October 1210
"You can't think they're
serious." Charles protested, looking at Hughes as if he were a fool. They
sat on their horses just out of range of the enemy archers, gazing up at the
barbican from which a white-flag was being slowly but persistently waved.
Hughes stared at the flag, but his thoughts lingered
with Sir Charles. Charles greatly resented the fact that de Montfort had named Hughes
temporary commander at Termes while de Montfort, Roucy and Arnaud-Amaury rode
to Carcassonne to meet with a delegation of Cardinals sent by Pope Innocent. Hughes
understood Charles' resentment and secretly admitted he had done nothing to
deserve the honour, but he was also acutely aware that this was his long sought
opportunity to gain de Montfort's favour. It was an opportunity he could not
afford to squander. If he were to receive the surrender of the impregnable
fortress, maybe de Montfort would grant him the lordship of Termes.
Hughes twisted around in his saddle and untied his
great helm from behind his saddle. "I'll see what they want."
"They'll kill you." Charles warned him.
"Then you get to take command."
Charles snorted and looked away. He could not disguise
his jealousy, but he was man enough to be ashamed of it.
Hughes fitted first the padded, leather arming cap
over his coif and tied it under his chin. Then he pulled his great-helm over
his head. If the enemy were set on treachery, of course, they would simply use
their cross-bows when he was within range and his helm would help him very
little, but it gave him a greater sense of security nevertheless.
As he approached, the white flag went still and a man
stepped into the embrasure and shouted. "We wish to negotiate a surrender.
Who are you and are you empowered to speak for de Montfort?"
Hughes indicated his shield to identify himself and
nodded in answer to the question. Imprisoned in the iron of his helmet, his
voice would not have reached the ramparts. Nor was he sure he could trust his
voice just yet. The prospect of gaining this unassailable stronghold was too
tantalizing. It could mean the end of the gruesome campaigning, an end to being
at de Montfort's daily mercy.
"I do not recognize your arms, Sir, but if you
are empowered to negotiate then come to the gate. I am Raymond de Termes and
upon the surety of my soul, I guarantee your safety within my castle."
Hughes turned to glance back at Sir Charles and Guy
des Vaux, both waiting anxiously at the foot of the captured Termenès bastion
with a growing collection of curious knights and soldiers. Hughes rode back
toward them, told them of the offer and his intention to accept.
"You're crazy!" Charles tried again to stop
him, but Hughes only smiled at him, certain that Charles would have acted no
differently in his shoes.
Guy was free from envy, but his concern was no less
patent. "Can't you insist on them sending someone out to negotiate?"
"After de Montfort clapped Trencavel in chains,
when he came to negotiate? Who would ever trust us again?"
"They only want to return the compliment. If you
insist on going through with this, you are throwing your life away!"
Charles insisted angrily.
Hughes shook his head. "You can't compare me to
Trencavel. I'm too insignificant. If they wanted revenge of that sort, they
would seek a more important victim.""How are they to know you're so
insignificant?" Charles asked.
"You'll tell them," Hughes replied, and then
pulled his stallion's head back toward the castle and rode at a slow walk to
the gate.
"By then it will be too late." Charles
shouted after him, and Hughes had the odd pleasure of realizing that for all
Charles' jealousy, he really did care what happened.
Before the gate, Hughes dismounted with deliberate
calm, and waited. It was one of the longest moments of his life.
Then he heard the creaking of the portcullis wheel
overhead and the iron grate started to lift inch by inch. The wooden gates
beyond swung open to reveal a line of helmeted and armoured men with swords at
ready. From the guardhouse to the left, a man emerged, bareheaded and unarmed.
He stepped between the line of knights and the slowly rising portcullis.
"You represent de Montfort?"
"At the moment."
"Can you speak for him?"
"Yes." Hughes was conscious of a certain
tightening of his chest as he gave the unequivocal answer. De Montfort had not
explicitly included the power to negotiate since there had been no indication
that the fortress was nearing the point of surrender. Hughes knew that he was taking a risk to
claim he could speak for de Montfort, but he knew that any other answer would
close the gates to him again.
"Who are you? I do not recognize your arms."
"Hughes de Hebron, Lord of Betz en Tourainne.
Formerly in the household of King Philip. Temporarily in command of de
Montfort's forces here at Termes."
The portcullis reached the top with a clang. Bits of
dirt and stone that had been carried upwards on the bars were shaken loose and
pattered to the ground.
"Well, Sir, if you wish to discuss a surrender,
come in."
Hughes stepped across the line of holes marking the portcullis'
former position and into the darkness of the gatehouse. Behind him the portcullis
rattled down so abruptly that his stallion spoofed and tried to rear up.
He stopped before Raymond de Termes, and shoved his
helmet up off his face. "My lord."
They stared at one another. Hughes saw a man of
middle-years with a tanned, sunken face and long, auburn hair. The hair was
greasy and combed back from his face to hang in limp strands. He was dressed
austerely in a dark surcoat that might once have been either black or purple,
but was now an unevenly faded grey.
Raymond de Termes held out his hand to Hughes: long,
bony fingers, a signet ring and smudges of ingrained dirt. As if reading Hughes
thoughts, he remarked. "Do not scorn me for a barbarian, Sir. I was once
wont to bathe thrice in the week and I washed my hands between each course at
meals. But water for washing is a luxury in a castle more than three months
under siege."
Hughes nodded, bowed his head over the offered hand,
and then fell into stride beside his enemy/host. The knights parted for them,
sheathing their swords and removing their helmets as Hughes passed between
their ranks. Raymond de Termes indicated a wooden stairway that gave access to
a first-floor doorway in the massive and ancient keep dominating the cramped
courtyard. Hughes looked about for a place to tie his stallion, and one of
Termes’ knights came up and held out his hand for the reins. Hughes hesitated.
"We won't harm him. He could not choose his master." The knight who spoke was
young and gaunt, with shoulder-length hair and the sparse beard of youth.
Hughes turned over the reins, and mounted the stairs
apprehensively. His host followed at his heels.
At the head of the stairs, Hughes hesitated a second
time, the room before him was dark after the glaring sun outside, and it
smelled of unchanged rushes, unwashed bodies and dog. But Raymond de Termes
held out his arm to indicate they should enter, and Hughes stepped over the
threshold into the circular hall.
The air, despite the unglazed and unshuttered windows,
was stale. The heat of the summer, already fading in the surrounding
countryside where the nights were refreshingly cool, seemed imprisoned here.
The impression was compounded by the stench that hung in the air.
Advancing into the room, Hughes noted that there were
at least two dozen people collected here, presumably Cathars who had sought
refuge. In horror, he realized that several of the creatures squatting on the
floor near the door had bandaged eyes.
"Are you so surprised to see them, sir? Where did
you think they would go? Many, of course, remained with the good Pierre-Roger
de Lastours-Cabaret--"
"The ‘good’ Pierre-Roger believes in more than an
eye for an eye!" Hughes retorted more hotly than necessary, but the sight
of the blinded men had shaken him. "He mutilated every one of the men he
managed to capture in his raid last month. He not only gouged out their eyes,
he had them castrated, and then hacked off their fingers and shattered their
knee-caps."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you must understand:
Pierre-Roger is still a Catholic." Raymond de Termes spoke sadly.
"And you are not?" Hughes asked startled.
They had not yet encountered a nobleman, who admitted to being Cathar. The
Cather's insistence on non-violence made their faith irreconcilable with a
profession of arms.
Raymond fingered the medallion around his neck.
"No. I have converted." Hughes now remembered that this man's brother
called himself a "bishop" of the Cathar faith, and he glanced toward
the table near the empty fire-place half expecting to see some mitred figure
lurking there.
The shock he got was double. First, he noticed that
there was a woman waiting by the table, tall and straight and ominous, and then
he heard a harsh, young voice behind him. "My father may have converted,
but I have not! So don't think we are about to walk into your damned auto-dafés
like sheep to the slaughter!"
"Bernard, please. Sir Hughes is here at my
invitation." Raymond de Termes admonished gently before introducing his
son to Hughes. It was the young knight who had taken Hughes’s stallion from
him. Behind him was an even younger youth, no more than 14 at the most, who
Raymond introduced as his second son, Olivier. The youngster nodded his head
curtly, so that a shock of red hair fell into his freckled face.
Then Raymond indicated the table and Hughes advanced
toward the lady. The woman was dressed in a woollen gown with long tight
sleeves and a white wimple that bound her face like a nun's. She wore neither
rings, nor brooches. Her features were sharp, and her skin was splotched with
age flecks and laced with lines. She stood so straight and her eyes were so
alert that Hughes thought she might be no older than his host. He bowed his
head to her. "My lady. I did not realize you were with your husband
here."
"My lady died at Olivier's birth." Raymond
de Termes corrected. "This is Adele de Rochefort."
The name meant nothing to Hughes, but the woman
insisted, "You will know my son, no doubt."
Hughes looked at her blankly.
"He is Bishop of Carcassone -- Catholic bishop of
Carcassonne -- and I have been told he dines frequently with de Montfort and
his henchmen."
Hughes remembered the Bishop; he was a fat man with
oily features and obsequious manners, utterly at odds with the proud, stiff woman
before him.
"You needn't look so baffled. He takes after his
father." She said the last word as if it were the most contemptible insult
imaginable.
"Did you hate your husband so deeply,
Madame?"
"He was a barbarian ― much like your commander,
Sir."
"Do you know Simon de Montfort then?"
"I know what he has done. That is enough."
She gestured to the blinded men still crouching by the door.
"It is only because he is absent that we agreed
to let my father treat." Bernard announced.
Hughes looked again at the young man. He was not what
one would call conventionally handsome, but there could be no mistaking a
certain, still inchoate charisma. There was the allure of youth combined with
dawning strength and one could sense the passion that simmered almost out of
control beneath his taut, gaunt face. He had his father's auburn hair and his
eyes were a brittle grey.
"I did not want to prolong the killing ― or the
dying." Raymond de Termes explained. "I would not have mutilated your
men, sir. It was a senseless act of cruelty. I am weary of this siege, this
war. Please sit down." He indicated a chair at the square table. No sooner
had Hughes seated himself, than the Lady Adele poured for him from a silver
pitcher with beautiful enamel inlay. Hughes felt his heart start slightly. His
hand went to the pitcher as Lady Adele set it down. "That is of Saracen
manufacture."
"My father brought it back with him from crusade;
he accompanied Eleanor of Aquitaine." Raymond seated himself opposite Hughes
and folded his hands before him on the table.
Hughes met Raymond's eyes. "Then he was a devout
son of the Church."
Raymond shrugged. "I do not believe God wants us
to kill for him, not Muslims nor even the mercenaries of Simon de
Montfort." He smiled almost apologetically.
"Father, if you keep talking like this, Sir Hughes
will think we are no longer prepared to fight." Bernard helped himself to
a seat between them. "That isn't true." He addressed Hughes directly.
"We would rather fight to the death than surrender to de Montfort. We will
not put ourselves at his so-called mercy. We will surrender this castle only if
everyone in it ― regardless of whether they are Catholic or Cathar ― is granted
absolute immunity from any kind of sanction. We will not allow our Cathar
brethren and friends to be burned or blinded or imprisoned. Not one of
them!"
Hughes reached automatically for the goblet, but
realizing that none of the others had goblets or wine he hesitated. The Lady
Adele had taken a seat opposite Bernard, and Olivier leaned on the back of his
brother's chair. They watched him avidly, and none of them had anything to
drink. Hughes drew back his hand.
"It isn't poisoned." Bernard told him with a
sneer. "I'll drink it myself if you want proof." He reached for it.
"Bernard!" His father stopped him sharply.
Raymond himself took the goblet. "Forgive my son, sir. He is young. If we
do not drink with you, it is only because we have so little to spare. But if it
will reassure you...." He sipped from the goblet before passing it back to
Hughes. "Sir."
Hughes was more wary than ever. Had the father drunk because it was poisoned? to protect his
son? He put the goblet to his lips and inclined it slightly but he did not part
his lips to drink. He set the goblet back upon the table. "Your terms then
are surrender of the castle for the life, limbs and freedom of all within ― Catholic
or Cathar, high or low, noble and common aike?"
"Precisely." Raymond de Termes agreed with a
nod of satisfaction.
"You understand that you would be surrendering
your titles and lands as well?" Hughes’s heart pounded somewhat harder as
he said this. This was what he'd been fighting for for almost ten months. For
this he had left Emilie behind and alone in her travail. For this he had
endured the arbitrary leadership of de Montfort.
"I understand." Raymond said simply.
"It is an offence against God to accumulate
wealth and title." Adele added. "Raymond understands that he moves
closer to God with every step he takes away from earthly vanities."
Raymond nodded agreement, but Hughes’s eyes had
shifted instantly to the two youths. Neither Bernard nor Olivier looked as if
they shared their father's pious attitude toward possessions.
"Do you
understand what surrender means?" He directed his question to the heirs of
Termes.
"We will surrender the castle for the sake of the
lives and safety of all within it. I don't see that that has anything to do
with the rest of our lands and titles." Bernard answered defiantly.
"Bernard." His father reproached wearily.
"Stop fooling yourself. To the victor go the spoils. They always place one
of their own in the castles and lordships they take. That's what most of them
are fighting for." He smiled a little apologetically at Hughes, who could
only shrug agreement, even if he was momentarily embarrassed as well.
"They can put someone here, but they'll have to
hold it against me!"
"And me!" Olivier added in a voice that was
just starting to break.
Hughes measured them. He liked their spirit, and he
judged that Bernard should not be underestimated. But he could not convince
himself that he was not a match for them. Once he had control of the castle,
let Bernard ― without an army like de Montfort's ― try to take it from him. He
turned his attention back to Raymond. "You understand then that all your
land and titles will be forfeit?"
"Yes."
"And you are prepared to lose everything but the
clothes on your back for the lives and safety of all the inhabitants and
refugees now collected in Termes?"
"Yes - but I do mean all. You must agree to spare the lives and limbs of the Cathars
explicitly." Raymond stressed, leaning forward in his earnestness.
"Fair enough." Hughes answered. "I
agree."
Bernard was so startled that he started, his chair
scraped loudly against the wooden floor. Olivier even let out an exclamation.
Lady Adele glanced toward the blinded beggars near the door.
"How can we trust you? Did you not promise the
lives of all those at Bram?" Bernard had recovered from his surprise.
"The lives - not the limbs." Hughes found
himself defending the indefensible and he hated de Montfort in that moment.
"And at Minerve?"
"At Minerve we guaranteed only the persons and
property of those willing to be reconciled with the Church."
"I don't believe Guillaume willingly sacrificed
the Cathers, who had turned to him for protection." Lady Adele retorted.
"I have known Guillaume de Minerve all my life. I don't believe he agreed
to the burning!"
"I don't believe he was given a choice." Hughes
answered cautiously. They looked at him. "There was nothing left to drink
in Minerve when we took the town. It was a question of saving half his people or
none. He hoped, I think, that the Cathars would pretend to abjure their faith
for the sake of their lives."
"Then he was a fool!" Adele announced
indignantly. "What sane person would sacrifice their soul for the sake of
their body? In the end, even an auto-dafé is short compared to eternity."
"Have you ever seen someone burn, Madame?"
"No, but I'm sure you have."
Hughes shook his head. "No, Madame. Nor do I want
to." He stood. "Open the gates to me at dusk, and you can all―"
he twisted at the waist to include in his glance the blind men by the door,
"go free. But I must have control of the castle by dawn. De Montfort is
expected back tomorrow or the day after. You must be gone from here, beyond his
reach, by then."
For a moment, Raymond seemed surprised by Hughes
agreement. Then he nodded, “Thank you, sir.”
They both stood, shook hands on the agreement. As Hughes
turned and started for the door, part of him feared that de Montfort would be
furious about these terms, another part suspected de Montfort wouldn't give a
damn what the terms were as the castle was taken. Arnaud-Amaury might see
things differently, of course, but so long as de Montfort was satisfied, Hughes'
dream was within reach.
Hughes reached the door and stepped out onto the landing.
Overhead huge thunderheads had gathered as so often in the last days. He heard
the distant rumble of thunder and the wind swirled the dust in miniature
cyclones in the courtyard.
"At dusk, sir?" Raymond de Termes sought
final confirmation.
"At dusk, that is at least four hours from now.
You must have packed what you wish to take with you and have prepared your
departure by then." Hughes admonished.
Raymond nodded, glancing up as lighting flashed,
followed almost at once by a louder, sharper growl of thunder.
At the foot of the stairs, Hughes found his stallion
waiting fractiously. He flung up his head and his nostrils flared as the next
flash of lightning and crack of thunder came.
Hughes swung himself up into the saddle as the first
drops of rain pattered down from the black clouds hesitantly. This was the
first time the thunderheads had actually brought rain since the siege had
started. Hughes glanced up. The rain was cool and welcome after the long summer
of draught. He thought of the first rains in Palestine
Then he pulled his horse's head toward the gate and asked
for a trot. The portcullis raised before him and he nudged the horse into a
canter. The heavens opened and poured rain upon the earth in a deluge. Almost
instantly, Hughes' hair was wet and his shoulders soaked. Rain dripped off his
nose and ran down his face and neck to soak his shirt. He gave his stallion his
head and they galloped toward the bastion. The word "victory" pounded
in Hughes' head with each eager stride. Victory. After three months of bloody
siege, he had gained the surrender of Termes! De Montfort would not be able to ignore
this achievement. He had gained more than the surrender, he had gained his
coveted lordship!
The rain continued to fall in such violent torrents,
that the tents started to collapse and more and more soldiers sought refuge in
the bastion. They crowded in cursing and yet excited and fascinated by a
cloud-burst of such unprecedented violence. The thunder was almost constant now,
and the lightning was like a flickering lamp that never quite went out. The
hardened, baked earth was too hard to absorb the moisture that was flung at it
with such violence. The water ran off, tumbling down the inclines, collecting
in the smallest crevice, until each was a babbling creek running down the
incline. Every gully was transformed into a brook and the brooks rushed
together creating streams of ever greater power. The water ran white with the
dust of months, and the gurgling turned to a rushing and then a roar as the
water started to sweep the loose stones and dead wood of the summer with it.
Some of the horses panicked and broke loose from their
crude, paddock. Men and even a cooking wagon were caught and swept along in the
raging waters of new-born rivers. The shouting of sergeants and knights as they
tried to rescue what they could from the floods and the squealing of panicked
horses came through the roaring of the storm. The men hovering in the shelter
of the bastion murmured about the wrath of God and what this could mean.
But within a few hours the storm moved on. The thunder
grew more distant and the deluge let up, turning into a heavy, steady rain. The
rivers that had raged subsided. Hughes moved through the camp, seeing that
order was restored. The men cursed at the rain and mud, but the uncanny
violence was already forgotten. The news that the fortress was to be
surrendered at dusk spread rapidly. That made the damage seem less significant.
They would not need to sleep in the drenched tents, nor eat on the muddy
ground. They would sleep under a real roof, and cook a feast in a proper
kitchen. Even the horses, who now allowed themselves to be rounded up, would
have straw bedding this night.
The men bent over the sudden and subsiding streams to
wash the mud from their hands and faces. The sudden abundance of water after
the dryness of half a year was as intoxicating, Hughes reflected, as the first
warm day of spring in France, but with dusk rapidly approaching, he gave the
order for men to form up by company and prepare to march into the castle.
At dusk, Hughes swung himself up onto a
bedraggled-looking stallion, and placed himself at the head of his company and
started toward the outer-gate of the fortress. He glanced frequently toward the
tower, where the banner of Termes continued to hang limply. It was soaked, no
doubt, and too heavy to lift in the light breeze, but he would have felt better
if it had been taken in.
The castle loomed up dark in the fading light. Hughes
sensed that something was wrong. He held up his hand to stop the advance. The
castle remained dead before him.
He did not wear his helmet. He lifted his head and
listened. He heard only the rain and the water running off the crest of the
hill by a thousand gullies. He started forward again slowly, but behind him he
heard the murmuring of his men. The word "betrayal" rustled through
the ranks. Hughes cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted.
"Termes!"
He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw some
movement along the ramparts. The gates and portcullis remained firmly closed. Hughes's
heart understood that he had lost, but his head refused to accept it. He urged
his stallion forward again, and then the volley of quarrels rained down upon
them out of the darkness. Hughes’s stallion reared up and the screams and
shouts among his men gave ample testimony to the fact that they were within
range.
Hughes shouted at his men to pull back and flung
himself from his stallion to make himself a less obvious and tempting target. A
man directly beside him was curled up on the ground sputtering obscenities. Hughes
bent over him. He had taken a quarrel in his calf. Hughes let his stallion go
and the horse plunged back to safety while he slipped his arm under the wounded
man's arm and helped him to his feet. A second volley of cross-bow fire landed
around them and Hughes quickened his pace.
Charles met him, taking the wounded man out of his
arms. "The rain." Charles greeted him. "It must have refilled
their water tanks."
Hughes stopped and glanced back toward the castle. His
castle. He didn’t know whether to laugh or weep or both. The defiant expression
of Bernard de Termes came to mind, and he knew that it was Bernard not Raymond,
who had prevailed. The water tanks were certainly refilled, and the rainy
season had evidently begun. No doubt they could count on replenishment from now
until next spring. If they had sufficient food, they would be able to hold out
until well into next summer. It made no sense to maintain the siege now.
Hopefully de Montfort would see that. Hughes's heart
missed a beat. De Montfort. What would de Montfort think of this failed
surrender? They had casualties. Hughes looked hastily around and counted at
least four men who were nursing wounds. De Montfort would be sure to blame him
for not having guessed the consequences of the rain sooner. He might blame him
for having put off the surrender 'till dusk. He might blame him for the terms
he had negotiated. De Montfort might even blame him for the rain itself. In any
case, he would be furious.
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