CHAPTER 56
Carcassona
AGOST 1209
The French attacked Sant-Vicens at dawn on Monday the third of August.
Alaïs scrambled up the ladders of the Tour du Major to join her father to watch from the battlements. She looked for Guilhem in the crowd, but could not see him.
Now, over the sound of sword and battle cry of the soldiers storming the low defensive walls, she could just make out the sound of singing floating across the plain down from the Gravèta hill.
Veni creator spiritus
Mentes tuorum visital
Mentes tuorum visital
‘The priests,’ Alaïs said aghast. ‘They sing to God as they come to slaughter us.’
The suburb began to burn. As smoke spiralled up into the air, behind the low walls, people and animals scattered in panic in all directions.
Grappling hooks were hurled over the parapet quicker than the defenders could cut them down. Dozens of scaling ladders were thrown up to the walls. The garrison kicked them down, set them alight, but some held in place. French foot soldiers swarmed like ants. The more who were cut back, the more there seemed to be.
At the foot of the fortifications on both sides, the injured and dead bodies were stacked one on top of another, like piles of firewood. With every hour that passed, the toll grew greater.
The Crusaders rolled a catapult into place and began their bombardment of the fortifications. The thuds shook Sant-Vicens to its foundations, relentless, implacable in the storm of arrows and missiles thrown from above.
The walls began to crumble.
‘They’re through,’ Alaïs shouted. ‘They’ve breached the defences!’
Viscount Trencavel and his men were ready for them. Brandishing sword and axe, two and three abreast they charged the besiegers. The massive hooves of the warhorses trampled all in their path, their heavy steel shoes shattering skulls like husks and crushing limbs in a mass of skin and blood and bone. Street by street, the fighting spread through the suburb, moving ever closer to the walls of the Cite itself. Alaïs could see a mass of terrorised inhabitants flooding through the Porte de Rodez into the Cite to escape the violence of the battle. The old, the infirm, women and children. Every able-bodied man was armed, fighting alongside the soldiers of the garrison. Most were cut down where they stood, clubs no match for the swords of Crusaders.
The defenders fought bravely, but they were outnumbered ten to one. Like an inrushing tide breaking on the shore, the Crusaders stormed through, breaching the fortifications and demolishing sections of the walls.
Trencavel and his chevaliers were desperate not to lose control of the river, but it was hopeless. He sounded the retreat.
With the triumphant howls of the French echoing in their ears, the heavy gates of the Porte de Rodez were opened to allow the survivors back into the Cite. As Viscount Trencavel led his defeated band of survivors in single file through the streets back to the Château Comtal, Alaïs looked down in horror at the scene of devastation and destruction below. She had seen death many times, but not on this scale. She felt polluted by the reality of war, the senseless waste of it.
Deceived also. Now she realised how the chansons à gestes she had so loved in her childhood had lied. There was no nobility in war. Only suffering.
Alaïs descended the battlements to the courtyard and joined the other women waiting at the gate, praying that Guilhem was among the survivors.
Be safely delivered.
At last, she heard the sound of hooves on the bridge. Alaïs saw him straight away and her spirit leaped. His face and armour were stained with blood and ash, his eyes reflected the ferocity of the battle, but he was unharmed.
‘Your husband fought valiantly, Dame Alaïs,’ said Viscount Trencavel, noticing her standing there. ‘He cut down many and saved the lives of many more. We are grateful for both his skill and courage.’ Alaïs flushed. ‘Tell me, where is your father?’
She pointed to the northeastern corner of the courtyard. We witnessed the battle from the ambans, Messire.’
Guilhem had dismounted and handed the reins to his écuyer.
Alaïs approached him shyly, not sure of her reception. ‘Messire.’
He took her pale white hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Thierry fell,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘They’re bringing him back now. He’s badly wounded.’
‘Messire, I am sorry.’
We were as brothers,’ he continued. ‘Alzeu too. Barely a month separated us in age. We stood for each other, worked to pay for our hauberks and swords. We were dubbed the same Passiontide.’
‘I know it,’ she said softly, drawing his head down to hers. ‘Come, let me help you, then I will do what I can for Thierry.’
She saw his eyes glistened with tears. She hurried on, knowing he would not want her to see him cry.
‘Guilhem, come,’ she said softly. ‘Take me to him.’
Thierry had been taken to the Great Hall with all the others who were badly wounded. The lines of dying and injured men were three deep. Alaïs and the other women did what they could. With her hair wound into a plait over her shoulder, she looked no more than a child.
As the hours passed, the air in the confined chamber grew more putrid and the flies more persistent. For the most part, Alaïs and the other women worked in silence and with steady determination, knowing that there would be little respite before the assault began anew. Priests stepped between the lines of dying and injured soldiers, hearing confession, giving the last rites. Beneath the disguise of their dark robes, two parfaits administered the consolament to the Cathar believers.
Thierry’s injuries were serious. He’d been struck several times. His ankle was broken and a lance had pierced his thigh, shattering the bone inside the leg. Alaïs knew he had lost too much blood, but for Guilhem’s sake she did everything she could. She heated a decoction of knitbone root and leaves in hot wax, and then applied it in a compress once it had cooled.
Leaving Guilhem to sit with him, Alaïs turned her attention to those who had the best chance of survival. She dissolved powder of angelica root in carduus water and with the help of scullions from the kitchen carrying the liquid in pails, she spooned the medicine into the mouths of any who could swallow. If she could keep infection at bay and their blood stayed pure, then their wounds had a chance of healing.
Alaïs returned to Thierry whenever she could to refresh the dressings, even though it was clear there was no hope. He was no longer conscious and his skin had taken on the blue-white taint of death. She put her hand on Guilhem’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t be long now.’
Guilhem only nodded.
Alaïs worked her way to the far end of the hall. As she passed, a young chevalier, little older than she was, cried out. She stopped and knelt down beside him. His child’s face was creased with pain and confusion, his lips were cracked and his eyes, which had once been brown, were tortured with fear.
‘Hush,’ she murmured. ‘Do you have no one?’
He tried to shake his head. Alaïs smoothed his brow with her hand and lifted the cloth that covered his shield arm. Immediately, she let it drop. The boy’s shoulder was crushed. Fragments of white bone jutted through torn skin, like a wreck at low tide. There was a gaping hole in his side. Blood was flowing steadily from the wound, creating a pool where he lay.
His right hand was frozen around the hilt of his sword. Alaïs tried to ease it from his grasp, but his rigid fingers would not let it go. Alaïs ripped a piece of material from her skirt and plugged the deep wound. From a vial in her purse, she took a tincture of valerian and dropped two measures on to his lips to ease the pain of his passing. There was nothing else she could do.
Death was unkind. It came slowly. Gradually, the rattling in his chest grew louder as his breathing became laboured. As his eyes darkened, his terror grew and he cried out. Alaïs stayed with him, singing to him and stroking his brow until his soul left his body.
‘God take your soul,’ she whispered, closing his eyes. She covered his face, then moved on to the next.
Alaïs worked all day, administering ointment and dressing wounds until her eyes ached and her hands were streaked red with blood. At the end of the day, shafts of evening sunlight broke through the high windows of the Great Hall. The dead had been taken away. The living were as comfortable as their injuries permitted.
She was exhausted, but thoughts of the night before, lying once more in Guilhem’s arms, sustained her. Her bones ached and her back was stiff from bending and crouching, but it no longer seemed to matter.
Taking advantage of the frenzy of activity in the rest of the Château Comtal, Oriane slipped away to her chamber to wait for her informer.
‘About time,’ she snapped. ‘Tell me what you have discovered.’
‘The Jew died before we learned much, although my lord believes that he had already given his book into your father’s safe-keeping.’
Oriane gave a half smile, but said nothing. She had confided in no one what she had discovered sewn into Alaïs’ cloak.
What of Esclarmonde de Servian?’
‘She was brave, but in the end she told him where the book would be found.’
Oriane’s green eyes flashed. ‘And you have it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But it is within the Ciutat? Lord Evreux knows this?’
‘He is relying on you, Dame, to provide him with that information.’
Oriane thought a moment. ‘The old woman is dead? The boy too? She cannot interfere in our plans? She cannot get word to my father.’
He gave a tight smile. ‘The woman is dead. The brat eludes us, although I do not believe he can do any damage. When I find him, we will kill him.’
Oriane nodded. ‘And you told Lord Evreux of my . . . interest.’
‘I did, Dame. He was honoured that you should consider being of service in such a way.’
‘And my terms? He will arrange safe passage out of the Ciutat?’
‘Provided you deliver the books to him, Dame, he will.’
She stood up and started to pace. ‘Good, this is all good. And you can deal with my husband?’
‘If you tell me when and where he will be at the given hour, Dame, then easily.’ He paused. ‘It will, however, be more costly than before. The risks are considerably higher, even in such times of unrest. Viscount Trencavel’s escrivan. He is a man of status.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ she snapped in a cold voice. ‘How much?’
‘Three times what was paid for Raoul,’ he replied.
‘That’s impossible!’ she said immediately. ‘I cannot possibly lay my hands on that amount of gold.’
‘Nevertheless, Dame, that is my price.’
‘And the book?’
This time, he smiled properly. ‘That is a matter for separate negotiation, Dame,’ he said.