by Mary Hoffman
That changed everything. The gatekeeper sent a messenger to find Trencavel and the smaller boy was carried off by his wife, to be washed and fed. He did not want to let go of the older boy’s hand at first, but the gatekeeper’s wife was a plump and motherly woman, who cooed over him and coaxed him away with promises of sweetmeats.
The messenger returned and took the weary youth to the château, where the Viscount called for him to come to his private room. Bertran was with him and, as soon as the exhausted boy was shown in, he gasped.
‘Huguet! What are you doing here? I thought you safely on your way to Italy.’
‘You know him?’ asked the Viscount.
‘He was my youngest joglar,’ said Bertran, taking the boy in his arms. Huguet was at the end of his strength, shaking now and ashen, tears seeping from his eyelids without his making a sound.
‘He looks as if he’s going to faint,’ said the Viscount. ‘Give him some wine.’
The two men stood over the boy feeding him sops of bread soaked in wine until he had revived enough to drink from a cup.
‘The messenger said you come from Béziers,’ said the Viscount urgently. ‘I don’t want to press you but I must know what happened there. You can see we are preparing for siege here. What must we expect?’
‘Death,’ said Huguet. His eyes were wide and unfocused. He recognised Bertran but saw him as if from far away, part of a life that had gone for ever. ‘The French bring nothing but death.’
Bertran knew that the young joglar would not have ever seen warfare before and understood that he was in a state of shock. He signalled to Trencavel to let him take over the questioning.
‘Take your time, Huguet,’ he said gently. ‘Tell us first how you happened to be there. What about the rest of the troupe?’ A flash of fear crossed Bertran’s face.
‘Esteve is in the east, with the Lady of Saint-Jacques,’ said Huguet, understanding. With what he had to tell, he was glad there was that one tiny fragment of good news to pass on. ‘I came back with Perrin . . .’
He gave a huge sob and buried his face in his hands. Bertran waited, appalled.
‘The Bishop came with a list,’ Huguet continued, when he could. ‘But the citizens would not give up the Believers. While he was talking to them, Perrin and I met a man and woman who had lost their child in the press of people coming to take shelter in the town. The woman was distraught and begging the father to go out and look for him. But the gates were closed and he was torn because they had four other children and he didn’t want to leave them and his wife in case he couldn’t get back. But he didn’t want to lose his little boy either. He kept saying that the child was bound to be somewhere in the town. Then the woman started screaming and Perrin said he’d go.’
Huguet stopped to drink more wine to steady his voice.
‘I said, I said, “Let me go – they won’t attack a boy like me.” I really thought they wouldn’t.’
‘That was very brave of you,’ said the Viscount. ‘Did you find the child?’
‘Did they attack you?’ asked Bertran. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Not in my body,’ said Huguet. ‘And yes, my lord, I did find the child. I went with the Bishop, pretending to be among the few cowards who chose to leave the town with him. And I found the child curled up with his toy dagger in some bushes outside the walls.’
‘That was a miracle,’ said the Viscount. ‘Did you restore him to his parents? Where are the rest of the citizens?’
Huguet looked at Bertran, not at the Viscount, and shook his head.
‘There are none, my lord. I brought the child here. Your gatekeeper’s wife is looking after him.’
‘What do you mean, none?’ asked the Viscount, but Bertran stopped him.
‘Tell us what happened, Huguet,’ he said. ‘Tell us what you saw.’
‘Right after the Bishop left and I found the child,’ said Huguet, ‘there was a sortie from the walls.’
‘Madness,’ muttered Trencavel.
‘Young men, not more than about thirty of them,’ said Huguet. ‘A crusader came up on to the bridge over the Orb and taunted the citizens. So this band of youths ran out of the city down to the river, screaming and waving white pennants and shooting arrows into the French army. They beat the crusader and threw him in the river. I took the child and hid him among the trees, away from the fighting . . .’
He paused.
‘It was like a torch thrown into a barrel of pitch,’ he said.
‘The army fought back to avenge their man?’ asked the Viscount.
‘Not the soldiers, Sire,’ said Huguet. ‘At least not at first. It was the camp followers, who were setting up tents and digging trenches. When they saw the crusader in the water, they took tent-poles and clubs and rushed the gates. The wicket gate had been left open and they forced their way in. Within minutes they had opened the main gates and the bells were ringing to call everyone into the churches . . .’
‘What were the French soldiers doing?’ asked Bertran.
‘I saw them arming themselves and mounting their horses,’ said Huguet. ‘They poured into the city through the gates and up ladders. There seemed to be no defenders to stop them.’
Viscount Trencavel was pacing up and down the room now.
‘And then . . . ?’ asked Bertran.
‘And then . . . I wanted to get further away from the walls but there was no shelter other than the copse we were hiding in. The child was crying – he was scared by the screaming and yelling. We had to stay where we were. I sang to him and eventually he fell asleep. But I kept watch. I am glad he did not see what I saw, hear what I heard.’
‘So,’ said Trencavel. ‘We have come to it. What did you mean when you said there are no citizens?’
‘They killed them all,’ said Huguet expressionlessly. ‘There’s no one left. Only me. And the child.’
‘How can you know?’ began the Viscount but Bertran raised a hand to stop him.
‘Just tell us what you saw,’ he said.
‘The army stormed the town but only after the camp followers got in first,’ said Huguet. ‘I heard screams and then, and then, there were flames and smoke. The roof of the cathedral fell in. I could see it from where I was.’
‘The citizens would have been sheltering in it,’ said Trencavel. ‘And the French set fire to it?’
‘I was hiding in the copse for hours,’ said Huguet. ‘And then it was all chaos and shouting. I think the leaders were worried that everything was being destroyed and there’d be no loot for them. The ribauts were out of control, like drunken men. And then the whole town went up in flames.’
‘But they must have taken some prisoners?’ said the Viscount. ‘Didn’t they let those who were not Believers go free?’ His fists were clenched.
Huguet shook his head. ‘There were no prisoners,’ he said. ‘I waited and waited and there was nothing but flames and screams and shouting and then the smell . . . No one came out of the walls alive, except the French. They couldn’t bear the heat from the fire and came down to the meadows by the river.’
‘There were twenty thousand people in the city,’ said the Viscount flatly.
‘Twenty thousand and Perrin,’ said Huguet. And then he was weeping uncontrollably. Bertran took him in his arms again and rocked him while the Viscount continued pacing, dangerously quiet.
‘This is what we must expect here, then,’ Trencavel said at last. ‘No mercy from the French. No prisoners. No distinction between those they claim to be fighting and citizens who have never been anything other than faithful to the Church these . . . animals represent.’
‘They are worse than animals,’ said Bertran. ‘No animal kills on such a scale, without reason.’
The Viscount stopped and knelt by Huguet.
‘I am sorry about y
our friend,’ he said. ‘I had friends in Béziers too. I’m glad I saved the Jews, at least, if only to suffer the same fate here. Did you see where the army went next?’ he asked. ‘Or do they remain outside the town, resting on their laurels?’
‘They went towards the sea,’ said Huguet. ‘There was nothing left for them to eat and no one left for them to kill. I waited till they had gone and then walked here with the child.’
‘You must be famished,’ said the Viscount. ‘Bertran, take him to the kitchens and feed him and then find him a bed. Then join me at the defences. I must send a message to Pedro of Aragon. It sounds as if the army is marching first towards Narbonne. As for you, young man, you have told me what I had to know. If a miracle happens and we survive the army here at Carcassonne, I will see you rewarded. Meanwhile, accept the thanks of a poor man, who once was viscount of the beautiful city of Béziers.’
He gave Huguet a ring from his hand and kissed him on his grimy forehead. Then he left the room.
Bertran continued to cradle the young joglar.
‘Why didn’t you stay in the east?’ he whispered. ‘I tried so hard to get you all away.’
‘Perrin wasn’t just my friend,’ said Huguet. ‘He was . . .’
‘I know,’ said Bertran. ‘Hush now, I understand. Let’s find you something to eat.’
‘Why do I feel hunger and the need to satisfy it, when we’re all going to die?’ asked Huguet wearily. ‘The Perfects are right. I was always a Believer, but now I’m sure. The world was made by an evil spirit. How else can you explain what the French are doing to us?’
‘We are all going to die,’ agreed Bertran. ‘But not necessarily soon. We must not give way to the sin of despair. You must stay strong and for that you must take food. Do it for me. And for Perrin. He must not have died in vain.’
And then they both wept. It seemed as if they stood together alone at the very end of the world.
It took over a week for the Lady of Saint-Jacques to hear what had happened at Béziers and would be even longer before they heard news from Carcassonne.
Their informant was again Azalais:
‘No one here can believe the massacre at Béziers,’ she wrote. ‘We were so glad the army turned away from us and crossed the river. But now we know what they intended to do we can feel no relief – only horror that men of flesh and blood could do such deeds.
‘They say that every man, woman and child was slain, either put to the sword or burned alive. Priests holding crosses and babies clinging to their mothers, heretics and faithful alike. There is a terrible rumour that the White Abbot who leads the army, that one they call Arnaut-Aimery, gave the order to spare no one. He said it was up to God to sort out the faithful from the wicked, once they were all dead.
‘Can you imagine such evil? And in a churchman too! But it has worked, at least in their terms. Narbonne has surrendered, giving up heretics and all they own, the Jews’ property too. And they’ve offered to pay money towards the Frenchmen’s expenses!
‘The last news I have is that they are marching to Carcassonne, where the Viscount is waiting for them. Heaven help them all.’
‘My family’s bastide is between Béziers and Carcassonne,’ said Elinor, stricken by the news. She could envisage only too clearly Sévignan in flames and Alys or Big Hugo with a French sword in their ribs. ‘What can we do?’
‘There is nothing we can do for them,’ said Iseut. ‘Or for the defenders at Carcassonne. Except pray for them. But we have to think what we must do to save ourselves.’
‘You think they will come here?’ asked Elinor. ‘Won’t they go on from Carcassonne to Toulouse?’
‘You forget,’ said Iseut. ‘The Count of Toulouse now fights alongside the French. They won’t attack the rose-coloured city.’
‘So they might come back this way?’
‘Who knows what they might do?’ said Iseut. ‘Who would have thought they would do as they did at Béziers? But I’m not prepared to sit here like a deer caught in a net waiting for the Frenchmen to come and slit my throat.’
But she did not tell Elinor what else she would do.
The main body of the French army arrived at Carcassonne on the 1st of August. Their advance guard had been there four days, digging in for a long siege, such as they had fully expected at Béziers. But now they were flushed with success. After the massacre at Béziers and the easy yielding of Narbonne, they had found nearly a hundred strongholds between there and Carcassonne standing empty with their gates open.
The French were able to replenish their dwindling supplies from the full granaries and fruit-stores they encountered on their march.
‘There must be many landless lords wandering the Midi,’ said the Abbot of Cîteaux to Simon de Montfort.
De Montfort had become his right-hand man, showing great fearlessness and calm at Béziers and winning respect from all the leaders of the host.
‘Then may they long remain so,’ said de Montfort. He was beginning to see just what rich pickings were to be had from this war. All the empty strongholds had been confiscated.
Outside the great walled city, the suburbs were not well fortified and were soon overrun. Carcassonne was impressively walled and towered but it had a weakness and the French were quick to take advantage of it; it was built too far from the River Aude and relied for its water on the deep wells inside the walls.
So the first act of the army was to take the suburb of Saint-Vincent, which lay between the city and the river. But the Viscount didn’t give in without a fight; he led a sortie himself and fought valiantly but they had to withdraw back to the safety of the walls and leave the suburb in French hands.
There were not just soldiers and camp followers in the French army; there was a large contingent of clergy, to bless the fighting force as they went about their work. They had adopted ‘Veni Sancte Spiritus’ – ‘Come Holy Ghost’ – as the anthem of the crusade and they sang it lustily as the army took the other two suburbs by storm. They needed siege engines and mines to bring down the walls of the suburb in the south but, a week after they arrived, the French were masters of that too. And still the ‘Veni Sancte Spiritus’ rang out.
It chilled the blood of the defenders inside the city.
‘They really do believe that God is on their side, don’t they?’ said Huguet to Bertran.
The boy was greatly recovered in body though still overwhelmed by grief for what he had seen and suffered. He had no skills as a fighter but he could not keep away from the walls. Bertran did not like to take up arms himself; he had done what he could by passing information and urging the south to defend itself.
But now that it had come to what he thought would be the last stand against the French, he had armed himself and was prepared to kill in order to save his liege lord and the people who relied on him who had fled to the city for its protection.
‘They have their anthem,’ he said, suddenly thinking of a role for the joglar. ‘Let us have one of our own. They dare to call on a spirit of Good but we know they act for the love of property and possession. You carry no weapon but you have a great gift still to offer the defenders. Sing to them. Sing all round the city. Sing to raise men’s hearts and to make them think of what is at stake here. Sing to remind them of what they are fighting to defend. Are we to be free men and women or to put our necks under the foot of the northerners?’
Huguet’s face lit up. He didn’t know yet what he could sing but he knew that Bertran was right. He could encourage men on the battlements and give them heart even in the face of the huge French force.
And now there was a lull in the fighting; King Pedro of Aragon had arrived. The King came with a hundred knights to visit the crusaders’ encampment. He was Viscount Trencavel’s suzerain and he had come as a mediator between the Viscount and the righteous anger of the Church.
A
lookout on the walls hurried to the Viscount with the news.
‘He has come to save us all,’ said Trencavel and made a welcome ready for Pedro while the Frenchmen allowed him into the city to parley.
But his relief was short-lived. Pedro was angry that the Viscount hadn’t come to terms with the Legates earlier and given up his patronage of the heretics.
‘Why did you not listen to my advice?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t help you now – a hundred knights are as nothing against tens of thousands of Frenchmen. You had better surrender.’
The Viscount did not protest that Pedro could have brought more knights if he had wanted. The King of Aragon had been his last hope.
‘You can’t win this battle,’ said Pedro, who had been talking to the leaders of the army. ‘Your city is full of refugees, your wells are running dry and the northerners are lying in the shade of the trees, eating fruit. They have taken control of the salt pans and are trading salt for bread with the locals, so your destruction of the watermills makes no difference.’
Trencavel bowed his head. If Pedro would not help him, he must discuss terms. His face was grey and he looked far older than his twenty-four years.
Within a short time a message came from the French army to say that, if the Viscount wanted to leave the city, he could do so, with eleven companions, each being allowed as many possessions as they could carry. When Pedro heard the terms, he muttered under his breath, ‘You are more likely to see a donkey fly than Trencavel accepting such conditions.’
He was right. The Viscount refused and King Pedro went back to Aragon.
Another week of siege passed and at every assault the crossbowmen of the city repulsed the French knights while Huguet went from battlement to battlement singing songs of encouragement. The defenders called him ‘Lo rossinhol de la ciutat’ – the nightingale of the town, because everywhere he went, his sweet notes rallied the spirits of the men of Carcassonne.
The Abbot was worried; they had a meeting of leaders at which it was decided that one of them would become the new viscount when Trencavel was finally defeated. But what would he have to rule over if the same happened as at Béziers?