The grey-haired knight gestured to the sheathed blade that sat across Arnau’s horse, behind his saddle. ‘For whom did you bring that?’
Arnau glanced back. In some ways it made him feel guilty. The preceptrix had been set dead against any path of vengeance, and yet he had brought her sword with him. Somehow it had seemed right to do so. The preceptrix’s blade would be drawn against the men who had engineered her downfall. He would draw their blood with it himself.
‘Whichever I get to first,’ he replied vehemently. ‘Though if that be La Selva I shall be more than content.’
‘Just do your job for now. Let us stay alive long enough to meet them.’
D’Orbessan must have caught at least some of the exchange, for now he turned to look back at them, his gaze narrowed and suspicious. Arnau gave him a smile that he hoped was infuriating and impossible to read, then moved his gaze back to their destination that lay ahead.
The fortress of Pujol sat in the midst of endless fields of wheat and vineyards, a small stone sentinel that dominated the landscape. It was, in truth, a similar size to Arnau’s own ancestral pile, which was to say less than grand. It consisted of a single heavy square keep, a round tower, and an arcing curtain wall that linked the two and surrounded a bailey containing the usual structures. No outer works or ditches protected the place, though surely the ground must be soft enough to have dug such a thing. Men in several liveries lined the battlements, and the gate lay open, awaiting them, a single iron-studded door, with the teeth of a portcullis just visible behind it.
The fields surrounding the place were full and bounteous, and almost ready for cutting. The farmers would begin their harvest any time now, and it was then that the danger would really begin to loom. Once Count Raymond of Toulouse sent out his forces to gather in the harvest for supplies, the importance of the small fortresses de Montfort had taken and manned would become evident, for their task, relayed to them by des Essarts, would be to gather as much of the harvest as possible for the Frankish force, sending it back east towards Carcassonne, and to burn whatever they could not take, to prevent the count doing so. Then, conflict would become inevitable.
Whether or not the King of Aragon would be part of that conflict remained to be seen for, though he was expected, there was as yet no word of his arrival in Occitania. On the bright side, perhaps Balthesar had been correct about this being a step in the right direction, for the king would undoubtedly make initially for his brother-in-law’s power base at Toulouse, just fifteen miles to the west. If conflict did come in the days to follow, it may be the count rapping on their door, or it may even be the king.
The column of men made their way into the castle, and the difficulties that were going to face them became immediately apparent. Though there would just about be room for the men, the supplies and the stabling for the horses occupied almost every inch of the small fortress’s interior. The days here were going to be cramped.
As they emerged into the packed bailey, two more noblemen were standing on the stair that led to the heavy keep, watching them and nodding in satisfaction. One tall and willowy, the other heavily-built; in other circumstances they might have cut a comedic figure. Both men were clearly not only noble, but also veterans of the battlefield as was evident in their stance alone.
‘Well met, Sir Simon, Sir Pierre,’ des Essarts greeted the pair, and turned to the new arrivals behind him. ‘This is Pierre de Cissy and Sir Simon de Saine, known to the world as Simon the Saxon. While I shall take overall command of Pujol on the orders of milord the Earl of Leicester, Pierre and Simon are my seconds. D’Orbessan, since you stand in for the good baron, you shall take the same position. I shall make my headquarters in the keep, naturally. Simon already has control of the keep, and Pierre controls the curtain wall. You, gentlemen, shall take the round tower for your home and your position of defence. It shall be garrisoned by your troops, though I shall bolster them with men from my command, including bowmen. Is this all clear?’
D’Orbessan bowed his head as the four men with him nodded in agreement.
‘Good. Stable your horses as best you can and acquaint yourselves with your positions. I shall expect everyone in the great hall at sunset for a gathering to discuss the coming days. Get to it, gentlemen.’
Summarily dismissed, Arnau joined the various knights and nobles in handing over his reins to the men who hurried across to take them. Removing his own pack first, and the sword of Gombau d’Oluja reverently, he followed the others across to the round tower. Positioned opposite the keep, the tower boasted three doors, one at ground level and one to each side a floor up, allowing access to the walls. Facing into the bailey the tower was dotted with small windows, though on the far side, facing the outer landscape, there would be only arrow loops. As they approached the tower, a man in unfamiliar livery hurried across and bowed his head.
‘Good day, sirs. Might I introduce you to your new home?’
At d’Orbessan’s nod, he walked them around the tower and its surroundings. A rough timber bunkhouse with a thatched roof, one of four recently erected in the courtyard, sat next to the tower, and would house the bulk of the men they had brought. Inside, the ground floor of the tower, the interior of which was perhaps twenty feet across, was given over entirely to storage. A staircase ran up within the walls to the upper levels, though here at the bottom, it jutted out into the room, leaving an awkward narrow space between it and an unused, dark fireplace, which had been filled with used sacks and blankets.
The floor above was more open and had been set out as a mess hall cum guard room, with a table and several benches, another fireplace in the wall that was already well stocked and prepared, and various cooking pots. The well that would provide the water, and the food stores, were all out in the bailey. Several arrow loops looked out over the fields beyond, and the doors to the wall walk led out to either side. The upper floor was set out as another dormitory with several separate cots and two double bunks; d’Orbessan eyed the sleeping arrangements with distaste, given that the main chambers in the keep would be kept for the noblemen in senior command, while he would have to share with other knights of lesser station. For the four ex-Templars, such accommodation was the norm, and fazed them not at all. Another fireplace here was similarly set ready, though in the height of summer they were unlikely to use any of them except for cooking.
Then up they went onto the tower parapet, examining the last of their temporary domain. The tower had a good range of sight, rising above such flat farmland, though the terrain would also allow any attacking force ample options for lines of assault. The parapet up here was good and high and solid, and provided plenty of cover. Here, the crossbowmen would have their best position, while men with bows could be best positioned at the slits in the tower’s rooms. Best of all, atop this tower, and matching it on the square keep, sat a catapult of strong construction. A wooden container on the inner side of the tower held a number of stones the size of a man’s head, gathered in times of ease and ready for use. The catapult was currently at rest, in order not to put undue strain upon it, but a good artillerist could have it loaded and ready in precious minutes.
In all, though the castle was small, the terrain flat, and the whole sporting a lack of ditch or moat, the place was as well defended and strong as could be hoped, and with the right force it could be held against all but the most powerful of aggressors. Perhaps, Arnau mused as he walked around the catapult, they might even hold it until King Pedro showed his treacherous face, along with those Godless thieves that called themselves nobles and churchmen.
Once the tour was over, the various knights began to find a place for their kit and unpacked, the men-at-arms doing the same in the bunk house below. Soon they would need to be given assignments, though it seemed that would be d’Orbessan’s duty as the man in charge of the tower. Arnau wondered how long it would be before the two of them came to blows, given the trouble that was likely to arise when the Frank inevitably ordered him to do something
demeaning or unsavoury.
Ramon had left to scout out the storeroom situation in the bailey, leaving the other two knights to finish putting their gear away, and it was as Arnau was shoving the bulk of his gear beneath a cot that Tristán appeared from the stairwell. The former squire was at something of a loss, for he was no knight with a title and a crest, but he was far superior to the men-at-arms that made up the bulk of the castle’s men. He seemed to have no clear place in the hierarchy of Pujol. He climbed from the staircase into the upper room where Arnau and Balthesar were finishing up, cursing under his breath.
‘Problem, Tristán?’
‘Are there beds still available up here?’
‘One or two. You should be with us, anyway.’
The former squire nodded, crossing to an apparently unused cot and dumping his shield and helmet on it. ‘I’ve been speaking to a couple of men who’ve been here since April, men from the west coast, not far from my home, really. They were part of a patrol yesterday that almost ran into trouble at Toulouse. It seems their captain had stretched the route further than intended and brought them a lot closer to the enemy city than they had intended. What they saw was far from encouraging.’
‘What?’ Arnau prodded, suddenly excited. ‘Has Aragon arrived?’
‘They didn’t say anything about that, but they reckoned that Toulouse can easily house a garrison of six or seven thousand, and they said that the army of Count Raymond was large enough that they were camped close to the walls all around the place, likely many there in the countryside. That sounds like a massive force, if they know what they’re talking about.’
‘Many thousands,’ Balthesar nodded. ‘But you heard how this war is being fought. They will not ride forth like a steel tide as we did against the Almohads last year. They will be dispatched in armies sizeable enough to achieve whatever objectives are set for them. On the assumption that within the month they concentrate on securing the harvest and move against the fortifications set around them, then they will be forced to deal with all four castles that have been garrisoned against them. They cannot afford to concentrate on one and leave the others at liberty, so at the very most we can expect to be attacked by a quarter of the forces available.’
Arnau’s lip twitched. ‘But if there are twice as many as the city can hold, that makes perhaps twelve thousand men. Even a quarter of that is three thousand. How many men do you think we have here in Pujol?’
Balthesar shrugged. ‘Less than a thousand, for sure.’
‘Curses.’
‘Ballocks,’ agreed Tristán, emphatically.
‘You have been in sieges before, my friend,’ Balthesar said encouragingly. ‘Think back to when we first met. There were a mere handful of us at Rourell and we held off the huge mercenary force of della Cadaneta. With the right defences and strategies this is nothing to be concerned about. Lord, we might even be reinforced by the time it comes to a fight. Do not be overly concerned by maybes, Arnau.’
Further discussion tailed off, however, for at that moment they heard approaching footsteps down the stairs from the roof, and the blond-bearded form of Henri d’Orbessan appeared in the doorway. The man placed both hands on his hips and stood there for a moment before taking a preparatory breath.
‘The time has come,’ he said. ‘I need to make certain things abundantly clear. While des Essarts commands the defence of Pujol, it is I who has been tasked with the defence of this tower in particular. As such, despite our history, I expect unswerving loyalty and obedience.’
‘Unswerving,’ noted Arnau with a frown.
‘If I ask you to shit your bed, I expect you to do it. No defence can be reasonably maintained with more than one master. I will give orders and they will be obeyed. Are we clear?’
Arnau took a step forward, lifting his hand to point an accusatory finger at d’Orbessan, opening his mouth with a torrent of arguments marshalled, when Balthesar stepped in front of him and nodded. ‘Agreed.’
‘Now hold on,’ Arnau spat.
‘The man is right,’ Balthesar said, turning to him. ‘In battle, commands must be respected and obeyed. As a former brother of the Temple, you have to appreciate that, for it was ever one of the central tenets of our Rule.’
‘I notice,’ d’Orbessan hissed angrily, ‘that you had no trouble following orders blindly at Las Navas when you ran away with your master and left us to die.’
Arnau bristled and stepped forward again, only to have Balthesar place a restraining hand on him. ‘Stand down, Vallbona. Now!’
As Arnau stopped pushing, glowering instead, the older knight turned to the Frank and gestured at him. ‘However, bear this in mind, my friend. History is replete with examples of bad or overly harsh leaders being removed from command. We will obey without question as long as your commands make sense and are not simply vindictive directions aimed at humiliating former enemies. Keep your mind on our task here and focus upon it, and we are yours to command.’
D’Orbessan’s eyes narrowed, but after a time, he nodded. ‘In addition, the artillery will be directly under my control. Milord de Cissy has put two good artillerists at my command. Your only involvement with it will be in the event of my being out of action for any reason. I think we are clear. Perhaps you would relay all of this to your other friend when he returns.’
As the Frank spun and strode back into the stairwell, disappearing from sight, a thought struck Arnau. He had been so wrapped up in wanting to punch that supercilious expression off the Frank’s face that he’d forgotten that Tristán was in the room, and the fact that the former squire had not done just that came as something of a surprise, given his fiery temper and habitual lack of forethought. Scanning the room, Arnau’s eyes widened. Tristán was standing behind one of the double bunks, half hidden from view. As he stepped out, he had a crossbow in hand, loaded and ready.
‘Lord, but you wouldn’t have?’ Arnau said in surprise.
Tristán gave him a fierce look. ‘If Balthesar hadn’t been standing in the way, the Frankish prick would be picking his nose with a foot-long ash bolt by now. The arse bag.’
Arnau’s eyes remained wide as he stared at Tristán. ‘You would have started a whole new war, within these walls.’
‘“He of you that is without sin, first cast a stone”,’ Balthesar said, looking hard and meaningfully at Arnau. ‘Anyway,’ the old man went on, ‘so long he doesn’t overstep the mark, we will do as he asks. All of us. We will need to divide the men assigned to this tower, most of whom are ours anyway, into squads that we can each command, including Tristán.’ He turned to the former squire. ‘Can you manage to command men without causing trouble?’
Tristán snorted.
‘Very well. Then that is all settled. We shall have to gather the men and go over it all with them. For now, we are at Pujol, all is settled, and we can expect no action until the harvest begins. Gentlemen, we are at war. We are now crusaders once again.’
Chapter Fifteen
A stone sentinel
Pujol, 6th August 1213
‘Lord in all his mercy, will you look at that,’ Ramon breathed.
Arnau stopped fidgeting with the buckle of his sword belt and followed his friend’s pointing finger. Nothing had changed since he last looked out. It was still a horrifying sight that boded ill for the coming days, but it was the same horrifying sight.
The army of Count Raymond of Toulouse had come.
They’d had warning, of course. The harvest had begun a few days ago, local farmers and all their labourers and animals out in evidence in every field. There was a level of desperation about their work, for none of them could have been ignorant of the fact that two opposing armies raged across their lands, both of whom wanted their crops, and the chances of the harvest being complete without violence and destruction was minimal. The faster they could complete the job the better, for if they could gather and sell their goods before anyone came with demands, then their farm would be unimportant to either side and therefor
e largely ignored. As such, many of the farmers had paid good money in hiring extra labour to speed up the process.
Sir Roger des Essarts had been forward-thinking in his approach. As soon as the daily scout patrols reported that the harvesting had begun, the small treasury being held in Pujol had been opened and coins had been exchanged with those farmers. Word had gone round over the first day or two that the garrison of Pujol were dealing well with the locals and paying for their goods rather than merely commandeering them. As such, farmers came with their harvests, hoping for money, and it all moved very smoothly.
It would have been an excellent decision but for one thing: it drew unnecessary attention to Pujol. The other small installations de Montfort had put in place to do the same job had merely taken what they could find, and so were far less successful in gathering in the food and shipping it back towards Carcassonne. And that was why the Count of Toulouse had not split off his forces to send against every enemy fortification, but had instead brought all the might of his army against Pujol.
The force swarming across the lands towards the castle outnumbered the defenders by such an enormous margin that it was hardly worth estimating the numbers. Pujol was clearly destined for Count Raymond’s hammer. Arnau swallowed nervously, something that was not his habit. He had fought in battles and sieges, had even endured the awful events of Constantinople’s fall, something which he had heard de Montfort had turned away from in disgust. But this was different. More daunting. And the reason for that was not the simple numbers, horrifying though they were. It was the stories that Arnau had heard from the Franks in the garrison over the past few days.
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