‘The only consolation in this madness,’ proclaimed Derwent at sparrow fart next day as he secured the belt that held up his braies, ‘is that by starving, we lose weight and therefore sit lighter on Pilgrim.’
‘If word has reached Béziers, my friend, it will be packed with livestock for the siege. Plenty to eat.’
Derwent was wearing his serious face. ‘But maybe not for strangers like us and I wish you would not talk of sieges, my lord, or I shall come no further.’
‘You’ll be walking, then?’ Richart slung the saddle across his shoulder and headed for the horse.
The dwarf hastened after him. ‘Preferable to being holed up with heretics and rogues because of some false hearsay.’
Richart halted. Imprisoned in the cage, his overloaded mind had wondered if Adela was part of his kinsmen’s conspiracy. Could that be so? Was he even now infatuated with a dream?
‘Of course you’re right, Derwent, but if Al—Adela’s in Béziers, I have to find her.’
‘Am I hearing this from the wounded lord who told me on the road from Mirascon that he would never be love’s vassal again? Mayhap she doesn’t want to be found.’
‘Derwent, would you have me spend the rest of my life wondering?’
The dwarf made no answer. His face spoke for him: My lord, if you go there, the rest of your life may be bloody and short.
Béziers
The kitchen door to the yard was shut against blowflies, pigeons, other people’s mousers and persistent stray curs, except when the scullions struggled through to the midden with a great scuttle of whatever could not be seethed, ground, disguised or put to any other use. Adela was determined to escape that way, and since no inquirer or armoured bulk of sweating manhood had come to rescue her since Lisette’s visit, it was up to her alone. Whatever fate befell her would be better than labouring in this stinking purgatory. It was a matter of opportunity as she discerned great activity in the bailey beyond the kitchen yard. If Vicomte Rogièr was out there, she must make him listen, shriek Latin, anything to snare his attention.
She escaped the yard only to gasp briefly in shock at the great company of horsemen, wagons and pack animals, before she fled in among the amblers, causing them to snort and rear. Where was the vicomte? Then she glimpsed Rogièr, more plumed, embroidered and well booted than the rest, swing himself onto a costly horse.
‘Misere mei! Don’t you know me, Rogièr? Alys of Mirascon!’ she cried in Latin, grabbing his stirrup. A groom wrenched her away instantly and Béziers’ lord looked down upon her with a curl of lip and said in Occitan, ‘What passes here? Who is this drudge?’
‘Oh, the kitchen girl from Rome,’ said a man in a captain’s gambeson hastening up. Merde! Giso! ‘Burned the custard again, has she, Bernart?’
‘Bastard! Traitor!’ she screamed at him in Occitan as Bernart grabbed her from the groom and wrenched her arm back. ‘Rogièr, I beg you, tell Richart! Help me!’
‘Sorry, my lord,’ said Giso smoothly. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with.’
‘I hope not,’ said the vicomte with a sniff. A grim stare at the walls of his castle, a flick of finger to his entourage and then he kneed his horse towards the gateway.
‘Help me, for the love of Christ!’ Adela screamed, struggling to break from the large man’s vicious hold. She recognised several of the stronger kitcheners following the column beside one of the wagons. One of them, a youth who had never cuffed her. ‘Help m—!’
Giso slapped her across the face, then bared his teeth at Bernart. ‘Cul, I told you never to let her out. There may be questions now.’
‘From whom?’ sneered Bernart. He spat towards the gate. ‘Pigeon-livered turd! I wish I was leavin’ with him.’
‘Oh, but we need your wondrous food,’ sneered Giso. ‘As for the slut!’ he added as Bernart struggled to hold Adela. ‘Her time is almost up.’
The Eve of the Feast of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine
At noon next day, Richart beheld two walled cities across the parched fields: the towers and roofs covering the twin hills of the earthly Béziers and, above it, a colourless mirage floating in the hot haze. He knew the city better from the western side. The road from Mirascon across the Orb Bridge offered a prouder vista of Saint-Nazaire and the high citadel, not that its splendour would move Arnaud Amaury’s heart. The abbot and the military commanders would be looking for weakness in the city walls and level ground for the siege weapons, but their priority would be water and somewhere to camp. Unfortunately, the Orb plain could accommodate the entire crusader army at a safe distance from the city’s archers. No wonder, as he rode closer, Richart could see labourers frantically deepening the ditches in order to hinder the enemy’s wheeled siege towers. Mind, getting inside the walls was not just a problem for the approaching crusaders; a long tail of frightened peasants were struggling to get their livestock, barrows and families through Guillaume’s Gate, which meant the other gates would be as crammed.
‘How much time have we?’ asked Derwent, his mind on the same path.
‘Too damned little.’ Richart’s spirit had been singing with the possibility of finding Adela, but he also needed to warn his own people and regain command. Hell take it, both ambitions might never see fulfilment at this pace, and the Devil was inside his head scoffing: Pah, you foolish failure, you are chasing a rainbow! At least there was a rainbow. He kneed his horse into a lane that ran behind the dwellings flanking the Saint-Thibéry road and dismounted.
‘Well?’ prompted Derwent.
‘Well, so great an army with all those wagons and foot soldiers may manage eight or nine miles a day. Less today maybe, because if they’re in for a siege, they’ll be thieving food and supplies as they come. I’m hoping I can get out again before they reach here.’ He held out his arms to Derwent. ‘Do you need to get down for a piss?’
‘My thanks.’ Set on the ground, the dwarf relieved himself against a brushwood fence and turned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Changing into Olivar. I need access to rich men’s kitchens without being recognised.’ He tugged out the blindfold he had worn at the Court of Love and tucked it under his belt behind his dagger sheath. ‘Ready to mount up again?’ he asked as he led Pilgrim over to Derwent. ‘Pilgrim’s all yours. He knows you now and will carry you safely.’
Small beside the horse’s legs, the dwarf gulped. ‘But I’m coming with you!’
‘For a foolish whim of mine that might not be true. No, Derwent, flee while you can. Head south to Aragon. The king will welcome you. Tell him what happened at Mirascon. Thank you for your friendship and may God protect you.’ He dropped to one knee and held out his hand in farewell, but the little man pulled back peevishly. Surprised, Richart lowered his arm; the stubborn dwarf folded his.
‘If you are to be blind, Master Olivar, how will you find your way?’
‘I’ll manage.’ With a scowl, he climbed to his feet.
‘Pah, false logic. I’ve heard better arguments from braying asses. I’m coming with you.’
‘And if I forbid it?’
Derwent’s lip curled. ‘I think you lost your authority a week ago.’ He patted the ambler fondly. ‘I’m not a horseboy, you know. Besides,’ he looked up at Richart, his features screwed tight, ‘loyalty is a new emotion for me, my lord, can’t shift it, and since the only young woman who was ever kind to me at court was Adela, if she is in Béziers, let’s find her.’
For the sake of Pilgrim, they rode to the nearest patch of woodland and there bade the ambler farewell. It was better than tethering him in someone’s yard to be thieved or turned into a stew. The poor beast would stay a while waiting for their whistle and then, God willing, find his way back to Miró’s stable.
Invading the queue close to the gate might have caused a fistfight. However, the saints were smiling. A party of knight crusaders with a white flag of parley and the city’s absentee bishop in their midst came galloping up the road, whipping a way through the protesting fugitives. Richart and
Derwent swiftly stepped into the empty wake behind them and hastened forward.
‘See what whiskers and a mule can do for you,’ whispered Derwent. ‘Is the old man giving the vicomte a last chance, do you think?’
‘God curse Rogièr, he’s ruddy well not there,’ Richart muttered in disbelief, peering through the slanted corner of sight beneath the blindfold. ‘See, his pennons are missing from the barbican.’ He lowered his voice to an angry whisper. ‘Volpit bastartz! He must have gone to Carcassonne. He’s left them.’
‘And I thought we would dine on capons in his hall. Why the disguise anyway? Can’t you lord your way into Béziers? Watch out!’
Sidestepping a rosette of steaming horse dung, Richart muttered, ‘Rogièr’s a cursed weathervane. I didn’t want to be handed over as part of the bargain if he changed his mind again. Bugger it!’ he snarled as a sheep ran into him. ‘Let’s make haste!’
Lesser status exposed him to curses and spittle from the short-tempered fugitives as he and Derwent tried to zigzag round the grain barrows, the wailing children and desperate mothers, the baskets of squawking fowls, the strings of grumpy, laden donkeys fat with sacks, and the varieties of turds, human and otherwise. Being blind did not give him the precedence he’d hoped for.
‘I wish I had a tabor. Can you caper?’
‘In this heat?’ protested the dwarf, slapping away the flies from his sweating brow. ‘You’re not going to sing, are you? I thought we were to sidle in like night thieves unobserved.’
‘There’s no time left for thinking.’
The ploy speeded their progress to the eastern portcullis. They even made a few écus—but that did not last. The heat of the brassy sun might have cooked omelettes on the helmets of the men-at-arms; it was certainly making the sentries at the western gate as irritable as poked wasps: ‘Not you, strangers! You’ll be extra mouths to feed,’ snapped the sergeant, bringing down his pike to halt their entry. It might have been common logic or dislike of outsiders, but the fellow was clearly aware of his captain surveying the influx from the ramparts.
‘Or spies,’ added the officer in charge of the ditch labourers busy either side of the drawbridge.
‘Spies! If only,’ scoffed Richart, jabbing a finger at his blindfold. ‘My mother’s fault for being tupped by a one-eyed lawyer. Why else do you think I need this handsome lad with me?’ He patted Derwent’s shoulder.
‘Handsome, you reckon?’ the sergeant guffawed.
‘Aye, so he tells me.’
‘Well, offer me some drinking money, man, and I might find that amusing. God knows, we’ll need something to laugh at in the days ahead.’
The city was smoky from the kitchen fires, full of summer stench, hearsay and grievances. They found the wriggle of cobbled streets, rising to the cathedral and castle, knee to wheel with wagons and hot with arguments. Those who tilled clashed with those who traded as the newcomers tried to find corners and doorsteps, rekindle favours, acquaintances and ties of kinship that were cobwebbed from years of neglect.
Since tomorrow was her feast day, cages of white doves, Sainte-Marie-Madeleine’s especial bird, were on offer for restocking coops and cots. On every stall and shop-board, her images—rolled, propped, pinned, dangling or baked—were being sold. There were stained-cloth depictions, dainty statuettes, small triptychs for home chapels, pendants, brooches, badges, hot pastries and crunchy rosettes.
The Béziers touts were in full throttle. ‘Satisfy all your needs, strangers?’ A handsome, sweaty lad inserted himself between Richart and Derwent, flinging his arms about their necks. ‘Experienced whores, fresh virgins, pretty children for you, little sir, or someone that will keep you guessing right to the end like Berengaria here?’ The bronze-skinned, kohl-eyed creature walking backwards in front of them ran her tongue lasciviously over her lips.
‘Be hanged!’ Richart freed himself.
‘He only needs me, sweeties,’ Derwent riposted smugly, flinging back his hood. As they strode on, he cast back a withering look. ‘Children! Godless bastard! I hope he burns in Hell! This place is villainy with its knuckles bare.’ He started swaggering, glaring about him with a pugnacious face that would have made any gargoyle look charming.
Richart did not rebuke him. No longer able to flaunt his noble birth, he had seen how the world was an ugly place for the defenceless. No wonder Adela had wanted to escape her poverty and low birth.
‘I had no fear of going to the jakes in Mirascon with a fat purse on my belt,’ the dwarf panted. ‘Here, I feel anyone would skin me if they could get money for my hide. Makes me even appreciate your law keeping, my lo … good friend. What does Vicomte Rogièr excel in? Cansas and pastorels?’
This was nervous talk. Richart needed his only ally calm. ‘No, tolerance. There must be several hundred heretics making a living here. Rogièr’s guardian was a Cathar, so are many of his family, and his bailiff is of the Jewish faith. What you need to know is that there’s a long-running feud over civil liberties. The people slew Rogièr’s grandsire and then his father killed some of the leading citizens. That’s why he prefers Carcassonne. But Béziers is prosperous, as you can see. The consuls here encourage traders from everywhere, no matter their faith, Saracens, Jews, voilà!’ They were passing the synagogue. ‘However …’ Lifting his chin higher, he could make out that the windows were tightly shuttered, a board was nailed across the double doors and a crippled beggar had taken up residence on the threshold.
‘Find out, shall we? Have the Jews fled, then?’ Derwent asked the man, gesturing to the building.
‘You’re a dwarf.’
‘Indeed, I am. You may lack legs. I lack altitude. So tell me, has there been a riot?’
‘Nah, my lord took most of ’em with him and a few of the “Good Men”, too, so I’m told. They left at noon yesterday. The rest are prayin’ the consuls won’t hand ’em over to the pope for toastin’.’
Derwent threw a coin into the fellow’s bowl. ‘None of this bodes well,’ he muttered as he led Richart on a few paces. ‘Talking of riots. Is that one ripening?’ A crowd of agitated citizens was swelling outside a several-storey dwelling that boasted fine carving on its timbers. ‘Do we turn back?’
‘That’s the first consul’s house.’ Craning his neck, Richart could see a mule and several saddled horses being minded at the door. ‘No, let’s find out what’s going on. Besides, if Adela is a kitchen maid, she could be there. Try to get us inside.’
‘I still don’t see why she would be here at all unless she escaped Mirascon somehow, which might mean she doesn’t want to be found, have you thought of that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, just asking.’
Pretending that the consul had ordered them for later entertainment, they contrived their way past the burly doorkeepers and joined the flock of noisy guildsmen heading up the stairs. Cooler than the street despite the jam of merchants, the hall smelled of sweat, wealth, pride and resistance. Richart’s military mind was ringing alarum bells at the absence of armed captains among the citizens. Whoever Rogièr had delegated to defend the city ought to be here.
The oozing brow of Béziers’ elderly bishop was dampening his costly mitre as he stood at the high table, flanked by scowling soldiers in crusader surcotes. He was brandishing a parchment at the assembly.
‘Good Christians,’ he thundered, ‘I have the names of over two hundred heretics on this list. As I have already said, if you do not hand these offenders over, then I warn you to flee the city, otherwise you will perish the same as they will! All seven thousand of you! See sense, surrender these foul sinners now!’
There was the whisper of consultation before the leading consul replied, ‘Bishop, we would rather drown in the ocean than hand over any of our citizens. Nor shall we abandon our possessions, not a penny, to a thieving army.’
‘AMEN!’ The rafters rang with huzzahs of agreement.
‘Amen indeed!’ declared the bishop, banging his mitre in finality. ‘You’ve trea
ted my advice as though it has no more value than …’ he gestured to the bowl of fruit upon the polished wood, ‘than a peeled apple. There will be bloodshed. Witness, all here, that I gave you a chance. I am now going to my cathedral to address the rest of Béziers. Maybe they’ll show more sense.’
‘If you believe that, Bishop, you don’t know us,’ jeered one of the younger merchants. ‘Bring your siege engines. We will withstand you!’
The bishop turned with an expression that the prophet Jeremiah might have used. ‘The Abomination of Desolation will be upon you, you foolish men. “For the sword of the Lord shall devour from one end of the land to the other … Lift up your eyes, and behold them that come from the north.” Look out from your battlements tomorrow and tremble!’
As the meeting broke up, it was an easy matter for Derwent to lead Richart down to the consul’s kitchen. In the hall, he had been tempted to throw off his disguise, announce his presence and offer to take charge, except it was Mirascon he must fight for. Béziers was not his city and time was no friend now.
Despite the scraping and washing up of platters, the consul’s servants proved as ebullient in their opinions as their master. Even if they were preparing for the Feast of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine on the morrow, they were happy for entertainment and it took three songs and magicking eggs from behind several ears before the head cook let Richart and Derwent go on their way. They had not found Adela but they had been fed.
After that, it took the rest of the day as they sang their way into the kitchen of each consul. Unfortunately, there proved to be few women and no one knew of any kitchen wench named Alys. It was almost curfew when they finished amusing the master cook of the wealthiest merchant of the weaver’s guild, and begged a pallet for the night.
‘We haven’t tried the castle kitchen, though there’s no reason Rogièr would be hiding Adela,’ said Richart, thinking aloud, before he slept. ‘Mind, he’s probably taken most of his household to Carcassonne, but there must still be some under-cook in charge to feed the garrison. We’ll go there at cockcrow, and if we cannot find out anything, then we leave the city in all haste.’
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