by Mark Butler
"If he doesn't get his gold, I'm going to rip Louis' arms off," Artois said, as they neared their cottage.
"And then you'll share a cell with Leaf. Be calm, brother," Francois said, with a hint of fear in his voice. Like most of Troyes's populace, he feared his older brother's strength and temper. Artois had only lived with their mother for six years until he was given to their father, and Francois was still not completely comfortable around him.
Artois collapsed in his bed as soon as he got home. Francois grinned when he heard Artois' loud snores; he would be asleep for the next day, at least. With the strange energy that overcomes one who is fatigued, Francois changed into fresh clothes and went back to the city.
Compared to the lush gardens and solemn cathedrals of Italy, France was an animal pen. Troyes was known for its large hunter population, as most of the agricultural farmers lived on their land, well outside the city limits. The ground was sandy and the air reeked, a tribute to the thousands of dead carcasses stored in nearby warehouses. Despite Troyes's proximity to the mighty capital of France, Paris, the city was a hub of trade and commerce. Vikings from the north, Goths and Italians from the east, and Spaniards in the west often passed through Troyes, leaving their footprints on the wind-swept French town.
Francois took two silver pennies that he had been saving for a month and went to the market. Meat was everywhere: lamb, dog, deer, and moose hung from iron meat-hooks, their innards gone but the odor remaining. Sweaty merchants stood outside their kiosks, proclaiming the quality of their goods. Francois ignored them, moving on to the fruit and vegetable stalls. They were smaller and run by women, but Francois' mother had known the value of eating green foods, and she taught him about the benefits to his skin and composition.
"What's wrong, Fran? Are you too tough to say hello?" A feminine voice asked from behind him. Francois spun on his heel and smiled at the fair-haired, brash girl. She was Olivia, the daughter of a scribe and Francois' only female friend.
"I didn't see you . . . sorry," Francois said awkwardly.
"I saw you checking out the bananas, are you going to buy some?"
"Yes, I just, well. I don't know," Francois answered. He had not even noticed any bananas. Seeing his confusion, Olivia stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder, sliding close. She laughed.
"I'm just making a joke! You should relax. Hey, I heard about that bandit you and your brother tracked down."
"My father was there too, and the hounds. I think they're taking Leaf to Paris tomorrow, because he might try to escape again."
"Paris?" Olivia's voice became more girlish, shrill, even. Francois scratched his chin, looking past her at the other fruits and vegetables. Olivia was originally from Paris, and her father had moved away from the great city when her mother died. Her father said the city reminded him too much of his dead wife, and he never took Olivia to visit Paris.
"I'm getting some apples and lettuce. My father makes a stew . . ." Francois said, moving away.
"Are you going to Paris? I would give anything to go."
"I don't know . . . why would I? We just captured Leaf, and he's only going to Paris so they can lop his head off with a rusty axe, or else they'll tie a rope around his neck and drop him from a tree branch. There's no need for me to see that."
"Francois, you don't get it," Olivia said, sighing and turning away. Francois shrugged and purchased a banana, five apples, and two heads of lettuce. After they were safely stored in his pack, he caught up with Olivia down the road. She was walking toward her neighborhood, a smattering of large houses and cottages for Troyes's upper class.
"Wait, Olivia!" he said, finally reaching her.
"What?"
"I got you a banana." He pulled the fruit from his pack and handed it to her. She took the long, yellow fruit in her delicate hands and Francois' heart started pounding. Olivia was beautiful when her cheeks blushed.
"Thank you."
"It's nothing."
"You care about me," she said, almost accusatory.
"Well, I—" Francois never got the words out. A chorus of hoots and taunts came from the next street over, loud enough to interrupt him. Customers started drifting away from the market and toward the noise, and Francois and Olivia followed the uproar.
Francois' father, Raul, was facing off with a constable in the middle of the street. It was not Chief Louis, but a younger man, over six feet tall, with a massive chest and arms. Francois knew immediately that Raul's "talk" with Louis had not gone well, and the chief had probably recruited this oaf to do his dirty work. Even as the thoughts formed in Francois' head, the big ox shoved his father, sending him into the dirt.
"Oh my—" Olivia put her hand over her mouth, and Francois looked at her irritably. Didn't she have somewhere else to go; didn't all these people, rather than watch his father be humiliated? Francois wanted nothing more than to help his dad, but striking a constable, even with provocation, was a punishable crime—up to three days' confinement and ten lashes, actually.
Raul scrambled back to his feet, the sack of gold bouncing off his hip. Francois felt like vomiting. His father had tracked down one of the most hated criminals in France, on short notice, and this was his reward? He could single-handedly stave off a barbarian horde, Francois thought, but it wouldn't matter. He's Cathar and will always be an outcast. Unable to continue standing still, Francois shoved through the crowd and went to his father's side, just as the young constable threw a huge punch. Francois put his hands up and took the full force of the blow on his forearms.
"Get out of the way, boy, this don't concern you," the man said.
"This is my father!" Francois yelled, looking around. "If you wish to do this hero harm, you'll have to go through me!"
"Take this and go," Raul said hurriedly, pressing the gold sack into Francois' back. He took the sack, surprised at its weight, and looked at his father. "Take the gold and get Artois."
The constable lunged at Francois, but he had been fighting with his older brother for years and he saw the attack coming. He sidestepped the oaf and dashed down the street, the crowd parting before him.
"Artois, wake up!" Francois kicked him in the shin, and his eyes snapped open.
"What in the holy—?"
"Get up! Father is being harassed by a constable, probably over the gold reward. I brought the money home . . ." he said, opening the sack. Bright, French livre glittered back at him, and Francois quickly counted the coins. Nine.
"Who is it? Louis?" Artois asked, pulling his boots on. Thick, ropy veins coursed down his biceps, and Francois could tell he was angry, and not just from how he was woken up.
"A man I've never seen before, a younger constable, a big guy."
"I'll handle this," Artois said, rising to his feet. He alone cared what no one thought of him, and he had no fear of jail, either. Artois's quick temper and lack of concern for consequences was his most unique quality, and it was usually a bad one. Not today, though.
When they returned, Raul was still in the road with the constable. His nose was bleeding, and his pants were dusty and rumpled. He was breathing hard too. It was a strange situation, where Raul wouldn't attack the constable, and the man wouldn't let Raul leave. The crowd was still there, too, waiting to see how the scene played out. A low murmur began when Artois showed up, and he casually stepped between his father and the constable.
"Who are you?" the constable demanded. Artois didn't respond, sizing up the situation. Just because he beat up a constable wouldn't mean his Cathar-related father wouldn't be harassed in the future. There were witnesses too, so Artois couldn't kill the man, although that could happen accidentally. Artois had killed men with just blows from his hands before; he hated that he couldn't do that now. What was the point of winning a fight if you let the man live? He might rise up again in a few days, angry and vengeful.
"I'm taking my father home, you pig," Artois said, prompting laughter from the crowd. The constable's face reddened and he charged Artois, who
ducked low and wrapped the man's legs with his arms. He effortlessly picked the enormous constable off the ground and walked over to a mud-pit. Fat pigs snorted a few feet away, watching the men. Artois dropped the constable in the mud and put his foot on the man's back, leaving him squirming, trying to stand. He couldn't, though, and Artois spat on him.
"What is the meaning of this?" A new voice boomed from behind the crowd. A royal knight, clad in battle armor and riding a massive black stallion seemed to appear out of nowhere. He came from the direction of Paris, actually, and the crowd parted for him.
Artois let his foot off the constable and went back to his father, standing defensively between him and the knight. "I'm protecting my father from this pig of a constable."
Francois involuntarily shuddered. Artois was fearless, no doubt, but he was careless. No commoner spoke so bluntly to a knight of this man's rank. He held the power of life and death over mere peasants. He was probably a killer, too, who had sent men to the abyss in the heat of combat.
"What has your father done?"
"He's a Cathar! A Cathar!" the constable was on his feet now, though his front side was caked with mud and shit.
"There are no more Cathars," the knight said. "Are you a Cathar?"
"My parents were. I'm just a man with a bit of history," Raul said.
"If you are as eager to fight as your sons, there is a place for you all in the royal army." The knight pitched his voice for his next words, as the crowd began to grow around the noble stranger. "King Louis is calling up the Seventh Crusade! All men of able body are destined to join in this venture, to destroy the Muslims in Egypt!"
A few, dutiful "ayes" met the knight's words, but not the zealotry and enthusiasm he was hoping for. It was understandable. The monarchs and nobles of Europe had been crusading against the Muslims for hundreds of years, and they had almost nothing to show for their efforts. The first five crusades had mixed results, with few victories and many defeats. The Sixth Crusade was a resounding victory, although it was through diplomacy and negotiation rather than battle accomplishment. The Sixth Crusade had a timetable too, and the treaties of those days had expired.
"A crusade?" the big constable said, his skin paling. He brushed past the knight and the crowd, going to find Chief Louis. This was a royal edict and would need to be officially proclaimed throughout Troyes. The knight watched the constable go, his eyes frowning at the man's pudgy figure.
"Where does the governor of Troyes live? I must spread my message," the knight asked no one in particular. Francois and a few others pointed farther up the road, where the richer citizens lived. And then a feminine voice called out, "I can show you, I'm going that way."
It was Olivia. With a stab of jealousy, Francois watched the royal knight pull her up on his big horse. She scooted close to the knight, her chest pressing against his back, and the man kicked his heels in the beast's flanks. A moment later, they were gone.
"Damn," Artois said. "Another crusade? Who cares about the damn Muslims, when there are people starving here?"
"I don't know and don't care. Let's get out of here before Chief Louis and his fat deputy return," Raul said. Artois and Raul started up the street, going toward the cottage. Francois stayed where he was, though, staring at the dust cloud the knight's horse had kicked up. He didn't like the way Olivia had ridden off with the man, her curvy figure straddling his horse.
"Are you coming?" Artois yelled at him.
"Yes." Francois followed his father and brother back to their cottage, his heart heavy.
"Eight months! Barely time to get one's affairs in order before you're hauled across the ocean to kill men you don't know! Eight months' notice for us poor men, while that royal bastard and his friends have been planning this damned crusade for years," Raul said, for what seemed to Francois like the hundredth time. They were in their cottage, eating cheese and mutton, three days after the royal knight had come through Troyes.
The peasantry was the last to know about the Seventh Crusade. Over the coming days, more information was spread around. It was a crusade being undertaken by one leader, King Louis IX, and it would be waged in the early spring months of 1249.
"Eight months is better than two," Francois ventured.
"It's not the time, Fran, not the time," Raul said. "It's the principle of it! The Muslims never did anything to me, or us. There won't be any songs of our exploits in the battles, but we'll be in the thick of it, bleeding and dying. And if we win, what do we get? Riches? No, those are reserved for men born into privilege."
"What choice do we have?" Artois asked, juices dripping down his chin.
"We're going to see my brother, in the Duchy of Toulouse."
Francois and Artois stopped eating. Toulouse was in southern France, a region broken by the Albigensian Crusade; the war on the Cathars. They knew Raul had a brother in Toulouse, a man who still clung to Cathar idealism and resisted the kingdom of France. Traveling there would be dangerous and hard.
"Why are we going there?"
"To see my brother, Christof! He will want to know of this "Seventh Crusade." He is a former slaver, a ruthless man who profits from the suffering of others. If we're going to Egypt to kill Muslims, I want Christof by my side," Raul answered. He sat down, not entirely confident in his decision, but it was not one he had come to lightly. Christof was a violent, unpredictable character, and Raul had not seen or heard from him since Artois was a little boy. They were similar, those two, and Raul would rather go to war with them than any other men. Francois, too, though he was a thinker and problem solver, not a true killer.
"Sounds like an adventure," Artois said. "When do we leave?"
They packed up everything of value the following day—Raul's tools, their weapons, and clothes. They used the gold livre from capturing Leaf to purchase three packhorses. They were foul-tempered, ugly beasts, but they were bred to withstand hardship and march hundreds of miles with minimal food and water. On the night before departure, Francois went to Troyes to see Olivia.
He did not know where she lived, exactly, only that her house was in the district where the constables roved, looking for grimy peasants who were out of place. Instead, Francois went toward the jail, his brown hood covering his head. The streets were empty at night. Despite the strong presence of the church, folks were superstitious and believed evil things came out in the dark hours. When Francois reached the black doors of the jail, a man spoke to him from the shadows of the building.
"Who are you?" his voice was low.
"I am Francois Coquet."
"Why are you here?"
"I am lost. I am looking for the residence of Patrieux D'Mance." That was Olivia's father, and he was well-known as a competent scribe by the local provisional offices. The jailers would know him, too.
"Ah, looking for a bit of loot, are you?"
"I know his daughter."
"Yes, yes, I understand," the man said, stepping out of the shadows. He was gaunt and tall, with a pungent odor that washed over Francois when the man opened his mouth.
"Don't come close," Francois said, stepping back and letting his hand drop to his hip. He had a razor-sharp dagger, but he didn't want to use it.
"No problem, no. No problem." The man stopped a few feet from Francois, his eyes unfocused. He seemed crazy. "I know where the man called Patrieux lives, but it will cost you."
Francois resisted the urge to wrap his hands around the fool's throat. Was nothing free? He plunged his hand into his pockets and extracted a bronzed penny. It bore King Louis' likeness, and Francois held it up for the man to see.
"You will show me, and then I will give you this," Francois said.
"Follow me," the man said, eager to be paid.
He was clever, Francois had to admit. He used the main roads, but dashed off into the alleyways at the slightest noise. He kept moving in the same direction, more or less, and they soon arrived at a grand estate. High, sharp gates surrounded the large property, and Francois felt his heart w
eaken; he might not get to see Olivia before he left for Toulouse, after all.
"Thank you," he said to the man, and he flipped him the coin. The strange man caught the coin and disappeared into the gloom, making no noise but leaving a foul odor behind him. Francois looked back at the estate. The house was set behind a copse of trees, perhaps a quarter mile from the main road. There were no visible guards at the gates, but Francois knew they were somewhere, waiting for a Cathar to be foolish enough to trespass on the grounds.
He had not come this far for nothing. He walked around the side of the gates until he found an old elm, hanging over the fence. Low branches were around the trunk of the tree, inviting Francois to test his courage. As he reached for the lowest branch, an image of Olivia and the royal knight flashed in his mind, riding off together. Francois gritted his teeth and stepped away from the tree. Why would Olivia want to see me, a poor, half-Italian son of the local pariah? I'll get myself killed trying to see her tonight, he thought. And what was I even going to say to her? This is a fool's errand.
Francois got back on the road, looking back one final time at Olivia's home. A loud CREAKKK pierced the night, and the gate to the estate swung open. To Francois' shock, Olivia walked out, unescorted. She wore a small, red cloak and had a sword on her hip. Despite her attempt to look threatening, she had the obvious curves of a woman, even with her cloak on. Still staring, Francois realized too late that she was walking straight toward him. Her head was down, as if she didn't register his presence.