Siege Perilous

by E. D. Debirmingham

  She unwrapped the contents slowly. Eyes were riveted. Percival in particular was rapt. The final layer of wool came away in Rixenda’s hand. Nestled against the dull wool was an equally dull silver cup with a broad band of fine but simple chasework at the rim. Ocyrhoe felt her heart leap, a mix of pleasure and dread, seeing it again for the first time in weeks. As if it were a friend she had abandoned somewhere, she had a visceral impulse to run to it and embrace it. Knowing Father Sinibaldo would stop her, she restrained herself and simply stared at it. As she watched, it began to glow with that same rosy light she was used to. She forced herself to look away from it and around at the assembly.

  None of the Montségurians seemed to notice the glow. Neither did Vera, nor Hugue de Arcis. Raphael frowned a little, as if he noticed something strange but could not make out what it was. The Archbishop of Narbonne had a similar expression. Dietrich’s eyes widened as she watched, however; His Holiness’s gaze took on the hungry, scheming look she remembered too well from that horrific week in Rome.

  And Percival. For the first time, Percival was setting eyes upon the grail that had called to him in its mysterious ways for years. His face glowed like a small child seeing a magician at work or an infant being reunited with its mother. In the purity of his expression, in the simple, golden joy that he exuded, Ocyrhoe felt herself dirty and unworthy of the cup. That she could ever have doubted it belonged to Percival was a gross error on her part. As if it sensed the presence of its intended, the cup’s rosy glow increased until it was almost blinding to look at. The majority of people in the courtyard glanced at it indifferently and then away. They saw nothing. The map of their faith had nothing in its legend for such a thing.

  CHAPTER 39:

  THE FOOL’S GUARD

  Percival stood ready, the tip of sword resting against the ground in front of him. To an untrained eye, he appeared unprepared to fight, but he suspected his opponent knew otherwise. Dietrich stood opposite, his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the blade resting lightly against his right shoulder. Equally ready for combat.

  They surveyed each other for a moment, each willing the other to make the first move. Each of them had his left leg slightly forward, inviting an attack from the other that both of them knew would be easy to deflect.

  After a few moments of intense silence and scrutiny, Dietrich raised his sword from his shoulder and swung wide, a cut to the outside of Percival’s left leg. Percival moved his sword-point down across his body to parry the blow. Both of these moves had been to test the other, to sense how quickly and assertively the other could move. Percival, to let Dietrich know he was adroit, suddenly pivoted his wrists, flipping his sword in a flourish; he tapped the opposite side of Dietrich’s blade hard enough to slap the German’s sword back toward his body. The Credents chuckled happily. Dietrich glared at him.

  The two men moved their swords to guard positions in front of them and slowly began to circle around the space. Neither wanted the sun in his face, so they kept pivoting until they were standing on an east-west axis, the slanting winter sun lighting them from the side.

  Dietrich returned to resting-on-the-shoulder guard. Percival held his sword overhead facing Dietrich, his gloved left hand holding the forte of the sword. For another long moment, neither moved.

  Then Dietrich stepped in and swung as if to cut Percival’s left shoulder; Percival, keeping his upraised left hand still as a fulcrum, lowered his hilt to block the blow—then realizing it was a feint, shifted his guard across his body to prevent Dietrich’s actual cut to his right shoulder. As all the Livonian’s weight came barreling at him, Percival steeled himself for a strong parry, planting his center of gravity so low he was almost squatting, and slammed his forte into Dietrich’s crossguard until the two swords were hilt to hilt. To avoid toppling back, he pushed himself forward into Dietrich and began to run, shoving the German knight backwards. The small crowd behind Dietrich leapt out of the way, several of them slipping in the thawed mud.

  Dietrich collected himself before he stumbled and began to retreat faster than Percival was coming at him. In the space created between the two of them, Percival tried his first attack, coming around in a midriff cut to the German’s left. Dietrich leapt back out of danger. “Ha!” he snapped at Percival, his pride still wounded from Percival’s earlier flourish.

  The force of Percival’s swing carried his blade all the way left, and Percival himself followed its momentum, bringing the sword over his body so that he could slice it down towards Dietrich’s crown. Dietrich raised his own sword horizontally above his head, supporting the forte with his left hand. Percival’s blow landed between Dietrich’s two hands, and again the fortes of each sword slid so that the crossguards rammed against each other.

  Dietrich, with his hands on either side of the locked crossguards, had leverage Percival lacked. He was in control now. Slowly, his helmeted face staring into Percival’s bare one, he lowered his arms with deliberate slowness, pulling Percival’s sword down, too, so that the weapons descended between their faces, the staring men inhaling each other’s heavy breaths. Percival did not resist, saving his strength to see what Dietrich intended next.

  Dietrich lowered the blades to throat level. Then chest. Percival, his hands couched together on his pommel, which was being pressed down against his sternum, gazed calmly into Dietrich’s fevered stare, refusing to waste energy in this position. He knew Dietrich would not keep them here long.

  The German took a huge breath, then squatted and began to press Percival backwards—not quickly, as Percival had done to Dietrich a moment earlier, but with an earthbound heaviness that would land Percival helplessly on his ass if he could not disconnect.

  Percival jumped back and turned his own left shoulder, deliberately leaving his right flank vulnerable, encouraging Dietrich to strike. Dietrich used his forward momentum to swing at Percival’s flank, but the Shield-Brethren knight continued to spin left in a complete circle; his parry smacked Dietrich’s sword hard away, and Percival continued into a second spin, raising his sword. Dietrich staggered to recover from the parry; he followed the blade in the direction it had been struck and raised the blade high to intercept Percival’s shoulder cut. The two swords clanged loudly together at head-height, fortes into crossguards.

  Percival, seeing an opportunity for a bind, released his left hand off the pommel. He reached underneath Dietrich’s right hand as he stepped in behind Dietrich and slammed his left palm down on the crossed hilts. With a push, he forced the crossed swords downward, with his on top. He saw Dietrich’s elbow jerking quickly back towards his face, but before the German could hit him Percival drove his left knee into the back of Dietrich’s right one, collapsing it to the ground. Dietrich stumbled forward, dropping his sword to catch himself from falling face-first, and Percival moved both his hands again to the pommel of his sword.

  He was just behind and to the right of Dietrich. It would take a simple, upward swing to decapitate the German. In that fraction of a moment, which seemed to stretch forever, he realized that Dietrich knew this, too. So did everyone watching. For the length of a heartbeat every person in the courtyard prepared himself to witness death.

  Percival was about to strike the blow when the images of Bishop Marti, Rixenda, and the other Good Ones flashed through his mind, and a wash of regret came over him.

  He had to end this duel without a death.

  He shifted the angle of his wrist so that the flat of the blade, not the edge, faced Dietrich’s neck. He raised the tip of his sword a few degrees. And then, instead of slicing his opponent’s head off, he smacked the side of Dietrich’s helm as hard as he could, sending the Livonian dazed and sprawling upon his face in the half-frozen muck.

  There was a gasp of surprise from the onlookers, who had started to flee the anticipated splattered gore. Then, for a moment, silence and stillness.

  Dietrich groaned and moved slightly. P
ercival pointed his sword at him, so that when the Livonian finally dragged himself from prone to supine, he found himself staring at the tip of the sword.

  “Do you yield?” Percival demanded.

  Dietrich stared at the tip, then up at Percival, then again at the tip of sword, looking dazed.

  “Do you yield?” Percival repeated.

  Dietrich held up both hands. His face behind the helm was unreadable.

  Percival smiled broadly, lowered his blade, and acknowledged the gawkers. He triumphantly plunged the tip of his sword into the dirt, then held up his arms and turned. He saw the grail on its rocky outcrop, and gratitude coursed through him.

  “By the blessing of the Holy Virgin,” he declared. “The grail—”

  “Percival, behind you!” Raphael shouted. Percival turned back toward his opponent.

  Despite his dazed state, Dietrich was very strong; he had pushed himself up onto both knees, then both legs, and he now grabbed Percival’s sword hilt with both hands, yanking the blade out of the ground. He swung it around in a powerful but unsteady arc, meaning to slice through Percival’s unarmored neck. Were he not dizzy he might have succeeded, but instead he repeated the blow with which Percival had just felled him, smashing Percival’s head hard with the flat of blade. The blow knocked Percival on his face, where he lay suddenly inert and silent as the crowd around them shouted with surprise.

  Dietrich, wobbly, fell to his knees again and dropped the sword, steadying himself with his right hand. But he groped for and then grabbed his dagger out of his belt with his left hand, and rose again. As he launched himself at Percival in a low lunge, Raphael yelled angrily and leapt in to block him, trying to get control of the German’s dagger-hand. He grabbed the outside of Dietrich’s left hand with his own right hand; the flat of his left hand slid up Dietrich’s inner arm to his elbow, chopping at the ligaments so that Dietrich’s arm reflexively bent inward while his ring and pinkie fingers curled tight around the dagger. By continuing to lunge at Raphael, he was propelling his own throat toward his dagger.

  On instinct, Raphael’s hand controlled the direction the dagger pointed. Both men saw the moment coming too quickly to prevent it: Guided by Raphael’s hand, Dietrich impaled himself through the throat on his own blade. Blood spurted from his neck across Raphael’s face, into his mouth and eyes, warm and metallic.

  They were very close together. Even with Dietrich’s helm on, Raphael could read the German’s face as he registered surprise, shock, fury, fear, and finally, resignation. He coughed blood, shuddered, and went limp in Raphael’s arms.

  Raphael grabbed Dietrich’s shoulder and gently lowered the body backward, cradling it so that it would not fall against the ground too hard. When the corpse was resting face-up on the courtyard floor, Raphael released it and stood up. For a moment, he could not remember why he had just killed this man.

  CHAPTER 40:

  CROSS PURPOSES

  Raphael knelt at once over Percival’s still form and began gently to palpate his head and neck. Vera moved to kneel beside him. Peire-Roger glanced at them worriedly, then turned his attention to the muttering crowd.

  “All shall go free!” he called to the assembled Credents. “All the Good Ones! Tell them so!”

  Artal howled with delighted approval, broke away from the group, and ran toward the keep. Everyone cheered and turned to watch him as he ran, until a commotion distracted the collected attention.

  The heavy main gate was yanked open without Ferrer’s assistance; a dozen well-appointed guards flanked a furious Pierre Amelii, Archbishop of Narbonne, weighted down by all his ecclesial finery as he strode into the yard, gasping to collect his breath from the hurried climb.

  “Cease this mischief!” his raspy voice called out. “There shall be no pardon for the wicked!” Artal ignored him and kept running. The archbishop took a moment to get his breath before pressing on, enraged, to inform all present, “An agent of His Holiness condoned the pardon of the arch-heretics, but the agent himself is merely a priest, and I outrank him. As the shepherd whose flock has been infected with these dangerous heresies, I declare that mortal combat such as this cannot save souls, and must not pretend to.” He glanced about, saw the Pope, and gave him a challenging look, daring to see if he would reveal his identity in public. Father Sinibaldo ignored him.

  “You should have laid down that decree before one of your men lost his life over it,” said Raphael harshly, glancing up from Percival’s unmoving form as he wiped Dietrich’s blood from his own face. “You have no right to step in now and gainsay what has been earned.”

  “I would have, had I been here!” the archbishop roared. “I was tricked and distracted by some mischief-maker in the half-heathen ranks of this God-forsaken farce of an army. Some scoundrel, some secret sympathizer, led me on a chase through half the camp claiming that the Good Ones had come down of their own accord this morning to repent and receive penance from me. Of course I would have been here otherwise!”

  Ocyrhoe pursed her lips, blushing from the impulse to speak. Many men in that camp could have pulled such a prank, purely out of spite, angry from having been obliged to spend their winter in this ridiculous siege. But Ocyrhoe knew who had actually done it, although until this moment she had not understood the purpose. The Bishop of Rome himself was the culprit. Knowing the archbishop would object, and knowing his objection would result in the fight’s cancellation, His Holiness had made sure the archbishop would be otherwise engaged.

  “But I have arrived now!” His Eminence was continuing to shriek. “I condemn this action, and the Church, as represented and symbolized in me, shall not abide by the decision of secular lords! I shall prevent it!”

  “You and what army?” sneered Peire-Roger with a mocking gesture. “Your own general has agreed to abide by the terms of this duel.”

  Hugue de Arcis frowned. “My champion was just killed by someone other than his sanctioned opponent. To me that invalidates the duel in all its terms.”

  “Our brother, our Heermeister, has just fallen in a duel of honor,” one of the Livonian knights argued to Hugue. “It would besmirch the depth of his sacrifice if the terms of the duel are not upheld. The Cathar Perfecti have won the right to live, and we are honor-bound to defend that right, however much we despise it.”

  “Excellent!” shouted Peire-Roger with fierce sarcasm, punching the air. “Go to it, fellows! Nothing will bring me greater joy than to see my vanquishing enemies vanquish themselves with internal squabbles! Shall we clear the yard that you may all exterminate each other?”

  “Not only will the rest of the army destroy all of you,” warned the archbishop, “but I will excommunicate you and all of your men if you make any effort to protect these spawn of Satan. The Perfecti burn tomorrow. I do not care what specious spectacles have been staged in the meantime.”

  “You can’t do that!” Peire-Roger shouted angrily. “It was an authorized duel.”

  “It was not authorized by me,” Pierre of Amelii shouted back, enraged. “I am the only person here with the authority to pardon them, and I do not!”

  “Besides, it ceased to be authorized when a second knight stepped in,” Hugue argued.

  “But it did not, sir!” shouted one of his own lieutenants. “The duel was concluded before that happened. His life was already accounted forfeit!”

  The huddled Credents in the yard had been growing increasingly agitated during this exchange, and now they began to shout back, agreeing to this argument. Raphael tried to speak to the archbishop but his voice did not carry over the growing hubbub.

  The somber Livonian knights turned defensively to face the Narbonnese soldiers; every armed man put his right hand on the hilt of his sword, and suddenly it seemed the two groups would indeed come to blows. A few of the Credents fled for the safety of the keep. But the Montségur knights and soldiers flanked the Livonians—their e
nemies until moments ago—to face off against the archbishop’s men. Peir-Roger actually stood beside the Livonians, glaring at the men across from him. Hugue de Arcis looked with alarm between the two factions, as his own men turned to him.

  The Montségurians, pushed beyond their limit by recent events, began to shout and threaten the archbishop’s men. Raphael, looking away from Percival, realized that unlike the crusading soldiers—who wanted desperately to keep the peace, despite their disagreements—the men of Montségur were spoiling for a fight. They were the ones who most needed to be contained. Percival lay unconscious, but his breathing was regular and nothing in his neck felt out of place, although the muscles on one side were clenched. “Stay with him,” he murmured to Vera. “I’ll deal with this.”

  Seldom in Raphael’s life had he faced such a maddening cacophony of cross-purposes–violence erupting among people who did not really disagree, transient alliances between mortal enemies. There was too much anger and disgruntlement roiling the courtyard. Peire-Roger did not care what Bishop Marti said; he was still so furious about what his people had been subjected to for so long, he would have bitten Hugue de Arcis’s head off could he have gotten close enough. The Livonians, outraged by their leader’s death but even more outraged that the purpose of it was belittled, glowered as if they were hoping someone, anyone, would give them the excuse to draw. The Credents who had remained in the courtyard were still the most dangerous men there; ignoring their own bishop’s words, they were fixated in their wrath on the gainsaying archbishop, the French king’s toady. Somebody would snap, and chaos would break out at any moment.

  The only person Raphael could think of with the presence to quell the danger was the one man who was most loath to draw attention to himself: Father Sinibaldo Fieschi. Pope Innocent IV.