CHAPTER 48
When he came to his senses, Simeon was no longer in the wood, but in some sort of byre. He had a memory of travelling, a long way. His ribs were sore from the motion of the horse.
The smell was terrible, a mixture of sweat, goat, damp straw and something he could not quite identify: a sickliness, like decaying flowers. There were several harnesses hanging from the wall and a pitchfork propped up in the corner closest to the door, which came no higher than a man’s shoulder. On the wall opposite the door were five or six metal rings for tethering animals.
Simeon glanced down. The hood they’d put over his head was lying next to him on the ground. His hands were still tied, as were his feet.
Coughing and trying to spit the coarse threads of the material out of his mouth, he levered himself up into a sitting position. Feeling bruised and stiff, Simeon slowly shuffled backwards on the ground until he reached the door. It took some time, but the relief of feeling something solid against his shoulders and back was immense. Patiently, he pushed himself to his feet, his head nearly hitting the roof. He banged against the door. The wood groaned and strained, but it was barred from the outside and would not open.
Simeon had no idea where he was, still close to Carcassonne or further afield. He had half memories of being carried on horseback through the woods, then over flat land. From the little he knew of the terrain, he guessed that meant they were somewhere around Trèbes.
He could see a slither of light under the small gap at the bottom of the door, a dark blue, but not yet the pitch black of night. When he pressed his ear to the ground, he could hear the murmur of his captors close by.
They were waiting for someone to arrive. The thought chilled him; evidence, although he barely needed it, that this was no random ambush.
Simeon shuffled his way back to the far side of the byre. Over time, he dozed, slumping sideways and jerking awake, then sliding into sleep again.
The sound of someone shouting brought him to his senses. Immediately, every nerve in his body was alert. He heard the sound of men scrambling to their feet, then a thud as the heavy wooden bar securing the door was removed.
Three shadowy figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright sunlight beyond. Simeon blinked, unable to see much.
‘Où est-il?’ Where is he?
It was an educated northern voice, cold and peremptory. There was a pause. The torch was held higher, picking out Simeon where he stood blinking in the shadows. ‘Bring him to me.’
Simeon barely had time to recognise the leader of the ambush, when he was grabbed by the arms and thrown on his knees in front of the Frenchman.
Slowly, Simeon raised his eyes. The man had a cruel, thin face and expressionless eyes the colour of flint. His tunic and trousers were of good quality, cut in the northern style, although they gave no indication of his status or position.
Where is it?’ he demanded.
Simeon raised his head. ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied in Yiddish.
The kick took him by surprise. He felt a rib snap and he fell backwards, his legs buckling under him. Simeon felt rough hands beneath his armpits propping him back in position.
‘I know who you are, Jew,’ he said. ‘There is no sense in playing this game with me. I will ask you once again. Where is the book?’
Simeon raised his head once more and said nothing.
This time, the man went for his face. Pain exploded inside his head as his mouth split open and teeth cracked in his jaw. Simeon could taste blood and saliva, stinging, on his tongue and in his throat.
‘I have pursued you like an animal, Jew,’ he said, ‘all the way from Chartres, to Béziers, to here. Tracked you down, like an animal. You have wasted a great deal of my time. My patience is growing thin.’ He took a step closer so that Simeon could see the hate in his grey, dead eyes. ‘Once more: where is the book? Did you give it to Pelletier? C’est ça?’
Two thoughts came simultaneously into Simeon’s mind. First, that he could not save himself. Second, that he must protect his friends. He still had that power. His eyes were swollen shut and blood pooled in the torn hollows of his lids.
‘I have the right to know the name of my accuser,’ he said through a mouth too broken for speech. ‘I would pray for you.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Make no mistake, you will tell me where you have hidden the book.’
He jerked his head.
Simeon was hauled to his feet. They ripped the clothes from him and threw him flat over a cart, one man holding his hands, the other his legs to expose his back. Simeon heard the sharp crack of the leather in the air just before the buckle connected with his bare skin. His body jerked in agony. Where is it?’ Simeon closed his eyes as the belt whipped down again through the air. ‘Is it in Carcassonne already? Or do you still have it with you, Jew?’ He was shouting in time with the stroke. ‘You will tell me. You. Or them.’
Blood was flowing from the lacerations on his back. Simeon began to pray in the custom of his fathers, ancient, holy words thrown out into the darkness, keeping his mind from the pain.
‘Où — est — le — livre?’ the man insisted, another strike for every word.
It was the last thing Simeon heard before the darkness reached out and took him.
CHAPTER 49
The Crusade’s advance guard arrived within sight of Carcassonne on the Feast Day of Sant-Nasari, following the road from Trèbes. The guards at the Tour Pinte lit the fires. The alarum bells were rung.
By the evening of the first of August, the French camp on the far side of the river had grown until there was a rival city of tents and pavilions, banners and golden crosses glittering in the sun. Barons from the north, Gascon mercenaries, soldiers from Chartres and Burgundy and Paris, sappers, longbowmen archers, priests, camp followers.
At Vespers, Viscount Trencavel ascended the ramparts, accompanied by Pierre-Roger de Cabaret, Bertrand Pelletier and one or two others. In the distance, trails of smoke spiralled up into the air. The river was a ribbon of silver.
‘There are so very many.’
‘No more than we expected, Messire,’ replied Pelletier.
‘How long, think you, before the main army arrives?’
‘It’s hard to be sure,’ he replied. ‘So large a fighting force will travel slowly. The heat will hinder them too.’
‘Hinder them, yes,’ said Trencavel. ‘Stop them, no.’
We’re ready for them, Messire. The Ciutat is well stocked. The hourds are completed to protect the walls from their sappers; all broken sections or points of weakness have been repaired and blocked; all the towers are manned.’ Pelletier waved his hand. ‘The hawsers holding the mills in place in the river have been cut and the crops burned. The French will find little to sustain them here.’
His eyes flashing, Trencavel suddenly turned to de Cabaret.
‘Let’s saddle our horses and make a sortie. Before night arrives and the sun sets, let’s take four hundred of our best men, those most skilled with lance, and with sword, and chase the French from our slopes. They will not expect us to take the battle to them. What say you?’
Pelletier sympathised with his desire to strike first. He also knew it would be an act of supreme folly.
‘There are battalions on the plains, Messire, routiers, small contingents from the advance party.’
Pierre-Roger de Cabaret added his voice. ‘Do not sacrifice your men, Raymond.’
‘But if we could strike the first blow. . .’
We have prepared for siege, Messire, not open battle. The garrison is strong. The bravest, most experienced chevaliers are here, waiting for their chance to prove themselves.’
‘But?’ Trencavel sighed.
‘You would be sacrificing them for no gain,’ he said firmly.
‘Your people trust you, they love you,’ Pelletier said. ‘They will lay down their lives for you if need be. But, we should wait. Let them bring the battle to us.’
‘I fear it is my pride that has brought us to this place,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Somehow, I did not expect it to come to this, so soon.’ He smiled. ‘Do you remember how my mother used to fill the Chateau with singing and dancing, Bertrand? All the greatest troubadours and jongleurs came to play for her. Aiméric de Pegulham, Arnaut de Carcasses, even Guilhem Fabre and Bernat Alanham from Narbonne. We were always feasting, celebrating.’
‘I have heard it was the finest court in the Pays d’Oc.’ He put his hand on his master’s shoulder. ‘And will be again.’
The bells fell silent. All eyes were on Viscount Trencavel.
When he spoke, Pelletier was proud to hear all trace of self-doubt was gone from his lord’s voice. He was no longer a boy remembering his childhood, but a captain on the eve of battle.
‘Order the posterns to be closed and the gates to be barred, Bertrand, and summon the commander of the garrison to the donjon. We will be ready for the French when they come.’
‘Perhaps also send reinforcements to Sant-Vicens, Messire,’ suggested de Cabaret. When the Host attacks, they will start there. And we cannot afford to relinquish our access to the river.’
Trencavel nodded.
Pelletier lingered a while after the others had gone, looking out over the land, as if to imprint its image in his mind.
To the north, the walls of Sant-Vicens were low and sparsely defended by towers. If the invaders penetrated the suburbs, they would be able to approach within bowshot of the Cite walls under the cover of the houses. The southern suburb, Sant-Miquel, would hold longer.
It was true that the Carcassonne was ready for siege. There was plenty of food — bread, cheese, beans — and goats for milk. But there were too many people within the walls and Pelletier was concerned about the supply of water. On his word, a guard was set on each of the wells and rationing was in place.
As he walked out of the Tour Pinte into the courtyard, Pelletier found his thoughts once more turning to Simeon. Twice he had sent François to the Jewish quartier for news, but both times he had returned empty-handed and Pelletier’s anxiety increased with each passing day.
He took a quick look around the courtyard and decided he could be spared for a few hours.
He headed for the stables.
Pelletier followed the most direct route across the plains and through the woods, very aware of the Host camped in the distance.
Although the Jewish quarter was crowded and people were on the streets, it was unnaturally quiet and hushed. There was fear and apprehension on every face, young and old. Soon, they knew, the fighting would begin. As Pelletier rode through the narrow alleys, women and children looked up at him with anxious eyes, looking for hope in his face. He had nothing to offer them.
No one had any news of Simeon. He found his lodgings easily enough, but the door was barred. He dismounted and knocked on the house opposite.
‘I seek a man called Simeon,’ he said, when a woman came fearfully to the door. ‘Do you know of whom I speak?’
She nodded. ‘He came with the others from Besièrs.’
‘Can you remember when last you saw him?’
‘A few days back, before we heard the news of Besièrs, he went to Carcassona. A man came for him.’
Pelletier frowned. ‘What manner of man?’
‘A high-born servant. Orange hair,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Simeon appeared to know him.’
Pelletier’s bafflement deepened. It sounded like François, except how could it be? He said he had not found Simeon.
‘That was the last time I saw him.’
‘You are saying Simeon did not return from Carcassona?’
‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll have stayed. He will be safer there than here.’
‘Is it possible Simeon could have come back without you seeing him?’ he said desperately. ‘You might have been sleeping. You might not have noticed him return.’
‘Look, Messire,’ she replied, pointing to the house across the street. ‘You can see for yourself. Vuèg.’ Empty.