CHAPTER 1
THE ALBIGENSIAN CRUSADE BEGINS
Early December 1210: The Castle of Puivert, Languedoc
Two hours ago the wretched daylight had finally succumbed, bringing desperately needed respite. A savage wind, bitterly cold, still rasps away at anything exposed. But at least the rain has stopped.
Inside the battered walls of Puivert Castle a few score souls mill anxiously around the gloomy base of the keep, cloaks tugged tight. Faint light flickers nervously at them from burning torches recessed in the wall, barely defying the wind. The ground has churned to mud, as they seek their turn on the wooden stairs leading up to a wide open doorway into the keep, bleeding pallid light: a refuge of sorts for the desperate. And they’re all desperate. The next attack that comes, they’ll die. And they know it. Two men at arms from the castle guard supervise the crowd pressing keenly towards the stairs. Some glance anxiously behind them towards the ragged walls. There’s no obvious panic; just a brittle, barely suppressed fear.
Half the crowd are women, children and the elderly from Puivert and other nearby villages, seeking refuge with their Seigneur behind his castle walls; terrified by the tales of murder and mutilation wrought by the Crusaders from the north. Most of the rest are men dragged from their everyday lives into the fighting. They are peasants and artisans from the Seigneur’s villages and from elsewhere in the Languedoc, fled from bloody defeats, bravely but futilely rallied to the Seigneur’s banner.
All are tired and soiled from the intense fighting and incessant toil repairing the damage to the castle defences. Some are wounded. But the most badly wounded, the immovables, are sheltered in a hut built up to the ramparts, awaiting their fate, often in prayer.
Above it all, beyond the trembling reach of the pale torchlight and atop the castle towers, stand the sentries on lookout. They shelter from the cold wind as well as they can, shuffling to keep warm.
From two of the towers they can peer down to the base of the hill, near the creek, where hundreds of spitting campfires light up a leering forest of tents and shadowy figures. The huge Crusader army: vastly outnumbering them; battle hardened and pitiless; poised to annihilate them.
An ominous rumble like a distant thunderstorm rolls up the hill from the camp, punctuated by bursts of raucous, arrogant laughter.
Just two sentries are stationed in the third tower, listlessly keeping watch on the other side, the quiet side; down the hill, over the abandoned village, towards the lake shore. Armed foragers were down there during the day; although worryingly, no one in the castle has seen them return.
Occasionally one of the sentries wanders to the other side of the tower to glance down inside the castle, wistfully watching the anxious figures mounting the stairs into the keep.
..........
Inside the keep, two floors up, two knights and a lady have been talking. Behind them, a fine tapestry hangs proudly from the walls, softly lit by a pair of candelabra: all at imminent risk of becoming some Crusader’s prize. Down the other end of the room a feisty fire struggles to ward off the menacing chill.
The eldest and tallest of the knights is Bernard de Congost, Seigneur of the Chateau and a Cathar like his late wife. Bernard is tall, slightly hunched; middle aged with thinning hair and rounding waist. His deeply pouched eyes under a creased forehead reflect his stubborn determination. So many of his people have died. He knows he can do nothing more to save his beloved chateau. But he’s not ready to give up on the people.
The other knight, similarly clad in chain mail topped by a surcoat, sword at his side, is much younger. Aimery de Lescaux is still in his early 20’s. He is a touch above average height, solidly built with dark brown wavy hair. Aimery holds himself upright in the presence of his taller and older kinsman, fighting to dispel any trace of the worry he feels and trying to look dependable, although his eyes are giving him away.
The lady is Eleanor de Lescaux, Aimery’s pretty young wife. She holds their baby, Roger, pressed tight to her breast, her shoulders tensed. Aimery stands close to Eleanor, his arm around her, his hand touching the small of her back, softly, he hopes reassuringly. They’re all he has left.
Aimery can still hardly accept it. On top of everything else. Everything else!...His father Jordan is dead! Killed just two days ago, commanding the defences in and around one of Puivert’s towers. He’d seemed to his son indestructible. But in the end it was so simple. So unfair. Jordan was killed by some common crossbowmen who saw a shot and took it.
Aimery was born at Carcassonne and it was there that he met Eleanor. They married hardly knowing one another, as it had all been arranged by their fathers, but had a delightful, passionate first year of marriage, discovering each other. They’d been happy at Carcassonne. It was their home.
But then their world came apart. The Pope called a crusade to destroy the Cathar heresy; and much of northern Europe, promised remission of their sins, had headed south, to kill, maim and plunder, all with impunity, all in the name of God.
After slaughtering every man, woman and child in Béziers, Cathar and Catholic alike, the Crusaders had turned on Carcassonne.
Besieged by the Crusaders at the height of summer and overburdened with refugees, Carcassonne started to run out of water. The townspeople were only saved the fate of Béziers by the sacrifice of their Viscount, who surrendered himself and his town, on condition that everyone else was spared.
Aimery, Eleanor, Jordan and all the other survivors were forced to leave; taking nothing with them and on foot. Virtually everything Aimery and Eleanor had was gone. But at least they’d escaped with their lives.
After a couple of days hard walking, they reached the castle of their kinsman, Bernard de Congost. Under the complicated inheritance rules of the Languedoc, while Bernard had the title, the castle and estates, Jordan was entitled to one eighth of the income from the estates. Aimery and Jordan settled in to defend Puivert from behind the castle walls. Roger was born there about seven months later.
The next year, this year, the Crusaders from the north returned, again spurred on by Papal urging; and began a rampaging, unstoppable campaign throughout the Languedoc. Many castles and towns surrendered; undoubtedly out of terror of what would happen if they resisted.
A large Crusader army eventually headed to Puivert. On the very first day, there’d been a pitched attack on the walls, with the Crusaders storming them on scores of ladders under cover of a fearsome barrage of crossbow fire. Many of the defenders were killed, including Jordan. Since then there has been a steady salvo of crossbow fire and rocks launched from the attackers’ mangonels.
But the struggle was hopeless. The castle was weakly sited; built only to stand strong in the customary scrapping between local lords. With its tiny garrison, it stood no hope against a seasoned army of six thousand, well led and with modern siege engines. They could not have survived another full frontal attack; and the garrison, having resisted and sheltered Cathars, could expect no mercy.
So unless he can do something, Aimery knows that Eleanor and baby Roger will die. They’re all he has left.
Bernard finishes talking and embraces first Aimery and then Eleanor.
Bernard leads the three of them from the room. They pass through a short passageway into the Keep Tower, then down the staircase for two floors to the cavernous stone kitchen running the full width of the keep.
The kitchen is a mass of people. A slow moving stream is arriving down the wooden staircase from outside, bunching up in their fear and eagerness, filling one whole side of the kitchen. A vast open fireplace with slowly fading fire still sluggishly warms the kitchen. In the centre of the room is the huge food preparation table, scrubbed clean on top and sheltering piles of empty cauldrons and dishes stacked underneath. The cooking smells from supper still linger in the air.
In the shadows on the other side of the kitchen across the table, Bernard’s steward and a couple of sergeants wait, holding five saddled horses: small palfreys and rouncies.
When the steward spots them, he stops the moving line of refugees.
Bernard leads the way out of the kitchen, into the room opening off, where the now broken queue was heading. It’s a big, dimly lit storeroom, packed with barrels of wine and olive oil, smoked haunches, large sacks of flour and smaller ones of dried legumes, racks of cheeses and dried meats, boxes of salted fish and jars of spices. Plenty of supplies for a long siege, if that had been the castle’s fate.
Once inside the room, they stop, peering into the gloom; waiting for the line in front to clear. Watching the shadowy forms, as they separate, then coalesce again; weaving uneasily between and around piles of stores, following those in front towards a corner of the storeroom, where they disappear mysteriously behind a batch of casks. Someone’s shoulder sets a pair of hams swinging eerily. Aimery can almost smell the barely contained fear, amidst the odours of unwashed bodies and burning pitch, mingled with the sweet aromas of cured meats, cheese and spilled wine.
Once the way is clear enough, Aimery, Bernard and the two sergeants lead the small horses through the storeroom to the corner behind the casks. There, several large flagstones have been lifted, revealing an open trapdoor with the entrance glowing faintly.
Carefully and after a few skittish attempts, they manage to gentle the animals down the stairs to the floor of the gloomy tunnel below.
The tunnel smells of moist earth. It’s lit by smouldering torches stuck intermittently into the earthy shoulders, shrivelling tiny dangling roots and occasionally hissing when drops of water fall. Beyond their warm embrace, they shed little light around the disappearing backs of people in front. A faint cold wind is in Aimery’s face. Drops of water plop down, adding to a steady slightly glimmering trickle of water at his feet.
The tunnel roof is too low for anyone to mount, even the children. Aimery can walk upright, but Bernard, carrying his young son Gaillard, needs to watch his head. They follow a rough stone path, wide enough for just one, in single file. Occasionally someone can be heard to stumble and swallow a curse. The tunnel slopes downwards for a short distance, before it levels off and then dips again into a shallow decline.
As Aimery leads his horse, stepping carefully on the damp and uneven floor, he steels himself.
What will they find at the other end? An ambush? What if the tunnel exit has been discovered? Crusaders could be waiting in the dark, poised and silently killing the escapees one by one as they emerge. He can hear no sound of panic up ahead. But does that mean anything?
Aimery nearly bumps into Eleanor, touching her softly instead. The party is starting to slow down.
He must concentrate now. They’ll be terribly vulnerable as they emerge from the tunnel into the darkness, not far from the Crusaders’ camp. Their night vision will be gone after the light of the tunnel. Aimery strains his ears for any sign of danger; but frustratingly can hear nothing above the clipping and scraping of the horses’ shoes on the stone path, echoing in the tunnel.
He touches Eleanor softly on the shoulder, whispering to her: “You walk behind me. We don’t know what’s waiting for us.” Aimery edges to the side of the tunnel to let Eleanor pass behind, briefly pressing her hand for encouragement on the way past.
The way ahead is becoming darker, as he passes the warm breath of what seems to be the last torch and those in front start to fade into the gloom. It’s becoming colder. It must be the end of the tunnel.
Aimery stops and draws his sword. He can see nothing and hear nothing, apart from some rustling noises. With his left hand holding the rope to his horse, he clumsily feels his way to an iron barred gate, pushed open and feeling pocked with rust. He raises his sword, ready for an ambush. He feels totally exposed without his night vision. Slowly Aimery edges his way forward.
His feet leave the firm stone and searching, find muddy ground and small bruised clumps of bushes and saplings. He slows his breathing down and moves forward incrementally. No ambush so far.
The bitter wind is back, chilling his face and hands. Slowly he starts to be able to make out some of the others and what look to be trees; but all else is black. He takes a couple of tentative steps towards the others and the sound of their whispers, one step at a time, feeling his way with his wary feet, sword still raised.
Looking back towards the dim light, perhaps unwisely, he sees Eleanor close behind, with Roger in her arms. Behind he sees the exit hole bordered with stone, built into the side of a steep hill, with a heavy moss encrusted wooden door and traces of torn off creepers.
A loud burst of noise erupts from the Crusaders camp. Aimery tenses, gripping his sword tight. Have they been discovered? The noise then fades a little. Perhaps safe for the moment.
Aimery remains nervous. Ready. Conscious that there’s thousands of the Crusaders out there. One noisy escapee could bring everything undone; could bring hundreds of the blood lusting bastards swarming. Just one. And there’ll soon be a hundred escapees blundering around in the forest in the dark; some wounded and in pain.
“Aimery.” He can just make out the shape of Bernard in the dark, peering at him, right in front of him and silhouetted against the tunnel entrance. “I’ll leave you here,” says Bernard. “I should hurry back.” Bernard has insisted on staying until everyone else is out.
“Don’t worry about Saissa and Gaillard,” Aimery says, referring to Bernard’s children and trying to look more confident than he feels. “We’ll keep them safe!”
Bernard farewells his children, while the party mounts up. By the time everyone’s mounted and ready, Bernard has already disappeared.
The little group pauses for a few minutes, their backs to the tunnel, until their night vision takes over; tugging their cloaks around tighter, seeking warmth.
Aimery begins to see that they are in the midst of heavy forest. Around them, he hears the shuffling rustles and crunches of people noisily making their way through the undergrowth. If any Crusaders are out on patrol, they’ll hear it for sure and raise the alarm.
After a minute or two, Jules, Bernard’s sergeant in the lead, finds a rough wildlife trail for them to follow. But it’s hard and slow going atop horses in the darkness, negotiating the shadowy grasping branches which poke and scratch at their faces and shoulders. And they keep straying off the path and having to find it again.
Jules leaves the group to scout down to the road. While he’s away, the party remains quiet, even the children; listening intently; hearing just the trees shivering in the harsh wind.
“Looks to be clear,” Jules announces on his return.
Once on the road, they walk the horses to keep the noise down, as they are so close to the Crusader camp. Above their heads the moon weaves in and out of thick banks of dark cloud, at one moment leaving them highly exposed, shedding bobbing shadows and the next in thick darkness.
All Aimery’s senses are on full alert. While he can hear and see no sign of pursuit, no lights anywhere, pursuit could come at any time. They are highly visible whenever the moon is out.
Aimery expects that his little group should have warning of the approach of any pursuing force, long before it arrives. No one could travel fast without light. What Aimery fears most is an ambush. If the enemy had expected them to try to escape, this road was their most likely escape route. Foraging parties had been seen riding down this way, during the day. But had they all returned? Were they all what they seemed?
Coming to a bend in the track amidst a copse of trees, Aimery suddenly spots something glinting in the moonlight. He starts to mutter a frantic warning, while savagely yanking his horse to a halt and drawing his sword. Armed men leap out. A spear is thrust at Jules, which he just evades. Roger parries a sword hack and is preparing to strike. Jules suddenly cries out loudly in the local dialect: “Leave off you fools! Can’t you see we’re friends!”
The attackers back off sheepishly with muttered apologies. They’ve been jumping at shadows the whole way from Puivert; and had quickly hidden, when they heard the horsemen approach from the direction of the Crusaders’ camp.
Adrenaline still coursing, Aimery and his small party continue onwards.
The plan is to seek refuge with the Count of Foix: one of the bastions in the fight against the crusading northerners. The Count’s castle is reputed to be impregnable. But they’ve got to get there first. It is bitterly cold in the Pyrenees foothills at the start of winter and they have young children. They could be attacked at any time.
If they can only reach Foix, that’ll mean safety for the time being for Eleanor and Roger. If they can only make it to Foix, he’ll then see what he can do. To help drive out the northern invaders. To recover what he and his father have lost. To recover his birthright.
The ruins of Puivert Castle today