The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (29 page)

Their task done, the trio made ready to return to Lavaur, happily secure
in the knowledge that no harm could now befall the precious burden. Although
their mood was lightened by the realisation that the linen was safely ensconced
in the niche, it was soon darkened by the sight of the countryside through
which they were passing, for it had changed greatly since their outward
journey. They were saddened to see that where vines had once grown there were
now only blackened roots. There were no cows to be seen, and no byres for their
shelter were left standing. De Montfort’s army had moved in with a vengeance.

They were able to avoid many of the towns where the destruction was
complete. As they got closer to home, they began to encounter people burdened
with possessions, fleeing while they could to the safety of Lavaur. The town
had always welcomed refugee believers who had managed to escape de Montfort’s
previous predations. Dame Girauda de Laurac, the chatelaine of the castle
there, was a noted
perfecta
; her
religious zeal was such that anyone could depend on her help, be they Catholic
or Cathar and her reputation had spread far and wide. At any one time, the
elders in the town might number up to four hundred, whilst the believer
s
themselves could be counted above a
thousand.

The news that Arnaud garnered from the displaced population was not
good. Since they had left Lavaur last autumn, many towns had fallen to the
Crusaders. At the beginning of the month (it was now March), Pierre-Roger de
Cabaret, an ally of the Count of Toulouse, had surrendered his three chateaux
of Lastours to the Devil in return for other property near Beziers. Before he
had surrendered, he ensured all the believers he had sheltered in his castles
had made good their escape.

Why de Cabaret had surrendered without a fight was difficult to
understand. He had held virtually impregnable fortifications and also had as
his prisoner Bouchard de Marly, one of Simon’s best friends and his most
trusted lieutenant. Perhaps he had learned the lesson of Termes and Minerve.
Needless to say, Simon was delighted by this turn of events. He had lost not
even one man, had gained a valuable foothold from which to launch his next
foray and had recovered one of his best fighters, all in one swoop!

Arnaud and the two young Boutarras’ safe return to Lavaur was cause for
celebration, although Arnaud did not stay long at the welcome. He had official
business to attend to, and took his leave to find Bertrand Arsen. His goodbye
to Maurina was touching, though he held back from too great a show of emotion.
He was well pleased with the manner in which the kindly couple had raised his
daughter. She was a curious mix of child and woman, and it was already obvious
that she had no shortage of courage. Several times he had silently prayed she
would never need to demonstrate this facet of her character. However, with the
current situation, he knew this was a forlorn hope. He could only pray that God
would guard her until she came to a good end.

Chapter Twenty Two

Occitania, South of France

May 1211 AD

Conflagration at Lavaur

The noise was deafening. Maurina fervently wished she had stayed in bed
that morning instead of rising with the sun to see for herself what the
besiegers were doing. They had been pounding the walls of Lavaur for over a
month—since just after she, Pons and Arnaud had returned from Montsegur.
What she had seen on the way back from that trip had left her with few
illusions about what would happen to her town should the defences fail.

From where she was crouched she could see the soldiers as they went about
the business of destroying her town. Trying to make herself less visible, she
could feel the edges of the roughly-made bricks pressing into her back. It was
a sturdy wall, but unlike many towns’ defences, it was not made of heavy
granite. Laver’s main defence was the swift-running Agout that flowed in a
ravine far below, and it would take skilful invaders to breech the wall high
above that.

From her hiding place, Maurina could just make out some of the soldiers
who wished to destroy her life. This was the closest she had ever come to these
Soldiers of Christ, de Montfort’s men who called themselves Christians because
they were doing God’s work. As she well knew, they were not true Christians,
even though they wore red crosses embroidered on their surcoats to indicate
they were here at the Holy Father’s request.

She was finding it difficult to understand how these men, who had taken
an oath of chivalry and who thought of themselves as more Christian than her
family and friends, could perpetrate such cruelty on a population that wished
only to live and worship in peace. Pierre had attempted to explain to her that
the men had been told they were coming to fight a dangerous enemy, a heresy
that was spreading like a loathsome disease throughout her part of the
country—a disease that must be halted in its tracks!

Maurina had heard enough talk to know that the soldiers were being
duped. This fight was more political than religious, and many things that were
being conducted in the Holy Father’s name were done so without his knowledge.
The girl was sure in her own heart that no true Christian would ever condone
the savagery, the mutilations and the flaying that were being carried out in
the name of Holy Mother Church. The stories of the burnings filled her with horror.
She knew they weren’t exaggerated; there were just too many stories of vile
acts to consider them rumours.

When she strained her eyes, Maurina could see that one of the liveries
stood out more than any other. Shining on its vermilion background, a proud
silver lion seemed to leap out at her, gleaming as it did on the surcoats of
the soldiers who were working so diligently to destroy the walls. That stylised
lion was the symbol of all that was hateful about the times in which she
lived—de Montfort’s coat of arms, which, by now, in his second year of
campaign, was well known throughout the country. There were few parts that his
unstoppable armies had missed as they swept like a whirlwind through the
beleaguered countryside.

It was strange
, she thought to herself,
how quickly one could get used to the constant noise of the pounding
against the walls
. Where she lived it had not been so loud, but here in the
centre of the action, the thumping reverberated in her head. She wished she had
done as her sister Braida had said, which was to stay indoors and wait for
events. Perhaps she should have followed her sister’s advice, but it was not in
her nature to wait for things to happen.

Maurina was not too young to understand the particular horrors that
awaited the women, should the walls give way. Their deaths would be preceded by
merciless beatings and rapings until their bodies were broken in an attempt to
break their spirits and cause them to recant their beliefs. That they never
recanted was a source of annoyance for the soldiers, but the burnings that
inevitably followed gave them some measure of enjoyment as they celebrated the
capture of each new town. The party atmosphere that always prevailed was made
livelier by the consumption of copious amounts of wine stolen from the
merchants’ cellars in the despoiled towns. Indeed, the only thing that ruined
an otherwise excellent party was that the heretics seemed unafraid to
die—some even went to their deaths singing.

Maurina shivered as these thoughts ran through her head. Would she be so
brave when her time came? She had no doubt that the time would come soon. She
had heard it was only the
perfecti
and
the
perfectae
who were taken to the
stake to be burned, but this was little comfort, for she had also heard that the
Devil wasn’t particular about whom his men killed by other methods.

Being a child of the town, Maurina knew all the nooks and crannies where
someone small could hide. For as long as she could remember, she had played
around these ramparts close to the walls of the chateau. She knew the river
flowed swiftly below the chateau walls—she had been warned enough times
to never go near the river banks. The winding, narrow streets of the town that
could confuse a stranger were as familiar to her as her own backyard. As she
crouched against the wall with her heart pounding loudly against her chest, she
knew it was time to get back to the cottage and the protection of her family.

Straightening up, Maurina saw some of the local townspeople hurrying
towards her, carrying what they could of their meagre possessions. They were
running along the street towards the cathedral where she knew they would try to
seek sanctuary from the invaders. A cart, piled high with palliasses stuffed
with straw, pots, pans and other utensils, careened crazily past the place
where she was concealed, its owners, even in their panic, unwilling to lose
what it had taken them a lifetime to gather.
  
It was a world gone mad, a world of noise and smoke,
screams and panic. Maurina, who had set out so boldly that morning, now deeply
regretted her own stupidity, for she realised that panic was catching and her
parents would be frantic with worry.

To her horror, she could see that some of the more agile soldiers had
managed to make their way up from the river and had gained a foothold on the
town wall. These men were firing arrows into the bodies of the townsfolk
unlucky enough to be within reach of their weapons. She could hear the screams
of the people—some of whom she had known all her life—as they died
in agony.

Now only eighty knights were attempting to hold back an army that
numbered several thousand. These eighty men were sick with exhaustion; they had
been fighting for over a month. Their leader, Aimery de Montreal, had sworn to
fight to the death, but one by one, his men and the townspeople who had
initially fought side-by-side with him, had drifted away. Although they had
been well-armed and had fought valiantly, they recognised defeat was staring
them in the face. They had their own families to protect. Who could blame them?

The air was filled with thick, black smoke from the trebuchet, the huge
war machine that hurled cauldrons of flaming oil over the walls. Her face grimy
from the filth, Maurina could see the particles of burning oil wafting across
the area in front of the chateau. Although the river ran beneath it, there was
a shortage of water in the town, as early on in the campaign de Montfort had
seen fit to divert the water flowing into the town’s cisterns.

Maurina’s long blond hair was bedraggled and unkempt, and her fair skin
grubby from her encounter with the town’s midden heap over which she had
scrambled earlier that morning. Struggling as she clambered over the piles of
garbage and human waste, she had stained and torn her dress irrevocably. The
smell of the debris from a month of siege still clung about her, making her
feel truly sick. She wished she had never attempted the climb at all but had
pressed on nonetheless, heedless of the diseased animals the soldiers had
hurled over the tops of the walls in an attempt to sicken the population into
submission.

The townspeople had piled all the debris together—all the diseased
animals, their dead dogs and cats, and indeed all the rats that had starved to
death in the last few weeks—to create this common grave that Maurina had
climbed over to get a better view of what was happening. Her sister Braida had
warned her that it was madness to leave their cottage, and now she knew that
Braida had been right. She was in a very dangerous position, for she would now
have to expose herself to the archers on the wall—for a few seconds, at
least—so that she could reach the small back lanes that would take her
home to relative safety. As well as fearing the archers, she had begun to
consider what Saissa and Pierre would say to her. Braida would have certainly
told them by now where their errant daughter had gone.

Even though she was expecting it, the huge crash took her by surprise.
The ramparts, on which much of the town’s defences had depended, finally gave
way under the immense punishment they had received. The clouds of dust that
rose from the tumbled lumps of masonry blinded her for a few moments. All
thought of flight was wiped from her mind and she froze on the spot where she
was crouching. The ground trembled under her feet as the walls fell in large
sheets, tumbling like a pack of cards. She knew she should run, but could only
stare transfixed as the Devil’s army, shouting and cheering, poured through an
ever-widening breach in the walls like an enormous ocean wave.

They were everywhere, the soldiers. And so many of them! She had never
seen such an army. Surely they could hear the pounding of her heart as they
sped by her hiding place. As the dust settled, she could clearly see them
clattering past her, their eyes fixed on the rich pickings the town centre
would offer. As well as being a centre of heresy, Lavaur was a rich little
town, a prize indeed, and de Montfort would systematically relieve the rightful
owners of their wines, expensive silks and other valuables and send them to his
bankers in Cahors to finance his next battles. Many a house would be put to the
torch that day, but not before everything of value had first been spirited
away. To the ordinary soldier, these were the just rewards of a job well done.
Their leaders may have had finer motives, but the rank and file soldier knew
why he was here. He had no interest in converting heretics to the true faith.

The best the townspeople could hope for now would be a quick and
merciful death. Maurina had heard that de Montfort had forbidden wholesale
rape, but a victorious army was difficult to restrain. He had almost given up
the attempt to control his men at the point of victory, saying he would leave
it to their consciences to do what was right.

Knowing this and not believing much in the restraining value of men’s
consciences, Maurina looked around her to see how she could escape. To her
horror, before she could make a move, she saw three soldiers staring at her
from the end of the lane where she had thought to make her escape. They wore
the same livery of vermilion and silver she had seen on the other men who had
just breeched the defences of the small town. With a sinking heart, she knew
they were the Devil’s men!

“What have we here?” The tallest and indeed ugliest of the soldiers
caught hold of Maurina’s arm and dragged the girl from where she had lain
concealed. “Pretty enough, but a bit scrawny. Pooh! She does stink.” He
wrinkled his nose. “What’s this she’s got on?” He pulled hard at the grimy
ribbon that held Maurina’s dove safely round her neck and grasped the small
carving in his hand.

“Don’t you dare touch that!” Maurina’s voice was vehement as she dug her
teeth into his hairy wrist.

He swore as he let her go, nursing his injured arm. “You little whore!
I’ll teach you a lesson.” He tried to grab the wriggling girl again.

“Come on, she’s only a kid,” one of the other soldiers said. “There’s
bound to be better pickings in the town.”

Maurina looked up fearfully as the second soldier spoke. She understood
not a word of what they were saying, but their intentions seemed clear enough!

“Funny-coloured hair.” The third soldier spoke for the first time as he
grabbed her by her bedraggled blond curls.
 
He sniggered. “She’s too pale for me.” He licked his lips as
he spoke. Maurina watched his tongue in fascination. It looked just like a
snake she had once seen in her foster father’s field. “She’ll do for me. She’s
the first I’ve had for weeks. Besides, I owe her one for this.” The soldier
rubbed his bleeding wrist and grabbed her again, this time by the hair and well
out of the reach of her teeth. His hands were rough with huge calluses. He
pulled her towards him. “No meat on her at all. Still, I’ve plenty for both of
us, hey. Take a look at that. Ever seen anything like that before?” Maurina
knew well enough what he meant. As he threw her to the ground, she began to
recite a prayer. She closed her eyes to block out the image of her aggressor’s
face, but she couldn’t block out the stench of his foul breath.

The other two men laughed.

“I think she’s praying,” one of them said mockingly, “just like we do!”
He looked down at the girl on the ground. “Praying isn’t going to help you at
all, lass. I’ve seen my friend in action before. He always gets what he wants.
And if it’s not offered freely, he takes it.”

“Be quiet!” The first soldier was growing red in the face in an effort
to subdue the girl, who had begun to fight back.