by Glen Craney
Simon scaled the tower’s stairwell and found Dominic Guzman holding a prayer vigil in the donjon’s chapel. The Castilian monk loosed a hosannah and fell prostrate at Simon’s boots. “The Lord hath answered my prayers!”
Simon’s eyes dampened from their emotional reunion. He pulled Dominic from his knees and shot a glare of disgust at Folques. “At last I have with me a man of God who preaches the wrath of Hell instead of retreat.”
“Strike them!” howled Dominic. “The archangels shall fly with you! Break the nefarious legions of Lucifer!”
The two old comrades climbed arm-in-arm to the ramparts and inspected the lay of the Aragon camp on the Perramon plateau to the north. Simon snorted with derision on finding that Peter had positioned his army several leagues from the Count of Toulouse’s headquarters. “The Languedoc is not large enough for two fluttering peacocks.”
Folques pointed to a more sobering discovery in the low valley between the Aragon camp and Muret’s walls. “The Wolf protects the King’s center.”
Simon cocked his ear at the faint thrum of a troubadour’s song in the Aragon camp. “They spend the night in revelry.”
“They can afford to sit and chirp,” said Folques. “They know we have only a day’s supply of victuals left.”
Simon closed his bloodshot eyes in deep contemplation. After nearly a minute of this entranced prayer, he roused with a maniacal look and ordered, “Muster the men in the square.”
Folques feared that Simon had finally buckled under the strain. During the past months, the Norman had adopted nonsensical tactics, some even suicidal. “We’ve had no sleep for two nights! Allow me to negotiate terms.”
Ignoring Folques’s plea, Simon returned to his steed and rode across the ranks of his weary crusaders. “We attack from three directions!” he ordered. “A sacred aspect of the Holy Trinity will guide each squadron. I will remain in reserve with the Holy Ghost.”
These veterans of the heretic war were accustomed to their commander’s frequent conversations with the archangels. Yet they traded skeptical glances, dismayed to find him under the delusion that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost would ride into battle with them. Every Christian knew that the Trinity had never been seen together, not even by the saints.
“Peter is protected by the Wolf,” reminded Guy.
“The Wolf is a coward!” said Simon. “Our forebears conquered the Saxon and the Saracen! This day these song-sotted Ocs will join that roll!”
Guy warned his brother, “If Raymond sends his knights to our rear, our only escape route will be cut off.”
Simon flogged his exhausted horse to keep it from collapsing to its forelegs. “We’ll reach the Aragon camp before the Toulousians are even helmed.”
Too weary to protest further, the crusaders slumped over their pommels and tried to catch a few moments of sleep before attempting the improbable sortie. To keep them awake, Dominic regaled them with stories of the biblical battles fought by the Israelites.
After an hour passed, a flash from the watch lantern announced the sun’s approach. Simon stole a conspiring glance at Dominic, then ordered Folques, “Bishop, if you wish to send priests to parlay, do so now.”
Folques released a sigh of utter relief, gratified that the few minutes of sleep had restored Simon to his senses. He drafted two barefoot friars and rushed them from the gate with instructions to seek favorable terms from King Peter by promising a new church built in his honor when Jerusalem was restored. While the friars hurried across the bridge as fast as their blistered feet would allow, Simon sat so lifeless in his saddle that some of his men feared he had expired. When sufficient time had passed for Folques’s emissaries to reach the Wolf’s sentinels, Dominic touched his crucifix against the forehead of Simon’s ebony warhorse. The Lion resurrected and took the Eucharist to his tongue, savoring his first morsel of sustenance since the morning prior. Invigorated by the power of Our Lord’s resurrected Body, he unsheathed his sword and motioned his crusaders into their three assigned columns.
Flummoxed by the sudden mobilization, Folques was nearly trampled by the horses of the marshalling crusaders. “What are you doing?”
Simon shared a shifty grin with Dominic to confirm that their ruse had purchased a few more minutes of rest while deceiving the Wolf into dropping his guard. “You must train your priests to walk faster.”
Dominic’s smoldering eyes ignited with the anticipation of God’s approaching rectitude. He clambered to the walls testifying and exhorting the crusaders on with the fervency of an Old Testament prophet. “And Yahweh ordered the Israelites to rise up and smite the Moabites and fill the river with the blood of their pagan king!”
Simon snapped his horse into a fast lope toward the Sales Gate. His squadrons followed in a silence that was broken only by Dominic’s hellfire and the clack of hooves echoing in the cold morning air.
Bedded down on the far banks of the river, the Toulousian militiamen were awaked by the earth shaking below their heads. They hurried to their weapons, certain that the Northerners were sallying forth along the slender path beyond the walls to attack their position. But Simon bypassed the bridge and kept close along the shadows, turning left at the angle to follow the banks of the Louge. His crusaders split off into their assigned squadrons and took aim at the marshy ford just beyond the Aragon camp.
“The King is attacked!” screamed the Toulousians.
Guilhelm was jolted from sleep by the same clarion blast that he had heard below Lavaur. He rushed from his tent and was met with a spectacle that would have churned the most battle-hardened of stomachs. In the valley below Muret, the burnished shields of de Montfort’s knights flashed under the dawn sun like streaks of lightning. Roger and his Foix men, their horses unsaddled, stood conferring with the two friars sent by Folques. They had no time to don their armor.
Guilhelm ran into the royal quarters and found Peter surrounded by empty flasks and reeking of debauchery. He pulled the drowsy King from the bed. “You must rise at once, my lord!”
Racked by a hangover, the King bent over the bed and retched. “I feel as if I’m drugged!”
“Rally your men! De Montfort attacks!”
Peter stumbled out in his stained nightshirt and floundered to his knees. The Aragon knights stared aghast at their King’s peccant condition. His attendants hurriedly wheeled up a wooden contraption that resembled a miniature gallows and cranked a lever to raise the heavy suit of royal armor gilt in turquoise above Peter’s wobbling head. Before the breastplate could be lowered, the King spied one of his guards rushing to his horse without armor. “Good man! Where is your hauberk?”
“No time, my liege!”
“Take my breastplate! I’ll have no knight less protected than me.”
Given no say in the matter, the attendants fitted the reluctant knight with the royal armor and draped his head with the coif of gold-embroidered silk. Peter rummaged through the livery piles and found an unadorned breastplate and helmet. Satisfied with the exchange, he saw Guilhelm mustering the bataille of thirty Aragon knights placed under his command. “Templar! No assault until I give the order!”
A clattering report of splintered lances echoed up from the lower field. Guilhelm turned in time to see the two crusader squadrons drive into Foix’s cavalry like the flanges of a pitchfork. Amid the horrid grind of metal, Roger and his ambushed knights fought bravely and shouted, “Remember Trencavel! Remember Beziers!”
Guilhelm quickly set his echelon in formation. “No sorties! We fight as one!” The Aragon knights turned on him as if expecting something more, perhaps a prayer or some rousing quote of Scriptures. But he had no use for such florid platitudes. Battle was discipline, pure and simple. What difference did it make if a man believed God wished him to prevail? He had killed too many Saracens who were convinced of the same preordained victory.
The onrushing crusaders did not stop to melee with the Foix survivors, but galloped up the ridge toward the Aragon left flank, which
was still in chaos. A light rain began thrumming an achromatic tune on the gleaming iron bonnets and soddening the soft turf into a curdled paste of red clay and manure. The half-dressed squires scrambled to bring up their masters’ mud-clodded horses. The King’s Navarrese dart throwers fired their curled Turkish bows to give cover, but the crusaders had made up too much ground—the arrows fell harmlessly behind them.
On the right flank, Guilhelm saw that Peter had yet to form his bataille. He ordered his echelon to the center of the field to afford the monarch a few more precious seconds. The charging crusaders lowered their lances and leaned into the necks of their steaming warhorses for protection. He waited for the signal for the countercharge. In the distance, under Muret’s walls, he saw Simon holding back a squadron of three hundred horsemen.
He intends to try the flank!
Armored at last, Peter took his position of honor on the left echelon. Guilhelm drew a breath of renewed confidence—all was now ready. With the high ground, his Aragonese knights still held the advantage if they moved quickly. Inexplicably, the royal banner remained unfurled.
Give the order, damn you!
To Guilhelm’s dismay, King Peter sat inert, unwilling to meet de Montfort’s dastardly attack, as if to do so would grant his deceitful ploy an imprimatur of correctness. If the monarch did not advance at once, he would suffer the same lesson learned by the Saracens in Palestine: Monfort’s ponderous chargers on the run would overwhelm the smaller, stationary Aragon ponies. Guilhelm angrily slammed his helm into place and shouted, “Tighten the line!”
Fools and their damned chivalry!
He signaled for the frondejadors to let loose with their hand slings. The sky filled with rocks—the Northerners saw the launch in time and raised their shields. When that tactic failed to slow them, he ordered lances lowered in preparation to countercharge. His knights turned in astonishment, unable to accept that he would move without the King’s command.
Guilhelm dug his spurs. “Advance!”
The Aragon destriers lurched to the impact. Guilhelm wrapped his reins around his left cast and held his lance with his right hand; if unhorsed, he would be dragged to his death, but he had no choice. His knights dropped their lances to eye level and took aim at the heads of the onrushing crusaders. The two armies were nearly in range to lock shields and—
The crusader squadrons splayed apart in a stunning maneuver.
Unnerved by the feint, Guilhelm’s knights disintegrated into a vortex of tangled lances and spooked mounts.
“The King!” screamed a dozen Aragon voices to his rear.
Guilhelm reined back. The crusaders had outflanked his bataille and were reforming in a wedge to take aim at Peter’s poorly organized phalanx on the left. The Aragon knights abandoned Guilhelm and rushed toward their royal banners, too late. The crusaders converged on Peter like wasps on a dollop of honey. Beset from all sides, the monarch fell from his white charger. The crusaders closed in on him and hacked down his outnumbered guards.
A Frank tore off Peter’s helmet. “This is not the King!”
The royal Aragon guards were stunned—one of their dead comrades, not Peter, wore the monarchial armor. Rattled, they abated their fighting and gave way, uncertain who was friend and foe.
Peter came galloping over the ridge on a sleek black Arabian. Clad in a common hauberk, he shouted, “Here is your King! Follow me!”
The Aragon knights were now doubly paralyzed by confusion. Yet Peter fought so ferociously that the Northerners began to back away, educated as to why hundreds of Moors had fallen to his sword.
Abandoned in the mayhem, Guilhelm looked toward the Toulousian camp. Where was Count Raymond? His Occitan knights offered the only hope to turn the tide. A low rumble swept above the din of the battle—Simon had unleashed his reserve battalion and was angling athwart to encircle the dwindling Aragon line. Guilhelm spurred to the kill. He drove Simon from the saddle and lifted his broadsword with his good arm to deliver the coup stroke.
Simon captured Guilhelm’s saddle riggings and wrangled his horse to the ground. “I’ll have that other hand!”
Guilhelm had the presence of mind to relax his tensed muscles as he leapt airborne. He somersaulted to the churned muck and came to a jaw-rattling stop. He tried to crawl from harm’s way, but his iron arm was entangled in the reins and the eye slit and airholes of his helmet were ajar, obscuring his vision. His parched mouth was so hard pressed against the caved metal that he feared he would suffocate. He heard the familiar laugh as the Norman raised his battle-ax.
“Where’s my son?” shouted Peter, his round face latticed in blood as he ploughed a furrow of destruction to reach Simon.
Simon abandoned Guilhelm and charged at the monarch with a taunt. “Learning the catechism you failed to teach him!”
Peter heaved and retched as he ran. “I’ll teach you penance!”
“Did you enjoy the lady?” asked Simon. “Did she find it in her heart to forgive you? That Toulouse whore cost me a fair coin!”
Peter stumbled to a halt, weak-kneed from shock. Only then did he comprehend that Simon had intercepted his letter and had given it to an Occitan prostitute armed with soporifics. Peter dropped his sword, undone by the code of chivalry that he had devoted his life to see prospered. The crusaders swarmed him from all sides, competing to mete out the final stroke. He slumped to his knees under the bludgeoning. A thrown lance pierced his mail shirt and impaled his lungs, drawing a guttural moan. He looked down in disbelief at his blood jellying in the links under his throat.
De Montfort dived into the fray. “Leave me the last blow!”
Guilhelm hacked free his tangled arm and yanked off his helmet. He corralled a balking mount and fought a path toward the Toulousian camp on the far hill. There he found Count Raymond pacing under his pavilion with head in hands while troubadours comforted him with chansons to lament the day. Roger de Foix, half-conscious from a leg wound, was surrounded by Raymond de Perella and the few Foix knights who had survived the onslaught. Tears streamed down Count Raymond’s puffy cheeks as he kicked at the traitorous ground. “The fool has ruined me!”
“You can still turn them!” said Guilhelm. “Order your knights into battle!”
Count Raymond stared off into the distance, lost in a haze of misery and despair. He muttered to himself, “In one hour, our world has vanished.”
After decimating Peter’s army, de Montfort turned his squadrons back on the city and drove the Toulousian militia into the wedge formed by the walls and the river. Dominic and Folques stood on the ramparts waving their staffed crucifixes and hurling promises of damnation at the Occitans, who were forced to make the choice between death by drowning or the sword.
By dusk, four thousand Southern corpses floated down the blood-tinged Louge toward Toulouse.
Guilhelm rode all night to reach Foix. With his vision bleared from the loss of blood, he burst through the chapel doors and careened toward the women, who turned from their prie-dieu kneelers.
Esclarmonde knew at once that all had been lost. She assisted him onto a bench and tried to revive his strength with sweet tea. The Marquessa shepherded Loupe and Chandelle from the chapel to prevent them from overhearing the report of their fathers’ fates.
Guilhelm rasped, “We must leave within the hour.”
“My brother?”
“Wounded grievously. Peter is slain. De Montfort’s advance guard will be here before the morn.” He drew a painful, clotted breath. “Bring only what you must. The horses cannot be overburdened.”
“I’ll not hand over my home to that man!”
“Don’t resist me on this!” he shouted, coughing up blood. “We’ll head south to Perpignan and cross the mountains.”
Esclarmonde was blinded by the news of the inconceivable defeat. She braced her forehead against the wall to reclaim her clarity, unable to bear the thought of another punishing trek across the mountains. The journey was difficult enough for stout men. To attempt it w
ith the two girls and the Marquessa would be courting disaster. She took Guilhelm’s swollen face into her hands and begged, “Take us to Montsegur.”
Guilhelm’s eyes flashed wrathful. “I have no men to defend that rock! The Count of Toulouse has absconded. His army is scattered to the winds.”
“If I am to die,” she said, “I would have it be in the temple.”
Incensed by her stubbornness, Guilhelm rose up like a crazed Lazarus and seized her forearms. “It’s over! Your religion is finished! They’ll hunt you down. You’ve given all that you can to these people! Now save your family!”
“I’ve not given what Phillipa and Giraude gave.”
He shoved his iron hand in front of her recoiling face. “I gave this to come back to you. I love you more than any miserable god loves you!”
She blanched from his blasphemy. “Guilhelm!”
“What has your god done for you except thrust suffering upon us?”
“He has given you to me,” she said.
“But he has not given you to me! This god you worship does not exist! If he did, it would be de Montfort dead on that field instead of Peter!”
Esclarmonde caved to her knees, undone by his raw anger and torn with indecision. She had not heard from Castres for months and feared the worst. If the Bishop did not return, she alone would hold the fate of the Occitan Cathars in her hands. Panic would spread swiftly across the South with news of the Muret disaster. Her followers would be isolated and exposed, left undefended by the local barons. If she abandoned them, they would be driven into the mountains to starve or freeze. She was so weary of it all. To fall into Guilhelm’s arms and let him take her where he wished would be blessed. But how could she live after such a betrayal? She had always championed the belief that women were equal to men in intelligence and courage. She alone was responsible for King Peter’s sacrifice. If she fled Occitania now, she would be exposed as a craven hypocrite. With plaintive eyes, she turned back to him and implored, “The good in this world does not always prevail. Does that mean we should turn our backs on all that is good?”