Saturday, August 1, 1209
Trencavel
Saturday, August 1, 1209, midday
The twenty men sat in the Castle Round Room. They were arranged around a massive circular oak table, in leather chairs that groaned and squeaked under their weight. The ceiling was high, a circular dome. Along the upper part of the walls ran a mural, knights seated on horseback in brilliant red tunics, their shields at the ready, faced their opponents, always at the point of the start of the battle. Pennants flew, all was ready for war.
Trencavel stood to speak. At his side sat his guardian from his youth, Bertrand de Saissac, a wild, hairy man with fists like bricks.
“We must protect our access to the river,” said Trencavel. “At whatever cost.”
Bertrand de Saissac banged his giant fists on the table until it jumped. Most of the other knights showed their agreement with their fists and feet. These were battle-ready men from the mountains. Lords of castles in the Black Mountains, the Minervois, and the Corbieres. Their towers were perched on hard, rocky precipices where only mountain goats moved with ease. The will to build in stone on these isolated peaks was shown on their determined, sun-lined faces. From these mountain strongholds, they controlled the lands below. Some were blessed with deep valleys that bore vines and fruit. Others presided over ravines and gorges shaped by fast rivers, where only shepherds could eke out a living. These men were too accustomed to their daily battles with a raw nature, wolves and bears and killing frosts and burning droughts, to show much fear over an invasion force cobbled together from men whose commitment lasted only the forty days they believed would send them to heaven, and more importantly, knew would remove any earthly debts from their ledgers.
But from their experience they all feared one thing- the lack of water.
“Listen, men. Let's attack with 400 of our best men and their Arab steeds, before night falls. They are heavy with their baggage and travel. We can take them by surprise and quickly return to the walls of the city.” said Trencavel.
The men continued to listen in silence. Trencavel was young, one of the youngest men in the room, but his presence was sure.
“Let's equip ourselves for battle now. We can overcome them, I am sure. We will send them into disarray and make them think before attempting to take the river access. As long as we can hold our water supply, they stand no chance of taking this city. They will be dying of hunger and disease before their forty days of service run out,” said Trencavel.
The men began to stand amid calls of agreement. They wanted these invaders off their lands as quickly as possible.
The Lord of Cabaret stood quietly, his hand stroking his neatly trimmed gray beard.
“I would like to speak,” Cabaret said.
The men quieted down and retook their seats.
“In my opinion, it is better to wait and do nothing rash,” said Cabaret. “The Crusaders are camping across the river. You know what will be the first concern of these sons of Northern bitches. They will try to take the path to the river and cut off the water supply. We should wait until they are exposed in their attack under our walls. Then, when they are weakened by the arrows of our crossbow men, we can counterattack and slaughter them.”
“And that will be too late. They will already have taken the path to the river and they will defend it to the end. They are not fools. And they have many more men than us. Our only hope is surprise,” said Trencavel.
Bertrand of Saissac stood up, his great shaggy mane spilling over his huge shoulders.
“I agree with the Viscount Trencavel,” said Bertrand. “They have the numbers. We have only our courage and their stupidity. We must surprise them. They will never expect that after Béziers. We must fight like men, not hide in the city like a bunch of old women. Anyway, who do they have on their side? Cistercian monks!” Bertrand laughed. “They indulge in vice with their sheep because they are afraid of women. And they spend their days thinking how to disrupt the pleasures of men who are not. We have nothing to fear from these sodomizing whores of the Pope!”
Cabaret slowly turned to face Bertrand. His voice was low and angry.
“Do you want us to be slaughtered like those fools at Béziers?” said Cabaret. “A bunch of impatient idiots, stupider than lice, and covered in maggots by now, for all their thoughts of glory.”
Bertrand de Saissac pounded his fist on the table.
“Who are you calling a fool, old man?” he said. Two knights on either side of him tried to hold him back.
“I have fought more battles than you have dreamed of,” said Cabaret.
Trencavel's face flushed red. He placed his hand on Cabaret's arm.
“That's enough,” said Trencavel. “We have enough enemies to fight outside these gates. We don't need to waste our energies inside. Now, my friends, what is it to be? Do we surprise them tonight or wait until they attack tomorrow?”
The room erupted into noise as the men argued among themselves. Finally, the noise started to subside. The men around the table spoke. Caution would carry the day. There would be no surprise attack tonight.
“Very well,” said Trencavel. “You have made yourselves clear. Set extra sentries on all the watch towers. Prepare yourselves for the battle that will come when they attack. They may set the time, but we will still have the advantage of knowledge. We know this land and we are fighting for our homes. Be ready.”
Trencavel left the room, followed by Bertrand de Saissac. The two men walked down the hall to Trencavel’s chambers.
“I guess we won’t fight today, after all,” said Trencavel. “You might as well join me for something to eat.”
Trencavel called for meats and cheese. A serving girl brought them the platters and filled their mugs with wine, deftly avoiding the hands of Bertrand as she served him. Bertrand watched the girl retreat from the room with something bordering almost on respect. Trencavel thought to himself that some things would never change. A pretty serving girl was never quite safe when Bertrand de Saissac was within reach.
“What I can’t believe is that Pierre Bermond is out there,” said Trencavel. “I never thought I would see the day when my closest boyhood friend would be part of an army outside my city walls, ready to lay siege to my castle.”
“Now, you can’t be too hard on Pierre,” said Bertrand.
He took a long gulp of his wine and wiped his big hand across his mouth, burping in the process.
“You know better than anyone that Pierre Bermond had no choice,” said Bertrand. “Once his liege-lord the Count of Toulouse joined the Crusaders, Pierre had to follow. It is his feudal obligation to fight on the side of his lord.”
“I know, I know,” said Trencavel. “I would expect the same of my vassals. Their place is to follow me into battle, wherever that may be. And Pierre had to follow my beloved uncle, the Count of Toulouse, whether he agreed with him or not.”
“And you can be sure that he didn’t,” said Bertrand. “Actually, I don’t think we have much to worry about from a military standpoint from your uncle or any of his vassals. I think they will be content to sit these battles out from the sidelines of their tents as they did in Béziers.”
Trencavel ripped off a piece of sausage with his teeth.
“My uncle. I can’t believe him,” said Trencavel. “The Crusaders came to fight him, not me! And he managed to foist them off with his ridiculous last-minute penance. All he had to do was march naked into that cathedral and kiss the ass of that pompous Abbot. And now he gets to sit back and watch as an army of 50,000 lays siege to my city! The bastard. I bet he thinks he’ll take over my lands as soon as these Crusader knights fulfill their forty days and head back north. It’s what he’s wanted since I was a child.”
Bertrand banged his wine mug on the table.
“Well, we are just going to have to make sure that your bastard uncle doesn’t get what he wants.”
Azalais
Saturday, August 1, 1209, late afternoon
“Beton
y must be plucked in the afternoon and mixed with oil. See the hairy leaves and purple flowers. It is similar to mint, but is used to cure melancholy, paralysis, and colds,” Azalais said.
She bent slowly in the small herb garden in the courtyard of the house of women, her body creaking. At least her hands, Azalais thought, while gnarled, were strong. She gingerly plucked the leaves from the plant and handed them into the basket the girl was carrying.
“Constance, what is the house-leek good for?” Azalais asked.
“For curing jaundice and fevers of the liver,” said Constance.
“And why is this so?” Azalais said.
“Because the flowers of the house-leek are yellow and like cures like. The yellow of the flowers will drive the yellow from the skin of the ill,” answered Constance.
Azalais stood up stiffly and smiled at Constance.
“Good girl,” she said. “We are about done here. We should get back to check on the sick.”
Azalais handed Constance the house-leeks she had been picking and they walked through the garden into the house of women. Azalais thought of how peaceful the house had been over the last twenty years that she had been leading the group of good women who lived there. They earned their own way with their spinning. They had no need of charity and were saved from the interference that is often charity's sibling. The good women lived simply and chastely. They often cared for the sick that came looking for advice and medicinal herbs, but with the coming of the siege, Azalais knew that they must do more for the many sick and injured who would soon be coming to their doors. The quiet and simple home had been converted into a hospital. Already there were the injured, those hurt building the defenses and a few cases of fever brought in from the countryside. But most pitiful was an old man whose body was badly burned. He had been one of the few who had escaped from the charnel house that was Béziers. He moaned loudly and shrieked when even a chance breeze swept past his exposed flesh. Azalais had given him salves of the pastes of hops to soothe his burns, but she knew that he would die soon.
Azalais wondered at the hell these Christians imagined, for it could not be worse than the one they created in the name of God at Béziers. Women, children, and old men slaughtered. Even those who ran to protect themselves in the very cathedral blessed by Pope Innocent himself were cut down.
The pope calls himself innocent, thought Azalais, but has hands stained with the blood of Herod’s slaughter of the babes. Surely, there is no need for theological debates, she thought, no greater proof for the belief in the evil nature of all earthly matter than the actions of those who called the good men and women heretics.
And now they were at the gates, those foul murderers. Azalais and the good women had watched the Crusaders arrive for a week now, pitching their tents on the banks of the River Aude, leading their pack horses and mules to the river to slake their thirst. Azalais tried to keep her women calm, to concentrate on the preparations for the siege, for surely there would be one and it would be long. The people of Carcassonne would not make the same foolish mistake made by the people of Béziers.
Azalais and Constance entered the house and began moving from bedside to bedside, adjusting dressings, and administering herbs.
Constance walked over to the bed of the young man whose head had been injured while working on the wall. He was a robust boy and handsome. Azalais trusted Constance, but she thought that she would have to watch this one closely, for Azalais remembered all too well the temptations of youth. Next to the injured boy stood a sallow-faced young man, with a tight expression. He must be the brother, thought Azalais.
“How are you feeling?” asked Constance.
The boy blushed.
“Better today, the pain is less, but I still get dizzy when I try to move,” he said.
“That is normal, Guillaume,” said Constance.
At Constance's familiar use of the boy's name, Azalais froze. She noticed that the boy's brother stiffened as well. Azalais quickly moved over to Guillaume’s bed and began to unwrap the bandages from his head. She gingerly moved her fingers around his scalp, tracing the edges of a swollen bump near his right temple. The boy winced.
“Fortunately, the skull does not seem to be broken,” said Azalais. “Have you cleaned the wounds?”
“Yes, as best possible,” said Constance.
“Very well. Give him a preparation of stinging nettle seeds cooked in vinegar as an analgesic to relieve the pain. He does not need very much attention, just rest,” said Azalais.
The brother looked relieved as Azalais led Constance away from the bed and to that of an old woman, sweaty and feverish.
“Good woman,” said the old, sick woman in a whisper. “I am ready.”
Azalais stopped and grabbed the hand of the woman. She looked at her slowly, taking in her pallid face and watery eyes and wiped the sweat from the sick woman's forehead.
“Are you sure?” Azalais asked.
“Yes. It is time. I am ready to receive the consolamentum,” said the sick woman.
Constance looked with awe at the sick woman and took her hand, sitting by her side. The sick woman smiled gently at Constance and squeezed her hand, as if she were the one giving comfort.
The other good women gathered round the bed as Azalais stood facing the woman.
“Do you want to become a good Christian?” asked Azalais.
The sick woman nodded her head.
“Do you promise to give yourself to God and the apostles?” asked Azalais.
“Yes, I promise,” the woman said.
“Do you promise to never again let meat, eggs, cheese, or any other product made from the act of procreation to pass your lips? Do you promise never to lie and never to swear? Do you promise to never give yourself over to sexual desires?” continued Azalais.
“I promise,” the faint voice answered.
“Do you promise never to abandon the faith, even under fear of death?” asked Azalais.
“Yes, I promise,” the woman answered, her voice clearer.
“Do you have sins to confess?” asked Azalais.
“I confess that I feared death and did not trust in the graciousness of God, but I am no more afraid,” said the woman.
“Your sins are absolved,” said Azalais.
The good women began to pray, and the sick woman joined in, her voice rasping with the effort: “Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. They will be done, as in heaven, so in earth. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins; for we also forgive every one that is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.”
After the prayer was finished, one of the good women handed Azalais a bible. She placed it over the forehead of the sick woman and the good women all laid their hands on the book, supporting its weight. The bible was opened to the gospel according to Saint John.
Azalais began to read:
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not. But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name; Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father) full of grace and truth.”
One by one, the good women gave the kiss of peace
to the sick woman, first on the book resting open on her forehead and then on each shoulder. Azalais removed the bible from forehead of the woman and closed it in her hands.
Azalais stared at the face of the sick woman and it became relaxed, at peace. No one spoke for several minutes after the consolamentum was done. Azalais finally turned to Constance and spoke to her in a low voice. She knew the next few days were crucial.
“Stay with her Constance. It will not be long now. Make sure she sins not and she will finally be released from this cycle of misery on earth,” she said. “Make sure it is as quick as possible. Do not let any sustenance pass her lips. She is almost free now. Let nothing stop her.”
Constance nodded and began wiping the sweat from the forehead of the sick woman, who no longer seemed to notice anything material at all.
Azalais walked out of the room and down to her small office by the storerooms. Azalais thought about how she had come to trust more and more in Constance. For while she was headstrong and young, Constance already showed more wisdom and practical sense than all the rest of the good women combined.
Azalais looked out of the windows of her office and saw the soldiers arriving, a greater army than she had ever seen or even heard of in all her life. Azalais did not fear death for herself. In fact, she felt only anticipation for her release, for after all, she was old and had lived through much misery in this life and who knows how many others. Azalais was ready. But she could not stop thinking of all the others who did not know the truth- each generation trapped as the one before. Prisoners of weak flesh, vessels only for the reproduction of the misery that is life on earth. What would happen to all these souls, thought Azalais. She only knew that the Crusaders must not be allowed to defeat them.
Bernard
Saturday, August 1, 1209, late afternoon
“Boys, you're lazy. Get back to work. Do you think the Pope's ball-lickers outside our gates are sitting on their asses?” said the mason. “No, they're working. They're building their machines, their siege engines, their battering rams.”
The Song of the Troubadour Page 3