Troubadour (14 page)

Iseut was silent. ‘He hasn’t said so in so many words. But I think he is worried, yes. He has advised me to be well prepared for a siege, just in case the army comes this way.’

Bertran was one of the sixteen vassals who accompanied the Count back to Saint-Gilles in late June to do the penance devised for him. But they were outnumbered easily by the three archbishops and nineteen bishops who had gathered to watch, along with a vast crowd of locals. One vassal who had refused to go with the Count was his nephew Viscount Trencavel. He was still at odds with his uncle and didn’t want to support him.

It was as good as a play to the people who came from a distance round Saint-Gilles to see the spectacle. This was their lord, barefoot, bareheaded and stripped to the waist, on his knees in front of the three abbey doors. But to his vassals it was a penance just to witness him so humiliated.

The very sculptures on the facade seemed to mock him, showing as they did scenes of all the aspects of Christianity denied by the Believers: the Holy Trinity, the Mass and Christ’s Crucifixion in twenty scenes. These were all beliefs that the heretics refused to believe or participate in. And over and over again depictions of killings – Cain and Abel, Saint Michael and the dragon, Samson and the lion.

But as the Count knelt on the steps and read out the list of his faults, there was no mention of murder. Even though everything the Pope and his Legates had done for nearly a year and a half had been to avenge the murder of Pierre of Castelnau, they had not got the Count to admit to responsibility for the crime.

Indeed he had sworn to Bertran that he had not had anything to do with it and the troubadour believed him. He had been a vassal of the Count of Toulouse’s and of his father before him all his life and, though he had no illusions about what either man was capable of, he did not think the Count likely to have done anything so stupid.

As the Count had told the Pope repeatedly, if he’d wanted to kill his Legate he could have done it in his own court, many times, and if he had wanted to order it he would not have had the act take place so close to Saint-Gilles. It made no sense.

As soon as the Count had finished reading out his list and sworn his obedience to the Pope and his Legates, Milo tied his stole round the Count’s neck and dragged him into the church and towards the altar, whipping him with a bundle of birch twigs as they went. It was a sobering sight, the stripping and beating of such a great man – Duke of Narbonne, Count of Toulouse, Marquis of Provence and overlord of the south.

I can’t bear it
, thought Bertran. The other vassals were also suffering. Their allegiance was to their lord, not to a pope hundreds of miles south in Rome. Even if they were not all heretics, they did not respect the rules of the Church more than the man and the titles they had been brought up to revere.

Bertran had brooded over whether to come with the Count to Saint-Gilles; he was worried about being recognised and had known how hard it would be to see the Count dishonoured. And he knew there was worse to come. But he wanted to support his lord. When the beating was over, and Mass had been said, there was such a crush at the church doors that Raimon’s only way out was through the crypt.

Milo liked that solution; it was where Pierre of Castelnau’s tomb was. The Count was pulled half-naked and bleeding to do further penance in front of the body of the man he was supposed to have slain. Pierre was treated already as a martyr and revered as if he were a saint; Count Raimon was a villain in comparison. He crawled to the underground exit from the crypt, where his vassals threw a robe around him and escorted him to his castle. The show was over.

Less than a week later, the northern army mustered at Lyon. It was the Feast of John the Baptist, the city’s patron saint, and there were crowds of people: pilgrims, traders and pickpockets. Nearly twenty thousand knights, wearing yellow silk crosses on their chests, assembled in a field outside the town.

There were men of every sort, from lords, archbishops and bishops to mercenaries and quartermasters. The host stretched for four miles as it marched down the banks of the Rhône, with its barges floating down the river beside it, carrying all the supplies needed for the forty days of fighting and besieging.

And ahead of the warriors a huge siege train of sappers, carpenters and military engineers had been sent to Avignon to await the army. They carried the mangonels and trebuchets that would hurl stones and carrion at the walls of the heretics’ castles.

And who was leading this mighty army? Not the King’s son but a group of fanatical men – the Archbishop of Sens, the Bishops of Autun, Clermont and Nevers and the Duke of Burgundy all rode at the head. But over them all was the Abbot of Cîteaux, who had been appointed by Pope Innocent to lead the crusade, just as the Count had predicted.

The mighty army reached Valence on the 2nd of July and the Count was there to meet them. Before he went to the Abbot’s tent, he said goodbye to his old friend Bertran de Miramont, who had begged him not to do what he was set on doing.

‘It’s the only way,’ he said simply, taking his twelve-year-old son by the hand. ‘I shall take up the Cross, join the army and battle the heretics. It’s the only way to save any of my lands at all.’

‘You really think your lands will be spared?’ asked Bertran. ‘That you will have a Toulouse to be lord of in the end or a title to call your own?’

‘I am sure of nothing,’ said the Count bleakly. ‘But it is my only chance. I am venturing everything on this throw of the dice. Including my son and heir. Are you certain you will not come with me?’

‘No, Sire,’ said Bertran, making a deep bow to his lord, since he expected never to see him again. ‘I cannot take up arms against my own people.’ It was the closest he had ever come to admitting to the Count that he was himself a Believer in what the Pope called heresy.

‘Where will you go?’ asked Raimon.

‘To your nephew in Béziers,’ said Bertran. ‘I must warn him of the size and ferocity of the army. And I must tell him of your decision.’

‘He won’t understand,’ said the Count. ‘He’ll probably think I’m a traitor. But I offered him an alliance some time ago and he washed his hands of me. There is nothing left for me to try.’

He let Bertran kiss his hand and then clasped the troubadour warmly in his arms before waving him on his way.

‘Who will sing of this war in years to come?’ he mused aloud to his little son, before taking him to the Abbot to offer him as a hostage.

‘I give you my most precious jewel,’ he said to the Abbot. ‘Worth more than all my castles and lands. This is my only son. Take him as an earnest of my good faith. I have come to join the crusade.’

.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Siege

‘It took more than two hours for the French army to pass,’
wrote Azalais from Tarascon.
‘I have never seen so many people in one place. It was terrifying.’

Iseut was reading her letter to Elinor. But events were moving faster than a messenger could ride and by the time the women heard about the huge forces from the north, the killing had already begun: Tonneins and Casseneuil in the west, where the crusaders burned their first heretics, men and women who refused to convert. In the east the army passed through Beaucaire and Nîmes and arrived at Montpellier without hindrance.

But the women of Saint-Jacques did not know any of this. Elinor was tortured by fear; if the mighty army was going to pass on to Béziers it would be very close to her home town. But if it changed course and decided to go east, their fastness in the mountains would be under threat.

Azalais had watched the army go by from the east bank of the Rhône, as it passed through Beaucaire, so it looked as if Saint-Jacques was safe for the moment. But that meant Sévignan was more at risk. It was dreadful not knowing. Elinor felt she could cope with a force of armed men turning up to besiege Iseut’s castle better than she could bear the long wait for news.

It was hard to live through every day never knowing when a messenger might arrive with something horrible to tell them. Iseut had been through this before, waiting for news from the Fourth Crusade, so she was better able to support the daily burden of running the demesne while ignorant of what was happening elsewhere.

This helped Elinor too. The Lady was an excellent manager. She had flocks of sheep and herds of goats in the higher lands and fig trees and vines down in the valley. Her lands covered fields of wheat and barley and flax for cloth and orchards of plums, cherries, pears and sweet chestnuts.

All the shepherds and goatherds were dependent on the Lady of the castle, as were the farmers, cheese-makers, bakers, carpenters, weavers and poultry men. And then there were the household knights, the squires, the burghers and the many servants of the castle. They all looked to the Lady to manage their affairs, feed and house them.

Iseut had never had much time to spend on her poetry and music and now she had less for sitting around wondering what was going on west of the Rhône. She involved Elinor in more and more of the daily decisions and tasks. Nicolas the
senescal
was her right-hand man but, as time went by, Iseut came to rely on Elinor’s opinion too.

This was specially useful since a certain coolness seemed to have sprung up on Lord Berenger’s part. Iseut was sure that he had taken a dislike to her new companion. It made her smile at first because he had not been at all jealous of Azalais; if anything, it had been the other way round.

But it really hurt that he was now holding himself aloof from her, at a time when he himself had said she might be in danger. The Lady did not spend much time looking in her hand glass but if she had, she would have seen a permanent line between her brows that used not to be there. It came from frowning over her accounts and trying not to think of the war. Or about Lord Berenger.

When Viscount Trencavel heard that his uncle had taken the Cross, he knew the game was up. Bertran’s message brought the worst news he had heard for some time.

‘I must do the same as the Count,’ he told Bertran, who had gained entry to the château only by saying that he came hotfoot from Count Raimon and the French army. The gatekeepers didn’t recognise him as the troubadour that had so often visited the Viscount.

‘I must go to the Abbot at Montpellier and offer to surrender on the same terms as Toulouse,’ said Trencavel. ‘Only I shall stop short of giving him my son as hostage.’

Bertran bowed. He did not think that the Abbot would accept the Viscount’s offer, not now he was marching at the head of an army that could find such rich pickings in the south. But he understood why the Viscount needed to try.

‘May I come with you, my lord?’ he asked.

‘Thank you,’ said young Trencavel. ‘You have always been a good friend.’

They set out straight away and arrived two days later. The sight of the French army camped at Montpellier struck fear into both men. It was unnatural; no company of men and weapons so great had ever assembled in the south in their lifetimes. They found their way to the Abbot’s tent, passing by one with the red and gold banner of Raimon of Toulouse. The Viscount said he couldn’t face his uncle yet.

When they were shown into the Legate’s presence, Trencavel introduced his companion just as ‘Jules’. Bertran was not confident that he would not be recognised with his new beard and he pulled his hat down over his eyes as soon as it was polite to put it back on.

In fact the Abbot scarcely looked even at the Viscount, let alone his companion.

‘It is far too late for such gestures,’ he said haughtily, waving aside the Viscount’s offer. ‘You have seen the forces ranged against you. I suggest you go back to your little castle and prepare to defend yourself.’

‘Ranged against
me
, my lord Abbot?’ asked the Viscount, trying hard to control his temper. ‘Why, what am I supposed to have done? I thought it was my uncle you had a grievance against.’

‘Your uncle has seen the error of his ways,’ said another man, coming forward. He was big with a shock of dark hair and a fanatical gleam in his eye. Both Trencavel and Bertran were surprised that the Legate let this unknown speak.

‘Might I know who addresses me?’ asked the Viscount.

‘This is the Earl of Leicester in England,’ said the Legate, in a bored voice. ‘He is Simon de Montfort, from the Île de France, and one of our most distinguished soldiers.’

‘You, like the Count of Toulouse, have encouraged heretics and Jews in your lands,’ said de Montfort. ‘My lord Abbot is correct. You should prepare for war.’

‘But I came here to offer surrender,’ said the Viscount. ‘On the same terms as the Count of Toulouse.’

But it was no good. Neither the Abbot nor de Montfort would listen. The two visitors were firmly shown out of the leaders’ presence.

Trencavel and Bertran stood together outside the tent, stunned by what they had heard.

‘It is hard to stop a thrown stone,’ said Bertran. ‘They were never going to turn the army back.’

‘I must assemble my vassals,’ said the young Viscount. ‘Carcassonne is the best mustering point – it is well stocked and prepared for siege. But I must now ride back to Béziers. After what they said about the Jews I must get them to Carcassonne too.’ He ran both hands through his hair. ‘These are dark days, Bertran.’

‘What can I do?’ asked Bertran.

‘Come back to Béziers with me,’ he said. ‘And help me save the Jews.’

‘Surely, sire. And what about the Believers?’ asked Bertran.

‘I think they will be safe enough there,’ said Trencavel. ‘Béziers itself is well provisioned; but I want the Jews under my protection. We must pray that this storm will pass over us all and blow itself out in the west without too much bloodshed.’

Bertran went with him to organise messengers throughout the region to rouse the vassals. But meeting Simon de Montfort had unsettled him. The Count of Toulouse had said that the Abbot of Cîteaux was a wolf; it seemed he was not the only one in the French army.

At Sévignan, Elinor had not been forgotten. But the news from the north had made all other considerations secondary. Her brother, Aimeric, had returned with no news after scouring the countryside for miles around. No one had seen a young girl of Elinor’s description and she was in none of the sister houses, whether of the Church or the Believers.

And of course he had not asked about young boys.

Her family prayed for Elinor every day.

‘All we can do is hope that she is safe and that we will see her again when these terrible times are over,’ said Lord Lanval.

Then he forced all thoughts of his older daughter under in order to concentrate on the safety of his bastide. He had seriously considered leaving their hill town but the same thoughts came round again and again: where would they go? How much property and valuables could they take with them? And, most importantly, shouldn’t they stay to protect their dependents?

As the news of the French muster filtered down to the family in the castle, Lanval sent out messengers to more and more people nearby to come and take shelter within its strong walls. The town was full of extra people and animals. Grain was stored in warehouses, vegetables harvested and kept in wooden crates or watered in racks. Pigs and sheep were slaughtered and the meat salted, and there were large numbers of chickens scratching round the streets of the bastide.

The knights and armourers were all busy, forging, mending, sharpening and grinding. The mood was high; the young men like Aimeric and Gui had never seen any more action than a few local skirmishes. They had no idea what real siege and warfare would be like but they were, if not looking forward to it, excited and full of energy.

The older men looked grim; they were under no illusions about the force from the north. Lord Lanval took charge of everything about the defences and Lady Clara kept Alys and the women servants busy, preparing bandages and medicines. The herb-women were occupied with grinding, distilling, mixing and bottling cures and remedies.

The water supply was a major problem in any siege and in addition to keeping the wells in good repair, Lord Lanval ordered barrels to be filled from the streams around the castles, to ensure that they did not run out. As the water grew stale it would be drawn off into buckets which were kept constantly filled against outbreaks of fire, and the barrels would be topped up with fresh water.

And the walls were being repaired, great blocks of stone being hauled in from the countryside around to fill gaps, and smaller pieces brought in by the basket. Soon the walls of Sévignan were as strong and complete as they had ever been.

Beacons were built to be lit when and if the French force came into view, to summon any last dependents from outlying areas to come and shelter in the bastide. Church bells would be rung and drums beaten and trumpets blasted, not only calling in the last stragglers but reminding any fighting men of the Midi who had not already given their allegiance to hasten to the defence of the walls.

Watches were kept in each tower at the corners of the walls, by sharp-eyed sentries during the day and those with the most acute hearing at night. Every night the gates were closed at dusk and this was signalled by the ringing of another bell, in case people had lost track of time and were still labouring in the fields. It also signalled that anyone not authorised to stay overnight should leave, but as time went by, there were fewer visitors.

There were not many who wanted to be caught out in the open away from their own defended towns after dark. Rumour was spreading about the French army: twenty thousand, forty thousand, a hundred thousand. And news filtered through about the burnings at Casseneuil. By the time the force reached Montpellier, everyone was prepared for the worst.

Word of the Count of Toulouse’s defection was brought to Lanval, as it was to many lords over the Midi, and he bowed his head in despair. If the army could not lay siege to Toulouse, there was more likelihood that other, smaller towns would be attacked. All over the Midi, bastides were being repaired and stocked, just as Sévignan was.

‘Well,’ said Lord Lanval, wearily to his wife one evening in late July. ‘We are as ready as we are ever going to be – let the Frenchmen come!’