and to herd the citizens together. De Montfort had insisted that each of the citizens from the surrendered town kneel before him, swear allegiance to him personally and pay a fine in accordance with his income. After homage had been extracted, all the citizens, male and female, had then been ordered to attend Mass. Roughly 100 people, almost a quarter of the population, had refused to set foot inside the church. These individuals had been arrested and were being held under guard in a cellar. The rest of the citizens had been allowed to return to their houses to try to pick up the pieces of their lives in a half burned town.The light of day was fading rapidly and the church was dim. De Montfort, as usual, kept his knights waiting for him before he finally appeared and stomped up the aisle to take up a position at the foot of the chancel, Arnaud-Amaury at his side. He clapped his hands sharply to get order. "That's enough chatter! We all need a good night's rest, but first I want a decision on what is to be done with the heretics, who refuse to partake of the Holy Sacrament.""I didn't think there could be any question, my lord." Arnaud-Amaury answered softly. "Kill them." Arnaud Amaury spoke with his unblinking eyes, and Hughes was reminded of Beziers.De Montfort, however, frowned. "That is only one option, and I'm not sure it is the best. The only condition of the surrender was the life of all the citizens ― no distinction was made between Christians and heretics.""You can't mean to let heretics flaunt their beliefs." Arnaud-Amaury answered coldly. He appeared not to believe that de Montfort could really contemplate mercy."No." De Montfort proved the Abbot's assessment correct. "I simply think that killing them would be inappropriate under the circumstances.""Then what do you propose?" The Abbot pressed."Since their souls are blind to the Love of God, it seems only appropriate to blind them to His creations as well, don't you think?" De Montfort asked the question of Arnaud-Amaury, but a rustle of surprise went through the whole church. Hughes raised his eyebrows. At the height of their power-struggle, Richard Plantagenet and Philip Augustus had been reduced to blinding each other’s prisoners in an escalating spiral of violence that only ended with the Lionheart's death, but it had been a military decision intended to make recruitment of soldiers more difficult and more expensive for the opponent. What de Montfort proposed was purely vindictive. The citizens had surrendered and were militarily worthless in any case. What was more, the cruelty wasn’t justified. This obscure town had managed to defy de Montfort's army only four days. The besiegers had suffered no casualties. Hughes glanced at his companions to judge their reaction.Lambert de Thury, as was to be expected, only shrugged. This one gesture confirmed all of Hughes’ suspicions and prejudices. Mentally he labelled Thury a base mercenary, and shifted his attention to Alain de Roucy. Roucy's face was blank. Either he was better at disguising his feelings or he was as cold as he seemed to be. Hughes twisted about to try to get a glimpse of Guy des Vaux, unable to believe that the cultivated, gentle priest would be unmoved by such a barbaric proposal. At this critical moment, however, the Benedictine seemed to shrink inside his cowl, pulling his hands inside his sleeves and his head into the hood. It was Sir Pierre Amiel, who answered de Montfort's rhetorical question indignantly. "Men and women, who cannot see the Love of God when it is so abundant about them, should not ever see the light of day again! They should be blinded this very night." Hughes grimaced and turned to stare at the speaker. Over the last three months, it had become evident that Pierre was one of the least competent knights in de Montfort's service. He sought to befriend the new-comers, because he enjoyed no respect among the others, who liberally made fun of him behind his back. Pierre could always be counted upon to abjectly approve of everything and anything de Montfort said or did. But whereas up to now his parroting of de Montfort and eager support for every notion that slipped from de Montfort´s mouth had only made him look weak and foolish. This time, it was the citizens of Bram who might pay the price."Let's not get carried away." Charles responded to Pierre's suggestion, and Hughes turned to him with a sense of inner gratitude. Sir Charles and he were too profoundly different in station and temperament to ever be close. Sir Charles was heir to substantial estates, father to four sons, and a banneret. He had never been threatened with poverty or misfortune, and Hughes had sometimes resented his self-complacency and faith in "God's Will." It was easy to accept everything as God's Will, Hughes thought, so long as one never had to accept deprivations or defeat. Charles was essentially an easy-going man, and Hughes had often wondered what had induced him to join de Montfort's forces. Whatever the reason, he was grateful to the banneret's voice of reason now."There is no need to rush a decision like this." Charles was remarking in his low, rumbling voice. "We should give some thought to the effect such an atrocity will have on the loyalty of other towns before we carry it out. I say we should all sleep on it and decide what has to be done tomorrow.""I disagree, Sir Charles." De Monfort snapped with a vindictive glint in his eye that made several other men start to pull their heads in instinctively. "Just because you are in a hurry to get your fat ass comfy is no excuse to postpone an important decision." The slur was unfair. Charles had lost most of his extra pounds in the last months, and even if he had not, his argument against over-hasty action remained perfectly legitimate. "I object--""Then eat shit! I haven't got time to coddle your sensitivities. Do I take it there are no serious objections to the punishment?" De Montfort asked the room at large, sweeping his eyes across the assembled faces, as if daring anyone to protest. He stopped his sweep at the sight of Sir Norbert. "Something bothering you, Sir?" His tone was both mocking and challenging.The tall, slender, fair-haired knight reddened instantly, and cleared his throat nervously. "What? Speak up! I called you in here to hear what you have to say, so stop whimpering and speak up!" De Montfort was evidently annoyed that he had failed to intimidate the young nobleman."My lord, these citizens surrendered themselves to our mercy. I don't think it is proper to mutilate them." Sir Norbert’s voice was strained, but he continued to hold his head high and meet de Montfort's eye. That was more than most of the others were willing to do, Hughes noted."It offends your sense of chivalry, Sir Norbert?" The tone was mocking and belittling."It's not just that, my lord. I ― I think that they should be given a chance to repent.""That is a waste of breath." Arnaud-Amaury told Norbert pointedly. "These people were ordered to attend Mass and refused. I don't think we need any more proof that they are incorrigible heretics." The Abbot's tone allowed for no contradiction, and, confronted with such conviction from such an exalted representative of the Church, Norbert caved in and looked down.Again Sir Hughes turned to look to Guy, disappointed that the only other churchman was silent at a time like this, but the Benedictine remained hidden and silent within his robes. Realizing that no one else was prepared to speak up against the proposal, Hughes had no choice but to raise his own voice. "As Sir Charles pointed out, the impact of this will reach far beyond Bram.""So it should." De Montfort countered, obviously startled by the new objection, and focusing upon Hughes, as if he was seeing him for the first time."The effect will be to increase resistance and rejection of your rule, my lord." Hughes kept his voice and face calm, although he was conscious of the stares of all his comrades. He suspected that most of the men in the room had no sympathy for what he was saying. They were weary and just wanted to get a good night's sleep. The fate of the citizens of Bram did not interest them. They were evidently prepared to carry out any of de Montfort’s orders, whether it entailed extra training, attending mass, or blinding 100 harmless people. On the other hand, they were obviously surprised that anyone would dare defy de Montfort and Arnaud-Amaury, and he could almost smell their eager anticipation of de Montfort's response ― like blood-hounds on the scent of quarry, Hughes thought cynically."Wrong." De Montfort rejected categorically. "Men are more afraid of maiming than death itself.""All the more reason to fight to the death rather than surrender and risk mutilation.""Only the heretics will be blinded. The other citizens will be left in peace. Bram has not been plundered, the women have not been violated and we even helped put out the fires.""All of which will be forgotten and ignored if you blind one hundred citizens, who surrendered to your mercy, my lord.""They didn't surrender to my mercy!" De Montfort was starting to lose his temper. "They surrendered because they didn't have a choice, and the bulk of them have gotten off with no more than a fine and should be grateful for it!""No one remembers that Richard the Lionhearted showed mercy to the Arab citizens of Ascalon, only that he ordered the execution of prisoners from Acre ― after Saladin failed to keep his word.""Do you think I give a damn what Richard of England did or didn't do?! We aren't in the Holy Land, and the rebels and heretics are my own subjects. I can impose whatever punishment I like!""I didn't question your right to do as you please, my lord. I said it wouldn't be wise.""That's what I tried to tell you--" Charles came to Hughes assistance - or did he want to claim the lime-light for a reasonable objection? Whatever Charles had intended, his support for Hughes only inflamed de Montfort, who reacted as if the two knights were themselves rebels. "I don't need the advice of two knights, who have never managed to capture so much as a privy on their own!" De Montfort bellowed, and most of the knights managed to keep their eyes averted and their faces impassive in a scrupulous neutrality. "Thury, see that all but one of the heretics loose both their eyes and then remove just one eye from the last man and have him lead his fellows to Cabaret-Lastours as an example of what they can expect when I seize that viper’s nest!"Thury had been leaning comfortably against the wall and he righted himself and nodded. "Aye, my lord. Should I have it done publicly?""Of course! Call the citizens together. And all of you" de Montfort pointed at his assembled knights, "will attend as well. Do you understand me, Sir Norbert?"Norbert, though more flushed than ever, lifted his chin, and answered: "Perfectly, my lord."De Montfort glanced for a moment in Hughes' direction, as if he was contemplating giving him a specific order as well, but then apparently decided against it. He stormed out of the Church, followed, or so it seemed to Hughes, by a herd of knighted sheep. Only Hughes, Charles and Norbert remained in the Church with Guy des Vaux. Alain de Roucy, who was the last of the others to leave, paused and remarked to them, "You should never defy him openly like that. It only infuriates him.""He asked our opinion." Charles pointed out.Alain made a face. "Are you really that naive?" He turned away and left them standing. Charles and Hughes exchanged a glance, and then Hughes turned to Guy. "Why didn't you protest? You can't seriously favour blinding 100 men and women merely because they refused to hear Mass?""It wouldn't have done any good. As Alain said, he can't stand open defiance of his decisions. He takes it as a personal affront.""Then why go through the motions? We could have saved a half hour and all gone to bed earlier." Charles pointed out exasperated."Because he assesses how we think and react in such a forum." Guy replied, and Charles stiffened and blanched slightly. Hughes had the impression that Charles only now grasped the fact that he might have ruined his reputation with de Montfort. By the look on his face, he was already regretting his protests. Hughes looked quickly at Norbert and was surprised and encouraged that the young knight seemed made of a stronger moral fibre. He was flushed but indignant. "I don’t care that de Montfort knows I disapprove! This is not right! It besmirches our honour unnecessarily! I feel dirty - no better than base mercenaries!""War is dirty." Charles reminded him with a cynical shrug."You don’t see it that way, do you?" Norbert demanded of Hughes.Hughes took a deep breath. "Of course it is dirty - as dirty as we make it.""Sirs?!" It was de Montfort's bellow again, as he poked his head back into the church and shouted. "Do you expect me to wait for you all night? Get out here and obey orders?"
Hughes stared up at the stars. The night was perfectly clear and the last of the fires had gone out. The stars were bright and sharp, the "milky way" a smudge against the blackness. It was a beautiful sight. A hundred people would not see such a sight ever again no matter how long they managed to live. They were blind now, and therefore beggars, regardless of what they had been two hours ago. Few of them would even be aware of that second fact yet. Most were mercilessly unconscious.Few had been able to show courage. It had sometimes taken three soldiers to hold the victims steady enough to gouge out their eyes quickly and efficiently. Many of the victims had repented and begged for mercy ― even begged for the Host itself, but de Montfort was unmoved. He was not even swayed by a very pretty girl, who promised herself to any and all of them for the sake of her eyes. The soldiers would have liked to spare her, but de Montfort was enraged by their hesitation and had threatened to castrate the men, if they preferred to listen to their loins than to his orders. Nor had he allowed the other villagers to tend to their mutilated relatives and neighbours. The victims were bound to one another and returned to the cellar. The lucky ones among them would not survive the night.The sound of low voices behind him made Hughes start violently. He turned around sharply. The watch had challenged someone at the gate by which he had exited the village. The troops were not allowed outside the town, so when he saw movement continuing out of the walls, he realized it could only be other knights. Hughes waited alertly, straining his ears."Come on, the fresh air and a little walk will do you good." It was Guy des Vaux's voice, and Hughes gradually made out a curious pair walking unsteadily with linked arms. The figure on the left seemed to be having difficulty walking. Abruptly he stopped, doubled over and, with a loud chocking and coughing, vomited onto the earth. Guy was identifiable in his black robes on the left, but Hughes could not yet identify the other man, who wore a dark cloak despite the mildness of the air and had pulled the hood well forward. Then his companion righted him and manoeuvred him around the puddle of vomit. A flash of white appeared as he walked. Hughes paralyzed and at the same moment the sick man caught sight of him. "Who's there? There are orders not to leave the town! Who's there?! Answer or you'll be arrested!" The voice issuing the sudden challenge was raw from the retching and slurred with drink, but it was recognizable nevertheless. The speaker was none other than Abbot Arnaud-Amaury."Hughes de Hebron, my lord Abbot." Hughes answered."What are you doing out here? There are orders--""The same as you, my lord, recovering from the excesses."Guy flashed him a look of warning, but Arnaud-Amaury did not catch the ambiguity and only groaned again as he leaned on Guy´s arm to vomit again."Christ, who claimed the local wine was good? It was sheer poison!" Arnaud-Amaury moaned."Come over here and sit down in the grass." Guy urged soothingly, leading the abbot away from his mess and Hughes.Hughes waited a bit, watching as the other two men found a place to sit on the edge of a neglected wheat field. Arnaud-Amaury sat with his elbows propped upon his knees and his head in his hands. "God have mercy on me." He moaned."Amen." Hughes added, and again Guy flashed him a glance of warning. This time Hughes took the hint and retreated toward the gate, leaving the monks alone together. He nodded to the guards, and followed the main street back toward the centre of the circular town to the square before the church.The square was empty. The victims had been returned to their improvised prison, the citizens sent back to their homes, and the soldiers ordered to their billets. The eyeballs had been carefully collected in a sack at Arnaud-Amaury's orders and hung from the market cross so all would be reminded of the wages of heresy. The blood had sunk between the cobbles and dried quickly in the balmy breeze. Hughes stopped and gazed at the Church squatting dark and sullenly beside the empty square. It seemed cold and empty. Surely, despite the Eucharist, Christ was not present.A figure descended the stairs and came directly toward him. It was Sir Norbert. "I couldn't sleep." The young knight admitted shamefaced as he came up beside Hughes. His blond hair hung stringy and unkempt beside his face still caked with the sweat from the day inside the chain mail coif. His face was white in the darkness."Who can?" Hughes replied somewhat flippantly, in no mood for company."De Montfort is snoring so loud you can hear him right up in the attic." Norbert answered in disgust. "And Arnaud-Amaury has drunk himself sick." Hughes answered. They were silent together, staring at the stars. After a long silence, Hughes remarked. "I honestly don't know which is worse: being so indifferent to the suffering you cause that you can sleep without the aid of wine, or giving an order you cannot really stomach yourself.""Arnaud-Amaury didn't give the order.""He was the only one who could have stopped it ― and he didn't even try.” Norbert shrugged. “He doesn’t trust his own opinion in military matters.”“What does the mutilation of unarmed civilians after their surrender have to do with military matter?!” Hughes asked frowning. “Armaud-Aumary acts as if he worships de Montfort!”“Don’t we all?” Norbert asked back. “Worship de Montfort?” Hughes asked incredulous.Norbert shrugged awkwardly. “Well, not worship, perhaps, but admire him,” he suggested.“I may admire him for what he has achieved virtually alone, but not for what he did today.""Are you certain the one is possible without the other?" Norbert asked before admitting, "You see, that's what I don't know. I would like to be a great knight one day, but I don't know that I could ever be as ruthless as de Montfort, and I don't know if you can achieve greatness in this bloody world without it." Then with a good night, Sir Norbert turned and departed.Hughes was left with a denial unspoken on his tongue which slowly congealed to doubt as he stood alone in the square.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
April 1210
The wind shifted slightly and the smoke billowing up from inside the town suddenly veered and blew directly at them. Hughes squinted, but the smoke was too thick and at once his eyes began to sting and water. His stallion snorted and started to fidget, flinging up his head and stamping his feet. Hughes let him swing his haunches to the smoke, as he tried to clear his eyes by blinking. Finally, he was forced to pull off his right chain mail mitten and use his naked fingers to rub his eyes until the stinging let up. Then he wiped away the tears on his sooty face leaving a smear across his cheeks and beard, and squinted again toward the town. The fires had been set by burning quarrels that Lambert de Thury's troops had managed to shoot over the walls of the town, and clearly the fires were spreading. There had been no rain in the region for over a month. The roof-thatch was dry. The stiff breeze fanned the flames and blew sparks too quickly for the villagers to contain the flames.From the town came the dull, garble of shouts and cries, now and again pierced by a more penetrating shriek. The rumble of things being rolled or dragged away from the flames and the crash of collapsing beams provided further counterpoint to the man-made noise. High-pitched whinnies and the barking of dogs added to the cacophony. Hughes had been through dozens of sieges in the last two decades, but each one reminded him of his first -- the siege of Ascalon by Saladin. He had been 10 at the time, and had fled with his mother and sisters from Hebron. They had been forced to abandon Hebron without a fight because all the fighting men had accompanied Hughes's father and elder brothers when the King of Jerusalem called for men to aid in the relief of Tiberias. On the Horns of Hattin the royal army had been decimated in the most disastrous battle in the history of Christian Palestine. The King of Jerusalem, the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and the Templars, the bishop of Acre with the True Cross, and countless other noblemen and knights had been killed or captured. Hughes's mother had known the fate of neither her husband nor her eldest sons. The shock had been so great that the Lady of Hebron despaired. Collecting her valuables, her servants and her younger children she had fled for the safety of Ascalon ― only to find that city as devoid of defenders as Hebron itself. When Saladin appeared before the walls of the port city a few weeks later, the defence had been feeble and the surrender quick. The Lady of Hebron had only just managed to take ship with her children for Tyre. It remained the most terrifying moment of Hughes's life, and to this day he could not see smoke from a distance without being reminded of the smudge of smoke soiling the horizon as they sailed away from Ascalon.Since then, however, Hughes had more often been with the besieger than the besieged. The feel of sweat soaking the inside of his quilted, linen aceton and the intense heat of his chain mail when, as now, it was exposed to a hot sun was as familiar to him as the smell of siege-smoke.Beside Hughes, the crew of the siege engine he commanded strained to reload and re-cock the catapult. The men sweated profusely and cursed as they worked, they were weary and aching. For four days and nights they had, alternating with another crew every four hours, kept this siege engine in unrelenting operation night and day. They had, as a result, managed to weaken the wall. Cracks were gradually spreading and shattered masonry was piling up at the foot of it, but Hughes assessed the damage professionally and knew the wall was far from collapsing. The town, he judged, would fall before the wall did. It was completely encircled by de Montfort’s forces. No less than four siege engines were engaged, and the archers with both sharp and flaming quarrels moved from place to place so that the citizens could never know whence the next barrage would come. Furthermore, a battering ram was nearing completion, and the assault was planned for the next day, despite the fact that it was Good Friday.With a shout and a collective grunt from the crew, the catapult was brought to ready. Hughes shifted his attention back to town as he lifted his arm to signal the next volley. Something caught his eye, and with a frown he squinted against the still gusting smoke and tried to see what it was. Amidst the smoke that billowed up particularly thick and black before the church tower, something waved and flashed. He wiped his eyes again to reduce the stinging and then looked again to the spire. There was something white amidst the smoke."They're signalling surrender!" The shout went up from just to the right. Bert galloped up, hooting in triumph. "They're surrendering! They're surrendering!" Hughes ordered his crew to hold their volley, and waited expectantly for Bert to rein in beside him. The youth was grinning from ear to ear. "They raised a white flag of surrender over the Church!" He told Hughes breathlessly. "And a delegation of citizens shouted to de Roucy for a parlay! I was with de Roucy's troops when it happened!" Hughes had to smile at his squire's uninhibited delight. It was, he reminded himself, the youth's first siege and so his first victory. He didn't even know how exceptional it was to press a siege so hard and to crack a town so quickly. But he was learning, Hughes reminded himself. In the training at Carcassone, the squires no less than the knights and soldiers had been drilled and trained mercilessly. He was considerably less worried about Bert’s ability to survive now than he had been when the left Betz. "Stay here with the crew," Hughes ordered and set off at once for the command tent to get his orders. One after another, the knights who had been spread out around the perimeter of the town rode up. De Montfort came out of his tent, and stood staring toward the town sceptically. At last, Sir Alain de Roucy trotted up. In the preceding three months, Hughes had come to respect Sir Alain's competence with weapons generally, but Sir Alain remained extremely aloof, fraternizing only with Sir Lambert de Thury. Sir Alain and Sir Lambert also enjoyed a privileged status with de Montfort ― drinking, carousing, consulting and conspiring with him and Arnaud-Amaury to the exclusion of the others.Hughes knew that Sir Charles resented the favouritism de Montfort showed Roucy and Thury. After all, Sir Charles had brought more troops than either of the others, and he had every right to be included in any inner-circle of bannerets. He sat his heavy stallion with an almost sullen expression, resenting Roucy´s easy victory here.Others, including the youthful Norbert and insecure Pierre, openly courted the favour of de Montfort's favourites. Hughes recognized intellectually that he would be wise to do the same. He had 14 years experience at a royal court, and he knew how dangerous it was to offend the intimates of one's lord. Yet even though Hughes knew objectively that he was as dependent as the others, he could not overcome his pride and bring himself to curry favour like some courtier. Certainly not from men like Roucy and Thury, who were mere parvenus. Sir Lambert de Thury was the worse of the two, he reflected, casting a guardedly hostile look at the tall man with curly black hair. Thury was dressed in a brilliant red and yellow silk surcoat and his coif and gauntlets were embellished with bronze edging. But his finery could not alter the fact that he was illiterate. A man of obscure, possibly even base background, who owed all he had to de Montfort. Roucy came from an impoverished family in Gasgony -- although one would not know it given the jewels glinting from the hilt of his sword or the heavy gold rings revealed when he removed his gauntlets. He was not totally illiterate, apparently able to read French, but he could not speak Latin and never wrote anything but his name. Hughes found it difficult to respect either man, and his reservations about de Montfort's favourites compounded the reservations that he was beginning to harbour about de Montfort himself. He recognized de Montfort´s energy and competence. Certainly, there could be no question that in just three months de Montfort had transformed the odd-collection of adventurers, criminals, fanatics and mercenaries into a cohesive and effective fighting force. Yet Hughes felt vaguely uneasy about de Montfort's leadership. Too often he had insulted and ridiculed men publicly and in a manner that was unnecessarily humiliating. He could be blindly unjust when verbally attacking and Hughes had seen him punish men for things they had not done or could not change. He had a penchant for assigning tasks to precisely those individuals, who were least qualified to perform them. This was, within limits, a means of making men stretch their capabilities, but no amount of reaching will make a short man tall.So far de Montfort had not “favoured” Hughes with extraordinary tasks, and so he had not been exposed to the hazard of failure, but Hughes felt slighted by de Montfort's disinterest in his capabilities. If de Montfort did not give him any particular responsibility, how was he ever going to turn this service into something profitable for himself and Emilie and their unborn child? Sir Alain de Roucy had drawn up before de Montfort. He was grinning. "There is a delegation of citizens requesting an audience, my lord.""Ha!" The mighty Simon de Montfort jumped up with amazing agility for such a burly man. Then he turned and seized an astonished Arnaud-Amaury by the arm and like a sailor in his cups jigged three steps to the left and three to the right shouting all the time. "HA! HA! HA!" Around him, the astonished knights broke into uncertain grins, while the fanatical abbot laughed in some embarrassment and tried to keep up with the dancing Viscount. Even Hughes was not immune. Up to now, he had experienced de Montfort only as a demanding, unrelenting task-master. He had never seen him so uninhibitedly delighted. His childlike delight reminded Hughes of Bert, and his ability to forget his dignity and show his elation like a green youth was winning.Then, as abruptly as he started his victory jig, de Montfort stopped, and asked in an energetic tone. "So, where are these citizens? Who are they?""There is no lord or knight in Bram. The citizens are represented by their mayor and an elderly man, whose function I could not decipher.""Bring them here." De Montfort ordered with obvious satisfaction. Jumping into the air and kicking his heels together for a second time as he gave one last shout of sheer glee. This time his triumph proved contagious and smiles spread across the weary faces, while several even took up their leader's hoot of victory. "For God!" Arnaud-Amaury shouted, anxious to direct their thoughts in the proper channels."For God!" They roared back at him, as it started to dawn on them that the ordeal of the siege was already over.
The mood was still decidedly one of satisfaction, when they collected again in the church of Bram, but by now weariness was starting to over-power the elation of triumph. After accepting the surrender of the town, they had been tasked to put out the fires they had set, and to herd the citizens together. De Montfort had insisted that each of the citizens from the surrendered town kneel before him, swear allegiance to him personally and pay a fine in accordance with his income. After homage had been extracted, all the citizens, male and female, had then been ordered to attend Mass. Roughly 100 people, almost a quarter of the population, had refused to set foot inside the church. These individuals had been arrested and were being held under guard in a cellar. The rest of the citizens had been allowed to return to their houses to try to pick up the pieces of their lives in a half burned town.The light of day was fading rapidly and the church was dim. De Montfort, as usual, kept his knights waiting for him before he finally appeared and stomped up the aisle to take up a position at the foot of the chancel, Arnaud-Amaury at his side. He clapped his hands sharply to get order. "That's enough chatter! We all need a good night's rest, but first I want a decision on what is to be done with the heretics, who refuse to partake of the Holy Sacrament.""I didn't think there could be any question, my lord." Arnaud-Amaury answered softly. "Kill them." Arnaud Amaury spoke with his unblinking eyes, and Hughes was reminded of Beziers.De Montfort, however, frowned. "That is only one option, and I'm not sure it is the best. The only condition of the surrender was the life of all the citizens ― no distinction was made between Christians and heretics.""You can't mean to let heretics flaunt their beliefs." Arnaud-Amaury answered coldly. He appeared not to believe that de Montfort could really contemplate mercy."No." De Montfort proved the Abbot's assessment correct. "I simply think that killing them would be inappropriate under the circumstances.""Then what do you propose?" The Abbot pressed."Since their souls are blind to the Love of God, it seems only appropriate to blind them to His creations as well, don't you think?" De Montfort asked the question of Arnaud-Amaury, but a rustle of surprise went through the whole church. Hughes raised his eyebrows. At the height of their power-struggle, Richard Plantagenet and Philip Augustus had been reduced to blinding each other’s prisoners in an escalating spiral of violence that only ended with the Lionheart's death, but it had been a military decision intended to make recruitment of soldiers more difficult and more expensive for the opponent. What de Montfort proposed was purely vindictive. The citizens had surrendered and were militarily worthless in any case. What was more, the cruelty wasn’t justified. This obscure town had managed to defy de Montfort's army only four days. The besiegers had suffered no casualties. Hughes glanced at his companions to judge their reaction.Lambert de Thury, as was to be expected, only shrugged. This one gesture confirmed all of Hughes’ suspicions and prejudices. Mentally he labelled Thury a base mercenary, and shifted his attention to Alain de Roucy. Roucy's face was blank. Either he was better at disguising his feelings or he was as cold as he seemed to be. Hughes twisted about to try to get a glimpse of Guy des Vaux, unable to believe that the cultivated, gentle priest would be unmoved by such a barbaric proposal. At this critical moment, however, the Benedictine seemed to shrink inside his cowl, pulling his hands inside his sleeves and his head into the hood. It was Sir Pierre Amiel, who answered de Montfort's rhetorical question indignantly. "Men and women, who cannot see the Love of God when it is so abundant about them, should not ever see the light of day again! They should be blinded this very night." Hughes grimaced and turned to stare at the speaker. Over the last three months, it had become evident that Pierre was one of the least competent knights in de Montfort's service. He sought to befriend the new-comers, because he enjoyed no respect among the others, who liberally made fun of him behind his back. Pierre could always be counted upon to abjectly approve of everything and anything de Montfort said or did. But whereas up to now his parroting of de Montfort and eager support for every notion that slipped from de Montfort´s mouth had only made him look weak and foolish. This time, it was the citizens of Bram who might pay the price."Let's not get carried away." Charles responded to Pierre's suggestion, and Hughes turned to him with a sense of inner gratitude. Sir Charles and he were too profoundly different in station and temperament to ever be close. Sir Charles was heir to substantial estates, father to four sons, and a banneret. He had never been threatened with poverty or misfortune, and Hughes had sometimes resented his self-complacency and faith in "God's Will." It was easy to accept everything as God's Will, Hughes thought, so long as one never had to accept deprivations or defeat. Charles was essentially an easy-going man, and Hughes had often wondered what had induced him to join de Montfort's forces. Whatever the reason, he was grateful to the banneret's voice of reason now."There is no need to rush a decision like this." Charles was remarking in his low, rumbling voice. "We should give some thought to the effect such an atrocity will have on the loyalty of other towns before we carry it out. I say we should all sleep on it and decide what has to be done tomorrow.""I disagree, Sir Charles." De Monfort snapped with a vindictive glint in his eye that made several other men start to pull their heads in instinctively. "Just because you are in a hurry to get your fat ass comfy is no excuse to postpone an important decision." The slur was unfair. Charles had lost most of his extra pounds in the last months, and even if he had not, his argument against over-hasty action remained perfectly legitimate. "I object--""Then eat shit! I haven't got time to coddle your sensitivities. Do I take it there are no serious objections to the punishment?" De Montfort asked the room at large, sweeping his eyes across the assembled faces, as if daring anyone to protest. He stopped his sweep at the sight of Sir Norbert. "Something bothering you, Sir?" His tone was both mocking and challenging.The tall, slender, fair-haired knight reddened instantly, and cleared his throat nervously. "What? Speak up! I called you in here to hear what you have to say, so stop whimpering and speak up!" De Montfort was evidently annoyed that he had failed to intimidate the young nobleman."My lord, these citizens surrendered themselves to our mercy. I don't think it is proper to mutilate them." Sir Norbert’s voice was strained, but he continued to hold his head high and meet de Montfort's eye. That was more than most of the others were willing to do, Hughes noted."It offends your sense of chivalry, Sir Norbert?" The tone was mocking and belittling."It's not just that, my lord. I ― I think that they should be given a chance to repent.""That is a waste of breath." Arnaud-Amaury told Norbert pointedly. "These people were ordered to attend Mass and refused. I don't think we need any more proof that they are incorrigible heretics." The Abbot's tone allowed for no contradiction, and, confronted with such conviction from such an exalted representative of the Church, Norbert caved in and looked down.Again Sir Hughes turned to look to Guy, disappointed that the only other churchman was silent at a time like this, but the Benedictine remained hidden and silent within his robes. Realizing that no one else was prepared to speak up against the proposal, Hughes had no choice but to raise his own voice. "As Sir Charles pointed out, the impact of this will reach far beyond Bram.""So it should." De Montfort countered, obviously startled by the new objection, and focusing upon Hughes, as if he was seeing him for the first time."The effect will be to increase resistance and rejection of your rule, my lord." Hughes kept his voice and face calm, although he was conscious of the stares of all his comrades. He suspected that most of the men in the room had no sympathy for what he was saying. They were weary and just wanted to get a good night's sleep. The fate of the citizens of Bram did not interest them. They were evidently prepared to carry out any of de Montfort’s orders, whether it entailed extra training, attending mass, or blinding 100 harmless people. On the other hand, they were obviously surprised that anyone would dare defy de Montfort and Arnaud-Amaury, and he could almost smell their eager anticipation of de Montfort's response ― like blood-hounds on the scent of quarry, Hughes thought cynically."Wrong." De Montfort rejected categorically. "Men are more afraid of maiming than death itself.""All the more reason to fight to the death rather than surrender and risk mutilation.""Only the heretics will be blinded. The other citizens will be left in peace. Bram has not been plundered, the women have not been violated and we even helped put out the fires.""All of which will be forgotten and ignored if you blind one hundred citizens, who surrendered to your mercy, my lord.""They didn't surrender to my mercy!" De Montfort was starting to lose his temper. "They surrendered because they didn't have a choice, and the bulk of them have gotten off with no more than a fine and should be grateful for it!""No one remembers that Richard the Lionhearted showed mercy to the Arab citizens of Ascalon, only that he ordered the execution of prisoners from Acre ― after Saladin failed to keep his word.""Do you think I give a damn what Richard of England did or didn't do?! We aren't in the Holy Land, and the rebels and heretics are my own subjects. I can impose whatever punishment I like!""I didn't question your right to do as you please, my lord. I said it wouldn't be wise.""That's what I tried to tell you--" Charles came to Hughes assistance - or did he want to claim the lime-light for a reasonable objection? Whatever Charles had intended, his support for Hughes only inflamed de Montfort, who reacted as if the two knights were themselves rebels. "I don't need the advice of two knights, who have never managed to capture so much as a privy on their own!" De Montfort bellowed, and most of the knights managed to keep their eyes averted and their faces impassive in a scrupulous neutrality. "Thury, see that all but one of the heretics loose both their eyes and then remove just one eye from the last man and have him lead his fellows to Cabaret-Lastours as an example of what they can expect when I seize that viper’s nest!"Thury had been leaning comfortably against the wall and he righted himself and nodded. "Aye, my lord. Should I have it done publicly?""Of course! Call the citizens together. And all of you" de Montfort pointed at his assembled knights, "will attend as well. Do you understand me, Sir Norbert?"Norbert, though more flushed than ever, lifted his chin, and answered: "Perfectly, my lord."De Montfort glanced for a moment in Hughes' direction, as if he was contemplating giving him a specific order as well, but then apparently decided against it. He stormed out of the Church, followed, or so it seemed to Hughes, by a herd of knighted sheep. Only Hughes, Charles and Norbert remained in the Church with Guy des Vaux. Alain de Roucy, who was the last of the others to leave, paused and remarked to them, "You should never defy him openly like that. It only infuriates him.""He asked our opinion." Charles pointed out.Alain made a face. "Are you really that naive?" He turned away and left them standing. Charles and Hughes exchanged a glance, and then Hughes turned to Guy. "Why didn't you protest? You can't seriously favour blinding 100 men and women merely because they refused to hear Mass?""It wouldn't have done any good. As Alain said, he can't stand open defiance of his decisions. He takes it as a personal affront.""Then why go through the motions? We could have saved a half hour and all gone to bed earlier." Charles pointed out exasperated."Because he assesses how we think and react in such a forum." Guy replied, and Charles stiffened and blanched slightly. Hughes had the impression that Charles only now grasped the fact that he might have ruined his reputation with de Montfort. By the look on his face, he was already regretting his protests. Hughes looked quickly at Norbert and was surprised and encouraged that the young knight seemed made of a stronger moral fibre. He was flushed but indignant. "I don’t care that de Montfort knows I disapprove! This is not right! It besmirches our honour unnecessarily! I feel dirty - no better than base mercenaries!""War is dirty." Charles reminded him with a cynical shrug."You don’t see it that way, do you?" Norbert demanded of Hughes.Hughes took a deep breath. "Of course it is dirty - as dirty as we make it.""Sirs?!" It was de Montfort's bellow again, as he poked his head back into the church and shouted. "Do you expect me to wait for you all night? Get out here and obey orders?"
Hughes stared up at the stars. The night was perfectly clear and the last of the fires had gone out. The stars were bright and sharp, the "milky way" a smudge against the blackness. It was a beautiful sight. A hundred people would not see such a sight ever again no matter how long they managed to live. They were blind now, and therefore beggars, regardless of what they had been two hours ago. Few of them would even be aware of that second fact yet. Most were mercilessly unconscious.Few had been able to show courage. It had sometimes taken three soldiers to hold the victims steady enough to gouge out their eyes quickly and efficiently. Many of the victims had repented and begged for mercy ― even begged for the Host itself, but de Montfort was unmoved. He was not even swayed by a very pretty girl, who promised herself to any and all of them for the sake of her eyes. The soldiers would have liked to spare her, but de Montfort was enraged by their hesitation and had threatened to castrate the men, if they preferred to listen to their loins than to his orders. Nor had he allowed the other villagers to tend to their mutilated relatives and neighbours. The victims were bound to one another and returned to the cellar. The lucky ones among them would not survive the night.The sound of low voices behind him made Hughes start violently. He turned around sharply. The watch had challenged someone at the gate by which he had exited the village. The troops were not allowed outside the town, so when he saw movement continuing out of the walls, he realized it could only be other knights. Hughes waited alertly, straining his ears."Come on, the fresh air and a little walk will do you good." It was Guy des Vaux's voice, and Hughes gradually made out a curious pair walking unsteadily with linked arms. The figure on the left seemed to be having difficulty walking. Abruptly he stopped, doubled over and, with a loud chocking and coughing, vomited onto the earth. Guy was identifiable in his black robes on the left, but Hughes could not yet identify the other man, who wore a dark cloak despite the mildness of the air and had pulled the hood well forward. Then his companion righted him and manoeuvred him around the puddle of vomit. A flash of white appeared as he walked. Hughes paralyzed and at the same moment the sick man caught sight of him. "Who's there? There are orders not to leave the town! Who's there?! Answer or you'll be arrested!" The voice issuing the sudden challenge was raw from the retching and slurred with drink, but it was recognizable nevertheless. The speaker was none other than Abbot Arnaud-Amaury."Hughes de Hebron, my lord Abbot." Hughes answered."What are you doing out here? There are orders--""The same as you, my lord, recovering from the excesses."Guy flashed him a look of warning, but Arnaud-Amaury did not catch the ambiguity and only groaned again as he leaned on Guy´s arm to vomit again."Christ, who claimed the local wine was good? It was sheer poison!" Arnaud-Amaury moaned."Come over here and sit down in the grass." Guy urged soothingly, leading the abbot away from his mess and Hughes.Hughes waited a bit, watching as the other two men found a place to sit on the edge of a neglected wheat field. Arnaud-Amaury sat with his elbows propped upon his knees and his head in his hands. "God have mercy on me." He moaned."Amen." Hughes added, and again Guy flashed him a glance of warning. This time Hughes took the hint and retreated toward the gate, leaving the monks alone together. He nodded to the guards, and followed the main street back toward the centre of the circular town to the square before the church.The square was empty. The victims had been returned to their improvised prison, the citizens sent back to their homes, and the soldiers ordered to their billets. The eyeballs had been carefully collected in a sack at Arnaud-Amaury's orders and hung from the market cross so all would be reminded of the wages of heresy. The blood had sunk between the cobbles and dried quickly in the balmy breeze. Hughes stopped and gazed at the Church squatting dark and sullenly beside the empty square. It seemed cold and empty. Surely, despite the Eucharist, Christ was not present.A figure descended the stairs and came directly toward him. It was Sir Norbert. "I couldn't sleep." The young knight admitted shamefaced as he came up beside Hughes. His blond hair hung stringy and unkempt beside his face still caked with the sweat from the day inside the chain mail coif. His face was white in the darkness."Who can?" Hughes replied somewhat flippantly, in no mood for company."De Montfort is snoring so loud you can hear him right up in the attic." Norbert answered in disgust. "And Arnaud-Amaury has drunk himself sick." Hughes answered. They were silent together, staring at the stars. After a long silence, Hughes remarked. "I honestly don't know which is worse: being so indifferent to the suffering you cause that you can sleep without the aid of wine, or giving an order you cannot really stomach yourself.""Arnaud-Amaury didn't give the order.""He was the only one who could have stopped it ― and he didn't even try.” Norbert shrugged. “He doesn’t trust his own opinion in military matters.”“What does the mutilation of unarmed civilians after their surrender have to do with military matter?!” Hughes asked frowning. “Armaud-Aumary acts as if he worships de Montfort!”“Don’t we all?” Norbert asked back. “Worship de Montfort?” Hughes asked incredulous.Norbert shrugged awkwardly. “Well, not worship, perhaps, but admire him,” he suggested.“I may admire him for what he has achieved virtually alone, but not for what he did today.""Are you certain the one is possible without the other?" Norbert asked before admitting, "You see, that's what I don't know. I would like to be a great knight one day, but I don't know that I could ever be as ruthless as de Montfort, and I don't know if you can achieve greatness in this bloody world without it." Then with a good night, Sir Norbert turned and departed.Hughes was left with a denial unspoken on his tongue which slowly congealed to doubt as he stood alone in the square.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
February 1, 2013
The Devil's Knight - Chapter 3
Carcassonne
January 1210
Simon de Montfort, Viscomte of Beziers and Carcassonne, strode into the barrel vaulted "donjon room," where his knights awaited him. He was a big man, over six feet tall and weighing 230 pounds with not an ounce of fat. He wore his hair and his beard unfashionably close-cropped, so much so that the beard looked rather like he had forgotten to shave for three days. His face was fleshy and flat with black eyes and a short nose. His neck was short and so his head seemed to sit directly upon his massive shoulders.
His chain mail sat upon him like the scales of a great dragon from his spurred feet to his neck, only his head and hands were bare, the coif of his hauberk hanging down his back and his chain mail mittens removed from the sleeves. Over his mail armor, he wore a calf-length, flowing surcoat with the de Montfort arms: a white lion rampant on red. The surcoat rippled and fluttered around his massive thighs as he stomped into the chamber.
Lambert de Thury caught sight of his lord just as he ducked through the doorway and with a shout called the company to order. The three knights-banneret and two score knights-bachelor stopped talking among themselves or lounging against the walls and turned to look alertly at their commander.
Montfort was followed by a stocky priest in the white robes of a Cistercian Abbot. The priest was as fair as Montfort was dark, the blond fringe of hair around his tonsure and his cropped beard were sun-bleached almost white. He had pale blue eyes in his round face and moved with the same vigour as the viscount. Hughes presumed that the Abbot was the controversial Armand-Amaury.
Montfort let his eyes sweep across the men assembled in front of him with narrowed, critical eyes, and Hughes followed the slow sweeping gaze of the Viscount curiously. De Roucy and de Thury were standing together, lounging against the wall, and nodded to the Viscount with obvious confidence. A number of younger knights seemed to be trying to make themselves inconspicuous at the back of the room, half taking cover in the deep window. Sir Pierre Amiel, by contrast, waited eagerly at the front.
De Montfort´s gaze focused upon the three new-comers, the knights his wife had recruited in the north and sent down to him with several hundred mercenaries. Hughes found himself the target of long, intense scrutiny before de Montfort barked: "My lord Abbot, a blessing."
Arnaud-Amaury cleared his throat and rattled through a prayer in Latin that only the better educated of the knights could understand. He ended by crossing himself. The fighting men followed dutifully, muttering ‘Amen.’
"Alright," Montfort took over, "we wish to welcome three knew comrades. Des Vaux!" He snapped his fingers irritably, and to Hughes’s astonishment his acquaintance of the evening before rushed forward alacritously to hand de Montfort a slip of paper from his sleeve. "Sir Charles de Neauphle?" The burly man with a pock-marked face nodded and took an uncertain step forward. Montfort noted with obvious disapproval the banneret’s amble girth and somewhat ruddy features. "You'll lose that belly here, sir." He remarked, harvesting a laugh from the others in the room. Sir Charles stiffened offended. "What have you to say for yourself?" de Montfort asked.
"My lord?"
"Say something about yourself."
"I'm 36 years old, was born at Neauphle, the eldest son of the Lord of Neauphle and --"
"Not your family history! Where have you served? How many knights are under your banner?"
Sir Charles shot an eye-brow upwards and his face expressed his displeasure at such rude handling, but he answered calmly. "I have served with the king in his wars against the Plantagenet, and have brought 15 lances."
"Good." Montfort looked at his list. "Norbert de Mauvoisin?"
The knight stepped forward and nodded politely. He was tall and thin with a long face, long blond hair and sparse beard. De Montfort grimaced openly. "Where did my lady wife dredge you up? from the nursery?"
The knight blushed. "No, my lord. I was knighted this last year by my liege and uncle the Count of Champagne."
"Your uncle is he?" Such a connection was exalted enough to cause a slight commotion as the other knights murmured among themselves and tried to get a better view of Sir Norbert. Montfort frowned at the noise, but turned to Arnaud-Amaury and remarked in an aside that was loud enough for all to hear. "His Holiness ought to keep an eye on Champagne, my lord abbot. He refused to take part in the Crusade. To send us a whelp like this instead is very close to mockery."
"His Holiness is well aware of Champagne's ambivalence." Arnaud-Amaury replied pointedly, casting the discomfited young knight a hard, cold look. His tone implied that the wrath of God would not linger far behind Papal displeasure.
Turning back to the young knight, Montfort dismissed him with a wave of his hand and the commentary, "No fighting experience and no lances. Hughes de Hebron? Is that Hebronin the Holy Land?"
"Yes." Hughes answered steadily, and for a moment he and de Montfort measured one another. Montfort put the next question. "You look too young to have been on Crusade."
"I was 10 when Saladin took Hebron, and 14 when King Philip arrived in Palestine. My father and elder brother fought alongside the crusaders at Acre, Ascalon and Jaffa, but I was only body-squire to King Philip and returned with him to France."
Montfort considered him with dark, narrowed eyes. "Only" was not the usual modifier for being made a body-squire to a king. He was quick to guess that Hughes’s father must have been a powerful lord ― even if one without a lordship ― to have secured such a position for his younger son. "You've fought since?"
"Almost constantly."
"Why haven't you brought more than your own sword?"
"I can't afford it."
Montfort nodded, and for him the issue was closed. Regardless of how powerful Hughes family might once have been, it was now impoverished and this knight a mere younger son. He'd come south to make his fortune as they all had. He turned to the room at large.
"I hope you are all recovered from your Christmas revels because we have our work cut out for us. Since the departure of my lords of Burgundy, St. Pol and Nevers, along with the rest of the better noblemen," he said the word ‘better’ with contemptuous sarcasm, while glowering at the discomfited Sir Norbert "the entire region is simmering with unrest."
"If I may, my lord?" Arnaud-Amaury leaned forward to de Montfort to request the permission to speak. De Montfort looked annoyed, but bowed to the primacy of the Church.
"We have reports," the Abbot addressed the assembled knights in a tone of sharp indignation, "of heretics openly preaching in dozens of towns including Mirepoix, Bram, Avignonet, Hauptpol and Capestang. These so-called "Perfects" have labelled all of you the spawn of the Devil." He waited for the grumble of displeasure to die down.
"Heretics calling themselves bishops have compared His Holiness to the Anti-Christ and tell their misguided followers that it is a sin to pay any tithe to the Church. In various towns, preaching friars have been shouted down, roughly handled and chased away. Despite the example we set at Beziers and here in Carcassonne, the poison sits so deep in the souls of the corrupted that they cannot see the light of God even when it blinds them. Until heresy is completely up-rooted and purged from this region, our work is not done." His tone was impassioned, but as far as Hughes could tell it left the knights in the room unmoved. They believed in the justice of their cause, but it was not religious fervour that inspired them any more than it did Hughes himself.
"Quite." Montfort took over again. Hughes guessed that he found Arnaud-Amaury a useful ally and he valued his sharp brain, but he also found him long-winded. "The towns of Castres, Lombers, Montréal and Bram are in open rebellion, defying my officers and insisting they owe allegiance only to Trencavel. The bastide of Minerve and the castles of Termes and Lastours are held by excommunicated and disinherited knights and lords, and give refuge to large communities of heretics. It is our task, as soon as the weather clears, to subdue each and every one of these towns and castles.
"We are greatly out-numbered by the local knights, and our only advantage is cohesion and ruthlessness. With the arrest of Trencavel, we decapitated their most courageous and effective leader. At the moment, they are confused, dazed and licking their wounds separately. We have to strike before they have a chance to come to their senses and start banding together under a new leader.
"For each of you," he paused to seek eye-contact with one man after another, "there is the opportunity to make yourselves lords. The lands of excommunicates and rebels are forfeit. These lands are rich and fertile. If you serve me well and without reservation, you will be rewarded from the lands of the Church's enemies."
Most of the men in the room responded with smiles, and Hughes looked around himself with a vague sense of unease. He had known that the competition for reward was going to be bitterly intense, but the appearance of several the knights in the room made him ashamed of the company he was keeping. Then he reminded himself that one should not be over-hasty in judging a man by his external appearance, and ended his reflections on the cynical note that he was in any case no better than the rest of them. He too was here purely for the material gain.
"But let there be no mistake about this." Montfort's voice became louder and harsher, putting an end to Hughes’s reverie. "I expect absolute and unquestioning obedience at all times. I expect you to fight until you are ready to drop and then keep on fighting and fighting and fighting! You are here to conquer a county that has been lost to the enemies of Holy Church, and you will not rest until that task is achieved. If I give a town free to plunder and rape, which I will do when I deem it appropriate, that applies only the common soldiers. Any of you, who engage in such abuses, will be hanged. Do I make myself understood?"
Most of the men maintained an impassive expression while others nodded faintly. The King, Hughes noted to himself, had never admitted to condoning excesses, even if he had on occasion been lax about enforcing his prohibitions. De Montfort's words indicated that the war here would be characterized by the kind of brutality and mercilessness that Hughes had known only in Palestine.
"Does that mean you want us to oversee the plundering of towns without getting drunk or touching the women?" Sir Pierre Amiel asked attentively.
"Isn't that what I just said?!" De Montfort retorted in exasperation, adding in a familiar tone, "You aren't going to win my praise by parroting back to me my own words."
Though the rebuke was deserved, Hughes found himself feeling sorry for the over-eager Pierre. Meanwhile, de Montfort turned back to the assembled company and lifted his voice. "I said I expect absolute and unquestioning obedience, but that does not mean I want you to stop thinking for yourselves. I expect my knights to use the brains God gave them and to have the courage to say what they think ― to my face and not behind my back. I cannot abide men who are two-faced!" He spoke emphatically, barking out at them in apparent anger. "If you've got a problem come to me directly. Do you understand?"
Again there were nods or grunted affirmatives.
Montfort switched tone abruptly and spoke in a relaxed and almost off-hand manner. "I've established a duty roster and laid down a training program for the next four weeks. You will note that it begins with tilting at the quintain at 6 am ―" There was a faint groan and rustle of displeasure at that, but the knights who knew de Montfort best remained scrupulously impassive as he quickly let his eyes scan the room for any men too lazy to approve of his plans. He noted those, who made a grimace or rolled their eyes, and Hughes suspected he stored the information away.
"Each and every one of you will joust against all of your companions and myself. There will be no exceptions, regardless of how apparently mismatched. Saturdays we will hold a tournament for a small prize. You are, of course, all expected to attend Mass at Prime and Compline daily. No excuses accepted. You will confess daily as we never know when we will be called to God. Father Guy and Abbot Arnaud-Amaury are both at your service and will also accompany us on campaign. I think that's it for today." He looked to Arnaud-Amaury questioningly.
"The new-comers should be warned about the brothels and --"
"Quite right. The brothels of Carcassonne are strictly off limits. Two of our men have been murdered while visiting them. It is also strictly forbidden for knights of this household to approach the so-called Saracen Tower― that is the narrow, tall square tower in the southwest. Any one found attempting entry to the tower will be assumed a spy and traitor.
"Until tomorrow at six in the tiltyard. Good day." Montfort turned and left the chamber with the same pounding stride by which he had entered. Arnaud-Amaury followed him on silent shoes, his white robes fluttering about him.
The knights at once started talking among themselves and dispersing. Most were in a hurry to enjoy what was left of the day since de Montfort clearly intended to keep them out of the city for the next month.
Hughes found himself standing somewhat stunned in the centre of the chamber as they others pushed past him. There could be no denying that de Montfort had a powerful and dynamic personality. He was, Hughes thought, more charismatic than the king, who would never have spoken so candidly and bluntly to his troops. Indeed, King Phillip generally avoided any direct contact with his knights, preferring to rely upon his marshals and constables to communicate his will.
In many ways, de Montfort reminded Hughes of the English King, Richard called the Lionhearted, who he had seen occasionally as a boy and youth. Richard Plantagenet had shared de Montfort´s height and burly strength, and he had also been a man of direct speech, great ambition and unsentimental views of the world.
"It is said to depict Roland." A voice said close beside him, startling Hughes from his thoughts. Confused, he turned and found Guy des Vaux standing beside him and gazing at a fresco on the ceiling. Hughes had been unconsciously gazing at it as he considered his commander. Now that his attention had been drawn to the painting, he took note of it. It depicted a Frankish knight jousting with a Saracen. The priest was continuing. "But it might just as well be one of Trencavel´s ancestors. This area was held by the Moors for over a hundred years and was liberated by the local lords, including the Trencavels." As on the evening before, Guy spoke in a soft cultivated voice lacking the fanaticism so evident in the Abbot's ― and his words were an almost treasonous tribute to the man de Montfort had deposed and displaced. Hughes looked at the priest with new interest, and then back at the mural.
Hughes was struck by the high quality of the art and remarked: "I have not seen such a beautiful painting since I had left home, left Palestine. Not even at Philip Augustus' court were there frescoes of comparative quality."
Guy des Vaux nodded, looking at the mural as he spoke. "I am no expert in these things, but I was told that it was done by a local artist sometime in the last century. Certainly it is the Trencavel's, who commissioned the work."
Hughes found it disturbing that the "enemy" should be the supporters of the family that had sponsored such a work of art.
"Well?" He felt a heavy hand clap him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Do you want to join us in a look at the town?" It was Charles de Neauphle, who spoke while Pierre Amiel and Norbert de Mauvoisin hovered in the background. All the other knights had already departed, taking no interest in the new-comers. Cynically, Hughes registered that the rivalry for de Montfort´s favour must make the others resentful of the new-comers, and he wondered why Pierre should be an exception, since it was evidently Pierre, who was eagerly offering to show the new-comers the town.
"Yes." Hughes decided, recognizing the necessity of forming friendships among his new comrades. Then he glanced at Guy de Vaux, who far more than Pierrehad won his respect. "Will you join us, father?"
"I'd be happy to ― if it wouldn't interfere with your plans...."
Charles shrugged. "You've just heard the brothels are off limits anyway, but I trust we are allowed to drink the local wine."
They passed through the long hall and down into the courtyard of the castle, heading toward the gate opening to the town. There were no less than nine towers to the castle, and it was the youthful Sir Norbert who asked somewhat anxiously. "Which is the Saracen tower, Sir Pierre?"
Pierre officiously turned to point to the peculiar, tall, thin tower in the inner-ward which had seemed to cast such an ominous shadow the evening before.
"Why is it off limits?" Charles wanted to know.
"It is where Raymond-Roger Trencavel is held prisoner."
"Trencavel is held prisoner in his own castle?" Norbert gasped in disbelief.
"He is lucky to be alive!" Pierre told him indignantly, but Guy sighed and shrugged. "Does it matter where he is confined? A dungeon remains a dungeon."
"Have you met him?" Sir Charles asked with open curiosity.
Pierre shook his head sharply. "Don’t you remember what the Viscount said? The tower is strictly off limits."
But Guy admitted, "I serve as his confessor."
Charles' eyebrows shot up, and one could see him mentally upgrading Guy's importance. "And is he a heretic?" Charles asked.
"Of course!" Pierre told them frowning angrily. "Who else would offer refuge to heretics and impudently defy the Holy Father!"
Guy smiled faintly and shook his head. "When you have been here in the Languedoca little longer, you will come to understand that these are a people who love the grand-gesture as much as romance and music and laughter. They consider well worded exaggeration and bravado something to admire, not scorn. One must also remember that Raymond-Roger came into his inheritance as a youth and so had never had limits placed upon his power. When he provoked the wrath of His Holiness by declaring that he offered ‘a town, a roof, bread and his sword to all the outlaws that would soon be wandering about Provence’ he did not embrace the heresy itself. His gesture was one of independence and largess and tolerance. Tolerance is a creed in these parts, no less cherished than honour and courage."
"It was a courageous gesture." Sir Norbert admitted, reflecting on what Guy had said seriously, impressed that a priest could speak with so much apparent understanding for a man who had defied the Church so impudently.
"And stupid." Sir Charles grunted with evident contempt.
Hughes gazed toward the implacable stone of the cramped prison tower until, realizing that the others were looking at him, he broke off staring at the tower and said with a sad smile, "My father always said that faith without tolerance is bigotry."
Sir Charles eyebrows shot up in disapproval, and Pierre protested, "Surely he did not mean that we should tolerate heresy?"
Hughes was alert to the danger, and so he shrugged and shook his head with deliberate ambiguity.
They started again for the gate, but Hughes's thoughts remained with the prisoner. Jerusalemwas sacred to the Jews and to the Muslims no less than to Christians. It was the bigots and fanatics of all three religions, who ― by insisting upon imposing their own faith ― had sowed intolerance and reaped bloodshed. He remembered his father's anger and frustration, when confronted with Christian bigotry, and his remembered his mother's terror of Muslim fanaticism. He knew that both his parents had Jewish and Greek friends and insisted that one must distinguish between the various Muslim factions and sects, seeking to make a pact among the moderates against the fundamentalists of all religions. He knew that the developments of the last 20 years represented the destruction of his father's world of tolerance. It was discomfiting to think he was now fighting on the side of the fanatics against the forces of tolerance.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
January 1210
Simon de Montfort, Viscomte of Beziers and Carcassonne, strode into the barrel vaulted "donjon room," where his knights awaited him. He was a big man, over six feet tall and weighing 230 pounds with not an ounce of fat. He wore his hair and his beard unfashionably close-cropped, so much so that the beard looked rather like he had forgotten to shave for three days. His face was fleshy and flat with black eyes and a short nose. His neck was short and so his head seemed to sit directly upon his massive shoulders.
His chain mail sat upon him like the scales of a great dragon from his spurred feet to his neck, only his head and hands were bare, the coif of his hauberk hanging down his back and his chain mail mittens removed from the sleeves. Over his mail armor, he wore a calf-length, flowing surcoat with the de Montfort arms: a white lion rampant on red. The surcoat rippled and fluttered around his massive thighs as he stomped into the chamber.
Lambert de Thury caught sight of his lord just as he ducked through the doorway and with a shout called the company to order. The three knights-banneret and two score knights-bachelor stopped talking among themselves or lounging against the walls and turned to look alertly at their commander.
Montfort was followed by a stocky priest in the white robes of a Cistercian Abbot. The priest was as fair as Montfort was dark, the blond fringe of hair around his tonsure and his cropped beard were sun-bleached almost white. He had pale blue eyes in his round face and moved with the same vigour as the viscount. Hughes presumed that the Abbot was the controversial Armand-Amaury.
Montfort let his eyes sweep across the men assembled in front of him with narrowed, critical eyes, and Hughes followed the slow sweeping gaze of the Viscount curiously. De Roucy and de Thury were standing together, lounging against the wall, and nodded to the Viscount with obvious confidence. A number of younger knights seemed to be trying to make themselves inconspicuous at the back of the room, half taking cover in the deep window. Sir Pierre Amiel, by contrast, waited eagerly at the front.
De Montfort´s gaze focused upon the three new-comers, the knights his wife had recruited in the north and sent down to him with several hundred mercenaries. Hughes found himself the target of long, intense scrutiny before de Montfort barked: "My lord Abbot, a blessing."
Arnaud-Amaury cleared his throat and rattled through a prayer in Latin that only the better educated of the knights could understand. He ended by crossing himself. The fighting men followed dutifully, muttering ‘Amen.’
"Alright," Montfort took over, "we wish to welcome three knew comrades. Des Vaux!" He snapped his fingers irritably, and to Hughes’s astonishment his acquaintance of the evening before rushed forward alacritously to hand de Montfort a slip of paper from his sleeve. "Sir Charles de Neauphle?" The burly man with a pock-marked face nodded and took an uncertain step forward. Montfort noted with obvious disapproval the banneret’s amble girth and somewhat ruddy features. "You'll lose that belly here, sir." He remarked, harvesting a laugh from the others in the room. Sir Charles stiffened offended. "What have you to say for yourself?" de Montfort asked.
"My lord?"
"Say something about yourself."
"I'm 36 years old, was born at Neauphle, the eldest son of the Lord of Neauphle and --"
"Not your family history! Where have you served? How many knights are under your banner?"
Sir Charles shot an eye-brow upwards and his face expressed his displeasure at such rude handling, but he answered calmly. "I have served with the king in his wars against the Plantagenet, and have brought 15 lances."
"Good." Montfort looked at his list. "Norbert de Mauvoisin?"
The knight stepped forward and nodded politely. He was tall and thin with a long face, long blond hair and sparse beard. De Montfort grimaced openly. "Where did my lady wife dredge you up? from the nursery?"
The knight blushed. "No, my lord. I was knighted this last year by my liege and uncle the Count of Champagne."
"Your uncle is he?" Such a connection was exalted enough to cause a slight commotion as the other knights murmured among themselves and tried to get a better view of Sir Norbert. Montfort frowned at the noise, but turned to Arnaud-Amaury and remarked in an aside that was loud enough for all to hear. "His Holiness ought to keep an eye on Champagne, my lord abbot. He refused to take part in the Crusade. To send us a whelp like this instead is very close to mockery."
"His Holiness is well aware of Champagne's ambivalence." Arnaud-Amaury replied pointedly, casting the discomfited young knight a hard, cold look. His tone implied that the wrath of God would not linger far behind Papal displeasure.
Turning back to the young knight, Montfort dismissed him with a wave of his hand and the commentary, "No fighting experience and no lances. Hughes de Hebron? Is that Hebronin the Holy Land?"
"Yes." Hughes answered steadily, and for a moment he and de Montfort measured one another. Montfort put the next question. "You look too young to have been on Crusade."
"I was 10 when Saladin took Hebron, and 14 when King Philip arrived in Palestine. My father and elder brother fought alongside the crusaders at Acre, Ascalon and Jaffa, but I was only body-squire to King Philip and returned with him to France."
Montfort considered him with dark, narrowed eyes. "Only" was not the usual modifier for being made a body-squire to a king. He was quick to guess that Hughes’s father must have been a powerful lord ― even if one without a lordship ― to have secured such a position for his younger son. "You've fought since?"
"Almost constantly."
"Why haven't you brought more than your own sword?"
"I can't afford it."
Montfort nodded, and for him the issue was closed. Regardless of how powerful Hughes family might once have been, it was now impoverished and this knight a mere younger son. He'd come south to make his fortune as they all had. He turned to the room at large.
"I hope you are all recovered from your Christmas revels because we have our work cut out for us. Since the departure of my lords of Burgundy, St. Pol and Nevers, along with the rest of the better noblemen," he said the word ‘better’ with contemptuous sarcasm, while glowering at the discomfited Sir Norbert "the entire region is simmering with unrest."
"If I may, my lord?" Arnaud-Amaury leaned forward to de Montfort to request the permission to speak. De Montfort looked annoyed, but bowed to the primacy of the Church.
"We have reports," the Abbot addressed the assembled knights in a tone of sharp indignation, "of heretics openly preaching in dozens of towns including Mirepoix, Bram, Avignonet, Hauptpol and Capestang. These so-called "Perfects" have labelled all of you the spawn of the Devil." He waited for the grumble of displeasure to die down.
"Heretics calling themselves bishops have compared His Holiness to the Anti-Christ and tell their misguided followers that it is a sin to pay any tithe to the Church. In various towns, preaching friars have been shouted down, roughly handled and chased away. Despite the example we set at Beziers and here in Carcassonne, the poison sits so deep in the souls of the corrupted that they cannot see the light of God even when it blinds them. Until heresy is completely up-rooted and purged from this region, our work is not done." His tone was impassioned, but as far as Hughes could tell it left the knights in the room unmoved. They believed in the justice of their cause, but it was not religious fervour that inspired them any more than it did Hughes himself.
"Quite." Montfort took over again. Hughes guessed that he found Arnaud-Amaury a useful ally and he valued his sharp brain, but he also found him long-winded. "The towns of Castres, Lombers, Montréal and Bram are in open rebellion, defying my officers and insisting they owe allegiance only to Trencavel. The bastide of Minerve and the castles of Termes and Lastours are held by excommunicated and disinherited knights and lords, and give refuge to large communities of heretics. It is our task, as soon as the weather clears, to subdue each and every one of these towns and castles.
"We are greatly out-numbered by the local knights, and our only advantage is cohesion and ruthlessness. With the arrest of Trencavel, we decapitated their most courageous and effective leader. At the moment, they are confused, dazed and licking their wounds separately. We have to strike before they have a chance to come to their senses and start banding together under a new leader.
"For each of you," he paused to seek eye-contact with one man after another, "there is the opportunity to make yourselves lords. The lands of excommunicates and rebels are forfeit. These lands are rich and fertile. If you serve me well and without reservation, you will be rewarded from the lands of the Church's enemies."
Most of the men in the room responded with smiles, and Hughes looked around himself with a vague sense of unease. He had known that the competition for reward was going to be bitterly intense, but the appearance of several the knights in the room made him ashamed of the company he was keeping. Then he reminded himself that one should not be over-hasty in judging a man by his external appearance, and ended his reflections on the cynical note that he was in any case no better than the rest of them. He too was here purely for the material gain.
"But let there be no mistake about this." Montfort's voice became louder and harsher, putting an end to Hughes’s reverie. "I expect absolute and unquestioning obedience at all times. I expect you to fight until you are ready to drop and then keep on fighting and fighting and fighting! You are here to conquer a county that has been lost to the enemies of Holy Church, and you will not rest until that task is achieved. If I give a town free to plunder and rape, which I will do when I deem it appropriate, that applies only the common soldiers. Any of you, who engage in such abuses, will be hanged. Do I make myself understood?"
Most of the men maintained an impassive expression while others nodded faintly. The King, Hughes noted to himself, had never admitted to condoning excesses, even if he had on occasion been lax about enforcing his prohibitions. De Montfort's words indicated that the war here would be characterized by the kind of brutality and mercilessness that Hughes had known only in Palestine.
"Does that mean you want us to oversee the plundering of towns without getting drunk or touching the women?" Sir Pierre Amiel asked attentively.
"Isn't that what I just said?!" De Montfort retorted in exasperation, adding in a familiar tone, "You aren't going to win my praise by parroting back to me my own words."
Though the rebuke was deserved, Hughes found himself feeling sorry for the over-eager Pierre. Meanwhile, de Montfort turned back to the assembled company and lifted his voice. "I said I expect absolute and unquestioning obedience, but that does not mean I want you to stop thinking for yourselves. I expect my knights to use the brains God gave them and to have the courage to say what they think ― to my face and not behind my back. I cannot abide men who are two-faced!" He spoke emphatically, barking out at them in apparent anger. "If you've got a problem come to me directly. Do you understand?"
Again there were nods or grunted affirmatives.
Montfort switched tone abruptly and spoke in a relaxed and almost off-hand manner. "I've established a duty roster and laid down a training program for the next four weeks. You will note that it begins with tilting at the quintain at 6 am ―" There was a faint groan and rustle of displeasure at that, but the knights who knew de Montfort best remained scrupulously impassive as he quickly let his eyes scan the room for any men too lazy to approve of his plans. He noted those, who made a grimace or rolled their eyes, and Hughes suspected he stored the information away.
"Each and every one of you will joust against all of your companions and myself. There will be no exceptions, regardless of how apparently mismatched. Saturdays we will hold a tournament for a small prize. You are, of course, all expected to attend Mass at Prime and Compline daily. No excuses accepted. You will confess daily as we never know when we will be called to God. Father Guy and Abbot Arnaud-Amaury are both at your service and will also accompany us on campaign. I think that's it for today." He looked to Arnaud-Amaury questioningly.
"The new-comers should be warned about the brothels and --"
"Quite right. The brothels of Carcassonne are strictly off limits. Two of our men have been murdered while visiting them. It is also strictly forbidden for knights of this household to approach the so-called Saracen Tower― that is the narrow, tall square tower in the southwest. Any one found attempting entry to the tower will be assumed a spy and traitor.
"Until tomorrow at six in the tiltyard. Good day." Montfort turned and left the chamber with the same pounding stride by which he had entered. Arnaud-Amaury followed him on silent shoes, his white robes fluttering about him.
The knights at once started talking among themselves and dispersing. Most were in a hurry to enjoy what was left of the day since de Montfort clearly intended to keep them out of the city for the next month.
Hughes found himself standing somewhat stunned in the centre of the chamber as they others pushed past him. There could be no denying that de Montfort had a powerful and dynamic personality. He was, Hughes thought, more charismatic than the king, who would never have spoken so candidly and bluntly to his troops. Indeed, King Phillip generally avoided any direct contact with his knights, preferring to rely upon his marshals and constables to communicate his will.
In many ways, de Montfort reminded Hughes of the English King, Richard called the Lionhearted, who he had seen occasionally as a boy and youth. Richard Plantagenet had shared de Montfort´s height and burly strength, and he had also been a man of direct speech, great ambition and unsentimental views of the world.
"It is said to depict Roland." A voice said close beside him, startling Hughes from his thoughts. Confused, he turned and found Guy des Vaux standing beside him and gazing at a fresco on the ceiling. Hughes had been unconsciously gazing at it as he considered his commander. Now that his attention had been drawn to the painting, he took note of it. It depicted a Frankish knight jousting with a Saracen. The priest was continuing. "But it might just as well be one of Trencavel´s ancestors. This area was held by the Moors for over a hundred years and was liberated by the local lords, including the Trencavels." As on the evening before, Guy spoke in a soft cultivated voice lacking the fanaticism so evident in the Abbot's ― and his words were an almost treasonous tribute to the man de Montfort had deposed and displaced. Hughes looked at the priest with new interest, and then back at the mural.
Hughes was struck by the high quality of the art and remarked: "I have not seen such a beautiful painting since I had left home, left Palestine. Not even at Philip Augustus' court were there frescoes of comparative quality."
Guy des Vaux nodded, looking at the mural as he spoke. "I am no expert in these things, but I was told that it was done by a local artist sometime in the last century. Certainly it is the Trencavel's, who commissioned the work."
Hughes found it disturbing that the "enemy" should be the supporters of the family that had sponsored such a work of art.
"Well?" He felt a heavy hand clap him on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Do you want to join us in a look at the town?" It was Charles de Neauphle, who spoke while Pierre Amiel and Norbert de Mauvoisin hovered in the background. All the other knights had already departed, taking no interest in the new-comers. Cynically, Hughes registered that the rivalry for de Montfort´s favour must make the others resentful of the new-comers, and he wondered why Pierre should be an exception, since it was evidently Pierre, who was eagerly offering to show the new-comers the town.
"Yes." Hughes decided, recognizing the necessity of forming friendships among his new comrades. Then he glanced at Guy de Vaux, who far more than Pierrehad won his respect. "Will you join us, father?"
"I'd be happy to ― if it wouldn't interfere with your plans...."
Charles shrugged. "You've just heard the brothels are off limits anyway, but I trust we are allowed to drink the local wine."
They passed through the long hall and down into the courtyard of the castle, heading toward the gate opening to the town. There were no less than nine towers to the castle, and it was the youthful Sir Norbert who asked somewhat anxiously. "Which is the Saracen tower, Sir Pierre?"
Pierre officiously turned to point to the peculiar, tall, thin tower in the inner-ward which had seemed to cast such an ominous shadow the evening before.
"Why is it off limits?" Charles wanted to know.
"It is where Raymond-Roger Trencavel is held prisoner."
"Trencavel is held prisoner in his own castle?" Norbert gasped in disbelief.
"He is lucky to be alive!" Pierre told him indignantly, but Guy sighed and shrugged. "Does it matter where he is confined? A dungeon remains a dungeon."
"Have you met him?" Sir Charles asked with open curiosity.
Pierre shook his head sharply. "Don’t you remember what the Viscount said? The tower is strictly off limits."
But Guy admitted, "I serve as his confessor."
Charles' eyebrows shot up, and one could see him mentally upgrading Guy's importance. "And is he a heretic?" Charles asked.
"Of course!" Pierre told them frowning angrily. "Who else would offer refuge to heretics and impudently defy the Holy Father!"
Guy smiled faintly and shook his head. "When you have been here in the Languedoca little longer, you will come to understand that these are a people who love the grand-gesture as much as romance and music and laughter. They consider well worded exaggeration and bravado something to admire, not scorn. One must also remember that Raymond-Roger came into his inheritance as a youth and so had never had limits placed upon his power. When he provoked the wrath of His Holiness by declaring that he offered ‘a town, a roof, bread and his sword to all the outlaws that would soon be wandering about Provence’ he did not embrace the heresy itself. His gesture was one of independence and largess and tolerance. Tolerance is a creed in these parts, no less cherished than honour and courage."
"It was a courageous gesture." Sir Norbert admitted, reflecting on what Guy had said seriously, impressed that a priest could speak with so much apparent understanding for a man who had defied the Church so impudently.
"And stupid." Sir Charles grunted with evident contempt.
Hughes gazed toward the implacable stone of the cramped prison tower until, realizing that the others were looking at him, he broke off staring at the tower and said with a sad smile, "My father always said that faith without tolerance is bigotry."
Sir Charles eyebrows shot up in disapproval, and Pierre protested, "Surely he did not mean that we should tolerate heresy?"
Hughes was alert to the danger, and so he shrugged and shook his head with deliberate ambiguity.
They started again for the gate, but Hughes's thoughts remained with the prisoner. Jerusalemwas sacred to the Jews and to the Muslims no less than to Christians. It was the bigots and fanatics of all three religions, who ― by insisting upon imposing their own faith ― had sowed intolerance and reaped bloodshed. He remembered his father's anger and frustration, when confronted with Christian bigotry, and his remembered his mother's terror of Muslim fanaticism. He knew that both his parents had Jewish and Greek friends and insisted that one must distinguish between the various Muslim factions and sects, seeking to make a pact among the moderates against the fundamentalists of all religions. He knew that the developments of the last 20 years represented the destruction of his father's world of tolerance. It was discomfiting to think he was now fighting on the side of the fanatics against the forces of tolerance.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
January 26, 2013
The Devil's Knight - Chapter 2
CarcassonneJanuary 1210
The sun had started to broaden and discolor as it sank toward the horizon and a breeze had sprung up heralding the chill of evening, when at last the walled city of Carcassonne came into view. It rose upon a low but steep hill just beyond the Aude, and the walls and towers of the castle rose even more imposingly above the stout walls of the city. Although they had passed through many great cities ― Poitiers, Limoges, Cahors and Toulouse ― on their journey south, the sight of Carcassonne made Hughes pull up.
After leaving Toulouse behind and entering the broad valley of the Aude, he found things in this strange land unsettlingly familiar. It was the milder air, he told himself, and the clear coloring of the sky. Or maybe the chalky earth, the groves of olive trees and the barren Pyranees lurking off to the the south. They all reminded him of home, of Palestine. But it was also the road-side chapels and the churches of the towns, solidly built upon Romanesque arches and decorated with fluid carvings of beasts and plants. Apparently the arrogant and artificial pointed arches had not yet become popular here, and the churches did not seem to strive to be taller, sharper and more extreme than their neighbors. They too were like the churches in which he had learned to pray.
Ignoring Bert´s chatter, Hughes continued, crossing the stone bridge below the town and started up the steep, winding road to the Aude gate of the city. Up close, he confirmed the impression he had gained from beyond the bridge. Pointing to the gate-house and the wall beyond, he told Bert “Roman walls."
"Roman?" Bert asked astonished. "How do you know?"
Hughes shrugged. "I’ve seen it often enough before ― and you’ll note the towers are not really round ― the backs are flat. Furthermore, they are set closer together than is common now-a-days since there was no cross-bow when they were built. Look at the windows under the roof as well."
Bert looked attentively at all these features, marveling that his lord was so well educated, but also wondering why he hadn’t noticed the distinctiveness of the towers on his own. A shout from the battlements demanded their names and business.
Hughes gave his name, but rather than being admitted he was ordered to wait.
"Not very hospitable." Bert remarked, as they sat on their tired horses in the gathering dusk.
Hughes shrugged, and studied first the walls and then the steep slope back down to the river. Although the country seemed peaceful, the walls were manned as if the garrison expected an attack. Looking to the surrounding countryside, he noticed a scattering of houses along the banks of the Aude to the south, a mill with a lazily turning wheel, and the charred ruins of what once have been other cottages.
At last the door in the iron-studded gate was opened and a knight ducked out. He was dressed in full armor, including mail leggings gartered at the knee, and his coif had been pulled up. Over this he wore an old-fashioned helm with nose-piece. He strode energetically toward Hughes. "Sir Hughes de Hebron?"
"Yes."
"You were expected days ago." The knight told him in a reproving tone. "The Viscount was beginning to wonder, if you were going to show up at all."
Hughes was momentarily taken off guard by the disapproving tone and unsettled at the thought there might have been some misunderstanding. It would not bode well for his future, if he started off in disfavor. "Why so? I was told to report by the feast of St. Sebastian ― which is tomorrow."
"You were told to report no later than the feast of St. Sebastian. Everyone else arrived earlier in the week."
As he was not yet over-due, Hughes found the tone of rebuke misplaced, especially from a man of no apparent significance. The knight before him was slight, short, and appeared at most a couple years older than he was himself. Nothing about his practical armor, much less his plain, cotton surcoat suggested that he was a man of importance. "May I ask who you are, Sir?"
"My name is Pierre Amiel. I´m one of the Viscount´s knights. The Viscount is in Narbonne. You will not be able to meet him until tomorrow. Follow me." The knight turned on heel and disappeared through the door, as if forgetting that Hughes was mounted and accompanied by a squire and three remounts. A moment later, however, the gate itself swung open and Hughes was allowed to ride in with Bert.
Pierre Amiel led them through a walled alley. A glance upwards confirmed that a wall-walk ran along the crest of both walls and soldiers with cross-bows sauntered along it, gazing down at the new-comers curiously. In an attack, they would have been able to slaughter any enemy unlucky enough to breach the gate and find himself in this passage. The alley ended in a wall, doubled back upon itself, and now one wall was formed by the city-walls proper. These too were manned. De Montfort was certainly taking no chances ― and sparing no expense ― to defend Carcassonne, Hughes noted.
At last they passed between the two close-set towers of the Aude gate into the city itself. Hughes and Bert were given no time to gain an impression of Carcassonne, however, because their guide bustled forward at an astonishing pace for a man on foot. He lead them through the castle barbican, and then across the draw-bridge into the castle ward, answering the challenges of the sentries imperiously.
The ward was spacious and rectangular. Along two sides, wooden sheds were built against the wall providing the usual work-shops for farrier, armorer, cooper, carpenter and the like. The stables stood just inside the door, and a number of horses were tethered outside, while grooms and squires tended them. The administrative tract stretched along the western wall and to the right, the residential block was built around an inner courtyard.
There was no evidence of a keep, which surprised Hughes. The castle’s builders had apparently placed so much faith in the efficacy of the city’s defenses and outer walls that they had foregone the safe-guard of a last refuge, preferring the luxury of well-lit, spacious apartments. The soldier Hughes had become since he’d left his home-land disapproved of such self-indulgence, but some half-forgotten part of him was charmed to think that people could feel so secure.
"You can sleep with me for tonight." Pierre Amiel announced. "As I don’t know where else there is room. I’ll take you up now, but I must get back to my post at once."
Hughes accepted Pierre Amiel’s offer with a polite murmur of thanks. So far, Pierre Amiel´s officiousness had not greatly endeared him to Hughes, but he was glad to have a place to bed down. He dismounted and left Bert to see to the horses, slinging his saddle-bags over his shoulder as he followed the impatient Pierre Amiel under the south wing and into the cramped inner ward.
Here a covered gallery ran along two sides, reminding Hughes of the gallery in his childhood castle at Hebron. But a windowless, narrow tower straining high above the rest of the roofs cast its shadow across the entire ward. It evidently came from another time, not so old as the Roman walls, but far older than the bulk of the castle with its batteries of double and triple-arched windows. This tower pointed sky-wards like an admonishing finger, without so much as an arrow-slit. Hughes shivered involuntarily.
A monk in the black robes of the Benedictines emerged from the shadows, his head lowered as if in prayer and his hands tucked in his sleeves. "Father Guy!" Pierre Amiel called to him sharply.
The Benedictine lifted his head as if startled and looked about slightly bewildered. Then sighting the two knights crossing the courtyard, he approached them.
"This is Sir Hughes de Hebron, just arrived to join us. Can you show him up to my chamber so I can return on duty?" Pierre Amiel ordered more than asked. The Benedictine smiled gently, and nodded to Hughes while Pierre Amiel hurried away.
"He doesn’t mean to be rude." Hughes heard the monk say, as if reading his thoughts as he gazed after Pierre Amiel. "He is simply afraid of being caught away from his post."
Hughes looked back at the monk. The Benedictine was no longer a young man, perhaps in his forties, with sharp, pointed features and wispy, brown hair. Although he watched Hughes intently, his expression was benign. "Afraid?" Hughes asked skeptically.
"A poor choice of words, perhaps, for a knight. But the Viscount is a strict disciplinarian, as you will discover, and his captains are even more extreme in their efforts to please him."
Hughes registered this intelligence with mixed feelings. He approved of discipline, but he disliked excessive competition for a commander’s favor. As squire to the king, he had observed with increasing distaste the extremes to which some youths went to gain approval. He asked the monk, "Have you been with de Montfort long, Father?"
"Roughly a year. I am Guy des Vaux." He paused as if he expected the name to mean something, but Hughes could not remember having heard it before.
"You were with him throughout the campaign last year then." Hughes concluded.
The monk bowed his head in agreement. "I serve as confessor to the Viscount and his knights." With a gesture of his hand he indicated the direction they should take, and started to escort Hughes to Pierre Amiel´s chamber.
As Hughes fell in beside him, he found himself wondering if this mild man was the cleric who had reputedly urged the crusaders to slaughter the over one thousand men, women and children, who had taken refuge in the Church of Mary Magdelen at Beziers. It was an act that had appalled and scandalized half of Christendom, although it had been explicitly praised by the Pope as an example of ‘genuine’ crusading zeal. With the words, "Kill them all, God will recognize his own," the Papal legate had sent the blood-thirsty soldiers into the Church and not even the priests, holding the Host, were spared. But as he remembered the story, Hughes also remembered that the Papal Legate was a Cistercian Abbot not a mere Benedictine monk.
"You must know the Papal Legate...." The name would not come to him.
"Abbot Arnaud-Amaury. Yes. Of course." The Benedictine´s tone was very neutral, too neutral. They had reached the corner of the inner ward where the eastern and southern wings joined. The monk led the way up a tight, spiral stair-case, and Hughes followed until they emerged on the top floor. Here the monk paused as if to catch his breath, looking over the ramparts to the last strip of orange on the western horizon. Below them the valley of the Aude was cast in gathering shadow and only small, dim lights indicated where cooking fires burned in the cottages. "Arnaud Amaury is a brilliant man, as you will see. And there is no one, not even de Montfort´s favorite captains de Thury and de Roucy, who have more influence upon him. If not for Arnaud-Amaury, Simon de Montfort would never have been named Viscount of Béziers and Carcassonne."
"I thought the other noblemen refused the titles, seeing that Raymond-Roger Trencavel is still alive and has a male heir?"
"That is true, but His Holiness might have been persuaded to forgive Raymond-Roger or name his infant son to his titles had not Arnaud-Amaury argued so eloquently for the appointment of de Montfort. Arnaud-Amaury is indispensable to de Montfort´s success here ― as indispensable as the force of arms."
Hughes noted what was being said, but it did not escape him that Guy des Vaux’s tone was studiously dispassionate. He pressed the point. "You were at Béziers, Father?"
The monk flinched and crossed himself. "Yes. I was at Béziers...." Abruptly he turned away from the sunset and looked at Hughes with deep, haunted eyes. "I know that you knights see it differently ― military necessity and all that. But it was my first siege." With an apologetic smile he added. "Before the crusade last year, I taught at the University of Montpellier."
Hughes was impressed. His father had always admired scholars greatly, and until his lands had been lost to Saladin, he had patronized men of learning. They had often been guests at the high table in Hebron ― astrologers and alchemists, physicians and mathematicians. No gift had pleased his father more than a new book, and Hughes could still remember the beautiful library with frescoed walls that they had had in their castle at Hebron ― before they had lost everything to Saladin’s marauding army.
"What faculty?" Hughes asked, although Guy de Vaux had already turned to lead him along the wall-walk. The monk looked at the new-comer in open astonishment. No knight had ever shown the slightest interest in his scholarly activities before.
"Theology," he admitted, "’though I studied a little medicine as well."
"And you traded the University of Montpellierfor a war against heretics?" Hughes found himself asking with such open incredulity that it sounded almost like criticism.
The monk stopped again, and his eyes studied Hughes hard. "You too have left something more pleasant and congenial for a war against heretics, and you risk life and limb, as I do not."
"I also took no vow of poverty and expect to profit from this war." Hughes told him bluntly.
"I took a vow of obedience as well as poverty." The Benedictine reminded him with a wan smile. "My superiors decide my fate. I was sent me here so I could write a chronicle of the crusade."
Hughes was suitably subdued. A man whose skills at writing were so great that he would be entrusted with such a task deserved respect in any circumstances, but Guy’s admission that he was here against his will made Hughes ashamed of his own mercenary objectives.
Meanwhile, Guy had led to the next tower and entered a chamber. The room was spartanly furnished with a large bed, a lone wooden chest and a three legged stool.
"If you want a bath, there are public baths just outside of the citadel, in the rue St. Sernin." Father Guy informed him. "Curfew is at compline and no one is admitted into the Citadel after that ― except de Montfort himself, of course."
Hughes nodded, dropping his saddle bags onto the chest. He could collect Bert from the stables and they could bathe and then settle in long before compline. "Can you tell me where we might find something to eat?" He asked.
"Supper is set up in the hall from vespers to compline. I would be happy to show you the way, if you like."
"Thank you, but I must collect my squire first. I left him at the stables with the horses. I’ll manage."
"Yes, I suspect you will. May I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"Pierre Amiel introduced you as Hughes de Hebron; is that Hebron in the Holy Land?"
"Yes, it is."
"How did you come by such a title?"
"I was born there." The answer was delivered sharply, almost impolitely, and the monk winced inwardly.
"I didn’t mean to pry, I simply thought....I always wanted to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I wanted to go with the king when he went on Crusade, but my superiors thought otherwise....Were you ever ― have you actually prayed at the Holy Sepulchre?"
"Yes. As a boy. I did me little good."
The monk flashed him a quick, almost impish smile. "Are you so sure?" Then, still smiling, he was gone.
Hughes was left standing in the strange chamber with a sense of confusion. Then he shrugged and started to rummage about in his saddle-bag, looking for his bathing kit.
Returning from the baths, Hughes ran into Pierre Amiel. "I’ve been looking all over for you!" The knight greeted him, but his tone was markedly different from earlier. Now he sounded solicitous as he continued: "Have you had something to eat? I’ll take you to the hall and introduce you around. I see you found the baths. There are a number of excellent taverns in town as well, which I can recommend, or we could go over together?" Pierre Amiel seemed so intent on making up for his earlier unfriendliness, that Hughes accepted the olive-branch, smiled and accepted, adding with a glance at Bert, "but first something to eat."
Together they made their way up to the first-floor hall. The dias was empty, the table covered only with a heavy, felt cloth and otherwise bare. Along the far wall, trestle tables had been set up and platters with bread, cheese, smoked eel, salted herring and cod were laid out. Behind the table, squires carved and poured wine for the men-at-arms, who milled about or sat astride the benches that they had dragged out. Hounds mixed freely among the men, looking hopefully for hand-outs or snatching what they could from the unwary.
Near the screens, some men were entertaining themselves by tossing tid-bits into the air and seeing which of the dogs jumped highest and surest or enjoying the ensuing fights. Whenever the dogs became too aggressive, they were kicked soundly away.
Nearer the high-table, where the knights clustered, the tone was only slightly more decorous. From the flush on men’s faces and the volume of laughter, the wine had been flowing freely for some time already. At the centre of attention here were two men, seated on the step to the dias. Pierre identified them as Alan de Roucy and Lambert de Thury.
Sir Lambert was a tall, lanky knight with curly black hair and a stubby, bulbous nose. He was flashily dressed in bronze-gilded mail and a sword belt that sagged under the weight of the jewels. Sir Alain was a short, bow-legged man with golden-blond hair and a bushy moustache. He wore a jeweled collar over his silk surcoat and rings flashed on every finger.
The names meant nothing to Hughes, who remarked, "and who are they? I’ve never heard of them."
Pierre looked at him somewhat askance. "Lambert de Thury took Trencavel captive, and Roucy commanded the forces that took Mirepoix. De Montfort has made them his principal lieutenants."
Hughes nodded. So these were de Montfort’s most trusted captains. Thury looked much younger than he was himself and Roucy only slightly older. Hughes wondered why he had never heard of them before. "And where were they before they joined de Montfort?"
"They’ve both been with him since the 4th Crusade, where they first attracted his attention for their daring."
Hughes kept his opinion to himself. Undoubtedly a man could be daring even in a bad cause, but he still found it hard to respect a knight who had aided in the down-fall of the Byzantine Empire and thereby exposed the Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem to even greater danger. "And how long have you been with de Montfort?" He asked Pierre.
"Three years now." Pierre was evidently proud of this fact, but it surprised Hughes. He had assumed that Pierrewas another new-comer, whose earlier officiousness had been inspired by a misplaced desire to make a good first impression on his new lord. He studied the knight beside him again, looking for the rough self-assurance Thury and Roucy exuded. They, Hughes noted, looked the part of ruthless adventurers; Pierre did not.
"You were with him throughout the campaign last year?" He asked to confirm the improbable.
"Yes, from the very start." Pierre still sounded proud. He was evidently plagued by none of Guy de Vaux´s ambivalence regarding the massacre at Béziers.
They moved to the table and elbowed their way through the others to get their share. Bert excused himself to join the other squires, having already formed new friendships, while tending to the horses. Pierre pointed out a hefty man with ample girth. "That is Sir Charles de Neauphle, he is also a new-comer. He brought a dozen lances with him, if I remember correctly."
Hughes looked with a touch of envy toward the jovial-looking man, who could afford the luxury of hiring so many fighting men. It would give him a great advantage in gaining recognition to have so many knights under his banner to start with.
"And that tall young knight, Norbert de Mauvoisin, is like you a knight-bachelor recruited by Lady de Montfort." Hughes was not flattered by the comparison because this Norbert looked like a youth of maybe 18 or 19.
"Shall I get you some wine?" Pierre offered helpfully.
They sat together on a side bench, and Pierre willingly answered Hughes’s questions about de Montfort, his captains and the past campaign. In contrast to the Benedictine, there could be no question of Pierre’s unqualified admiration for their commander. Indignantly, he told how the senior noblemen refused to recognize de Montfort´s "genius" out of sheer jealousy, and “because they don’t like de Montfort’s style. As you’ll see tomorrow, he’s not one for pussy-footing around. He’s more likely to use the language of a brothel than the court. But that’s one of the reasons he can get the most out of our soldiers. Wait ‘till you see him in action!"
Hughes had to admit to himself that his curiosity about de Montfort was mounting. It occurred to him that he had served a king whose political acumen was unmatched, but King Philip was not known as a born battle captain. On the contrary, he relied on the services of men more competent than himself, precisely because he was self-critical enough to know what he could not do. If King Philip and Simon de Montfort were as different in temperament and style as it sounded, however, Hughes wondered if he would find favor with the man he had sworn to serve.
January 19, 2013
The Devil's Knight -- Chapter 1
ToursDecember 1209 The bells were clanging for prime from over two dozen churches as Hugh de Hebron and his squire, Bert, left the precincts of the Abbey, where they had spent the night. The sky, grey and heavy with snow, was barely lightening, and the streets shimmered under a film of frost. The horses skidded on the cobbles, snorting and throwing up their heads in alarm. Their breath billowed back into the cold and dark like steam. Bert, who was still half asleep, nearly lost his seat as his gelding's hind legs slipped underneath him. He woke up with a cascade of alarmed and profane cursing. Hugh laughed shortly, and then suggested they both dismount and lead their shod horses over the treacherous cobbles. "Wouldn't it make more sense to attend Mass and then join the brothers in breaking fast in the refectory, my lord?" The youth asked hopefully. He was short and chubby, with a cherubic round face under a woollen hat. His black hair fell into his eyes as he blew onto his mittened hands before adding, "By then the sun will have risen and this glaze of ice will have melted." Hugh shook his head. "I want to reach Betz tonight, and God knows what state the roads are in." They had left Parismore than a week earlier, but sleet and rain had hampered travel all the way. "Didn't your lady wife urge you never to travel on an empty stomach, my lord? I could swear I remember hearing her reminding you to eat a healthy breakfast while travelling. It was very nearly the last thing she said when we set out." Bert's round, clean-shaven face looked earnest, but his black eyes glittered with mischief as he spoke. Hugh snorted, and tried not to smile. The boy's cheek never ceased to surprise him, but he didn't mind it. He remembered all too well the rigours of squiredom, and sometimes wondered why he had not had the self-confidence to risk such impertinence. But then he had served a King, not an impoverished knight and uncle by marriage. "My lady wife says that I turn into a ravenous and dangerous beast when I get hungry. For fear that I might offend great and powerful personages, she encourages me to eat regularly. Fortunately, today you are the only person who might suffer from my unbridled temper, so there is no particular risk to becoming hungry, is there?" "For me there is!" Bert replied in a piping voice, widening his black eyes in a good imitation of terror. Hugh laughed at him, and then without even halting reached into his saddle bag and tossed the youth the remnants of a loaf of bread. "That should keep even a butter-ball like you for an hour or two." Bert bit into the bread gratefully, mumbling thanks with his mouth full, before adding defensively. "My mother says I am a good feeder, that's all. I store more food than I burn up." Hugh shook his head at the manners and sauciness of youth. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full and not to contradict your elders?" "Now that you mention it, I think she did say something like that once." Bert admitted, scratching his head. Hugh shook his head again, but he couldn't be angry with the 16 year old. Not today. Today he would surely make it "home." The word came a little awkwardly. In his heart, "home" was still the sun-baked hills of Palestine with their terraced vineyards and blooming orchards where he had been born and raised. But he tried not to think of them, knowing that he would never see them again. He thought instead of his wife Emilie, who made Betz the only place in Francethat he could call home. It was Emilie, not the run-down castle with its shabby barns that she had brought him as a dowry that drew him through the sleet and cold. He had never dreamed - not even in his romantic phase - that a woman could mean so much to him or give him so much comfort. In retrospect, he knew that the disappointment he had often felt after a romantic adventure had been precisely the absence of the security and familiarity that he enjoyed with Emilie. But Emilie had become the one person in the world with whom he could speak openly. He could talk with her about the most insignificant banalities or about the inchoate dreams and fears that lurked in the depths of his soul. They gossiped about their neighbours, and they discussed affairs of state no less readily and intently. Together they reflected upon theology or racked their brains for ways to increase their revenues.... Hugh sighed. The state of their finances was more perilous than it had ever been. For three years, they had struggled to get ahead, living frugally but investing carefully ― in a stone bridge, a new roof for the barn, a better mill-wheel. But this year the spring rains never stopped. The crops had rotted in the fields, never ripening enough to harvest. The memory of the sodden fields made him shiver. They had virtually no reserves of their own, and Hugh knew that in the poorer cottages of their peasants many old people and infants would be allowed to die this winter. There was nothing he could do to stop it, and that shamed him. His father had never let any beggar, much less one of his own tenants, go hungry. The hospitality of the Lords of Hebron had been a by-word in Judea, and now Hugh dreaded the sight of a begging friar and could not keep his own peasants from starvation. No, he told himself for the thousandth time since setting out for Montfort L'Amaury, he had no choice. Rather, he should thank God on his knees (as indeed he repeatedly had) for this propitious opportunity. Here, when he needed money so desperately, the Viscount of Beziers and Narbonne was desperately in need of knights. The crusade against the Albigensian heresy of the previous year had ended with the campaign-season. Virtually all the participants, their vassals and mercenaries had returned to their estates. When the crusade was initiated two years earlier, Hugh had been incensed to learn that Pope Leo had offered the same absolution and heavenly rewards for a campaign against heretics in southern France, which were otherwise reserved for real crusades. Why should any man in his right mind mortgage his estates and risk his life in a long journey to the Holy Land, if he was granted the same remission of debts and absolution for his sins for a short jaunt down to Narbonne? This last “crusade,” like the one before that had ended by destroying the power Christian Empire of Byzantium, was a dreadful corruption of the concept of Crusade. And, for the son of a baron in Christian Palestine, both the Fourth Crusade and the Albigensian Crusade were particularly objectionable because they had both diverted resources and attention from the urgent need to recapture Jerusalem ― and the other lost territories of Christian Palestine. Because of these feelings, Hugh had been intensely relieved that King Philip, his liege, had refused to participate in either “crusade.” He had been legally entitled to refuse to take part in the "crusade" against the Albigensians. Now the situation was different. The most successful of the commanders of the Albigensian crusade, Simon de Montfort, was taking knights into his service at good wages. Simon de Montfort had been named Viscount of Beziers and Carcassonne, because the hereditary lord, Raymond Roger Trencavel, had defiantly and flagrantly harboured heretics. Indeed, he had invited them into his territories. Trencavel had been excommunicated, and, after his capture at Carcassonne, his lands had been forfeited. The new Viscount of Beziers and Caracassone thus held a vast territory of immense wealth populated by heretics and outraged vassals, who remained loyal to Trencavel. Reputedly, de Montfort was holed up in the mighty city of Carcasssonnefor the winter, but he would not be able to hold on to his new lands unless he could recruit sufficient fighting men to subdue the rebellious and irreverent population when the spring came. In consequence, de Montfort was promising his followers not just their daily wages, but the castles and towns they captured from the rebels. It was a tactic that ensured not only recruits, but stability in the long run. The men rewarded for their service with fiefs, would remain loyal to their parvenu liege in the years to come, bound together by all being usurpers in the name of God, among a local population of disbelievers and disinherited. Hugh knew what that meant because the Christian lords of Palestinealso ruled over a population that was predominantly Muslim and latently disloyal. He knew that it was a precarious kind of lordship compared to the ancient tradition of Emilie's family at Betz. But the Countyof Toulouse stretched from the Dordogne to the Mediterranean, and the lands that de Montfort sought to control had to be as fertile and warm as his lost homeland. The thought of them made Hugh shiver in the grim, grey dawn at Tours. He looked about at the shops cowering in the shadows of the pre-dawn, still shuttered against the wind and cold and damp and shimmering with frost. The very stone here was grey and the roofs of slate. Hugh noticed other well cloaked figures moving in the shadows. A beggar bundled in ragged, soiled blankets and smelling of his own urine held out a hand for alms. Just beyond him a baker's apprentice was preparing to open the bakery, and two servants waited impatiently stomping their wooden clogs and gossiping in an undertone. Bert sniffed loudly as he caught the whiff of fresh-baked bread on the air. Hugh ignored the hint although his own stomach was rumbling. This was a good part of town and he was sure the bread would be less expensive closer to the gate. Ten minutes later, as they reached the edge of town, Bert was looking more cold and miserable than ever, and Hugh took pity on him. "Come on, lad. We'll go buy a hot breakfast in the next tavern." Bert at once brightened up, standing up straighter. "God's truth, sir?" Hugh nodded in the direction of a semi-respectable looking inn. "See to the horses, I'll order you hot pasties." "Thank you, sir!" Bert grinned and hastened to get the horses put into the tavern stables. By the time he rejoined his lord at a large, oaken table near the fire-place, Hugh was already slicing hot bread with his knife and a jug of hot, spiced wine was on the table for them. "The pasties will take a minute or two." Hughes told his squire, shoving a piece of bread in his direction. "Sir," Bert started cheerfully, "do you think you could let me go home for Christmas before we head for Carcassonne? I know my mother would--" Hughes started slightly. "What do you mean ‘we’?" Bert looked at him blankly for a moment before he understood the question. "Well, you can't mean to go down to Narbonnealone? You need me." Bert pointed out with a mixture of bafflement and insolence. Hughes laughed outright. "I need you as much as I need another hole in my head." Bert was, despite his impertinence, a cheerful, attentive and hard-working youth. Hughes, who had had a variety of squires in the last 10 years, knew that Bert was by no means the worst. But he was not only his wife's sister's son, he was a youth who had never left his native Tourainne until this trip to Montfort L'Armaury via Paris- and he had never been near a battle. "You can't mean to go without a squire!" Bert insisted. "You'll have a remount and all your equipment--" Hughes held up his hand to silence the youth. "I will indeed hire someone to attend me, but I need someone with experience." "I've been with you two years!" Bert pointed out in disbelief. "Who else knows how to get that damn stallion of yours --" In his excitement, Bert was talking at the top of his voice, and Hughes signalled for him to quiet down. Pitching his own voice very low, Hughes spoke calmly but with emphasis. "I'm talking about war-experience, Bert." Bert looked at him in stunned disbelief, and then he resumed his energetic defence. "But how can I ever learn about war, if you won't take me with you? Everyone has to start sometime." Hughes sighed. He had not expected Bert to have his heart set on coming with him. He tried to think back to when he had been 16, but the comparison brought little. He'd been raised in war-torn Palestine. While serving King Philip, even when aged 14 and 15 and not yet allowed to participate in battles, he'd tended wounded knights and helped collect and bury the dead. He'd been entangled in his first skirmish at 16 when some of the Lionheart's knights had ambushed his party on the road to Limosin. He'd killed his first man less than three months later, and had been badly wounded before he reached his 18th birthday. What did that past have to do with Albert's provincial childhood? Albert was the son of Emilie's sister Isabelle. Unfortunately for him, his father had no less than three sons by earlier marriages, and he did not stand to inherit anything. When his father died, his eldest half-brother sent him to Frontgombault to become a monk, but Bert had run away from there three different times. On the last occasion, he had made his way to Emilie and Hughes to beg for their help. Hughes had agreed to take Bert into his household and Bert´s half-brother had agreed, pointedly washing his hands of any responsibility for him. Hughes, lacking a son of his own, had not been reluctant to "adopt" the youth. Part of him even considered naming Bert his heir when the time came. Emilie was now 38 and in three and a half years of marriage she had remained barren. It was improbable that he would have an heir, and since Betz came through his wife it was only fair that the estate revert to one of her relatives. Bert, of course, had been told none of this, though he might secretly hope for it. These unspoken plans as much as Bert’s inexperience made Hugh reluctant to take him down to Carcassonne. "You don't think I'm any good with weapons, is that it?" Bert asked in a voice that revealed how deeply hurt he was. "You're not bad." Hughes tried to explain. "You're no worse than most boys your age. Maybe even better than I was." This was a conscious lie. Hugh had been drilled by some of the best knights in Christendom. He had even participated in one tournament against the Lionheart and William Marshall, even if he had personally been too insignificant to cross swords with such legends. "But?" Bert prompted insistently, his chin up and his jaw set defiantly. Hughes sighed again. "But you've never even been in a tournament. You've fought no one but me!" "Is that my fault?" Bert wanted to know. "Please, sir, give me a chance! You'll never get anyone else so cheap, and if I'm no good you can send me home." "If you're no good, you'll be dead. How can I take that chance knowing what you mean to your mother and my lady wife? They would never forgive me." "Of course, they would. They'd know it was my fault. Please, Uncle Hughes, I'm 16! If I don't get a chance to prove myself soon, it'll be too late." Hughes was relieved that the steaming, mushroom pasties arrived at this moment, distracting Bert. As the youth bit hungrily into one, mushrooms and juice spilling down the side of his mouth, Hughes ended the discussion with an intentionally ambiguous. "Go home for Christmas, and then we'll see."
At Betz, dusk came mid-afternoon behind an iron-grey sky heavy with sleet. The gate-keeper, who didn't think any respectable person should be abroad after dark in such weather, raised the drawbridge and bolted the gate before settling himself before his smoking fire with his cat in his lap.In the great-hall, the dinner had been cleared away, and the household gathered around the central hearth with various hand-tasks. The grooms had brought dirty tack in from the stable and were soaping it down over a bucket. The kitchens boys under the supervision of the cook were busy dipping candles in a huge vat suspended from a wooden frame set up especially for this purpose. The cooper was sitting astride a bench and deftly producing kitchen utensils from selected wood, while his wife, the laundress, darned worn table-clothes and sheets. Lady Emilie´s maid, Babette, was weaving and the regular thumping of the weft being pressed firm provided a steady counterpoint to the murmur of conversation At the high table, the young priest, who also served as the household clerk, sat hunched over a wax tablet, tallying up the figures on the parchment rolls beside him. He was very near-sighted and in the dim light his nose seemed almost to touch the tablet as he worked. Emilie, seeing this, rose and fetched the candelabra from the far end of the table. She set it down before him, and lit the half-burned candles from her own. "You mustn't strain your eyes." She told the clerk gently. He looked up with a start and flushed slightly. "Thank you, my lady, but I can manage. No need to waste candles." Though they produced their own candles for the most part with their own wax, they remained a luxury, especially in the eyes of Father Francois. Francois had been born a serf. He still could not get over his good-fortune in being allowed to attend the abbey school, and then being allowed to take holy orders. He knew that his talents were limited in comparison to many of his companions at the abbey, and he had often struggled at lessons that the others seemed to find simple. To this day, his Latin remained rudimentary, and he could conduct the Mass only by rote. He was awed and grateful to have been recommended by the abbot for the position of chaplain and clerk to the Lord and Lady of Betz. The salary of a Louis per year seemed princely. Francois' ambitions ended with pleasing his new employers, and securing for a lifetime the luxury and security that this position offered him, but he was far from confident about his chances. The discovery that his new lord had been born and raised in the Holy Land intimidated him, and ― never having had any contact with women of class ― the proximity to Lady Emilie always made him nervous. Even now he flushed and felt confused as she leaned over to light the candles. He could smell the cleanliness of her skin and clothes. At the abbey they had only been allowed to bathe if they were ill, and he could not remember his parents ever bathing. But he knew that even in the winter, Babette carried water to Lady Emilie every morning and sponged her down. Her wimple of ivory-coloured wool seemed as clean and fresh as if it were being worn for the first time, and there were neither sweat-stains nor grease spots on her red surcoat. Even the cream-coloured sleeves of her gown where they emerged from the wide-sleeves of her surcoat were barely greyed at the elbows and wrists. Emilie resettled herself upon her stool before an embroidery frame and took up her needle again. She was working on her Christmas present for Hugh, a yellow linen trapper for his stallion studded with his and her coat of arms. She was a little uncertain if he would be pleased. The yellow linen would dirty easily and he might prefer the arms of Hebronalone. But she wanted him to have something that was both practical and impressive, if he were to take service with Simon de Montfort. Indeed, she would have liked to buy him silk for the trapper, but she had not been able to afford it. To compensate for the inadequacy of the material, she had decided upon more colourful needlework. She had even gone to the expense of buying silver thread to do the crosses in his arms. The results, she thought, were not displeasing to the eye. If only she could be sure he would be happy to wear her arms as well as his…. The sound of sleet against the shutters of the windows was accompanied by a sudden gust of wind that sent the smoke back down the louve in the ceiling and swept through the hall. Emilie shivered and glanced toward the blinded windows. There was no hope now that Hughes would return tonight, so she must face another night alone. Since their marriage, this was the longest Hughes had ever been away from her -- nearly three weeks today. But in weather like this, she knew that travel was slow and miserable. She hoped that Hughes was somewhere dry and warm. She hated to think of him out on the roads on a night like this, and then reminded herself that if Simon de Montfort had accepted him, he would soon be facing worse things than inclement weather…. The thought depressed her and she sighed. Hughes was an experienced knight, she reminded herself, and he was not going to war. Rather he would be establishing order and subduing isolated pockets of insurrection. There would surely be no pitched battles or hazardous assaults against powerful cities or castles since the major cities were already in the hands of de Montfort. But she could not forget how obscure the siege had been in which the Lionheart had been mortally wounded. There were risks in warfare, no matter how low-scale, and for the thousandth time she wished she could think of some other way for them to get out of their financial difficulties. Hughes and she had discussed selling off the mill or taking a loan from the Constable at Loches or any number of other schemes, but it all came down to the same thing: they would never be able to repay a loan and if they sold the mill off, they would have less revenue in the future. The only solution that would not leave them poorer in the long run was for Hughes to take service again with a powerful lord. The King was not in need at present, and de Montfort was. They really didn't have any choice. But what would life be worth without Hughes? These last weeks while he was away, she had lain in the chill of their great bed sleepless from sheer loneliness. And if these past weeks had seemed long and empty without Hughes’ restless activity, his irritable fussing and easy laughter, what would it be like if he were gone the better part of a year? What if he never returned? She forced herself to remember her life in the interval between her father's death and Hughes arrival. She knew that she had not been unhappy. But she had never known anything better. She had not known the comfort of a companion before. Not even her father had shared his thoughts with her, nor had he had any interest in what went on in her head. Her father had lived more and more in his memories, progressively excluding her from his world. Emilie’s hand slipped surreptitiously to her belly. It was flat and still, but the midwife said she was carrying a child. Emilie did not dare believe it yet. Not at her age. Not after more than three years of barrenness. But what if it were true? Emilie thought of her sisters. Adelaidehad died in childbed at the age of 45 two years ago. Caroline was nearly toothless and half-crippled from bringing more than 14 children into the world, most of whom had died in infancy or childhood. Isabelle had fared best; her husband had been so much older that she had borne him only two children in seven years before he became completely impotent. She still had her health though she had lost her figure and was nearly as broad now as she was tall. Emilie realized with a chill and shudder of guilt that she did not want a child. Hugh had reconciled himself early and with ease to the notion of being without a son. He had even hinted he would name her nephew, Bert, his heir and seemed content with the thought. As long as he was content, what could she gain by going through pregnancy and child birth? Everyone knew that it was especially dangerous to have a first child so late in life. The children born to older women were often deformed or demented. Even more were born dead. It was not natural for a woman her age to conceive for the first time. It was frightening. She shivered again, and hastily crossed herself. It was God's Will, she reminded herself, with a guilty glance at the priest still struggling with the accounts. Hughes' two hunting dogs, who had been sleeping with their heads on their paws at Emilie's feet, suddenly lifted their heads. The black gave a wuff and the tan was already scrambling to his feet. Their ears strained for a moment, and then simultaneously they bounded down from the dias and trotted the length of the hall to plunge through the screens. There they set up a wild barking. Emilie watched them with a cocked head, trying to hear what they had heard, but by now the dogs were making too much noise to hear anything else. Emilie replaced her needle, and stood up. Just as she stepped off the dias, the outside door beyond the screens crashed open. There was a frenzied increase in the barking and a rush of wind swept up the hall, stirring the rushes. Emilie heard Bert’s familiar voice telling the two dogs to shut up and then shouting for the grooms. "Are you all deaf? My lord and I --" The grooms sprang up and hastened out, while the other servants looked toward the door. Emilie eagerly stretched her strides, but she was only halfway down the hall when Hughes stomped in, glistening with wet and red with cold. His blond hair and clipped, full beard were so wet they looked black against his face, and drops of water glistened in the light of the fire. He moved with the awkward stiffness of a man who has spent too many hours in the saddle. His eyes swept the dias before he realized that Emilie was almost upon him, and his face broke out into a smile. When the bath was ready, Emilie sent both Babette and Bert away and prepared to attend Hughes herself. With Bert’s help, Hughes had already removed his muddy boots and wet leather hose, had stripped off his hauberk, damp aceton and shirt to sit in his braies on a stool by the fire, trying to warm up. His skin was still red with cold, and he held his silver goblet with both hands as much to keep it from slipping from his numb fingers as to warm his palms. As the water steamed up from the tub, he watched contently as Emilie removed her fur-lined surcoat and then unbuttoned her sleeves so she could roll them up. "You don't intend to wear your wimple, do you?" He asked as she tested the water temperature. "Why not?" She inquired with apparent calm. Hughes made an inarticulate reply, and Emilie felt her blood quicken. Once, not long after they were first married, he had taken hold of her braid as she bathed him and pulled her into the bath. At first she had been shocked and even a little frightened, but it had ended in the most exciting love-making she had ever known. Now and again, unexpectedly, Hugh repeated the manoeuvre, and Emilie had never been disappointed. It pleased her intensely that despite his exhausting ride in miserable weather, he could still think of seduction tonight. She unwound the wimple and laid it on top of her robe. Then on second thought, she pulled off her gown and stockings as well. Hugh was watching her every motion like a well-fed cat, sipping carefully at his wine. "Now, my lord." Emilie waited beyond the bath, her face slightly flushed. "Will you not test the water yourself?" Hughes nodded, set the wine aside, and releasing the cord at his waist, let his braies drop to the floor. He stepped into the tub, yelping at the heat of the water, but then sank lower and lower into it with a sigh. Emilie took the waiting soap, and started to slowly wash his nearest hand and arm. "So tell me about Lady de Montfort, she's a Montmorency, isn't she?" "Yes, I believe so. She is a short, slight, very energetic woman with a brittle kind of charm. The Archbishop of Rouen happened to be visiting when we arrived, and shortly afterward the Lord of Beaujeu stopped by on his way to Paris. She dazzled with the extravagance of her table and glittered in an abundance of jewels. Most impressive was her ability to entertain her guests with her wit. I was seated too far away to hear what she said, but she kept the high-table in good humour for hours on end without interruption. "When she met with me, however, she was absolutely sexless. She asked the same questions that I would have expected from her husband, and dictated the indenture with precision and fluency." "And what are the terms?" Emilie asked moving around the tub to wash Hugh' other arm. "A silver mark a week for as long as I serve, plus the replacement of lost or damaged equipment and lamed or killed horses." "How long did you sign for?" Emilie did not dare meet his eyes. "Indefinitely. I want to see how things go." Emilie felt her chest tighten in horror. Indefinitely! That meant she could not ever know how long she had to wait, could not go to bed each night knowing it was one day less 'till he returned. She was at the mercy of Hughes' whim and the fortunes of war. "What's the matter, my lady love?" "Nothing." She shook her head, avoiding his eyes, and directed her attention to his dirty feet. "Is that a good wage? A silver mark a week?" It seemed precious little for risking life and limb. "It is less than the king pays." Hughes admitted. "The profit in this campaign is in the lands and titles de Montfort is entitled to grant for good service. If I can gain a second fief, a prosperous one in the south, we can use the surplus revenue to do what needs to be done here." Hughes dreamed of another fief for the sake of regaining a prosperity he remembered from his childhood, but he knew that Emilie loved Betz. Emilie nodded. They had discussed all this before. She knew it made sense, but what if the real reason Hughes was determined to join de Montfort was to gain a second home away from here, away from her? Emilie never forgot that she was eight years older than Hughes and no particular beauty. Hughes had married her for her lands. "If things go well, we might be able to spend next Christmas at a new castle. The weather must be milder near Narbonne!" Emilie smiled up at him. He had said "we." "Bert wants to accompany me. Do you think I should let him?" "Bert?" Emilie tried to concentrate on the question despite an overwhelming desire to kiss her husband. "But who else would you take?" "You don't think his mother will object?" Hughes sounded sceptical. "Isabelle will be pleased to think he might meet important knights and lords. You know how much pleasure she takes in having seen so-and-so or talked to someone who knew someone etc. etc." Hughes had to laugh. He knew no one else who could preen herself so long and so loudly on the most insignificant connections to the more exalted. No doubt Emilie was right, and he could already hear his sister-in-law gossiping: "My son, you know the one with the Viscount of Beziers…." She would never mention that Bert was only squire to one of de Montfort's knights. Oh well, she did no one any harm with her pretensions, and apparently she had no more appreciation of the dangers than Bert did himself. Hughes opened his mouth to remark on this to Emilie, and then thought better of it. Why should he stress the dangers? It would only unsettle his wife. Emilie interrupted his thoughts. She had seated herself on the floor beside the tub and grasped his hand. "Hughes? There’s something I have to tell you…." "What is it?" He asked instantly alarmed by her tone of voice. She was looking very nervous. "While you were away...." He went rigid. Her tone was so frightened and uncertain that his first thought was that she had been unfaithful to him. His thoughts were racing ahead, searching for the most likely candidate. Surely not the half-blind, new priest? "I - I didn't feel well, while you were away, and – and last week I went to see Hortense." "Hortense?" He frowned unable to place the name. "You know, the woman in Loches who ― who attended all my sisters." Hugh stopped breathing. "You mean the mid-wife?" Emilie nodded, still not looking at him. He was starting to understand, but he couldn’t believe what she was implying, not after so many barren years. "Emilie?" "She says there isn't any doubt." "You are with child?" He still couldn't believe it, and when she nodded, he sloshed water everywhere in his exuberant effort to pull her into his arms and cover her face with kisses. She laughed a little, but she also held him away from her. "Don't get too excited. So much could happen. I - I will probably loose it before term. You know how often that happens. And ― and it might be born dead or ― you know. It is too soon to celebrate." She still would not meet his eyes and she was rigid in his arms. After a moment he realized she was holding her breath to keep from crying. "Emilie." He drew back and stroked her face with the back of his wet hand. Hughes belatedly registered that child-birth was the leading cause of mortality among women. Emilie had just lost one of her sisters, he reminded himself. Very young and old mothers were the most vulnerable. Emilie had every reason to be afraid "Do you want me to stay? I can send Bert back to Lady de Montfort and have him explain." Her lids flew open and she met his eyes. For an instant, he could read relief and gratitude in her startled, golden eyes, but then they turned a shade darker and she shook her head. "No, that would be foolish. You might not be given a second chance. And if I lose the baby, it will have been for nothing." She kissed his lips gently. "Thank you for offering." "When? When is it due?" She shrugged. "It must have been conceived the end of October." Hughes calculated. That meant it was due the end of July or early August. The height of the campaign season and a notably bad time to break off and come home, but she was more at risk than he would be with his armour and his weapons and his training. The least he could do was be with her. "I’ll be come back in time." "Would you? Could you?" Her eyes lit up again. "I will." He promised, and then drew her back into his arms.
Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader
January 5, 2013
"The Devil's Knight" -- An Introduction
Of the three novellas that make up my “Tales from the Languedoc,” The Devil’s Knight is chronologically the first. It is set during the year 1210, the year after the crusading army, mustered to suppress the Cathar heresy in the South of France, has withdrawn.
Simon de Montfort has been named the new Viscount of Carcassone and Bezieres, after the capture, imprisonment and death of the hereditary lord, Raymond Roger de Trencavel. However, while Montfort has been awarded this vast territory by the Pope, he does not control it. To subdue the rebellious lords of his new lordship, he must muster a mercenary army. The knights who rally to his cause come largely from the north, motivated by the prospect of being granted fiefs by the new Viscount of Carcassone. The problem is that first those fiefs have to be captured and secured by dislodging the southern noblemen who have inherited the castles and lordships from their forefathers and hold them by force. 1210 will turn out to be the year in which some of the most famous sieges in the bitter war against the Cathar heresy took place: notably Bram, Minerve, Puivert and Termes.
As the title suggests, the main protagonist of this novel is a knight in the service of the notoriously ruthless Simon de Montfort. Readers of my other novels and “A Widow’s Crusade” undoubtedly know that my personal sympathies lie on the side of the “rebellious” hereditary lords of the Languedoc -- not with the invading forces under Simon de Montfort. But that is the crux of this novella.
Unlike “A Widow’s Crusade,” that is essentially about the fate of two people and their relationship to one another, “The Devil’s Knight” employs a wider cast of characters to explore a complex relationships between men in the service of a ruthless genius. Montfort, like many other military leaders of earlier and later generations, was a remarkably effective leader. Almost always out-numbered, with no sympathy from the local population, and without the advantage of inside intelligence, he repeatedly forced the surrender of allegedly impregnable fortress -- castles that too this day seem to defy the very thought of capture.
The focus of the novel is notthe conflict between the invaders and the defenders -- that seemed rather too trite, too black and white, and has been the subject of many other books already. Rather, this novella looks at the complex combination of charisma, power, dependency and coercion that kept Montfort’s supporters together. The novella seeks to go beyond the usual cartoon-like depiction of Montfort as the incarnation of evil, and explore the complexity of the motives and responses of his men. Many of the characters, including my Simon de Montfort, were drawn from people I have personally known.
I will start posting individual entries following my return from a holiday on Cyprus, where I will be doing more research for these novels set in the 13th Century, on January 19.
Simon de Montfort has been named the new Viscount of Carcassone and Bezieres, after the capture, imprisonment and death of the hereditary lord, Raymond Roger de Trencavel. However, while Montfort has been awarded this vast territory by the Pope, he does not control it. To subdue the rebellious lords of his new lordship, he must muster a mercenary army. The knights who rally to his cause come largely from the north, motivated by the prospect of being granted fiefs by the new Viscount of Carcassone. The problem is that first those fiefs have to be captured and secured by dislodging the southern noblemen who have inherited the castles and lordships from their forefathers and hold them by force. 1210 will turn out to be the year in which some of the most famous sieges in the bitter war against the Cathar heresy took place: notably Bram, Minerve, Puivert and Termes.
As the title suggests, the main protagonist of this novel is a knight in the service of the notoriously ruthless Simon de Montfort. Readers of my other novels and “A Widow’s Crusade” undoubtedly know that my personal sympathies lie on the side of the “rebellious” hereditary lords of the Languedoc -- not with the invading forces under Simon de Montfort. But that is the crux of this novella.
Unlike “A Widow’s Crusade,” that is essentially about the fate of two people and their relationship to one another, “The Devil’s Knight” employs a wider cast of characters to explore a complex relationships between men in the service of a ruthless genius. Montfort, like many other military leaders of earlier and later generations, was a remarkably effective leader. Almost always out-numbered, with no sympathy from the local population, and without the advantage of inside intelligence, he repeatedly forced the surrender of allegedly impregnable fortress -- castles that too this day seem to defy the very thought of capture.
The focus of the novel is notthe conflict between the invaders and the defenders -- that seemed rather too trite, too black and white, and has been the subject of many other books already. Rather, this novella looks at the complex combination of charisma, power, dependency and coercion that kept Montfort’s supporters together. The novella seeks to go beyond the usual cartoon-like depiction of Montfort as the incarnation of evil, and explore the complexity of the motives and responses of his men. Many of the characters, including my Simon de Montfort, were drawn from people I have personally known.
I will start posting individual entries following my return from a holiday on Cyprus, where I will be doing more research for these novels set in the 13th Century, on January 19.
December 29, 2012
Looking back on 2012
The past year has been an important one for me as a novelist. From the start of the year, sales of the books in the Leonidas Trilogy moved steadily upwards, passing one critical milestone after another. On schedule, the third book, A Heroic King, was released September 15, and sales quickly surpassed anything I have experienced before. It, like the first two books in the series, has collected a small but growing number of positive reviews – none of which have been purchased and most of which were written by complete strangers. Thank you, all!!
Likewise, after a very slow start, sales of Where Eagles Never Flewstarted to pick up and reached respectable levels by the end of the year. In contrast, the launch of Hitler’s Demons, the Kindle edition of my novel about the German Resistance (published in trade paperback as An Obsolete Honor), was disappointing. I can only hope that with time the quality of these books will enable them to win a following of readers.
For me, however, it is time to move on to a new project, a new period. Although I remain committed to writing a biographical novel of Edward of Woodstock (more commonly known as the Black Prince), I recognize that as long as I am carrying a full-time job in addition to my writing, I don’t have time for this massive project. The biography of Edward requires more research, travel and above-all a dedicated website, none of which I can reasonably undertake any time in the foreseeable future.
Instead, I have chosen to rework a series of books written over the last couple of decades that were set in the 13thCentury. These include three novellas, set at least partially in the Languedoc and touching on the Albigensian crusade against the Cathers, a trilogy set on Cyprus during the first half of the 13th Century and dealing with the baronial revolt against the Holy Roman Emperor, and my Templar Trilogy, which spans the period from the 7th Crusade to the destruction of the Knights Templar in 1314.
The three novellas, which I refer to collectively as “Tales of the Languedoc,” will be published in installments on this website. The first, “A Widow’s Crusdae,” appeared over the last nine weeks. The next, “The Devil’s Knight” will be introduced next week and then appear over twelve weeks starting January 19. The last in the series, “The Disinherited,” will be posted in the summer.
Meanwhile, I am working on revising – actually completely re-writing – the first book in the Templar Trilogy, with tentative plans to release it in trade paperback and Kindle editions in early 2014.
But that is far away, and now I want to thank you for following my blog, writing reviews, leaving comments on my website and occasionally sending me emails. I truly enjoy the exchange with my readers, and try to respond promptly to each communication I receive. I wish all of you the very best for 2013, and hope that you’ll keep reading my books, following my blog, and sending me feed-back.
Happy New Year!
December 22, 2012
A Widow's Crusade - Chapter 9
Montfort, GalileeDecember 1212
As the weeks went by, Abelard found himself looking ever more frequently for word from Lord Hughes. Not knowing whether Hughes and Emilie would be back for Christmas made planning difficult. If they did not return, there would be festivities for the permanent household at which he would preside, of course, but, if the lord and his lady were present, than the scale of the feasting and entertainment would have to be much more lavish. The livestock could be kept on the hoof until shortly before the holiday season began, but Abelard found himself laying in extra sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and dried fruits. He found the young troubadour struggling to make a living with his lute, and engaged him along with two flutists. He couldn't stop hoping that Hughes and Emilie would return. That Blanche would return.When the harbinger arrived with the news that Lord Hughes and his party were a half-day away (travelling was slower with the ladies), Abelard could not suppress his excitement. As soon as he had issued the necessary instructions for lighting fires, changing bedding and rushes, mulling wine and preparing hay for the horses, he changed into the new things he had bought himself: a dark-blue shirt, burgundy gown and a new belt. The shirt had an embroidered collar and long tight sleeves. The gown had wide sleeves that ended some four inches above the elbow, and was adorned with thick golden cords that formed a Greek-key pattern along the hem. Like his surcoats, the gown came to mid-calf and was split up the front almost to the waist so it revealed his soft leather trousers and knee-high suede boots. Last but not least, he had spent a goodly sum upon a new belt. This had panels of bronze elaborately worked with silver and gold relief, little hares and deers running.By the time he had finished making himself presentable and returned to the gate-house, the fore-riders were already dismounting in the ward. Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie came through the gate, and a shrill screaming went up from the entry to the tower, where Yvonne was being held by her nurse despite her best efforts to escape. Abelard paid no attention. His eyes were fixed upon Blanche as she rode in beside Lord Hughes' father, the elegant, grey-haired Guillaume de Hebron.Guillaume was approaching 70 years of age with a mane of white hair and a white moustache. He was gallant, charming and the most civilised man Abelard had ever met. He could read and write Latin, Greek and Arabic. He was familiar with astrology and had even recognised the name of Abelard's first master. (Abelard had not enlightened him about how he knew the man, and Guillaume had been impressed.) Guillaume could discuss the writings of Aristotle, Plato, Pierre Abelard and Bernard of Clairvaux with equal ease. And he was clearing enjoying Blanche's company.Abelard was instantly reminded of his own countless inadequacies. Guillaume de Hebron was a Baron and a widower. He had a right to pay court to Lady Blanche ― unlike that impudent squire Bert. Abelard started forward to offer Blanche assistance dismounting, but Bert was quicker, jumping down and taking her bridle.It was Emilie who saw Abelard first, greeting him with a wave, before she bent to give her demanding daughter a hug and a kiss. Then Lord Guillaume was greeting him, hoping they would not be too much of an inconvenience. "We are expected at the King's Christmas Court at Acre, so we won't be here for more than a week,” he told his son’s seneschal, adding, “We only came because Emilie wanted to see that imp of a grandchild of mine." Abelard had no idea how well his face masked his acute disappointment.At dinner Abelard was naturally displaced by Lord Guillaume, who shared Lady Blanche's cup and cut her meat. Abelard was seated next to Emilie who inquired after all manner of insignificant things like any worried house-wife, while Lord Guillaume kept Blanche in stitches of laughter with stories of youthful escapades in Hebron and Jerusalem. Abelard regretted the money he'd wasted on his new finery.The young minstrel introduced himself after the first course, bowing elegantly in the oriental fashion. He was still a very young man and ill at ease with his uncertain status in life. His mother was a Palestinian Christian and his father had been some Crusader who had come and gone again. But he sang very well and his audience was pleased with him. Lord Hughes ordered Bert to give him wine from the High Table. When he took a break, the singer sat himself beside Abelard and asked anxiously. "Is it certain then? I can stay the winter here?"Abelard shrugged and glanced at Hughes. "It would seem so. Do you know the song by Conan de Bethune ‘Ahi, Amors’?""Of course, everyone knows that." "Would you sing it?"He shrugged. "If you want, but it’s not very popular anymore. There are better songs. I could--"Abelard shook his head. "I want that one."They brought the third course. The minstrel stood and bowed again. "A request," he announced, "from your esteemed Seneschal." He bowed extra low to Abelard. Then with a preliminary flourish he took up the song. Blanche looked over sharply. Abelard could feel her eyes studying him. He knew he should look at her, but his courage failed. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead, until she looked away again. Then he looked at her longingly.Sometime after the desert of sugared violets had been served with sweet Commandaria wine from Cyprus, Lord Guillaume asked Blanche if she had decided yet if she would come with them to Acre for Christmas. "Or would you rather make the Christmas pilgrimage to Bethlehem?"Blanche sighed. "If you want to know the truth, my lord, I'd rather not do either. What I'd like most....""Yes?" He prompted, pouring her more wine. "What would you really like this Christmas?""I'd like to spend the night out in the fields with the shepherds. I'd like to experience Christmas like the first Christmas: away from all festivity and ritual.""Yes." Abelard spoke out loud without realising it, and was astonished when everyone turned to look at him expectantly. But with them all staring at him, he had to explain. "I never felt closer to Him than when I was alone in the desert with only the stars...." "Surely it can be arranged." Blanche turned to Hughes. "There is no danger here, surely? If I went up to the pastures with some of your shepherds...."Hughes was perplexed. It was not overtly dangerous, but it was unthinkable that a noblewoman would go out with the shepherds. Not to mention that all his shepherds were Jews."I can escort the Lady Blanche, my lord.” Abelard offered. “We can go to the upper pastures and, if you could grant us use of your pavilion, Lady Blanche would be certain of protection even from the weather."Everyone seemed to be staring at him, and he felt foolish. "I would like that very much, my lord. Could we?" Blanche broke the awkward silence."Of course, you may have use of my pavilion, but, Sir Abelard.…""My lord?"Hughes just looked at him questioningly."I swear upon my honour that Lady Blanche will be safe. If you wish, we can take a full escort with us.""No, that would spoil the whole effect!" Blanche protested, and Hughes with a somewhat puzzled shrug agreed.
PalestineChristmas Eve 1212
Lord Hughes, his wife and father, accompanied by a selected escort left for Acre shortly after dawn broke on a clear, crisp Christmas Eve. The remaining household worked hard to finish decorating the hall with greens and to get the giant Yule log, imported all the way from the forests of Byzantium, in to the hearth. At dinner Abelard, Blanche and Father Marc were alone at the high-table. Blanche noted that Abelard was dressed again in the elegant burgundy wool gown and the elaborate Saracen belt, but he remained reticent, joining in the conversation only sparingly.Father Marc expressed his regret that he could not accompany them. "If I did not have to hold Mass for the remaining household," he insisted, "I would come with you. It would not surprise me, if you saw angels. You must promise to report all you see and hear!""Gladly." Blanche assured the enthusiastic young priest. Father Marc had come out to Palestine as a pilgrim, only to discover he never wanted to leave. He had found employment here only recently."You must dress warmly, my lady." Abelard warned her, "It is far colder in the upper pastures than here."Blanche looked over to him, but he looked down at his dinner and would not meet her eye.
After dinner, Claire helped Blanche change and prepare for her night in the pastures. For the last time, Claire tried to talk Blanche out of it. "Are you sure you want to do this?""Yes. I am." Blanche answered definitively, as she pulled her heaviest woollen shift over her head. As her head emerged, she looked straight at Claire and saw the worried look in the older woman's eyes. "Claire, I want the truth ― no nonsense about lions and hyenas and the untrustworthiness of Jews. Why don't you think I should spend the night up in the pastures?"Claire sighed and fussed with the wool stockings she was preparing to help Blanche into. "If you'd been there.... He was so angry ― so suddenly angry. It frightened me."Blanche knew what her maid was referring to. The day Abelard had been found delirious with fever, Claire had come to Blanche with a guilty conscience. She didn't quite know how,but she sensed that Abelard’s illness had something to do with the confrontation she had had with him. She told Blanch what had passed between them.Blanche had assured her repentant friend that she was not to blame for Abelard's illness, but one thing was clear to her: Abelard had said he was not the man he'd been before, not the youth she'd loved, and then gone out to do a slave's work in the pouring rain. Blanche's intuition said that he was ashamed of what he'd become and considered himself inferior to her, as he never felt even when her father scorned him. She had mentally reviewed all that he had said and done since her arrival, and concluded that it might have been motivated as much by shame as by scorn. But she had no intention of admitting her suspicions to Claire, just in case she was wrong."He comes from a family of hot-tempered men, Claire. Don't you remember how his father once struck Abbot Beranger in some dispute over lands? His brother is said to have broken his own son's arm in an argument. It is hardly fair to expect Abelard to be without his family’s temper.""But when you were young and gave him so many reasons to be angry with you, he never lost control." Claire pointed out. "Here he threw something ― I think it was a stool ― after me! It crashed against the door just after I left." Her face was pale and her fingers fussed nervously with the wool stockings.Blanche considered her waiting woman for a moment, unsettled despite herself by such profound concern. Claire had always championed Abelard in the past, and her change of attitude made Blanche question herself. Was she trying to find excuses for Abelard only because she wanted to believe he did not hate her? Yet he had requested Ahi, Amours! To say he loved her, even if they were separated? Or to say his love of God took precedence still? But he had not taken a monk’s vows, and since their return from the pilgrimage, he had not once been overtly rude. On the contrary, he had shown her a dozen little courtesies -- when he thought no one would notice."What are you afraid he'll do to me, Claire?""I don't know." Claire admitted in a whine of despair. "I don't know. But he was so angry! He said to tell you he was dead. And then he went out and tried to kill himself, didn't he?"Blanche had not thought of it that way. Had he tried to kill himself? If they had not found him, might he not have died? "And you think he now plans to kill us both?" She queried a little credulously. This might be the kind of thing that happened in ballads, but she could not quite picture it happening in real life. Claire looked a little sheepish. "No, nothing so dramatic, but what if he strikes you or - or....""Rapes me?" "It has happened before!" Claire pointed out defensively before Blanche could dismiss this as an old woman's fantasy. "Maybe he wants revenge for being rejected. Or maybe, when he said he wasn't the man he was before, he meant he wasn't as honourable as he had been when he was young?" Claire looked up at Blanche with a pleading expression. She knew that Blanche was cleverer than she, and she was afraid that Blanche would not listen to her because she could not argue well. But her fear was genuine all the same.Blanche was too mistrustful of her own feelings when it came to Abelard to dismiss Claire's fears out of hand. Instead, she mentally reviewed the past week, searching for some indication that would give credence to Claire's suspicions. But no matter how hard she tried, she found none. "Claire, do you honestly think Lord Hughes would entrust me to someone he did not trust entirely?""No." Claire admitted, aware that it was impossible to explain something one did not understand. "But what did he mean then about being different?"Blanche took her time answering. She sat down and held out her feet so Claire could put the stockings on, while she mentally reviewed all she had observed since her return from the pilgrimage trip. In this past week, she had watched Abelard very closely. She had observed the diligence with which he served Lord Hughes and Lady Emilie. "Claire, remember when we were young? Abelard was a bachelor-knight, with no duties to anyone. He had not yet taken service with a lord and had been his own master, free to ride from tournament to tournament in search of fame and fortune. It made him seem more exotic than the others, who were all attached to one household or another. And that was part of what made him exciting. But you and I know that knight-errancy is fine for literature but, quite correctly, viewed with disapproval by society. It was as much his free-lancing status as the fact that he was a younger son that made my father mistrust him. And my father felt more kindly toward him the moment the Count of Poitou took him into his service.""That's true." Claire agreed, though she could not see what Blanche was getting at. The stockings tightly bound with garters, both women stood and Claire brought Blanche's gown."But don't you see, Claire? He's not like that now. Now he's a sober and responsible official. He spends more time reading accounts than tilting, and his hands are stained with ink rather than chain-mail oil.""But that's nothing to be angry about!" Claire pointed out."I know." Blanche answered simply. What had made Abelard more glamorous and romantic to the maiden of 16 had no appeal for the widow. On the contrary, Blanche had had enough trouble with dishonest and incompetent stewards in her lifetime to know how valuable a good seneschal was. Hughes and Emilie sang Abelard's praises, and Blanch saw evidence everywhere of the meticulous care Abelard took of whatever was entrusted to his keeping. "But he may not know I know."Claire stopped in the midst of lifting a heavy, quilted surcoat over Blanche’s head. What Blanche said made sense, but it could not ease her fears. She had heard in Abelard's anger something that was more violent and more primeval than a mere concern that he was no longer the carefree hero of their youth. Because she could not explain her fears, however, she could only sigh of resignation and finish helping Blanche prepare for her night out alone with Abelard.In the ward, Blanche found Abelard checking the coverings on the pack-horse and interrogating the groom who had packed Lord Hughes' pavilion. He was so intent on making sure everything was in order, that he did not catch sight of Blanche until she was almost beside him. He had no chance to veil his thoughts as he looked up, and for an instant their eyes met. Blanche caught a glimpse of the burning and longing that had seemed extinguished up to now. As if aware that he had betrayed himself, Abelard snapped his head away sharply, his face slightly flushed."I've taken the liberty of selecting another mare for you, my lady. The mare you bought in Acreis not sure-footed enough for the tracks we will be taking, certainly not in the darkness. This is one of my lord's mares." He indicated a sturdy, shaggy chestnut on which he had secured Blanche's expensive saddle."Whatever you think is best, sir." Blanche agreed readily, moving over and holding out her hand palm up. The mare pricked her ears, sniffed at the offered hand and then licked it tentatively.Without another word, Abelard went around to the far side of the mare and held the off stirrup so Blanche could mount easily. It was so typical of the man he was now, she thought. Bert would have offered her a leg up and Guillaume de Hebron would have asked if he could be of assistance. Abelard simply did the most helpful thing without drawing attention to himself.He had changed out of his fine red robes, she noted, and was again wearing his quilted green brigandine. Over this he wore his fur-lined cloak. He must have spent considerable time brushing it for it was now difficult to see the creases left by the years in her trunk. It made him look broader. He glanced up discomfited by her long scrutiny. She smiled, but he hastened away to mount. They left by the main gate and followed the road down to the town, but, rather than passing in through the gates, took a road that lead north. After they had left the town behind, Abelard fell back to ride beside her. She waited expectantly, but for several minutes he seemed unable to find the words he sought. When at last he spoke, he surprised her with: "You must miss your children, my lady." Blanche opened her mouth to reply, caught herself, and then decided on the truth after all. "Not at all. Do you find that unnatural and scandalous?"Abelard glanced at her obliquely, and she could not read his thoughts, but he said, "No. Rather it is hard for me to think of you as a mother at all, my lady.""Sometimes it is hard for me to think of myself that way either. Since Jean-Pierre and Jacquette are married, they seem hardly any part of me.""You had two children?""I had three children, but I lost my younger son when he was only four years old to a fever.""I'm sorry.""I was lucky. Many women bury all or most of their children. Your mother lost all her daughters." She hesitated, but Abelard, though he was not looking at her, was listening with an intensity that was almost painful. "If your mother had had known where you were or how to secure your release, nothing on earth would have stopped her. She would have sold her very soul to set you free. You must know that."He glanced up and his lips twitched. "Yes. I do, that’s why I always assumed that she was dead. I always blamed my father and brother....When did my father die?""The same year as King Richard, 1199."Blanche could see Abelard calculating backwards, trying to remember where he had then been. "That was the year of my first escape attempt." He announced after a bit, though Blanche was uncertain if he really intended her to hear. He was gazing straight ahead and yet he did not see the road ahead of them. His first attempt, Blanche reflected, wondering why it had failed and how many others there had been before he finally succeeded. "And my brother? Is he still alive?""Yes. He is married and has four sons."Abelard glanced over at her with a wry twist to his lips. "That's three too many.""Or four. Your brother is rumoured to have fought so violently with his heir that they came to blows and he broke his arm.""How old was my nephew at the time?""18 or so, old enough to be knighted, in any case."Abelard raised his eyebrows, but refrained from comment. They rode in silence for a bit. "When did my mother die?""The same year as your father, five months before him. She died in June. He followed at Martinmas."Abelard calculated backwards again, but this time he said nothing. After awhile, he glanced over at Blanche. "And your father? When did he die?""He died at Holy Trinity, two years after my marriage, in 1195.""You didn't marry until '93?""I married the first Sunday of Advent '93."Again he calculated. That was more than three years after they had parted. In December of '93 he had been in captivity over a year. Somehow, he had always presumed she had married sooner."It was after the first reports of your death had reached us. I would not have consented otherwise.""But...Gouzon...I was told he was an old man.""He was not really old, but he was aged. I allowed myself to be persuaded by my father, who felt wealth and status would bring me greater security than affection. Affection, he was wont to say, is fickle. I prided myself on my good sense and maturity in following his advice." She smiled cynically."Was there someone else? Someone else you would have rather married?" He asked without daring to look at her."You. You know that. But we thought you were dead, and my father would not have consented."He glanced up sharply, piercingly sharp eyes looking for some hint of hypocrisy, deceit or mere melodrama, but Blanche was not afraid to let him search her soul as long as he liked. She was not lying.
Eventually they left the road and started up rocky paths that seemed to meander somewhat pointlessly but gradually led upwards into the sparsely vegetated upper slopes. They encountered one shepherd with his heard of sheep, and Abelard spoke with him briefly in Arabic. Later, just at dusk, they reached a shepherd’s hut.Smoke wafted lightly from the hole in the tiled roof, and an old man came out to greet them. He bowed to Lady Blanche and offered her some of his wine. Then he turned to Abelard and gesturing with his arms discussed various things with him at length. Finally they took their leave of him, and continued in the near dark at a slow pace. Abelard led the way on Maximus, and Blanche followed in silence behind him.It was chilly here as Abelard had warned, and the first stars were piercing the luminous blue sky. The stillness was profound, and Blanche found herself thinking of the Virgin, heavy with child, searching for a place to rest and finding no where but a stable. She remembered Jean-Pierre's birth vividly. She had been so frightened and there was no one who could comfort or reassure her. She had never known the woman, who had died giving her birth and Claire, as an old maid, had no experience with pregnancy and child-bearing. Her husband was indifferent to her condition, it being so common, and his mistress had not dared to approach her. She had not even been sure when to send for the midwife, not wanting to call unnecessarily or too soon. In the event, it was Claire who, nearly hysterical with concern, sent for the mid-wife almost too late. Blanche was assured that in comparison to unluckier women, the birth had been “quick” and “uncomplicated,” but the horror of those 22 hours of labour remained with her even now. Abelard drew up and indicated a level spot beside a barren bluff. "Would that suit you, my lady?"Blanche looked about at the arid landscape, lit only by the stars and the sliver of a setting moon, and shivered. The desolation of her surroundings seemed ominous and she glanced to the sky that was splendid but cold. She nodded.Abelard jumped down and led Maximus and the pack horse forward. He surveyed the ground carefully and then set to work erecting Lord Hughes' tent. Blanche dismounted, tethered her mare, and stood to one side feeling somewhat foolish. What had she expected? Once the tent was standing, Abelard spread a canvas on the ground and then flung a number of sheep skins upon it. He unfolded a small, low table and then unloaded two jugs of wine, a loaf of bread, goat's cheese, figs, dates and dried apricots. These he carefully arranged upon a glazed and hand-painted platter which he placed upon the table. For the wine he had brought two silver goblets inlaid with enamel. "I hope this will do, my lady." He murmured as he finished, glancing up at Blanche, who still stood unmoving and distant in the door-flap. Absently she smiled and entered the tent. "I had thought to fast, but I'm glad you were less foolish." She sank down onto the sheepskin beside the table and reached for some of the dried fruit."May I pour?" Abelard asked."Please." Blanche's stillness discomfited Abelard. In his memories and from observation at the High Table she was a lively conversationalist, adept at asking questions to make others talk and equally capable of entertaining with her own narrative. He did not know what to make of her reticence now, and felt the need to break the heavy silence. Having exhausted the subject of her children and his own family, however, he did not know what subject he could safely raise.There had been a time when he would have been up to the task of finding some topic of conversation, he reflected discouraged. As a young man, he had not been tongue-tied. But the years of isolation had had their effect. After he had been sold by his first master, he had had no one with whom he could speak French, and with time he had even started to think and dream in Arabic. But it was not just the language that was unused, it was the social custom of conversation itself. The other slaves had been born to slavery and accepted it without thinking. Uneducated and horizonless, their conversation offered Abelard nothing, and he avoided it. As a result they considered him aloof, arrogant and slightly crazy. His second master had occasionally chatted with him, but he had never taken much interest in Abelard's answers. Why should he? A slave, an infidel slave, was not a person to be taken seriously. His first master ― Abelard tried to stop his thoughts. Why was he thinking of that now? But the memories seemed to press in on him. The room with turquoise tiles all the way to the ceiling was suddenly vivid in his mind's eye. The sound of gurgling fountains wafted up from the garden and miggled with the happy shouting of children playing in the street below. The oppressive heat bathed his naked body in sweat ―"A penny for your thoughts." Blanche offered innocently."Save your money for prettier things!" Abelard snapped back so viciously that he startled himself. But the images were gone, and he was suddenly looking at a Blanche who drew back with wide hurt eyes like a whipped dog. Abelard grabbed at her wrist without thinking. "Don't!""Don't what?!""Don't be hurt. I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just ― " He forced himself to speak, knowing that only speech could bridge the chasm that yawned between them against both their wills. "I was remembering ― remembering things I would rather forget ― things I wish had never happened. But they did. I can't change that." He looked at her, his expression at once one of supplication and defiance."I know." Blanche answered so gently that Abelard let his grip relax and breathed out slowly. "But neither can I." Abelard sat in silence, absorbing what she said, trying to understand what she meant. Gradually, he became aware that he still had hold of her wrist. She made no move to free herself. She just waited, watching him with her large, gentle eyes."There are things so ugly that I can't tell you ― don't want to tell you ― about them. Can you understand?""Of course, but you can't blame me for not knowing what they are, for not reading your thoughts.""I don't blame you, Blanche." It was the first time he'd used her Christian name, and it slipped out before he knew it. At once he was embarrassed, but her eyes lit up a little.She shifted her hand to entwine her fingers with his. "Abelard, I don't know what I expected or wanted when I came here. In truth, I mostly wanted to get away from the empty life I had at home. But I like what I found." She looked him straight in the eye, and he forced himself not to look away. With a start he realised that his habit of avoiding other's eyes had been acquired in slavery; he had been afraid they would see the hatred burning inside and punish him for it. Blanche was continuing, "You should hear what Sir Hughes and Lady Emily have to say about you behind your back! You'd think you could walk on water." Blanche added in a lighter tone.Abelard looked down in genuine embarrassment. He was pleased to think that Lord Hughes valued him. "I serve them gladly." He said deliberately, thinking what a world of difference it was to serve a lord like Hughes as a free man rather than be sold into service without choice. Then he glanced up sharply at Blanche. She was watching him, waiting for him to speak, and he felt the warmth of her hand in his. With a conscious effort he overcame his shyness, and forced himself to say aloud what he was thinking. "The duty of a vassal to his lord, even of a serf, does not take from him his dignity as slavery does.""How did you ever escape?" Blanche asked the question that had preoccupied her for months."I didn't." Abelard admitted, but he did not leave it at that, he told how he had come to be released. The words started to flow more easily. They had finished the first jug of wine, and started on the second. Blanche listened to him with attentive, sympathetic eyes and her questions kept the silence at bay. He discovered there was much he could talk about, many things he had witnessed and observed that were not too humiliating to reveal or too offensive to tell. There was penned up inside of him half a life time which, in fact, he desperately wanted to share, but had been afraid to. Until now. They had left the table long ago to sit in the entry to the tent with a view of the heavens and the desert-mountains spread before them. The moon had set, but their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the mountains seemed strangely light. Blanche sat clutching her knees in her arms, as she listened to Abelard's rasping voice. She could no longer remember what it had sounded like when he was young. She let her eyes caress his face, thinking that as it was now, sunken and carved, it was dearer than ever the handsome youth had been. Oh, God, she thought silently, "how good you have been to me! Just as You sent Your Son to die for our sins, you sent him back and gave me the courage to come here."Abelard adjusted his position slightly, stretching out one leg and grasping the other knee. Blanche's glance went to his over-thin thighs and then to his bony hands with the prominent veins. There was no objective way to call them beautiful, and yet she wanted to take his hands in hers and kiss the gnarled knuckles one by one. She had lost track of what he was saying, and when he paused, she looked up and met his eyes. They were smiling at her. "Abelard." She lifted her face to him, and without thinking ― without hardly knowing what she was doing ― she spoke out loud her deepest wish: "Please love me." Abelard was abruptly scrambling to his feet, and when he stood, he distanced himself from her as if she were a leper. He stood a pace away staring at her with a look of such boundless horror that Blanche could only cover her face with her hands and bend her head to her knees, curling up in a humiliation so profound she wished she were dead.The next thing she knew, he was shaking her by the shoulders. "Listen to me! I can't!" Blanche couldn't hold the sobs back any longer, but she tried to free herself of his hands, to turn and crawl back into the tent. "I said I can't!" He rasped at her, his fingers digging into her shoulders like claws. "I want to! Don't you understand?!" He was raging at her now, his voice breaking. She refused to understand him. She just tried to get away from him, sobbing harder and harder."I'm impotent!" He shouted at her in his fury at her refusal to understand.Blanche went instantly still, and Abelard instantly released her, drawing back slowly, warily waiting for her to look at him with contempt. He was already taking a step backwards, but when she looked up her expression was one of puzzlement rather than pity or disgust. "Is that any excuse for not kissing me? For not taking me in your arms? Oh, dear God!” She cried out, "What is wrong with me? Why can no one love me?""Everyone loves you, Blanche.” Abelard assured her in a voice that was gentle but also tired. “Your father doted on you. Your household adored you. How many rivals did I have? And haven't you noticed the way Lord Hughes looks at you? Don’t you see Lord Guillaume would take you to wife at an instant? Not to mention that insolent squire! Everyone loves you." Abelard sounded resigned.Blanch answered with a bitter laugh, and then started crying so miserably that Abelard could not bare to leave her there alone. He closed the distance between them and gingerly took her in his arms. With his right hand he stroked her head, feeling her hair through the silk of her wimple and wishing he dared removed her scarves. His left arm held her against him, and he could feel his blood rushing at the feel of her soft body filling in the hollows of his own wrecked form. "What do you want from me?" Abelard asked gently, when her sobbing had eased."Oh, Abelard! Is it so hard to understand? I want to be with you, talk to you like tonight, laugh with you, sing with you as we used to. The whole time I was on pilgrimage, I kept wishing you were with us. Everything I saw I wanted to share with you. And I want to go to sleep and wake up in your arms. Is that too much to ask?""And you could be content with that and nothing more?""Content? No, I would be happy and grateful--"He stopped her words with a kiss that was a trifle hard because he was wretchedly out of practice, but he quickly discerned his mistake and eased off slightly. Blanche slipped her arms up around the back of his neck and raised her face to his. He could taste her tears, and so he placed a series of kisses up her cheeks and onto her closed eyelids, gently licking her tears away.
The bells were ringing for Mass as they rode past the town and up the road to the castle. Abelard kept glancing over at Blanche, as if he was afraid she might disappear in the mist. But every time he glanced at her nervously, he found her gazing at him, smiling radiantly. She couldn't really be over forty, a widow with grown children, he told himself. She looked too fresh and young for that. She held out her hand to him, unable to bear not touching him for more than a few minutes. He caught it and took it to his lips, kissing the palm. As the gate keeper admitted them, he looked at first astonished and then grinned widely and winked at Abelard behind Blanche’s back. Abelard considered that impertinent, but he dared not rebuke the man. It drove home to him, however, the need to protect her honour. He would have to make his intentions of marrying her known at once.Father Marc was approaching them smiling broadly. "Did you see any angels?" He called out even before he reached them, and it did not surprise him that both of them broke into smiles of devout rapture and declared with earnest fervour. "Yes, we did."
Copyright © 2012 Helena P. Schrader
