by Glen Craney
The King glared in pique at Trencavel for having caused this trouble with Rome by placing the welfare of a few heretics above the demands of statecraft. “I have crossed the mountains with two hundred knights at great expense.”
“I will attack the bridge while you hit them from the rear,” said Trencavel. “There is no time to waste. The strength of my men wanes by the hour.”
“You are in no condition to fight. Your only hope is to negotiate terms.”
The King’s inconceivable counsel of surrender spiraled Trencavel into a fit of coughing. “With those madmen? Did you not hear what they did to Beziers? They used our own people as cover for their engines!”
Peter turned toward the hushed citizens in the hope of convincing them to give up their doomed defense. “The Abbot of Citeaux will allow the Viscount and eleven of his knights to leave unarmed.”
“And the rest of us?” asked Esclarmonde.
Peter would not look at her directly. “Forfeited to the barons to dispense with as they see fit.”
Trencavel had to be restrained from rushing the monarch. “You bring me such an offer from that murderous knave?”
Peter vented his frustration at Trencavel’s ingratitude by yanking his mount’s bit. “Save yourself. There will come another day for fighting.”
Regretting his outburst, Trencavel sought the King’s hand in contrition. “Good liege, would you abandon your kingdom, as you now ask me to do?”
The King repulsed the gesture and brought a kerchief to his nose to chase the gagging stench. He deemed the question too absurd to merit a response. No Christian monarch of his intelligence and stature would ever allow himself to be brought down so low by a rabble of Franks and Normans. “What answer do you wish me to convey?”
Trencavel swallowed painfully to ease the grate in his throat cords. After a hesitation, he straightened in defiance. “You may tell those Cistercian thieves they’ll see donkeys fly before they enter this city.”
The King waited for a public remonstrance to that reckless bravado. To his astonishment, the citizens lodged no protest to their leader’s obstinacy, but walked back into their corners of suffering, determined to renew their resistance. He shook his head in disbelief. “You Occitans are a stubborn breed. My troubadours shall sing of your courage, ill-advised as it surely is.” Before departing, he warned Esclarmonde, “Whatever happens here, my lady, you must not allow yourself to fall into the hands of those Cistercians.”
After two weeks of the siege, the carrion crows were so satiated by the abundance of putrid flesh that they no longer flew over the city. The Northerners left the bodies of Phillipa and the Cathar martyrs tied to the engines, where they were gnawed at by wild dogs and used for target practice by the routiers. Trencavel banned all but his garrison from climbing to the walls for fear that the sight would drive his subjects mad.
When her flagging strength permitted, Esclarmonde canvassed the waste-fouled streets and brought the worst of the afflicted to the lazar house. Each day that passed under the cloudless sun seemed like a month in duration. She learned to her horror that a city dies much like a human body, rotting slowly from the extremities first, then shutting down in its central organs.
In the relative cool of the early mornings, the cremation gangs would ring their bells to collect the corpses of those who had expired during the night. Trencavel refused to give the Northerners the satisfaction of watching the bodies thrown over the walls. Instead, he ordered cremation pyres kept fueled without cessation. The noxious smoke exacerbated the unbearable heat and poisoned air. Most of the dead were found huddled below the eastern wall overlooking the city’s cemetery. Denied burials, the Occitans would crawl there to be near their ancestors. Some wrapped themselves in shrouds and sewed the seams to their necks to save their families the trouble. Those who survived the nights made their way to St. Nazaire the next morning to lick condensation from the cathedral’s marble pillars. Others drank their own urine or the blood of rotting cattle, only to find their agony increased. Yet throughout this ordeal, not one Catholic called for Esclarmonde and her Cathars to be surrendered.
Trencavel, however, was beginning to crack under the strain. On this morning, he rode forth from his palace in full armor, his sunken face sealed in an expression of manic fixedness. The people gasped at how altered in appearance their youthful liege had become. Patches of his once-thick blond hair had fallen from his scalp and his lips were the morbid shade of dark plums. He tried to hide the pallor of disease by daubing his face with rouge, but the effect made him look as if he had been embalmed with a thin layer of wax.
Esclarmonde hurried to intercept him. “My lord, where are you going?”
Trencavel’s febrile gaze remained trained on the gate. Christ on His way to Calvary could not have looked more tortured yet accepting of the bitter cup being offered. Finally, he looked down at her with pain-soddened eyes and rasped, “I must negotiate with the Abbot.”
Guilhelm captured the reins and tried to dissuade Trencavel from leaving the protection of the city. “The Northern barons are only pledged for one more week. Wait them out. They will abandon the Cistercians.”
“Another week and I will command a charnel house,” said Trencavel. “My uncle is with them. I will plead my cause with him. He is one of us.”
“The Count of Toulouse cares not a whit about your kingdom,” reminded Guilhelm. “Unless it falls into his hands.”
“His father was a man of honor,” said Trencavel.
Helpless, the Viscount’s officers turned to Esclarmonde, the only one among them of sufficient stature to dissuade him from this folly. She was so depleted by illness that she could only grasp Trencavel’s hand in a silent plea.
Trencavel forced a sluggish smile to allay her fears. “You would do the same for your flock.” He wrapped his shoulders in his ceremonial sash and ordered his horse watered to prevent it from expiring before he crossed the river. The Cistercians, he knew, would closely examine him for an indication of the city’s condition.
Guilhelm ordered his own mount be brought up from the stables.
“You don’t mean to go with him?” said Esclarmonde.
“I’ll not stand by and watch him thrown to those wolves alone.”
The guards fought back the throng of citizens who begged to accompany their liege as guardians. After bidding Trencavel to remain just beyond the portal, Guilhelm left the city and advanced toward the crusader lines waving a white gonfalon from his lance. He reached the Northern headquarters and waited for de Montfort and the Cistercians to emerge from their tents.
“Trencavel wishes a parlay,” said Guilhelm.
De Montfort gripped the handle of his sword, itching to strike. “I’ll have a parlay of a different sort with you, Templar.”
Almaric studied the distant mounted figure at the gate. “The baron is willing to discuss terms with us in person?”
“Upon your vow of safe conduct,” said Guilhelm.
The Abbot mulled the proposition. “Agreed.”
“I must hear it from this Norman swine as well.”
The Abbot nodded a command for de Montfort to submit. The Norman bit his lip, but finally he acquiesced. “My blade rests for an hour.”
Guilhelm crossed back over the river and made a detour to the siege engines. He took advantage of the brief truce to cut the ropes holding the rotting Cathar corpses. He wrapped Phillipa’s remains in one of the skins and delivered them to the Occitan soldiers manning the gate.
Trencavel maintained a keen watch on the Cistercians, who stood waiting across the river. “Did they give their word?”
“For what it’s worth,” said Guilhelm.
Trencavel cantered back toward the Port d’Aude and whispered something in confidence to Esclarmonde. Guilhelm monitored their exchange, but he could divine no hint of its purpose, except that she seemed discomfited by what she had been told. She tried to call Trencavel back, but he was off on an unsteady gallop for the bridge, bles
sed by the waving scarves of his subjects.
Guilhelm caught up and together they threaded the gauntlet of routiers and crusaders, who needed only a twitch of a threat for an excuse to draw their weapons. Escorted into the Cistercian pavilion, Trencavel walked up to Count Raymond of Toulouse and stared nose to nose at his uncle. Several seconds passed before the paunchy Raymond realized that the wraith standing before him was his nephew. The Toulouse baron stole a guilt-laced glance at Guilhelm, whose life he had cowardly condemned in St. Gilles. Unable to bear Trencavel’s insolent inspection, Raymond broke off their war of wills and shoved him aside. “Have you fallen dumb?”
“I am trying to discern how we could share the same blood.”
“Impudent ass!” shouted Raymond.
Trencavel had to be restrained. “You think you can nest with these snakes and not get bitten?”
Almaric sniggered at the spectacle of family dissension. Finally, he had his fill of the hurled threats and curses. “Have you something of importance to say? Or did you ask for this meeting to trade insults?”
Trencavel swayed from weakness. He braced his palms against the table behind him, careful not to let the Northerners detect his need for support. “I wish an audience with the Holy Father.”
Folques laughed at him with scorn. “What makes you think the Holy Father grants hearings to heretical barons?”
“I will go to Rome to offer my defense.”
“It is a bit late for that,” said the Abbot. “I have been delegated the authority for exorcizing this land. The siege will not be raised until all of the cloggers under your protection are handed over.”
“We know all too well how you distinguish heretics from believers,” said Trencavel. “You let the flames decide.”
The Abbot circled Trencavel with a calculating step. “I’ve heard it said that you were educated by Bertrand de Saissac, a notorious heretic. Reprobates who protect Christ’s enemies must accept the consequences of their malfeasance.”
“The only enemies of Christ in this land conspire in this tent.”
Almaric offered Trencavel a goblet of water to test his resolve. “Your people suffer needlessly because of your allegiance to these heretics. Why should your sinful pride cause good Catholics to endure eternal damnation?”
Trencavel accepted the goblet and gazed at his reflection in the cool water. He blinked with shock, apprised for the first time of the ravages that the siege had taken on him. He raised the goblet to his lips—and poured the water at the feet of the Cistercians. He threw the cup aside and strode with a faltering gait toward the portal flap. “I am prepared to wait out the summer.”
A step from the exit, the two Occitans were grappled to the ground by de Montfort and his officers.
“We are not,” said Almaric, smirking.
Guilhelm fought in vain to reach the treacherous monks. “Lying dogs!”
Folques slammed a foot into Guilhelm’s ribs. “Contracts with Satan’s advocates are not binding. The Holy Father wishes new overlords installed in Occitania. Barons who will prosecute the heretics with zeal. And you, Templar, have your own list of crimes to answer.”
The prisoners were dragged from the pavilion and paraded in tethers across the bridge. A moan of despair swept across Carcassonne’s ramparts.
Almaric shouted at the Occitans who had crowded atop the walls, “Within the hour, every man, woman, and child in this recalcitrant city will walk out wearing only shirt and breeches. Defy Holy Mother Church in this command and your liege will suffer grievously.”
Trencavel tried to scream for his subjects to disobey the Abbot’s demand, but de Montfort and the crusaders knocked him senseless.
When the allotted hour had passed, the gates of Carcassonne were swung open. Thousands of half-naked Occitans staggered forth from the city and filed past a waiting gauntlet of crusaders and routiers. The Northerners howled with laughter as they beat the wretches forward with clubs. Some of the Occitans broke through the cordon and risked decapitation to slake their thirst at the river.
Almaric and Folques sat shading under a canopy while surveying this passing train of misery to ferret out the Cathars among the inhabitants. When the last of the disgorged Occitans had been searched and interrogated, no heretics were discovered among them. Incensed, Almaric ordered de Montfort to scour the city’s nooks and cellars to drive Esclarmonde and her craven followers from their hiding.
At day’s end, de Montfort and his men returned with the report that not even a rat could be found inside the walls. Seething at the inexplicable deception, the Cistercians rushed to the prison cart where they had ordered Trencavel and Guilhelm clamped in chains. Trencavel peered out with a grim smile from the cramped confines of the small dovecote that had been converted into a pronged cage.
Folques slapped the Viscount’s face. “Where have the heretic woman and her brood absconded?”
Guilhelm turned on Trencavel with a look of confusion, unable to fathom how Esclarmonde could have escaped.
Trencavel spat blood at Folques. “You tonsured devils insist that she’s a witch. Mayhaps she cast a spell on you and flew away.”
One who gazes into the vision of the Chariot first descends and then ascends ... He has rays from His hand, and His hidden Face is there. What is His Hidden Face? This is the Light that was stored away and hidden ...
- The Bahir, Kabbalah
XXII
Foix
November 1209
Esclarmonde whispered a prayer of relief on seeing Foix’s towers pierce the clouds like the pillars of Hercules. She arose from her crouch in the tussocks of heathland broom and motioned up Castres and eight perfects from their hiding behind the high rocks. Two agonizing months had passed since their escape from Carcassonne. Before his disastrous meeting with the Cistercians, Trencavel had told her of a tunnel that ran from St. Nazaire’s ossuary crypt to a faux grave in the cemetery outside the walls. She and her five hundred Cathars had hidden in that underground passageway until the Northern army decamped. To avoid capture, she had divided the perfects and perfectas into bands of ten with orders to make their way separately to Montsegur. She led her own clan of bedraggled refugees on a detour to Foix, surviving on mushrooms and berries while traveling at night through the wilds of the Pierre-Lys Gorge.
With the safety of her brother’s chateau now only a river’s breadth away, she tried to find the courage required to tell Roger and Loupe of Phillipa’s death. She prepared to make the run across the dangerous open ground when she heard moans from a nearby grove. Alarmed, she signaled for Castres and the others to drop into the tall grass.
A ragged man, more demonic than human in aspect, staggered out from the coppice with his scabrous, blood-clotted face missing an eye. He snorted with excruciating breaths as he snapped a rope tied to his wrist. Piles of dried leaves stirred. Fifty tethered men emerged from dugout holes—all with both eyes gouged out and noses sliced off.
Esclarmonde fought the urge to retch. “Who did this to you?”
“A Northern excrement named de Montfort.” The one-eyed leader swiveled his head in a pitiful attempt to gain depth of vision. “You wear the black robe.”
“I am the Count of Foix’s sister.”
The men fell to their knees and reached for her hand in the hope of a miracle. Castres and the perfects came running and spread out among the men to administer the healings.
“De Montfort mangled us in Bram while the Cistercians watched,” said the leader of the men. “Saissac. Alzonne. Montreal. All have fallen.”
“Why did they leave you alone with one eye?” she asked.
“The Norman forced us to draw lots. When I won, he ordered me to lead them here to tell your brother that he’s coming to give him the same treatment.”
Roger came bounding down from the chateau to meet Esclarmonde as she climbed the hill. “We’d all but given you up for lost.”
She tried to turn him back. “Don’t let the girls come out!”
; “They’ve stood waiting at the window for weeks!” Roger shook off her restraint and found the other perfects lurking below the brow, attempting to avoid his detection. He came closer and saw the men with faces covered by swathes torn from their cuffs. He ripped off the ragged bandanas to reveal their identities. Slack-mouthed, he turned on Esclarmonde, questioning if she had undertaken some perverse heretic ritual against the flesh. Before she could explain, he discovered that Phillipa was not among the returned Cathars. “Where is my wife?”
Esclarmonde drew him aside. “Roger ...”
Roger repulsed her attempt to take his hand. “Damn you! Answer me!”
“Phillipa ... is dead.”
Roger stood rooted to the ground, incapable of comprehending what he had just heard. Shaking from the dawning impact of the revelation, he manhandled the Bishop, who meekly accepted his wrath.
Esclarmonde shielded Castres. “The Cistercians have declared war.”
Roger shoved her aside and circled aimlessly, bereft of a target. “I warned you this damned religion of yours would—”
“Aunt Essy! Aunt Essy!”
Loupe and Chandelle came scampering down ahead of Corba and the Marquessa. The two girls latched onto Esclarmonde’s robe and leapt with joy at finding her returned. Wet-cheeked, Esclarmonde tried to turn Loupe away.
Loupe found her father on his knees with his face twisted. “What’s the matter, Papa?” She saw the disfigured soldiers and shrieked. “Where’s Mama?”
Esclarmonde took Loupe into her arms. “My love, be brave.” She spoke rapidly for fear of losing her voice. “Your mother ... has gone to God.”
Loupe turned purple. “Mama is ... I told you not to let her go!”
“There was nothing I could—”
“You killed her!”
Roger yanked Loupe from Esclarmonde’s grasp. “How did it happen?”
“The Cistercians tied her to the siege guns. Trencavel had no choice.”
“Trencavel fired the shot?”