The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (21 page)

His reverie was broken by the sound of a rough voice. “Stand to, young
fellow! State your business.”

The loud voice jerked him back to reality. Immediately all thoughts of
home fled his mind. “I seek to join the service of His Honour the Count.” His
voice trembled only slightly as he spoke.

“And what might a young sprog like you be thinking he could do in the
Count’s service?” The voice seemed kind and held a hint of laughter.

“If it please you, sir, I was not thinking of fighting but more
something in the line of cooking or fetching water for the horses. I’ve a
strong arm and a willing nature.”

“No fighting, eh! That tells me something, but we’ll not go into that.
There’s plenty of your sort hereabouts and I do hear they are the most amenable
of folks. In fact, my old mother tried to persuade me to follow the teachings,
but I was set on fighting and I know the two don’t go together. Can’t say I’ve
ever had any trouble with your lot, either. They get on and do as they’re bid
with no back chat, and that’s a change from some I could mention. They hold
their meetings on a Sunday in the courtyard, which Milord Raymond has agreed
to, so I’d say you will be welcome here. Come into the garrison and talk to the
sergeant at arms.”

His courage somewhat restored, Pons followed the gate guard into the
tower that housed the garrison where a motley group of soldiers in various
states of undress were just beginning their supper. Looking around him, Pons
was not able to pick out the sergeant at arms from the crowd of men, but he did
see several of his friends from Lavaur
.
Although
they would not fight, even in self defence, they could administer medicines or
look after injured animals. He was greeted joyfully by several of his erstwhile
friends—people who had disappeared one by one quietly in the night, about
whom no questions had been asked. He realised now that he hadn’t been the only
one with the idea of helping to support the troops of the Count of Toulouse.

“Who’s this?’ The question came from the mouth of a burly red-faced
individual intent on pushing the remains of a fat chicken into his mouth.

“Found him outside, sir, skulking by the gate. I think his intentions
are honourable. He wants to help the Count.”

“Does he now? How can you help the Count m’lad, and what makes you think
he needs your help?”

Pons found his tongue. “The story is that His Lordship is just back from
Rome where he was making amends for the death of the Papal Legate. But we all
know that the Whore of Babylon will never forgive the people of Toulouse, and
one day, be it sooner or later, there will come a battle.”

“Whore of Babylon, is it? Strong words from a young lad. Lucky for you
that many of us here are of like mind. Since His Holiness has excommunicated
all of us who support the Count, the Church has lost control of us. Yes, you’re
right, there will be a time—not too long in the future—when we will
need to fight to protect our own.”
 

The sergeant at arms’ voice was sombre. “We will take any help we can
get and welcome it. The pay is poor but the food is good—at the moment,
that is. The lodgings are comfortable and you will sleep safe at night in the
garrison. You look a likely lad to me, and if you are the person I think you
are, we may have work for you other than tending horses or cleaning weapons.
The Count will call on you upon his return.”

“Why would the Count wish to speak to me?” Pons voice held a note of
incredulity.

“Never you mind. The Count does what the Count does. It’s best not to
ask questions. Now then, until he gets back, familiarise yourself with the
chateau. The only place you may not enter unless bidden is that tower over
there. That is the Tour du Midi, the Count’s private quarters where he lodges
with his wife and son. The little boy is ten years old but he has an older
half-brother, Alain, and a half-sister, Guillemette. They’re always around but
don’t address them unless they address you first!” He winked. “Our Count’s a
real man. Bastards all over the place! He’s been married about four times and
heaven knows how many paramours he’s had!”

He turned to beckon a young soldier who was clutching a flagon of wine
in his hand. ‘You’ll meet Alain tomorrow and he’ll explain your duties. I
wouldn’t be surprised if he were one of your lot, his mother was! Now go and
get something to eat and find somewhere to sleep!”

Pons escaped gladly. Although he realised the sergeant at arms had meant
to be kind, his head was swimming with all the information the soldier had
given him. Pushing through the crowds of soldiers who were now replete with
food and wine, he managed to get to the end of the long board where some of his
erstwhile friends were finishing what looked like a very satisfactory meal.
Conscious of his stomach growling from lack of use in the past few days, he
grabbed a lump of bread and crammed it into his mouth. As he chewed what was
his first solid food for days, he looked up over the hunk of bread and saw his
friends laughing at him. He hastily swallowed what he had managed to force into
his mouth.

“Sorry if I seem like a pig,” he said. “I haven’t really eaten much in
the past three days.”

“Don’t apologize,” one of his friends was quick to say. “We’ve all been
through it and were mighty glad to arrive here where the food is good! Eat your
fill. There’s a flagon of wine there, too. When you’re done we’ll show you
where we sleep. You won’t know yourself after a good night’s rest.”

True to his word, Pons’ friend and his companions dragged him off to a
small tower room filled with palliasses that had straw poking out of them.

“All the soldiers sleep here. It’s first come, first served, so you want
to make a habit of not lingering too long over the wine in the evening. Try to
get yourself in a corner—then you won’t have any drunken soldiers
climbing over you. You’ll soon get used to it. We did, and it’s not a bad life.
Different from what you are used to, but not bad for all that!”

“When is the Count expected back? The sergeant at arms said he might
want to speak with me.”

“I should think that unlikely. He doesn’t bother with the likes of us.
Not that he isn’t glad we’re here—every man counts—but we take our
orders from the sergeant you were speaking to and some other men at arms. Most
of us do the cooking, and one or two spend their time mucking out the horses.”
He grinned ruefully. “Not very uplifting but useful. And it doesn’t involve any
fighting!”

Although Pons was tired from his long walk, his night passed in fitful
sleep. Each time his tossing and turning woke him up, he wondered anew where he
was and it took several moments to recall how he came to be lying in a room
surrounded by several dozen sleeping, and for the most part snoring, men.

Dawn came at last. Finally, he was able to climb out of the tangle of
arms and legs belonging to the soldiers who had flung themselves down to sleep
without much care about where they landed. They were used to communal living,
but to Pons it was a very great novelty. He knew it would take some time to get
used to.

Tiptoeing out so as not to wake his companions, he reached the thick oak
door that shut out the world from the tower where they slept. Outside, the
bright light made him blink. Inside the tower he had been fooled into thinking
it was a dull day, but the sun was already up and gave promise of one of those
spectacularly clear hot days so redolent of Occitania. Looking across the
courtyard, he could see a group of men readying several horses for what looked
like a substantial journey. Clearly, the man in charge of the preparations was
someone of note, for he moved about with an air that was at once lively and
confident. He was dark-complexioned, and Pons could see hair that was black and
tightly curled, which, if the gossips were to be believed, was a legacy from
his mother’s African ancestors. Wearing the arms of Toulouse, he was
recognisable at once as Alain, the oldest bastard son of the Count.

Pons did not know what to do next. His companions were still sleeping,
and although the sun was full up, it was still early. On the other side of the
courtyard he could see the water pump where servants from the chateau had
already begun drawing the water required for the occupants of the Tour du Midi.
It seemed a good idea to wash some of the previous day’s dust from himself, so
he wandered over to the pump to take his turn at the well. He was soon told in
no uncertain terms that his presence was not required at that particular well
and that he should wash at the horse trough where all the other soldiers
carried out their ablutions. Pons was bewildered. He had not realised there was
a hierarchy in the line for water and that this well was solely for the use of
the Count and his family and personal servants.

Turning around, screwing his eyes up against the brightness of the sun,
he looked around for the nearest trough. What caught his eye was the beckoning
arm of the soldier who was obviously in charge of the cavalcade that was
readying itself to leave.

“Come here,” he said. “I want a word with you.” Pons looked over his
shoulder to see who it was the Count’s son was calling. “You.” The arm beckoned
more urgently. Bernard made a move towards Pons, who now realised it was to him
the young man was speaking.

“Your name is Pons Boutarra, is it not?” Pons was startled that the
Count’s son should know his name. He nodded his head, dumbly. “I have heard
from my sergeant at arms that you arrived last night. We have been expecting
you since Bertrand Arsen and Arnaud Maury told me of your intentions. They’re
good friends of mine. They said you are a lad to be trusted, with a good head
on your shoulders, so my papa has asked me to tell you to stay close to the
chateau until he returns. Make yourself useful about the place, but keep to
yourself. We will speak further upon my return, for, God willing, my papa will
be with me. I am to ride to meet him this morning. He will wish to speak with
you as soon as he is able.”

He turned and strode away, calling impatiently for his horse. Even more
perplexed, Pons watched him mount and ride out of the chateau courtyard.
Why would the Count or his son wish to speak
to me?
The question was still buzzing around in his mind as he dipped his
head into the horse trough he had finally found close to the stables.

Chapter Fifteen

Occitania, South of France

Spring 1210 AD

The Campaign

A small cavalcade clopped into the near ruined town of Carcassonne. One
of the members of the group—a young boy of about fourteen—twisted
in his saddle and gazed in disbelief at the destruction of the city. Was this
what war meant? Fighting back the tears that the desolation had brought to his
eyes, Guy de Montfort turned to Robert de Poissy, one of Simon’s most trusted
henchmen. “What has happened to all the people whose houses lie in ruins? Where
are they living now?

De Poissy looked at him kindly. “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “Most
of them are dead and no longer have need of lodgings.”

“But the whole city lies in ruins! What kind of victory is that?”
Returning from the almost idyllic estate of Bernard de Comminges in the south
west of the country, Guy could not believe that such destruction could exist
anywhere. For half his young life he had lived with his father’s friend in a
country of brilliant sunlight and exuberant vegetation where he had listened to
the music of love and grown to admire the chivalric code by which most of his
peers lived. Now his father had sent his two staunchest allies, together with
twenty men at arms, to wrench his son from the estates of a friend whose
loyalty would soon be put to the test. Simon had little doubt that one day in
the not-too-distant future he would be fighting on opposite sides to Bernard,
for it was well known that the Count de Comminges, although not a believer
himself, was tied to the believers’ cause by close family and friends.

As Guy dismounted, his mother rushed towards him, ready to welcome her
cub back into the shelter of her makeshift home. How he had changed! She now
had a second son who was as tall as a man and almost as broad. When Guy spoke,
his voice carried the pleasant lilting tones of the south of the country. In
fact, he spoke his own native language with more than a hint of an accent!
While Simon drew his men aside to confer with them and to ascertain the mood of
his friend Bernard, Alicia took Guy’s arm and dragged him into the chateau
where his father had garrisoned some of his men. Calling for some refreshment,
she sat him down to talk to him for the first time in several years.

Needless to say, his interest was not on what had been happening to him
but rather what was happening—or had happened—in Carcassonne. He
knew his father was the new Captain General of the army and had been given the
titles of Viscount of Carcassonne, Beziers and Albi, but he had not understood
at what cost these honours had been bought. Riding into Carcassonne, a city
destroyed and laid waste in the name of the Crusade, had brought home the
message as no words could have done. To the youth, the destruction was
terrifying and he did not wish to think of the toll in human lives that had
been the result. This slaughter was all too new for him. He was beginning to
understand, finally, what the years of practice with a sword in his hand had
really meant. This was, or was going to be, the real thing! It was a troubled
Guy who excused himself from his mother’s presence and went to prepare himself
for what he knew would be a difficult meeting with the rest of his family and
his father’s supporters.

The reunion with his older brother Amaury took place at dinner that
night. Amaury was in the thick of things, helping to plan what would be one of
the cruellest wars of all time. Guy was not at all sure he wanted to be part of
such a campaign, but dared say little in the heat of the discussion. His father
was in an expansive and very jovial mood in the hall that evening, surrounded
as he was by the whole of his family, for it had been many years since they had
dined together like this.

Although Guy was happy to be back with his family and had begun to
accept that the Holy War was inevitable, he was sad to think that soon the many
friends he had made in Comminges would be fighting as his enemies. He had grown
to love the life of the languorous courts of the south of France. He thought
longingly of the clear skies and the brilliance of the flowers which seemed
never to fade.
The people there made
music not war
, he thought to himself. They had made him welcome wherever he
had travelled in Bernard’s retinue. He now spoke the
langue d’Oc
fluently—so much so that his own language of
northern France had begun to disappear, a fact noted by his father, who had
earlier predicted that the boy’s facility with his enemies’ language might one
day be put to good use.

As Guy descended to the great hall to be welcomed by the rest of his
family, his father’s cousins and his mother’s brothers, he tried to push away
what he considered disloyal thoughts. The die was cast. There was no stopping
the “Devil,” as the locals had begun to call Simon, once he had the bit between
his teeth and the fighting had started in earnest. Guy recognised that his
father was a great tactician and leader of men. In the space of a few short
months, he had achieved such stupendous gains in territory that people had
begun to attribute his success to Divine intervention!

However, Simon had not made many inroads in regard to destroying the
heresy he had come to exterminate. And there had been no news whatsoever of the
fabled linen that the Pope so desired. Try as he might—even going so far
as torturing some of his captives—he had had no success in tracking down
even a hint of information regarding the shroud. Moreover, it was proving
exceedingly difficult to seek out the heretics. If the intention was to “kill
them all,” the problem was finding them first. No one was willing to hand over
the believers, and their
perfecti
had
shed their giveaway black robes and were clothed like any other citizens. The
local nobility had either declared their loyalty to the Catholic Church or
disappeared into the mountains. A whole new class of nobility called
faidits
had arisen—Cathar nobles
who became absentee landlords, not from choice but from necessity, and whose
land and other possessions were immediately confiscated by the Captain General!

Simon’s biggest problem at this time was his lack of military resources.
Many of the original Crusaders had returned home as he had known they would,
their forty days’ duty to the Church fulfilled. All those who remained were
loyal and composed for the most part of Simon’s personal escort, his relatives
and close friends. He could afford to pay for the services of only a few
mercenary soldiers. The few knights whose territory he had conquered thus far
could afford him only a minimal number of fighting men, most of them with
questionable loyalty. He encouraged those knights who stayed to fight with him
by handing over the territories belonging to those nobles who had fled into
hiding in the mountains. Beziers, Limoux and Mirepoix were soon handed over to
those most faithful to him, Mirepoix going to Guy de Levis, his ally and a cousin
of Alicia; future conquests were promised to other friends and supporters.

For the first time in his life, here in the great hall of the chateau
where the de Montfort family and their retainers were billeted, Guy was able to
take the measure of the man he called ‘father’. There was no doubt he was a
heroic figure of a man. Tall, charismatic and formidably strong, he was
amazingly skilled when it came to fighting. His charm was legendary, as were
his amiability and gentleness. Guy watched him now, playing with Pernel, the
little sister the boy had met for the first time upon his return.
Who could have suspected
, Guy thought to
himself,
that this model of modesty and,
indeed, piety could turn into the very devil when it came to a fight where his
religious principles were involved
. Guy knew from past experience and many
hours as a young boy on his knees in the family chapel what God’s service meant
to his father.

“He truly is a soldier of Christ,” Guy said, turning to Amaury who
looked mystified, not being privy to Guy’s train of thought. “He believes
implicitly in what he is doing.”

“His men love him and would follow him to the grave,” Amaury replied.
“You don’t get a reputation like that by simply skulking around somewhere in a
church. He is all action, but does nothing without consulting his men. He even
consults me,” Amaury announced proudly. “He expects nothing more of his men
than he would of himself. He’s one of the bravest men I know. I’ll bet you
haven’t heard the story of the crossing of the Garonne.” Seeing Guy’s puzzled
face he went on. “No, I don’t suppose you would have, stuck over there with de
Comminges.”

“Why? What happened?” Guy was beginning to become acutely aware of how
much of his family’s life he had missed while staying on Bernard’s estate.

“He had led the major part of his army across the river, which was in
full flood. As the river rose higher and higher, some of the infantry and
mercenaries became stranded and unable to cross. Papa crossed back over again
so as not to leave them alone without a leader. He stayed with them for several
days until the height of the river fell a little and the last of them managed
to cross. They were all at great risk, including papa! That’s why his men, even
the mercenaries, will follow him anywhere. I would, too.”

“Are you convinced what papa is doing is right?” Guy asked. “I know Holy
Mother Church is fearful for her children in Occitania, and I’ve seen with my
own eyes how the people no longer follow the instructions of the priests. Even
Brother Dominic has difficulty with his followers. But the people are content
with their lives. Day-to-day, they all live happily with each other, Catholics
and Cathars alike. Even Jews are welcome anywhere in domains of Toulouse and
his vassals.” Guy looked over his shoulder as he continued. “I wouldn’t want
papa to hear this, but I am not sure killing people will bring them back to the
arms of the Church. I know something must be done,” he went on hurriedly, “but
the land is so peaceful and the people so gentle. They don’t deserve to die for
their beliefs.”

By now Amaury had become angry with his younger brother. “You are too
young to understand why what must be done
will
be done! For the past seven years you have lived within the realms of the Count
of Foix and on the estates of de Comminges. We all know—and you should
know, too—that it’s a veritable nest of vipers there. I’m not surprised
you are talking like this. Papa got you away just in time!”

Guy looked his brother in the eye. “For as long as I can remember, you have
always said to me, ‘you wouldn’t understand,’ and now I’m not so sure
you
understand. What do you know of
these people? Are you so sure your way is the right way?” Amaury had the grace
to be discomfited by what his younger brother was saying. “The killings are too
horrible to contemplate. How can Holy Mother Church win if all her children are
dead? Have you seen Carcassonne and Beziers? I hear Beziers ran with the blood
of the righteous as well as those you deem unrighteous.”

 
Amaury looked sternly at his
younger brother. “I only know that papa demands complete loyalty, and you of
all people must be as loyal to him as we all are here. There is no room for
debate. You are either with us or against us.”

“Of course I am with you,” Guy protested, “but I am not sure this is the
way to win the war. No hearts will be won by cruelty. You must see that.”

“I see only people who are obdurate in the extreme and who don’t know
what is good for them. Papa has come to make them see sense, and I for one am
going to help him! If necessary, papa will rule by fear to overcome the
stubbornness of an obstinate population!” Amaury looked fierce as he made this
pronouncement.

“What is all this serious talk about?” Neither of the boys had heard
their father approach. “Come, we must complete our plans if we are to leave the
day after tomorrow to begin the campaign in earnest. Your mother is to leave at
the same time, but she will travel north to gain more support and supplies for
our army. Guy, you will accompany your mother on this most important of
journeys, and you, Amaury, will come with me. There may well be an opportunity
for you to win your spurs.”

Amaury was delighted by this news. “Where do we go first?”

“Calm yourself, my boy. We must spend tomorrow planning our tactics, for
it is very likely the last opportunity we will all have to be together for the
foreseeable future. From now on, you and I will travel with the army. And you,
my son,” he gestured towards Guy. “Upon your return from the north, you will
accompany your mother and seek us out, wherever we may be.”

Guy opened his mouth to protest but shut it again as his father
continued. “This may be not only Amaury’s opportunity to win his spurs but also
your opportunity to prove your mettle. You are nearly a man and I expect you to
uphold the honour of the de Montforts. While your mother is seeking aid from
those who have promised it, you will have charge of your little brother and
your sisters. You must guard our family well.” Simon stopped talking when he
noticed the mutinous look on Guy’s face. “Do you have a quarrel with what I
say, my son?”

“No, Papa, but I had thought to be of more use to you than as a
nursemaid.”

Simon’s face was beginning to take on the hue that anyone who knew him
well would recognise as forewarning of his explosive temper. “You will do as I
say!” he roared. “Not because I am your father; not because I am your military
leader; but because I need you to look after my wife, your mother and my
younger children, your family. This is not a charge I give you lightly. I would
not entrust them to you if I did not think it important. Your maman will have
only the lightest of escorts because I cannot afford to let many knights go
with her; we are short of men, as you know. You will have the responsibility of
the younger children. And make no mistake—that is as important to me as
any campaign or battle!”