Siege Perilous

by E. D. Debirmingham

  “You live here? All the time?” he finally asked.

  She nodded. “During the day we are up in the courtyard working, although the Goodwomen often return here for prayer or meditation. They spend many hours every day praying. Rixenda must have knees of stone; she is on them all day long and never once complains. Down on the lower terrace are the Goodmen’s homes. Here’s the path.” She led him over to the steep, short stairway hewn into the stone.

  There were about the same number of men’s huts as women’s. The difference on the men’s terrace—as he had guessed, when examining it from a distance—was that, by the outer wall, there was a natural depression in the limestone, almost like a cellar for a house that had never been built. It was waist-deep, with a wooden cover that was currently pulled off. It was filled with coils of rope.

  “I know where these go,” he said.

  “Of course you do,” said Ocyrhoe, sounding proud of him. “After dark, I’ll take you down and show you the hidden paths that lead through the brush to the two main roads. But there are other ways straight down the mountain, especially down the southeast slope. I’ll show you that as well, but again, only at night—the French army can see us otherwise. They probably could not get to us with their weapons, because the guards in the barbican and the eastern watchtower can fend them off, but they would see where we are on the mountain, and that would give them a clue as to where to look for purchase. So all that has to wait till after dark.” She said this all rapidly, efficiently, then paused. Ferenc stared out over the valley and the foothills, and up at the larger mountain peaks. He shivered in the wind.

  “We are close to the gods here, surely,” he said.

  “We are supposed to be heretics, not heathens,” Ocyrhoe said pertly. “God, if you please, not gods. Let me show you the tunnels now. We can use them in daylight hours.”

  Ferenc gave her a look of mock pain. “Ocyrhoe,” he said. “You, and me, and tunnels? Again?”

  She put her hands over her mouth and giggled like a child. “I hate the tunnels,” she confessed. “Because of Rome. But we can take lights with us into these tunnels, so that helps.”

  They returned to the courtyard and entered the small building where Peire-Roger had interrogated the newcomers the night before. Here it was warm and smelled vaguely of honey. Several Goodwomen were testing the consistency of something in a large vat.

  “Rixenda!” Ocyrhoe said merrily. The oldest woman looked up. Ferenc liked her round face immediately: she reminded him of his own grandmother, but with greyer hair and bluer eyes. “This is my friend Ferenc. He arrived last night with the new knight. Is not God kind?”

  Rixenda’s eyes widened in surprise. “My goodness,” she said, and then smiled at Ferenc. “Welcome to Montségur,” she said. The other women glanced at him briefly, nodded, and turned their attention back to the vat.

  “We need light for the tunnels,” Ocyrhoe said, and went to a shelf above a bin on the left-hand wall, reaching for a covered lantern. Ferenc glanced into the bin, and his mouth fell open: it was filled with hundreds and hundreds of candles. He could hardly have been more amazed if he’d found himself staring at solid gold bricks.

  “Are those all beeswax?” he marveled.

  “Of course,” said Rixenda, reaching for the rectangular frame suspended above the vat. “We do not use tallow. That requires the killing of animals.”

  “I don’t think the Emperor has that many candles stored in one place,” he said.

  “The local farmers bring up the comb. We make the candles here and sell them in Toulouse,” said Rixenda, her attention focused on the frame. Ocyrhoe was lighting the lantern from one of several candles in wall sconces. “We used to make them down in the village. From Toulouse they are sold all over the Occitan and the Pyrenees. They earn us a lot of money.”

  “You’ve probably burned some of these at Frederick’s court,” Ocyrhoe said. She carefully closed the casing around the lantern, then wrapped a rag around the whole thing, leaving a gap at the top for air. “You must tell me about Frederick’s court. See you later,” she said over her shoulder to Rixenda.

  “What are you doing?” Rixenda asked.

  “I am training him on scouting and transport. Matheus said so.”

  Rixenda frowned at her in a mothering sort of way that made Ferenc feel sheepish.

  “The lantern will go out in such a wind,” Rixenda cautioned.

  “No, I’ve wrapped it well. I learned from the best lantern-wrapper on the pog,” Ocyrhoe said, grinning affectionately. Rixenda clucked her tongue with mock annoyance.

  Ocyrhoe stepped outside, carrying the lantern, and Ferenc followed her. She took him by the hand with a blithe lack of self-consciousness, hurried through the courtyard and out of the gate, and this time led him across the narrow crest to the barbican, where stood a lone sentinel. Ocyrhoe let go of Ferenc’s hand and waved to the guard. “New scout, Artal,” she called up, nodding toward Ferenc. “I’ll introduce you when we come up from the tunnels.” The fellow nodded solemnly to acknowledge Ferenc; Ferenc nodded back.

  Ocyrhoe led him a few steps further along the path. “Pay attention. This is hidden,” she said. “Do you see from here, down the slope to the watchtower?”

  Ferenc nodded.

  “The entrance to the tunnel is one third of the way down this slope, three paces to the north of the path. I know what to look for. Let’s see if you can find it.” She grinned adoringly. “I know you’re going to find it.”

  “I have no idea what it looks like, Ocyrhoe,” he said, indulgently. “I can’t find something if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  She waved her hand. “Go on, find it,” she said. “I want to watch you in action.”

  “You have a strange sense of gaiety for the middle of a siege.”

  “I’m very happy to see you, Ferenc. I’ve seen nobody from my past life since I last saw you. You connect me to my past. Please tell me what has happened since I last saw you.”

  “In a moment,” said Ferenc, glad to have a task to focus on. He examined the sloping path. A third of the way was easy to mark, and he walked briskly, pushing against the wind, until he had reckoned he was there. Ocyrhoe moved behind him, almost on tip-toe, shielding the covered lantern with her arms.

  When he stopped, he looked to his left, which was the north flank of the mountain. The sides did not fall away so steeply here as they did in that brief dash between the barbican and the courtyard—but still, he would not want to lose his footing. Carefully, he took three paces, and looked around on the ground. On the windswept mountain-crest even the scrub woods could barely survive, especially in winter; the fuel-gatherers were not having an easy time of it. The limestone was pockmarked with little dishes of ice, some shallow and wide as a table, others small as a fist, but deep. Nothing looked like the entrance to a tunnel.

  And then he realized. He had walked out onto a small spur of rock. He turned, and knelt, and reached down to touch the northern side of the spur. His hands found nothing there. He lay on his stomach and pulled his head over to look.

  He had actually walked onto a ledge, a lip, which covered the entrance to a very narrow tunnel.

  “I knew you’d find it,” said Ocyrhoe approvingly, behind him. “Let’s go in.”

  They walked around the overhang of rock, and huddled together under it, somewhat out of the wind. Ocyrhoe carefully unwrapped the rag from around the lantern and held it down into the tunnel so the wind was less likely to douse the flame. She gave him the same adoring grin. It made him feel funny, although he wanted to smile at her the same way.

  “I’m a mountain girl now. No more little city rat,” she said. “While you look like you’re being groomed to be a troubadour.”

  “I’ve been in Frederick’s court. He made me a squire. I had to cut my hair and wear fancy clothes. It was awful.”

 
A pause, and then they both laughed slightly.

  “It hasn’t ruined you,” said Ocryhoe heartily. “Let’s go in.”

  “What has your lot been, here, these past two years?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you my story when we’re back from below,” she said, ducking her hand deeper into the limestone crack. “We must pay absolute attention to what we’re doing now or we’ll get lost.”

  Within the mountain, it was quiet, still…and warm. After slithering and climbing down for the length of time it would take to walk a quarter mile, they took off their wraps and left them at an intersection of tunnels. In places the tunnels were barely wide enough for Ferenc to move abreast in them. No wonder Ocyrhoe was valuable here—she was tiny enough to slip through very narrow passages. These were nothing like the tunnels of Rome, which had been broad, level, and manmade. They had a pattern to them; here was utter randomness. Get lost in here and you’d be lost forever. Ocyrhoe’s insouciance amazed him.

  As they moved slowly through the tight spaces, the lantern casting playfully monstrous shadows, he coaxed from her a cursory depiction of her life here. She said nothing about the accursed cup, and he did not want to ruin the mood by mentioning something so loathed. She must have rid herself of it so long ago that now she did not even think about it. A good thing.

  Ocyrhoe showed Ferenc the clever, subtle glyphs that were carved into the tunnel walls in such a way that they could be seen only by a light held at a certain angle. He would never remember the actual trail from the endless branches, but at least he could follow the signs.

  She held his hand much of the way, whenever they did not need hands free to balance. Occasionally, he thought he sensed her trying to speak to him without speaking, as if she were testing either her own Binder abilities or the possibility that he might have them. He did not hear words; he only sensed a kind of pressure behind his eyes. It might have been his imagination. He liked the pressure of her hand in his. He really did not remember her hand being so small before.

  By the time they had made their way down through the labyrinth deep within the mountain—once having to feel their way down a slender, long, rope ladder—touched ground at the bottom, and come back up again, the shadows of the day had shifted, the wind had died a bit, and Ferenc’s stomach was rumbling. He didn’t like the cold, but he was mightily glad to come back out into the winter air. “We’ve survived the tunnels again!” she grinned at him.

  There had been few enough occasions to smile in Rome, and he was not used to the expression on her face. Not that there were reasons to smile now either, of course, but that made her smiles flattering, for she was smiling simply at his presence. I wonder what Léna would make of that, he thought.

  And then he realized that Léna, of course, had sent him here. She had known—she must have known—that Ocyrhoe was here. Hadn’t she anticipated Vera would want to bring him?

  “We are being set up,” he said suddenly, when they were halfway across the incline back toward the fortress.

  “What?” she asked, amused. Her fingers were wrapped around the lantern’s top ring—the candle had burned to a stub, and she had blown it out at the entrance. He saw the ash-marks on her knuckle from the blackened wick.

  “Léna wanted me to go with Raphael and Vera. She did not give a reason. I think she knew that you were here.”

  Ocyrhoe pursed her lips. “I think you might be right.” She smiled. “It was kind of her to reunite us.”

  “Was it?” said Ferenc darkly.

  Ocyrhoe stopped walking and stared at him. “I do not remember you being suspicious,” she said.

  “You forget I’ve spent two years in Frederick’s court. And Léna was frequently there. She is…” he grimaced. “She sent me here for some purpose.”

  Ocyrhoe shrugged. “Well, until we know, I’m just going to enjoy your company. I’m very glad to see you. To listen to you speak. It’s as if I am meeting you all over again. This time around you are eloquent and well-dressed and rather courtly. Like a troubadour.”

  “The second time you’ve said that,” Ferenc said. “Do you like troubadours?”

  “Their music? Pah, not at all,” said Ocyrhoe. In a confiding tone, she added, “But they are quite dashing when they’re strumming their instruments. Although Rixenda doesn’t like me to say so.”

  An alien, unpleasant sensation rushed through Ferenc, almost a flutter of panic mixed with anger. It lingered only long enough for him to be aware of it and then it was gone before he could even set his inner eye on it.

  They were back at the gate. “Come, let’s go to dinner. I think they’ll seat us now,” said Ocyrhoe, pulling at the bell for the gate. “I want to hear you speak some more. You must tell me about life at the court. It is surely more exciting than what happens here. Ferrer! Open please! It’s chilling out here!”

  After they returned the lantern to the chandlery, they crossed to the donjon for a very dull meal devoid of any animal products, not even butter or cheese. After they finished, Ocyrhoe cheerfully led Ferenc about the fortress, while up on the battlements archers continued their intermittent warning shots and younger soldiers hurled occasional rocks. There was something almost placid to their watchfulness. Ocyrhoe introduced him to the men and women who were part of the scouting and transport missions. These included half a dozen garrison guards who helped to lower the ropes; a faidit who kept track of the immigration to and emigration from the fortress; Matheus’s brother, Peire, who was updating the codices; the assistant at the smithy who kept track of charcoal; two women in the kitchens who managed food supplies; and several Goodmen and a Goodwoman whose positions were never specified.

  With each introduction, Ferenc noticed how the men and women looked not at him, but at Ocyrhoe. Then—each time—they gave Ferenc the kind of smile that looked as if a wink might accompany it. Except for the Good Ones, who gave him a warning look similar to the look that Rixenda had given Ocyrhoe.

  They returned to Rixenda, red-cheeked from cold and exertion, at the end of the afternoon. The old woman was finishing the workday; she sat with the door of the chandlery open, her feet near the embers of the fire that had been used to heat the wax, and the cold air cooling her after a day spent over the hot vats. The frame above the vat had rows of leather thongs stretched across its breadth, and from each thong hung half a dozen drip-candles, tied by their wicks, still drying.

  “He’s ready,” Ocyrhoe announced as they entered. “All that’s left is the climb down the mountain. I’ll take him tonight. He was very good in the tunnel.”

  Rixenda looked at the two of them for a long moment. “I have spoken to Matheus. You will not take him,” she said, gently, a grandmother trying not to disappoint a toddler.

  Ocyrhoe frowned. “Why not?” she asked.

  “There has been a ray of light dazzling this courtyard for several hours,” said Rixenda. “I was in here working and even I could see it. Do you know what it was, Ocyrhoe?” The girl shook her head. “It was you.”

  “Oh,” said Ocyrhoe, looking surprised. She smiled, slightly quizzical. “Thank you.”

  “It is not a compliment,” said Rixenda. She glanced briefly but pointedly at Ferenc and again he felt himself redden. “And I am sorry to shame you both, but I must end this before it begins. You are a young woman in the presence of a young man, and…”

  “No, no, no,” said Ocyrhoe lightly, waving her hand at Rixenda. “I’m sure it looks like that, but I promise you, if you knew our history—”

  “…and you are flooded with delight,” Rixenda continued over the interruption. “It is streaming out of you like water over a dam. This fortress, this sanctuary, is no place for such a thing. We must all focus our attention on prayer and purity. Your young friend here means well, I am sure, but you and he will prevent each other from finding God.”

  Ocyrhoe bit her lip and turned to Ferenc to roll her eye
s. “That God fellow,” she whispered, “is forever complicating things. First in Rome, and now here.”

  “I do not wish to displease someone so important to my friend,” Ferenc said to Rixenda. “Out of regard for you personally, not for your religion’s belief, I will remove myself. For now,” he added to placate Ocyrhoe, seeing her frown. “Certainly I understand that a young man and a young woman should not go gallivanting out on a moonlit night alone together.”

  “It’s not ‘gallivanting’,” said Ocyrhoe under her breath.

  “Where a troubadour might surprise them,” Ferenc said.

  Both women looked at him in confusion.

  What he had felt—when Ocyrhoe had mentioned the troubadour earlier—was jealousy. He was jealous that his sweet friend referred to some man whom he didn’t know as dashing. The revelation was embarrassing but woke him up. And so he chose to obey Rixenda’s wishes, because he was afraid she might be right.

  “I happen to know they need an extra man on guard duty at the watchtower tonight,” said Rixenda. “Let Peire-Roger know you are available.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Ocyrhoe grumbled.

  “I’ll go and speak to him,” said Ferenc. “I assume he’s in the donjon.” Rixenda nodded. Ferenc squeezed Ocyrhoe’s hand affectionately, smiled at her—suddenly feeling depressingly mature—and left the cozy warmth of the chandlery for the breezy courtyard.

  He’d forgotten to ask Ocyrhoe about the cup. She had probably disposed of it in a river bank or sold it somewhere, or even given it away. It was not important; he was only passing curious. He made a mental note to ask her tomorrow.

  Of more urgent interest was how to get an extra woolen wrap for duty out on the watchtower.

  On the eastern edge of the camp, as the sun set, Dietrich and Hugue looked over the nine Gascony recruits. They were called the best mountain-climbers of their region, and they were all armed with knives and daggers; swords were too cumbersome for what they were about to attempt. A doleful-looking shepherd, whose son was even now scrambling home with a sizable bag of French gold, stood nearly lachrymose before them.