The troubadour's song (3 page)

Getting free of Raymond's camp, she flew across the road toward Peter of Aragon. Some of the men were pitching tents, while others clumped in groups. Squires watered horses. Some of the knights even had their helmets off and were refreshing themselves at the edge of the Louge. She rode through the camp, asking her way to King Peter.

But when she reached the opposite side of the camp, she saw she was too late. For while she'd wasted time talking to Raymond, the French corps had evidently wheeled northward and crossed the Louge above the northward-bending loop where the land was marshy, but not impassable.

Suddenly a great cry went up as she stared in horror. Simon de Montfort's men, in tight battle formation, bore down upon the unsuspecting camp.

Two

All around her the complacent knights began to stir. She watched with horror as the tight French formation crossed the river at its lowest point. And then they were up the bank and upon Aragon s men. She wheeled her horse so as not to be caught in the midst of the battle.

"A sword!" she shouted at some men-at-arms still on foot. "I'm unarmed."

One sergeant-at-arms heard her cry and turned to respond. At that moment her hood flew back and the hair that loosened from the cape betrayed her.

"Madam, get back," the man said in surprise at seeing a woman mounted for war.

"Not without a weapon to defend myself," she demanded.

The force of her words persuaded him and he handed her a short sword.

The French corps had already penetrated the camp, which was taken entirely by surprise.

The knights attempted to get to horse. But they hadn't time to form into battle array. Now from the other side of the road, Raymond's own men mounted and tried to join the melee. Just what Allesandra had feared would happen seemed to be taking place. And the camp had no barricade behind which to fall back.

She struggled to skirt the men attempting to join the rush, for she was no soldier, and though she'd come to warn them and to try to talk the three armies into acting under one commander, she could not win the day herself. Now that battle was engaged, she would do best to get out of their way.

She passed back to the road and saw that the Count of Foix's men rushed in a tangle from the bridge, leaving the enemy holding it. Not having coordinated their orders, Foix's infantry rushed into the fight, while Count Raymond's infantry attempted instead to barricade their camps with wagons and carts. She saw the men forming ranks in front of the wagons, the bases of their pikes fixed into the ground, the lancelike heads of steel pointing forward to protect archers who took aim from the wagons.

But now the unprepared mounted knights began to scatter like the wind at the impact of the two front squadrons of the French army. As the knights of Foix and Comminges began to disperse, the foot-soldiery poured back toward the camp. King Peter's knights were finally assembled, and she could see his banner waving. But the surrounding French outnumbered them.

A French charge was led against the king of Aragon. For a moment, the small solid mass of Frenchmen were swallowed up by the less closely arrayed ranks of Aragonese. The melee swayed backward and forward, the din excruciating.

She watched as the knight she'd seen in the castle led a third group of Frenchmen across the river. He wheeled his small division westward and closed in upon the right flank of the Aragonese. She watched in astonishment as, riding at the head of his rank, he received a shower of blows. But he held his own, cut a space around him and plunged deep into the melee.

In a moment the cry went up, "The king is dead. Peter of Aragon is dead."

"Oh, my God," Allesandra whispered to herself, stunned at the carnage as more of Peter's knights fell.

The rest began to flee. But the French army did not stop at vanquishing the southern knights. They pushed forward, cutting down the infantry like so many trees in a forest. Those who could get away fled in all directions. The sight was too horrible to do anything but numb her.

But she realized that she, too, soon could be slashed to bits by the merciless French. She looked about for Raymond, saw his standards and rode toward them. But when she got behind the lines and approached his tent, he was nowhere to be seen. There was no more time. She could not risk being taken, for it was not merely her life that was at risk. She was responsible for her estates, and if she were captured, the French would claim her fief and all those who depended on her. The heretics she protected would be rounded up, interrogated, fined. If they did not recant, they would be imprisoned or burned at the stake. She could not stay here for this rout.

She dug in her heels and guided her horse back to the river, swam across, then flew along the way she had come. Fortunately de Montfort's men were busy securing the north gate, and she was still able to enter the town from the quay.

They had lost Muret because three counts could not stand together, and that brave fighter Peter of Aragon had arrived too late to save the day. Anger and tears kindled her determination to fight back at the French who had invaded these lovely lands in the name of the corrupt but powerful Catholic church. She must not allow her own lands to fall to the greedy enemy.

From the corner of his eye, Gaucelm saw a figure with long dark hair fleeing along the edges of the rout. A woman, from the way she sat the horse. And the urgency on the angular, pale face turned his way for one brief instant was unmistakably feminine.

Her dark eyes glared hatred, and then she was away, plunging into the river. He watched only long enough to see her horse clamber up the bank and turn to gallop beside the river. Then he turned his attention back to the field while his horse picked its way among the dead.

"The day is ours," said Gaucelm, riding up to his commander after having organized the collection of booty among the fallen. He was winded and perspiring, and he removed his helmet to let the breeze cool him. His surcoat was stained with blood. Fortunately little of it was his own.

Simon surveyed the carnage from his horse as his soldiers walked among the dead, picking up weapons and shields. He took some pride in the cleverness of his strategy, but he also believed it was a manifestation of the fact that their cause was righteous.

"God has thrust through His enemies with avenging swords," he declaimed, "and executed His wrath on the people who have offended Him by deserting the faith and associating with heretics. What of Raymond of Toulouse and his son?" Simon asked of Gaucelm.

"Escaped."

"Unfortunate," replied Simon. "We have defeated the combined forces of the princes of Languedoc, but it remains for us to enter the count's own city of Toulouse."

"Nevertheless," said Gaucelm as he surveyed the fallen, "the crusading season has been a success this year. We have taken much territory for the king of France in the name of the pope."

"We have," said Simon. "Come, our job here is not yet done. We must enter the town and see to it that the bishop is installed."

Simon wheeled and gathered his little entourage, which crossed the north bridge and entered the town. Inside the gate, they turned into the priory courtyard where Bishop Fulk awaited them, flanked by two deacons in church vestments. Bishop Fulk was a tall man, made to appear taller by the ornamented triangular-shaped mitre on his head, the points rising from the band in front and back. His pale cheeks flushed with

excitement, and the satisfied curve at the corners of long, thin lips indicated his sense of righteousness at being part of the victorious party.

Gaucelm remained mounted while his commander dismounted and walked to where the bishop had positioned himself just outside the entrance to the chapel on steps that placed him above everyone else. Simon knelt to kiss the bishop's ring.

"Rise, my son," intoned the bishop to the humbled commander. "The heretics have asked for the judgment of God, and God has judged in our favor."

He frowned momentarily at the rest of Simon's contingent, who remained mounted, as if he expected them to also humble themselves before God's most holy representative.

Gaucelm nonetheless remained upright in his saddle. He was no fool. The French had just gained a victory where the fiercely independent lords of the Languedoc thought they could dislodge their enemy. If the French soldiers did not remain fully armed and on guard while order was being reestablished, they could easily be betrayed.

Seeing that the knights who accompanied Simon would not get down from their horses, the bishop was forced to raise his robed arm aloft to dispense his blessing. The embroidered threads of silver and gold glittered in the now-hot sun that glared down upon the scene of carnage and victory. From the distance, the wails of the bereaved carried to them. The bishop blessed the army of the pope, and then Simon stood.

"Will my lord bishop ride with us through the town? It is our duty to accept the keys to the city as a symbol that Muret and any lands dependent on it now pay homage to our spiritual leader, His Most Holy Eminence, Pope Innocent III, and to his majesty King Philip Augustus of France."

"Most assuredly," said the bishop in a voice used to preaching in vast cathedrals to humbled minions. He lifted his hand and allowed one long finger to signal the arrival of his litter for the procession through town.

Simon had no need to send word to the councilmen of the

town. They knew they were defeated, and though Muret had housed a French garrison for two days, town government had proceeded on its own course. Now a display of homage would be expected. After that, financial arrangements would be made for damages and tithes paid out of the citizens' pockets to their new overlords.

The ornate litter was carried out on the shoulders of the bishop's servants. His staff of deacons and other local priests had garbed themselves in their finest vestments for the display of victory. Still in battle garb, Gaucelm rode beside Simon ahead of the litter, and the other knights followed behind it, as the procession left the priory and made its way into the streets.

Glancing upward at the citadel above them, Gaucelm could see the French pennants being flown from poles on the ramparts as their men quickly took control of the town walls and the castle. Then they passed into the crowded, narrow streets, where wattle and daub and timber houses leaned irregularly two and three stories to steeply pitched roofs.

Since the battle had been outside the walls of the town, there were few signs of suffering here. Except that ordinary business in stalls and ground-floor shops that opened to the street had come to a halt. Gaucelm perceived the subtle difference and narrowed his eyes to study the housewives in gowns and mantles and merchants in fur-trimmed surcoats who broke off from hushed conversations to stand silently and acknowledge the victors.

No one cheered. Some of the women knelt and bowed their heads as the bishop's litter passed. But most of the citizens stood silently, staring straight ahead. Only the geese honked and fluttered from under the hooves of the horses. As Gaucelm looked from one face to another, he read the resentment there, pride, and yes, hatred. He felt the clutch of uneasiness at the eerie silence within the town.

The Catholic church was determined to root out heresy in these lands. How many of the citizens of Muret were either heretics themselves or sheltered them? Gaucelm was a fighting man,

loyal to the king of France. He'd sworn his fealty and had engaged in many battles over territory. The king's enemies were his enemies. He had fought to take lands back from the English King John, and Gaucelm was proud of helping King Philip extend his empire.

But this long struggle in the South over religion was a different kind of war. He watched the citizens of Muret avert their faces from the knights who rode in victory, then drop their eyes before the bishop. These people were not going to be easy to subdue.

"What are your plans for the townspeople?" Gaucelm asked Simon as they made their way slowly.

"I shall spare them. A town without its artisans and merchants is a town without an economy. If there is no one to sell our armies supplies, we cannot support ourselves. If these burghers cooperate and give up the heretics we want, no harm will come to them."

"That is wise, my lord. And the estates we shall surely gain will work the better for the king of France and for his vassals if we leave them intact and reap their harvests for ourselves."

"True, my friend," replied Simon. "A show of power is necessary at times, but perhaps we have already made our point."

They followed the narrow streets of the old town to the old Roman wall and passed through into the lower new town. Here the packed streets were straighter, and they came at last to the market square where the contingent formed up around the bishop's litter. Opposite them on the steps of the Church of St. Denis waited the mayor and the town councilmen.

The rich colors of their mantles and hose, their fine soft leather boots, and the gold and jeweled clasps showed their wealth. They stood in a tight group, no doubt wondering if they would be alive or dead after they handed the keys to the city over to the bishop. None spoke. The cries and moans of those who had lost loved ones in the battle were farther away now, barely heard.

Bishop Fulk alighted from his litter, and his deacons made sure his vestments were straight. Simon and his knights dis-

mounted while the sergeants-at-arms who had accompanied them held the standards behind them.

The bishop approached the church steps and the mayor came down and knelt on one knee in front of him. In the silence, a breeze ruffled through the market square and past the church. Everyone waited. But Bishop Fulk took his time surveying the scene, a satisfied smile on his face as he gave his blessing. Then Simon stepped forward. His narrow dark eyes glittered, and his tone brooked no argument.

"I, the victor of this day, Simon de Montfort, general of the French army, hereby claim this town and all its lands for his majesty, King Philip of France, who has taken up the sword in the name of God's holy Catholic Church. Until our august king decides how to dispense this town, I hand the keys to the city to His Holiness, Bishop Fulk, who stands as the pope's representative on this holy mission. You will cooperate with his court and answer any questions he may have in his quest to erase the evils of heresy from these lands."