CHAPTER 7
For hour upon hour, the debate raged.
Servants scuttled to and fro, fetching baskets of bread and grapes, platters of meat and white cheese, endlessly filling and refilling the great jugs of wine. Nobody ate much, but they did drink, which fired their anger and dimmed their judgement.
The world outside the Chateau Comtal went on just the same. The bells of the churches marked the devotional hours of the day. The monks sang and the nuns prayed, cocooned within Sant-Nasari. In the streets of Carcassonne, the townspeople went about their business. In the suburbs and dwellings beyond the fortified walls, children played, women worked, merchants and peasants and guildsmen ate and talked and played dice.
Inside the Great Hall, reasoned argument started to give way to insults, recriminations. One faction wanted to stand firm. The other argued in favour of an alliance with the Count of Toulouse, arguing that if estimates of the size of the army mustered at Lyon were accurate, then even their combined strength was not sufficient to withstand such an enemy.
Every man could hear the drums of war beating in his head. Some imagined honour and glory on the battlefield, the clash of steel on steel. Others saw blood covering the hills and the plains, an endless stream of the dispossessed and wounded stumbling defeated across the burning land.
Pelletier tirelessly wandered up and down the chamber; looking for signs of dissent or opposition or challenges to the Viscount’s authority. Nothing he observed gave him real cause for concern. He was confident that his Seigneur had done enough to bind all to him and that, regardless of individual interests, the lords of the Pays d’Oc would unite behind Viscount Trencavel, whatever decision he reached.
The battle lines were drawn on geographical rather than ideological grounds. Those whose lands were on the more vulnerable plains wanted to put their faith in the power of talk. Those whose dominions lay in the highlands of the Montagne Noire to the north or the mountains of the Sabarthès and the Pyrenees to the south and west were determined to stand firm against the Host and fight.
Pelletier knew that it was with them that Viscount Trencavel’s heart lay. He was cast from the same metal as the mountain lords and shared their fierce independence of spirit. But Pelletier knew too that Trencavel’s head told him that the only chance of keeping his lands intact and protecting his people was to swallow his pride and negotiate.
By late afternoon, the chamber smelled of frustration and arguments gone stale. Pelletier was weary. He was worn out by picking over the bones, by all the fine phrases that turned round and round upon themselves without ever reaching an end. Now, his head was hurting too. He felt stiff and old, too old for this, he thought, as he turned the ring he wore always on his thumb, reddening the calloused skin underneath.
It was time to bring matters to a conclusion.
Summoning a servant to bring water, he dipped a square of linen into the pitcher and handed it to the Viscount.
‘Here, Messire,’ he said.
Trencavel took the wet cloth gratefully and wiped his forehead and neck.
‘Do you think we have allowed them long enough?’
‘I believe so, Messire,’ Pelletier replied.
Trencavel nodded. He was sitting with his hands resting firmly on the carved wooden arms of his chair, looking as calm as he had when he had first taken to his feet and addressed the Council. Many older, more experienced men would have struggled to keep control of such a gathering, Pelletier thought. It was his strength of character that gave him the courage to carry it through.
‘It is as we discussed before, Messire?’
‘It is,’ Trencavel replied. ‘Although they are not all of one mind, I think that the minority will follow the wishes of the majority in this . . .’ He stopped and for the first time a note of indecision, of regret, coloured his words.
‘But, Bertrand, I wish there was another way.’
‘I know, Messire,’ he said quietly. ‘I feel the same. But, however much it offends us, there is no alternative. Your only hope of protecting your people lies in negotiating a truce with your uncle.’
‘He might refuse to receive me, Bertrand,’ he said quietly. ‘When last we met, I said things I ought not to have said. We parted on bad terms.’
Pelletier put his hand on Trencavel’s arm. ‘That’s a risk we have to take,’ he said, although he shared the same concern. ‘Time has moved on since then. The facts of the matter speak for themselves. If the Host is indeed as great as they say – even if it is half that size – then we have no choice. Within the Cite we will be safe, but your people outside the walls . . . Who will protect them? The Count’s decision to take the Cross has left us — left you, Messire — as the only possible target. The Host will not be disbanded now. It needs an enemy to fight.’
Pelletier looked down into Raymond-Roger’s troubled face and saw regret and sorrow. He wanted to offer some comfort, say something, anything, but he could not. Any lack of resolve now would be fatal. There could be no weakening, no doubt. More hung on Viscount Trencavel’s decision than the young man would ever know.
‘You have done everything you can, Messire. You must hold firm. You must finish this. The men grow restless.’
Trencavel glanced at the coat of arms above him, then back to Pelletier. For a moment, they held one another’s gaze.
‘Inform Congost,’ he said.
With a deep sigh of relief, Pelletier walked quickly to where the escrivan was sitting at his desk, massaging his stiff fingers. Congost’s head shot up, but he said nothing as he picked up his feather and sat poised to record the final decision of the Council.
For the last time, Raymond-Roger Trencavel rose to his feet.
‘Before I announce my decision, I must thank you all. Lords of Carcasses, Razes, Albigeois and the dominions beyond, I salute your strength, your fortitude and your loyalty. We have talked for many hours and you have shown great patience and spirit. We have nothing to reproach ourselves with. We are the innocent victims of a war not of our making. Some of you will be disappointed at what I am about to say, others pleased. I pray that we will all find the courage, with God’s help and mercy, to stand together.’
He drew himself up. ‘For the good of us all — and for the safety of our people – I will seek an audience with my uncle and liege lord, Raymond, Count of Toulouse. We have no way of knowing what will come of this. It is not even certain my uncle will receive me and time is not on our side. It is therefore important that we keep our intentions hidden. Rumour spreads fast and if something of our purpose reaches the ears of my uncle, it might weaken our bargaining position. Accordingly, preparations for the Tournament will continue as planned. My aim is to return well before the Feast Day, I hope with good news.’ He paused. ‘It is my intention to leave tomorrow, at first light, taking with me only a small contingent of chevaliers and representatives, with your leave, from the great house of Cabaret, as well as Minerve, Foix, Quillan . . .’
‘You have my sword, Messire,’ called one chevalier. ‘And mine,’ cried another. One by one, men fell to their knees around the Hall.
Smiling, Trencavel held up his hand.
‘Your courage, your valour, honours us all,’ he said. ‘My steward will inform those of you whose services are required. For now, my friends, I bid you grant me leave. I suggest you all return to your quarters to rest. We will meet at dinner.’
In the commotion that accompanied Viscount Trencavel’s departure from the Great Hall, nobody noticed a single figure in a long blue hooded cloak slide out of the shadows and slip away through the door.