A Special Mission - An Excerpt from "The English Templar"

“Felice, try to understand,” [Umberto pleaded.] “We Dominicans have a sacred mission. I is a mission that… that demands incredible sacrifice. Not what you think! Not just obedience and poverty and chastity.” He dismissed these virtues with an irritable wave of his hand. “It demands far, far more. For the sake of God we are forced to confront... to witness… to commit.. How can I explain?” he cried out in agony.

He wanted to share everything with her, but he knew that she could not understand. He had to make her understand. He needed her to understand — and tell him that it was all right. If she, so pure and innocent as she was, would kiss him and sooth his raw nerves, then he knew he would have the strength to go on. And he had to go on. If he retreated now they would tear him apart like a pack of hounds that had run a fox to ground.

“Felice.” He turned toward her on the bench and clasped her hands between his own. “It is good that you do not know — cannot eve dream of — the evils of which men are capable. The perversions, the depravity, the blasphemy to which some men sink…” He shook his head. He could not bring himself to tell her the truth.

I know more than you think, Felice reflected to herself. She knew now that men could tear the healthy teeth out of a prisoner or put burning iron to his flesh — to make him lie.

“There is heresy around us, Felice,” Umberto told her, diverting his own thoughts from the dangerous uncharted waters of doubt into the safe have of righteousness. “Far, far more than I ever imagined. Who would have thought that the very Knights of Christ were themselves rotten with the vilest of heresies.”

She started.

“I know, I know. You think of your uncle and your grandfather an you don’t want to believe it is true. But… but I have been taught you can trust nothing by its appearance. A man, a soul, can wear so many disguises. But to pierce the layers of falsehood to the truth…” He had let go of her hands and grasped his own head. “Sometimes… I am not sure I have the strength.

Felice waited but Umberto was staring into space, his eyes veiled, his tongue licking at his unhappy lips. “The strength for what, Umberto?” She asked gently.

“For my profession. The bishop has entrusted me with so much responsibility already,” he told her and he did not bother to disguise his pride. “I have been entrusted with a special investigation — entirely on my own. But… but it is very difficult.”

“If it were not difficult it would be no challenge and no achievement.” Felice was glad to fall back upon a phrase they had often bandied about before.

Umberto’s lips acknowledged her words with a smile and his eyes lightened a little. She was helping him as he had known she would. He had been right to come to her — and there really was no need to lay his soul bare. It was good as it was. Encouraged, he pressed ahead. “To date, there have been thousands of confessions by French Templars, but not one Templar outside of France has admitted to the vile practices we have uncovered.  That is, one Englishman, a knight who fell into our hands by chance, did confess and we sent him to Poitiers just before Easter — so the Pope could convince himself of the validity of the confession. But he escaped. Some say he was spirited away by Templars still at large and others that villagers — Cathar heretics — have given him shelter.”

Felice was afraid to breathe and afraid not to. Surely he would see how terrified she was.

“You have nothing to fear!” Umberto hastened to assure her, seeing that she looked as if she thought the Templar would come and attack her in her bed. “He had two broken legs and could do no one any harm — that is why he must have had assistance. Unless, of course, he died in the snow.”

If Felice had not known the story, she would have been thoroughly confused. In order not to give herself away, she insisted somewhat sharply, “You’re not making any sense, Umberto. Try to tell me calmly, from start to finish, what has happened — and what this has to do with you.”

Umberto lifted her hands to his lips and kissed the palms hotly. ‘You are right! You are always right. But why have I been frightening you with tales of free and escaped Templars? There can hardly be very many and we will track them down soon enough. You need not fear them. I promise you!”

He reached out and his fingers brushed a strand of her curly hair off her neck. He wanted to protect her from all harm and all evil. He wanted to keep her wrapped in a cocoon of security and luxury. No other man — not the brutal, bestial, disgusting creatures that called themselves men — should ever come near her. Better she lived out her days in purity here [at the convent] than that she was exposed to the world beyond.

“I was entrusted with finding the Englishman or his body when the thaw came, but you know what the weather has been like. It was not until two weeks ago that I could even begin my search. And, you see, that makes it so difficult to find a corpse. It could have washed away in the flood to God knows where! But if I do not find the corpse, then I must find the man. And to find the man, I must question the villagers along the route where he disappeared.”

“Have you been questioning the people in Najac?”

“Why Najac?” He asked alarmed. “That wasn’t on the route.”

Felice felt her stomach turn over. She had given herself away after all. “Because you said I had nothing to fear. I thought it was because you had already established no one there knew anything.”

It sounded ridiculous to her, but Umberto was too pre-occupied with his own thoughts to be alert to disjointed logic. “No, no. I’ve started farther south. But you see the peasants — they don’t want to cooperate. They force us — truly force us — to use harsher methods. And then it can happen… it sometimes happens that even under pressure they … they cannot tell us anything. A man who knows nothing cannot give information he does not have. But think how hard it is for me! How can I know who has information but is refusing to tell and who is truly innocent? So innocent people get hurt. Even women.” He added the last under his breath, the agonized screams of a woman still ringing in his ears.

Felice understood. He had tortured villagers — women — and she felt a revulsion that made her want to run away. But then she saw the beautiful young man she loved and she was filled with pity for him.

Umberto held his head between his fists, his elbows propped on his knees, and gazed at the tiles of the floor.

“Would it not be better to let this Templar go free than to harm innocent villager?” Felice ventured cautiously.

“I can’t do that!” Umberto protested, lifting his head sharply. “Don’t you understand? If I fail to find him, I am ruined! I will have failed the bishop and he is not a man who keeps unreliable men in his service!”

The English Templar is available for sale here.

Poor Prisoner – An Excerpt from “The English Templar”

The faint hope that they would not dare to treat knights and noblemen in the same manner as commoners was shattered on the afternoon of the 19^th. That was the day they took the ageing Sir Etienne de Mende to the torture chambers. They extracted his teeth one by one until he had confessed to everything they wanted to hear.

When the guards came and unlocked the chains at his feet, Percy felt such terror of what was ahead of him that he could hardy control his bowels. Sweat glistened on his face. Someone murmured a blessing. Someone else said a prayer for him.

He could hardly walk. His muscles seemed to have frozen. He tripped over his own feet. He smelt his own stench and was ashamed of himself. He was led along a dark, dank corridor, past a chamber full of torture instruments and into a windowless room lit by a torch. Behind a plain wooden table sat the sheriff. At his right hand sat a monk in the habit of the Dominicans. The Inquisition.

To his surprise, a stool was waiting for him. At a gesture from the sheriff, Percy sank down on it. The relief was less than expected. His muscles were not used to sitting anymore and the stool was low. His legs cramped at once and he had to clamp his teeth together to keep from crying out while he tried to shake the cramp from his legs. During the entire procedure the sheriff and the Dominican stared at him like lizards — without the slightest flicker of emotion. The guards who stood just inside the door made some crack to one another in a relaxed tone. Then it was over. He waited.

“Your name?” The sheriff asked.

Percy pulled himself together. He had had enough time to think about what he would say to this inevitable question. “Sir Percival de Lacy, second cousin of the Earl of Lincoln, subject of His Grace King Edward II of England and Knight Templar of the Commandery at Limassol, Cyprus. I hereby protest vehemently at my unlawful detention at the hands of a foreign monarch and demand immediate audience with a representative of the English Crown.” It sounded decisive and self-confident — if only his sweating, stinking body and shaking knees had not betrayed him.

Even so, there was evident surprise and consternation behind the table. The sheriff raised his eyebrows and turned to the Dominican. The Dominican leaned forwards and whispered loud enough for Percy to hear. King Philip had, of course, immediately informed his fellow monarchs of the outrageous crimes committed by the Templars and his own decision to put an end to the perversions which offended God. He had urged his fellow monarchs to follow his example, arrest the Templars and investigate their crimes. As yet, it was too soon to know the response of the English King, but he was due to marry King Philip’s only daughter Isabella in just a few months. He was sure to follow the lead of his wise and devout father-in-law.

The sheriff addressed [Percy]. “Your request has been noted. I will pass it on to my superiors. For now, your cooperation in this grave matter is requested. I am certain that voluntary cooperation will be noted with favor by both your own king and mine. You are aware of the charges levelled against your Order?”

“I have heard what my brothers reported after their interrogations,” Percy answered cautiously.

“Do you agree that the denial of Christ is a vile and heinous crime?”

Percy crossed himself. “With all my heart.”

“And the worship of some idol in place of our dear Saviour must offend every Christian.”

“It is repulsive!” Percy spoke with conviction.

“Yet both these crimes have been confessed to by your brothers.” The sheriff leaned forwards over the table. “How do you explain that?”

“A man will confess to anything to stop pain,” Percy retorted and at once wondered if he had blundered. Hadn’t he just admitted that he too would admit to anything to stop pain? Wouldn’t they recognize how weak he was? Wouldn’t they exploit it?

“But a man who makes a false confession is condemned to the tortures of hell — and hell has no end. The tortures that we poor, imperfect instruments of His will can impose are finite. They can always end in death, and that is — for the truly innocent — a release into paradise. To confess to end earthly torture only to land in the perpetual and eternal torture of hell is the act of a madman.”

“Pain creates madmen,” Percy answered. He had not prepared for these questions. He was not ready for an intellectual discussion about the nature of earthly and divine torture. He had no clue what he should say to defend himself.

…

“You do not give credence to the confession of your brothers?” The sheriff asked raising his eyebrows.

“How can I? I do not know what they confessed.”

“Ah.” The sheriff lifted the corner of his mouth. For some reason he was genuinely pleased to have a worthy opponent. “Let me read them to you… Your brother and priest, Father Roger of Saint Pierre du Temple confessed the following:

When I took my vows before the chapter, I was led into a small room beside the chapter chamber. There I was told to remove my clothes. This I did without hesitation, thinking that I would now receive the mantle of the Templars. But when I stood naked before the commander, he lifted his habit and ordered me to kiss his navel. I did so. He then turned to back on me and ordered me to kiss his ass. I did so. Then he gave me the kiss of peace.

The sheriff set the parchment aside and looked expectantly at Percy.

Percy stared back and thought of Father Roger’s hands. At the thought of someone tearing off even one of his fingernails, his muscles tensed. Seven of Father Roger’s fingernails had been removed brutally. His hands were swollen like sausages and hot to touch. Blood and pus still oozed from them. And Father Roger was the son of serfs; the pride of his family, the one son who had been allowed to go to school and whose freedom had been bought by the Temple so he could enter the priesthood. Percy knew that now. Sergeant Gautier had told him about Father Roger after they had brought him back from his interrogation.

“Well?” the sheriff prompted. “What do you have to say to that?”

“That Father Roger is a poor, miserable man, whom I pity with all my heart. May Christ have mercy upon him! He did not mean to lie but he was not strong enough to insist upon the truth.” Percy crossed himself. He did not think he was strong enough to withstand torture either.

The sheriff shifted uncomfortably. That too true. Then he suppressed his discomfort. Christ might be merciful; King Philip never. And it was to King Philip he owed his position and his wealth. “Brother Thomas, also of Stain Pierre, confessed to the followed,” he persisted mercilessly. “At my initiation I was forced to deny Christ three times —“

“As did Simon Peter on the day of the Crucifixion.” Percy interrupted without knowing what he did. The stench of Brother Thomas’ charred feet was in his nostrils. He felt nausea rising in his empty belly.

The sheriff looked over at him with a mixture of anger and admiration. He was not used to prisoners interrupting him — unless it was with screams and pleas for mercy. But the remark was correct. And that gave him an exciting idea. “You mean this was routine? Templars re-enact the denial of Christ which Saint Peter made on the day of His Crucifixion?”

“No!” Percy quickly saw the error he had made. “I never denied Christ. I was never asked to deny Christ,” he replied firmly.

“Simon Peter never spat upon Our Lord in his agony,” the Dominican entered the interrogation for the first time. He had a relatively high, frail voice.

“Not that I know of,” Percy retorted. “I wasn’t there.”

“You impudent bastard!” The Dominican sprang to his feet, furious. He thought Percy was mocking him.

The sheriff patted his arm and gestured for him to reseat himself. “But your brother Thomas of Saint Pierre confessed to it” the sheriff remarked calmly. “After denying Christ three times, he was forced to spit upon the crucifix which was held out to him.”

“Read me his confession,” Percy demanded, trying to concentrate all his attention and intelligence on some way out of this spider’s web of lies and torture.

“’I was forced to deny Christ three times and then spit upon his image.’”

Percy noted the difference between this confession and the last. The first confession had been wordy, as if Father Roger had spoken. This confession read like the indictment. They had not torn more than a yes or no answer from Brother Thomas. Or, rather, they had forced him to say yes after countless nos.  He crossed himself. “Christ have mercy. God have mercy. The Holy Spirt have mercy. My brother knew not what he did.”

The sheriff felt first a touch of satisfaction at Percy’s calm but then reminded himself that he would sing a different tune if they were applying the glowing iron to his genitals. He shook his head slowly and leafed through the documents before him. “I think you will agree, sir, that idol worship is not something that can be taken lightly, much less forgiven. Nor is it something an ordinary Christian would think up.”

“Not even the Muslims are idol-worshipers!” Percy retorted.

“Yet I have sworn confession by a brother of yours who describes in detail how the chapter met at midnight, stripped off their habits and trampled on the cross. Then they crept naked, in single file, into a chamber opened by a secret key kept by the commander. In the chamber he idol was kept and each brother bowed before the idol ‘like an Egyptian slave’ I quote,” the sheriff stressed. “’Then after we had bowed three times we kissed the feet of the idol.’ The idol according to this report was shaped like a big head with hands and feet but no body and with cat’s ears. After kissing the feet, each brother retreated backwards so the next brother could enter.”

Percy looked at the sheriff, the Dominican, and then turned and looked at the guards on either side of the door. “You can’s seriously believe that?” Percy asked at last.

“Believe it? It is the testimony of a Templar — freely given I might add, without resort to torture.”

“You think that French noblemen, men who heard mass six times a day, men who fought in Christ’s name, who when captured could gain life by denying Christ, but instead died by the hundred for Christ, secretly worshipped a head with cat’s ears? Have you lost your senses?” Percy felt his protest was much too weak, but he could not find words for his sense of sheer disbelief. The notion of such infantile idolatry was not only too absurd, it was not worthy of the Inquisition or an officer of the crown.

“Let me repeat!” the sheriff said sharply to disguise his own growing embarrassment. “This is a sworn confession — from Saint Pierre, I might add.”

“By whom, in God’s name?”

“Brother Gaston.”

“Gaston?” Percy could not place the name at first. Then it dawned on him. Gaston was the boy. The over-eager boy who had helped him out of his armor. “Gaston is a child!” he said out loud.

“He is twelve and so has reached the age of maturity,” the Dominican retorted with surprising intensity.

Percy was frowning. He did not remember seeing Gaston since the day after the arrest. Gaston had been removed for interrogation — but he had never returned. A shock went through him. “Is Gaston dead? Did you torture him so long that he couldn’t take it? Did you kill him?” Percy, get hold of yourself, he warned himself. You are losing control. Calm down. Shut up. Get hold of yourself. He sat clutching the edge of his stool, shaking and sweating, waiting for a reaction.

“I told you the confession was not made under torture,” the sheriff replied calmly, his eyes narrower. “What makes you think he might be dead?”

“Because he did not return. You took him to an interrogation and he has not returned since.”

“That is true. He was … cooperative. It was not … necessary” the sheriff glanced at his colleague “to returne him to the jail. You need not worry about Gaston.”

A chill went down Percy’s spine. Why did he feel so certain that they had done something vile to Gaston? Surely he should hate the boy for making up such ridiculous stories about heads with cat’s ears and feet! But he could not find hatred for the boy. He closed his eyes and pictured Gaston helping him remove his spurs — the last time he had worn spurs.

“Did you have illicit relations with Gaston?” The tight, jealous question came from the Dominican.

Percy opened his eyes and stared at the man. In that moment he knew this other monk had raped Gasont. Gaston had not been tortured into his confession. His limbs had been left whole. But he had been degraded and humiliated until there was not left of the idealistic youth, proud of his membership in a famous order. Percy did not answer. He stared at the Dominican until the other monk lowered his eyes.

The sheriff had been watching. He knew what his colleague had done. He had not witnessed it, of course, because he found it revolting, but he knew. And he knew that it brought excellent results like this lengthy confession. Furthermore, the boy could be produced as a witness. Cleaned up and properly worked over in advance, his testimony would melt the heart of the pope himself. Oh, Gaston was worth his weight in gold. Gaston was worth more than all the others put together — precisely because there wasn’t a mark on him. Gaston could never, never claim that he had been forced to confess. Gaston could never tell the circumstances of his confession — not without condemning himself to be hanged. That was the beauty of it. And still the sheriff found it distasteful.

He looked at Percy and he was sorry. He liked the young man. He had intelligence, dignity and humanity. It would be a pit to break him, but break him he must. 

The English Templar is available for sale here.

Cathers, Crusades, and Castles

In the 11th century AD a theology spread across Europe that challenged the dogma of the dominant Catholic Church. The roots of the theology stretched back to the dualism of some early Christian scholars, but this heresy had unique features and thrived on the corrupt state of the Church in the 11th century. The so-called Cathar heresy was particularly strong in northern Italy, in Flanders, and across southwestern France in the area where the langue d’oc was spoken and so referred to for convenience as “the Languedoc,” although this is neither a political nor contemporary term.  Because the nobility of the Languedoc tolerated the heresy, Catharism flourished there for nearly two centuries and was often referred to as the “Albigensian” heresy after the city of Albi, which was long a stronghold of the heretics.

The town of Cordes just north of Albi still retains it medieval character today. Photo: H.P. Schrader

 

It is hard nowadays to reconstruct Cathar theology, because we have to rely primarily upon the records of the Inquisition. Meticulous as these records tried to be, they nevertheless recorded the beliefs of people of widely differing levels of education, and many statements made before the Inquisition were contradictory.

Nevertheless, the fundamental belief of the Cathars was that the material world was the work of the devil – i.e., that Earth was hell. Souls on Earth were “fallen angels” or the creations of the fallen angels, condemned to be born in mortal bodies again and again. Thus, the Cathars believed in reincarnation, but not as a process of individual purification nor as a journey toward spiritual perfection. Instead, it was seen as a hopeless cycle of damnation. Furthermore, the Cathars rejected the notion that good deeds could in themselves win a soul release from material hell. Only the Cathar sacrament, the consolamentum, administered by a “pure” Cathar, could secure this grace.

The Cathars furthermore denied that Christ had, in fact, become flesh, been crucified, and been resurrected. They preached that Christ remained a spiritual being, who only appeared to have taken human form and appeared to have died. In consequence, Cathars rejected the Catholic mass, because they did not believe in the transubstantiation of the Eucharist. They accepted the Gospels, however, and the heart of the consolamentum was the Lord’s Prayer, with particular emphasis on the need to “forgive those who trespass” in order for a soul to receive forgiveness from God.

The Cathar “Good Men” and “Good Women” were believers who had taken the consolamentum and could administer it to others. They were required, if they wished to go to Heaven rather than be reborn on Earth, to abstain completely from sexual intercourse, to eat neither flesh nor fish, eggs nor cheese, and to refrain from all violence.

The appeal of Catharism stemmed from the fact that for the poor and downtrodden in the 11th and 12th centuries, the world was indeed a hellish place. Thus the Cathar explanation of man’s condition seemed more reasonable than orthodox Catholic doctrine. The Church preached, in effect, that a benevolent and all-powerful God allowed for widespread starvation, sickness, natural catastrophes, and unending wars. Cathar critique of the abuses of the Catholic Church was likewise highly popular, because the critique was largely justified – and also justified non-payment of tithes and other church taxes.

Because the Cathars denied the power of Catholic sacraments and priests, refused to pay tithes or other church taxes, and preached against the corruption of the Catholic Church, the Cathars posed a threat to the power of the Catholic Church. The fact that the local secular lords tolerated the heretics in their territories was a provocation to both Rome -- and Paris.

In 1208, after the murder of a papal legate by armed men presumed to be supporters of the heresy, Pope Innocent III called for a “crusade” against the Cathars, or Albigensians. The Pope offered to the knights, noblemen, and mercenaries who took part in this “crusade” the same forgiveness of sins and debts that he offered crusaders against the Saracens in the Holy Land. The following year, in 1209, a crusading army descended on the Languedoc and besieged the city of Béziers, which supposedly harbored a large population of heretics. When the city fell (rapidly due to a miscalculation on the part of the defenders), the invaders massacred the inhabitants of the city. Allegedly some 20,000 people were put to the sword, including those seeking refuge in the cathedral and the Catholic priests with them.

 

The walls of Carcassonne still seem formidable even today. Photo: H.P. Schrader

 

The invaders next laid siege to Carcassonne, the principal seat and strongest bastion of the most intransigent of the local barons, Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, Viscount of Béziers and Carcassonne. After a long siege, Trencavel surrendered his own person to save the lives of the city’s residents and garrison.  The victors confined Raymond-Roger in the dungeon of his citadel at Carcassonne, where he died three months later. Meanwhile his lands and titles were awarded by the Pope to the most audacious of the crusaders, Simon de Montfort (father of the Simon de Montfort that would become so famous in English parliamentary history.)

Thus, although the “crusaders” returned whence they’d come at the end of the year, Simon de Montfort and other knights and noblemen rewarded with lands taken from defeated local lords remained in the Languedoc to enjoy the fruits of their service to the Pope and the King of France. The people of the Languedoc, however, did not submit docilely to these new lords. No sooner had the crusaders gone home, than the Occitan lords and towns rose up in rebellion.

Nor were the lords of the Languedoc without allies. The King of Aragon, Pedro II, offered his protection to them in 1212, in exchange for them paying homage to him as their overlord. Thinking the King of Spain would be more tolerant of their independent lifestyle than the King of France had proved to be –- or simply appalled by the atrocities and success of Simon de Montfort –- the bulk of the lords of the Languedoc submitted. However, King Pedro proved no match for Simon de Montfort on the battlefield; he was defeated and killed at the Battle of Muret in September 1213.

Despite this defeat, the Occitan lords and towns did not submit. Simon de Montfort was forced to fight a total of 43 sieges and battles in just 9 years. This is a clear indication of how little he was accepted in the territories given him by the Pope. During a second siege of Toulouse in 1218, he was killed – allegedly by a stone flung from a mangonel (medieval mechanical stone thrower) manned by women.

His son, Amaury, tried to continue the war, receiving support from Prince Louis of France (later Louis VIII), but Amaury lacked his father’s military skills or his luck. In 1220, Guy de Montfort, Amaury’s younger brother, was killed in yet another siege, and by 1224, Amaury de Montfort had had enough. He surrendered the lands and titles for which he, his father, and his brothers had fought so bitterly for 15 years and returned to France. For a moment it looked as if the lords of the Languedoc had won.

But the Cathar heresy had not been eradicated, and this provided an excuse for a new crusade. In 1226, Louis VIII took the cross and again brought an army of northern barons and mercenaries into the Languedoc. Within 3 years, the resistance of the southern lords had been broken, and the counts of Toulouse and Foix signed treaties with the French King, now Louis IX.

This time, the Inquisition came with the invaders and established the University of Toulouse to conduct their “inquiries” into the Cathar heresy. The systematic methods of the Inquisition made it increasingly difficult for Cathars, particularly the so-called Perfects, the priests (and priestesses) of the Cathars, to survive in the towns and villages of the Languedoc. They retreated more and more to the few strongholds still defended by lords sympathetic to the heresy, notably the mountain fortress of Montsegur. In 1232, the Cathar “Bishop,” Guilhabert de Castres, declared Montsegur the “seat and head” of the Cathar Church. The castle was under the protection of the lords of Pereille and Mirepoix, two unrepentant rebels defiant of the King of France.

 

The castle of Montsegur. Photo: H.P. Schrader

 

For the bulk of the population, however, the war was lost and the Inquisition held sway through a reign of terror, while strange lords controlled the bulk of the castles and all the towns.  The sons of the local nobility, who had lost their birthright to the invaders, the so-called faydits, either sought service abroad or prepared for a final confrontation with the invaders at Montsegur.

The last armed uprising against the French was led by Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, the son of the Viscount who had died in his own dungeon at Carcassonne after surrendering to Simon de Montfort in 1209. In 1240, the younger Raymond-Roger Trencavel made an attempt to recapture his birthright by force. He was supported by many young men from disinherited families. It was some of these desperate men who, on May 28, 1242, murdered two inquisitors and some of their servants in Avignonet. It had been the murder of the papal legate, Pierre of Castlenau, in 1208 that provoked the first “Albigensian Crusade” in 1209. The murder of two inquisitors in 1242 was the final straw that that convinced the Louis IX of the need to destroy the Cathar stronghold of Montsegur.

 

Another view of Carcassonne. Photo: H.P. Schrader

In 1243, the siege of Montsegur began. By March of the next year, the garrison had suffered a number of casualties, and an outpost had already fallen to the besiegers. The defenders sought and obtained a truce. On March 16, the forces of the King of France took control of Montsegur. Two hundred and twenty men and women, some “Perfects” and some defenders who only after surrender decided to take the consolamentum, refused to abjure the heresy and were burned at the stake.

TODAY ONLY: The Disinherited, soon to be released, is set against backdrop of the Albigensian crusades. For a free review copy (pdf-file only), post a comment today including your email address.

 

Interested in the history behind good historical fiction? You’ll enjoy the following anthology of essays by authors of historical fiction: Castles, Customs and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors.

 

 

 

The Occitan Resistance

The Albigensian Crusade, which I talked about in my last post, resulted in a bitter and prolonged conflict, because the people of the Languedoc did not submit docilely to the rule of the King of France or the Pope. For half a century, the Occitan lords and towns fought bitterly for their independence.

Nor were the lords of the Languedoc without allies. The King of Aragon, Pedro II, offered his protection to them in 1212, in exchange for them paying homage to him as their overlord. Thinking the King of Spain would be more tolerant of their independent lifestyle – or simply appalled by the atrocities and success of Simon de Montfort – the bulk of the lords of the Languedoc submitted. However, King Pedro proved no match for Simon de Montfort on the battlefield; he was defeated and killed at the Battle of Muret in September 1213. In a second attempt to gain support from a powerful foreign ruler, Raymond VII, the son of Joanna Plantagenet, the sister of Richard I (the Lionheart) and John I of England, forged an alliance in 1241 with his uncle King Henry III, but the army of Louis IX of France defeated the English at Taillebourg a year later.

In short, the bulk of the fighting fell to the intractable people of the Languedoc. Simon de Montfort, the most successful and ruthless of the French invaders, was forced to fight a total of 43 battles or sieges in just 9 years. This was a clear indication of how little he was accepted in the territories given him by the Pope (the Viscountship of Béziers and Carcassonne and the County of Toulouse). He was killed during a second siege of Toulouse in 1218 – allegedly by a stone flung from a mangonel (medieval mechanical stone thrower) manned by women.

His son Amaury tried to continue the war, receiving support from Prince Louis of France (later Louis VIII), but Amaury lacked his father’s military skills or his luck. In 1220, Guy de Montfort, Amaury’s younger brother, was killed in yet another siege, and by 1224, Amaury de Montfort had had enough. He surrendered the lands and titles for which he, his father, and his brothers had fought so bitterly for 15 years and returned to France. For a moment it looked as if the lords of the Languedoc had won.

But the Cathar heresy had not been eradicated, and this provided an excuse for a new crusade. In 1226, Louis VIII took the cross and again brought an army of northern barons and mercenaries into the Languedoc. Within 3 years, the resistance of the southern lords had been broken, and the counts of Toulouse and Foix signed treaties with the French, now led by Louis IX, after his father’s death in 1226.

This time, the Inquisition came with the invaders and established the University of Toulouse to conduct “inquiries” into the Cathar heresy. The systematic methods of the Inquisition made it increasingly difficult for Cathars, particularly the so-called Perfects, the priests (and priestesses) of the Cathars, to survive in the towns and villages of the Languedoc. They retreated more and more to the few strongholds still defended by lords sympathetic to the heresy, notably the mountain fortress of Montsegur. In 1232, the Cathar “Bishop,” Guilhabert de Castres, declared Montsegur the “seat and head” of the Cathar Church. The castle was under the protection of the lords of Pereille and Mirepoix.

The last armed uprising against the French was led by Raymond-Roger de Trencavel, the son of the last Viscount.  His father had died in his own dungeon at Carcassonne after surrendering to Simon de Montfort in 1209. In 1240, the younger Trencavel made an attempt to recapture his birthright by force. He was supported by many young men from disinherited families, the so-called faydits. It was some of these desperate men who, on May 28, 1242, murdered 2 inquisitors and some of their servants in Avignonet. It had been the murder of the Papal Legate, Pierre of Castlenau, in 1208 that provoked the first “Albigensian Crusade,” of 1209. The murder of 2 inquisitors in 1242 was the final straw that onvinced the French King it was necessary to destroy the Cathar stronghold of Montsegur.

In 1243, the siege of Montsegur began. By March of the next year, the garrison had suffered a number of casualties, and an outpost had already fallen to the besiegers. The defenders sought and obtained a truce. On March 16, the forces of the King of France took control of Montsegur. 220 men and women, some “Perfects” and some defenders who converted to the Cathar faith now that they could no longer bear arms in its defense, refused to abjure their heresy and were burned at the stake.

The Devil's Knight - Chapter 6

Minerve

June 1210

 Bert was babbling cheerfully about this and that, but Hughes found it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying. His senses were preoccupied with the throbbing pain in his leg, the aching stiffness of his other muscles as he stirred, and the nauseous feeling of his stomach. Guy must have laced the wine with powerful herbs, he noted fighting the queasiness. Probably that was why the cauterizing  had seemed less vicious than he had remembered from the last wound he'd had. Certainly he had fallen asleep faster. He must have slept for a long time, judging by the stiffness of his muscles.

He had no desire to wake, but he had to adjust his position, and at once Bert's voice was nearer. "Ah ha! I thought you were just faking it, sir. Come on. Father Guy said to give you this as soon as you woke up."

Hughes could feel Bert leaning over him. He squinted up at the youth reluctantly and scowling. "I don't want any more of Father Guy's―" He stopped as he saw Bert was holding out not a goblet, but a slice of toasted bread. It looked good.

He reached out his hand for it, squinting against the light that hurt his eyes.

"That's right," Bert approved like the best nanny.

"You weren't looking so cheerful last time I saw you." Hughes reminded his squire unkindly. The youth had gone chalk white and nearly been sick as he assisted Guy during the cauteriz­ing. At once Hughes regretted his maliciousness. Bert, being highly sensitive about his general lack of experience in warfare, looked mortified at the memory. As he stumbled to find an answer, Hughes waved vaguely with his hand. "Forget it. You should have seen me, the first time I had to help amputate a hand." He sought the memory with effort. "It was one of Jean de Brienne's knights and we were in Normandy, too far from a castle or monastery to seek profession­al help. Jean de Brienne insisted on performing the operation himself and told me to hold the man's shoulders. I ended up closing my eyes." Hughes admitted. Bert grinned briefly in thanks for the confidence, but continued to look embarrassed.

It was necessary to deal with wounds before they became poisoned, Hughes reflected sinking back onto the pillows, and even if certain doctors claimed it was possible to prevent the flesh from festering by the application of certain herbs, fighting men rarely had time for such experiments. It was more important to become proficient at both amputation and cauteriza­tion. Still he felt nostalgia for lost innocence as he saw Bert fussing beside him with averted eyes. If he had not brought Bert with him, he might have lived out his entire life without ever having to watch glowing iron being applied to a man's flesh.

"Do you have any more toast? I could stand it." Hughes sought to distract Bert's thoughts, and the squire at once jumped up eagerly. Hughes’ eyes followed him, registering that he was back in his own tent and the sun was quite low in the west. He must have slept well over 12 hours. The whiney of a horse and voices drew his attention to the door-flap. The next minute the entry-way was blocked by Charles ducking through, followed by Norbert.

The faces of both men were pale and drawn, and though Charles managed a smile, when he realized Hughes was awake, Norbert continued to look worried. "Well?" Charles inquired as he helped himself to a stool and drew it beside Hughes’s pallet. "Are you going to survive?"

"Most likely. Did you doubt it?"

"Let's just say you looked less cheery last time we met."

Bert brought Hughes the requested toast and then disingenuously turned to the visitors with hands clasped behind his back and asked, "Can I get you anything, sirs?"

Hughes told himself for the umpteenth time that he must make a greater effort to teach the country-bumpkin manners. Fortunately, Sir Charles was too affable to take offence, and Sir Norbert seemed distracted, hardly noticing the squire.

"Ah, well, a glass of wine wouldn't be amiss." Sir Charles answered, and Sir Norbert nodded agreement absently.

"Sit down, Norbert." Hughes invited, indicating another stool, and the tall knight obediently dragged it over and folded up to sit like a huge bird on a tiny perch.

"Are you feeling better?" Norbert asked with a tense face that touched Hughes with the extent of his apparent concern. If he had been asked yesterday, if any of his companions cared much about his health, Hughes would have denied it.

"Yes, I'm fine. I should be up and about in a day or two. Let's hope Minerve holds out that long. I don't feel much like riding yet."

They both nodded, and Charles took it upon himself to say. "No sign of any change on that front."

"Is something else bothering you?" Hughes was convinced that they couldn't truly be this upset about his wound; certainly not now that it was already on its way to healing.

His visitors exchanged a look. Then Bert came up with the wine. "Sorry I can't serve you in the silver goblets, sirs, but somehow I've misplaced them." It was said in jest. Hughes and Emilie owned only three such goblets between them, and they had been very consciously left under lock and key at Betz. Hughes wished his squire had not drawn attention to the fact that his goblets were of tin, but to reproach him would only make things worse.

"What's the matter?" Hughes persisted. "Something de Montfort has done?"

Charles drew a deep breath and stared into his wine. Norbert answered. "He's punished Pierre."

Hughes let de Montfort's threats run through his mind again. "He didn't really accuse him of treason?"

"No, just neglect, incompetence, drunkenness, manslaugh­ter, stupidity ― did I leave anything out?" Charles asked Norbert.     
Norbert shook his head. "Nothing important."

"Hardly fair." Hughes observed dryly.

"That's not the worst of it." Charles warned. Taking a deep breath, he added, "He had him flogged in front of the entire army and put in the stocks."

"Pierre is a knight!" Norbert belaboured the obvious, his outrage finding its voice.

Hughes glanced from one to the other.

"We all know that Pierre isn't exactly the most effective knight, and he does bare his share of the blame for what happened last night." Charles was saying in a reasonable voice. "But I personally think this is going too far. None of our soldiers will respect him after this!"

"De Montfort says he'll never be allowed to command soldiers again." Norbert added.

"That's not for de Montfort to say." Hughes retorted shortly. "Pierre Amiel will now be forced to seek service with another lord, and that is probably for the best. I've said for some time now that he is not suited to this kind of warfare, which does not mean he can't do another job perfectly well."

Charles shrugged and nodded. "I agree, but who is going to give him a chance after a public disgrace like this?"

The prospects were slight, but Hughes refused to  believe that there was no place in all France, where Pierre could find an honourable, if less demanding, position.

"I've always disliked Pierre." Norbert admitted, with the gravity of youth. "it’s unfair for de Montfort to humiliate him like this! He should have just dismissed him."

"That wouldn't have shocked the rest of us." Charles countered. "He had to do something public, but he went too far."

"Did anyone protest?" Hughes asked weakly. He knew the answer before the others shook their heads.

"It wouldn't have done any good," Charles rationalized, while Norbert explained defensively. "He was in the worst mood I've seen yet. Even Arnaud-Amaury caught the rough side of his tongue. He would have flogged any man, who so much as looked disapproving!"

"Good that I wasn't there." Hughes murmured. It was not that he would have risked humiliation for another man's honour, but he was glad that he did not have to live with himself after letting another man be so disgraced.

Guy des Vaux tried to look nonchalant as he wandered idly among the tents. The sun was down now, and most of the mercenaries were collected around the canteen wagons, either queuing for their porridge or eating it. In clusters they stood about swilling watered wine and exchanging rude stories or rumours. They paid no particular heed to the Benedictine, though they invariably made way for him politely, if they noticed him. Mercenaries were not always so deferen­tial to priests, Guy knew, but de Montfort insisted upon it and could enforce his will.

A glance at the unshaved, unwashed men spearing the chunks of meat in the stew with their daggers made Guy shudder. They shovelled bread into their mouths with dirty hands on which the fingernails stood out black with grime. They laughed and spoke with their mouths full, and picked at the food stuck between crooked, broken teeth with the tips of their knives. They reeked of onion and garlic-laden sweat and chain mail oil. On their faces, necks and hands were the scars of old wounds. Their mismatched clothes, armor and weapons recorded their history of haphazard plundering. But de Montfort had no trouble keeping this rabble under control, Guy reflected, was it any wonder that he, a mere scholar, could not find the courage to defy him?

These were men, who faced the risk of death laughing. Men who could hack off their own hand with no more than a sigh of regret, if need be. These were men who could slaughter women and children, without apparent emotion one moment, and risk their own lives to rescue an old man from a burning building the next. They might share a woman with one another one night, and, on the next kill, each other in a drunken squabble. If men such as these were as docile as sheep when de Montfort roared, why should he reproach himself for his own cowardice?

Ah, but they were wolves and wolves always followed their leader, whereas he had, up to now, prided himself on being a man. Man had the spark of divine inspiration, did he not? He had the choice between his base animal instincts and spiritual elevation. A man could strive toward perfection. A priest was, indeed, committed to following the example of Our Lord.

Guy felt his stomach turn over, and he swallowed compulsively. The palms of his hands sweated, and his sides were soaked with perspiration, all because he was planning to defy de Mont­fort's orders and perform a simple act of kindness for a friend. Inside his wide sleeves, he clutched at the wine-skin as he glanced guiltily over his shoulders.

It was darker now. Men were dispersing about the camp as the cooks scraped the cauldron's empty, offering seconds to those who lingered. From the horse-lines came the contented snorting of the steeds and pack-animals as the hay was distributed. The tents of the knights started to glow luminously, as lamps were lit inside.

Guy glanced surreptitiously toward de Montfort's tent. It was brightly lit, and he could see shadows moving about inside. Abbot Arnaud-Amaury, Alain de Roucy and Lambert de Thury were gathered, as so often, for a small "council" meeting. Squires served them wine and food.

Guy started toward his destination, conscious of a desire to urinate. His body always responded to fear with this primeval urge. He ignored it, knowing it was not real. Daniel had entered the lion's den itself, he reminded himself. He did not need to go so far. The stocks were set up in front of de Montfort’s tent.

He paused behind the canteen wagon to collect his courage. His heart was pounding, and the air seemed too heavy to draw into his laboring lungs. Christ, for Your Sake, make me strong, he pleaded silently -- and keep him in his tent.

He inched out of the protective shadow of the canteen wagon, across the barren open space before the tent. The stocks loomed up dark against the fading sky. Guy consciously imagined Calvary. They had given Him only vinegar.

It was 12 hours since Pierre Amiel had been flogged and placed in the stocks. The blood had dried upon his lacerated back. His body slumped as if unconscious, held in place only by the wooden clamps around ankles and wrists. Pierre's head hung on his chest. But then, even before Guy reached him, Pierre shifted slightly in a hopeless attempt to make himself more comfortable. Guy heard the low groan of pervasive pain and hopelessness, and it stiffened his resolve. He lifted his head and advanced more resolutely. He could feel the ominous shadow of de Montfort at his back, but he knew that Christ was with him.

He reached the stocks and, to keep from speaking, touched his fingers gently to Pierre's shoulder. The knight flinched away with a cry of terror that twisted instantly into a groan of pain. The sudden motion had wrenched his cramped muscles and torn open the barely crusted wounds on his back. "Pierre!" Guy whispered close to his ear. "It's me. Guy. I've brought you some wine. It will help."

"Nothing can help." Pierre whimpered, but he lifted his head so Guy could tip the wine-skin to his cracked and swollen lips.

Guy had only managed a couple of swallows before he burst into a fit a coughing. He shook his head, refusing any more wine.      

"Please." Guy urged. "It will ease your pain."

Pierre shook his head. It wasn't the pain that was killing him, it was the disgrace. He could still feel the stares of the knights and soldiers crawling across his exposed body. He kept his eyes closed even now, unable to endure looking at Guy. He had been there like all the rest. He could not face any of them ever again. He would never be able to look any of them in the face, without seeing the contempt or amusement or pity that had been in their faces this morning, as they watched him being stripped and flogged and put on display.

Pierre hated de Montfort that he wanted to kill him. He imagined a thousand tortures for him. He wished he could spit in his face.

"Please drink a little more. I can't risk coming back again." Guy pleaded urgently.

Pierre did not want Guy's pity. Pierre craved respect not pity. If only one person would treat him like he was someone worth knowing!

De Montfort had. He reminded himself, unconsciously accepting the offered wine. When he had presented himself to de Montfort, de Montfort had asked him about himself. He had stumbled over his father's name and de Montfort had interrupted him in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't give a damn, if you are a bastard or a Turk. All that matters to me is that you’re loyal to me above all else. Is that clear?" He had asked the question with a smile, holding out his hand as he got to his feet, welcoming, accept­ing....

Pierre had kept his part of the bargain. No one, not even Arnaud-Amaury, was more loyal. Arnaud-Amaury was using de Montfort for his own purposes, and de Montfort was a fool, if he thought Alain and Lambert were loyal to him! Pierre was indignant at the thought. They were nothing but self-serving sycophants! How could a man as clever as de Montfort be taken in by them?! Why couldn't de Montfort see that all the others were loyal not out of love for him, but only for what he could give them. They were greedy, unscrupulous men, who would turn their backs on him the moment he suffered a setback. Why didn't de Montfort understand?!

"Who's there?" It was the bellow of de Montfort's voice. "What are you doing lurking about the stocks?! Get over here!"

Pierre could feel Guy stiffen.

"Get over here this instant or I'll make you eat shit!"

Guy had no choice.

"What were you doing over there--give me that! Wine? For Amiel? Just because you're a c*** -s*** priest, do you think you can defy my orders!" De Montfort was roaring, if Guy managed any kind of an answer, it was inaudible.

"Get out of my sight, you little fart!" There was a dull sound that might have been a kick or a blow. Guy gave a stifled grunt. Pierre could hear no more, but he could feel the earth shaking as de Montfort approached.

Pierre's throat closed on itself. His terror made him squirm and writhe in the stocks senselessly. The pain at least distracted him from the paralyzing terror. He could feel de Montfort staring at him, but Pierre kept his eyes closed tight. He would not look at de Montfort. He would not meet his eyes. He did not want to see what was written in them.

 "GUARD!" From somewhere to the left came a clatter and curse, as someone sprang to answer de Montfort's summons. "Unlock the stocks!"

"My lord?"

"HOW OFTEN DO I HAVE TO GIVE AN ORDER?!"

"At once!" The man could be heard running for the keys. When he returned panting, the keys clanked and turned in the lock. The upper bar was lifted and Guy fell helplessly onto the ground with a gasping groan as his lacerated skin hit the dusty, stony ground.

"Well, don't just stand there staring! Help him!" De Montfort roared. "If he were my comrade-in-arms I wouldn't have let my commander flog him in the first place! I would have defended him with my sword, if need be! But you ass-lickers don't have any sense of comradeship! All you f****s think about is your own purses!"

Alain and Lambert were now hovering over Pierre, trying to lift him up off the ground.

"Take him to my tent!" De Montfort ordered, and strode off ahead of them.

*                  *                  *                  *                  *                  *                 

July 1210

"The Viscount Guillaume de Minerve came personally." Bert told Hughes excitedly, as he helped him dress. Guy had just changed the bandages and they were white and neat above his knee. Hughes sat on a stool while Bert knelt before him. "The gates opened completely unexpectedly, and he rode straight out with a huge white banner and made straight for de Montfort's tent. His horse must have gone for days without water! It was listless and stumbled, and then it scented the water from our horse-lines and went wild. It all but threw the Viscount, and he lost control of it as it went straight through our troops like an arrow! Men jumped left and right to get out of its way. All right?" He asked as he slipped Hughes’ hose over the wound.

Hughes nodded. "Tell me about the Viscount not his horse. What sort of man is he?"

"Old ― well, completely grey. He wasn't even wearing armor. He wore a long robe with loose sleeves like a doctor or some­thing, except that there were bands of bright embroidery at the neck and cuffs. And he wore parti-colored hose and low shoes all painted and a funny hat. He looked ridiculous really." Bert decided.

"Did he kneel to de Montfort?"

"No. Should he have?"

Hughes smiled mirthlessly. "No. They are equals in rank. How did de Montfort respond?"

Bert shrugged. "He invited him into his tent and sent for Arnaud-Amaury."

       

Arnaud-Amaury was scratching his chin thoughtfully but his eyes were hard and betrayed no indecision to match his fretful hands. "I do not understand, my lord. Why here, of all places, where we lost over two-dozen of our men, do you want to show mercy?"

De Montfort shrugged his massive shoulders and one could hear the faint, chinking of chainmail rings colliding. De Montfort was alone in his tent with Arnaud-Amaury; the Viscount of Minerve had been sent out to await de Montfort's decision. "You don't understand terror, my lord abbot." De Montfort told the Cistercian. "It works best when people do not know what to expect."

"I'm not interested in terror." The abbot retorted. "I am interested in serving His Holiness, Pope Innocent III, by eliminat­ing a poisonous heresy that seeks to discredit and undermine the authority of the Church and the Pope. This town is a viper’s nest. That is why we attacked it. Literally dozens of depraved heretics have been harbored by that godless old man. He protects even the priests of their vile dogma. They deny that Our Saviour ever lived and reject all the sacraments of Holy Church."

"Most especially the ordination of priests and the right of the clergy to grant or deny absolution,” de Montfort added. “I'm perfectly aware of what the Cathars teach." De Montfort had no patience for Arnaud-Amaury's preaching. He could see perfectly well that the Cathars were a threat to the power of Rome because they denied the authority of the Church and encouraged their followers to scorn it. As a consequence neither tithes nor other fees were paid, and the Pope had lost most of his influence and ― more important  ― his revenues in this vast, rich area. De Montfort was perfectly willing to support the Pope in his campaign to regain his power because de Montfort expected to profit from his efforts materially ― and he had.

"I want the Cathars in this town to be an example to the world," Abbot Arnaud-Amaury insisted.

"Bram wasn't enough for you?"

"Bram was a step in the right direction, but I told you then that I wanted them dead."

"You had 20,000 dead at Beziers, and it didn't have much of an effect." De Montfort reminded him acidly.

"I made a fatal mistake at Beziers. I should never have allowed the murder of good ― or even pretend ― Catholics. Particu­larly not the priests."

"Humpf!" De Montfort was both surprised and gratified to hear Arnaud-Amaury admit this. He’d thought the decision had been wrong at the time, but had allowed himself to be swayed by the abbot's fanaticism.

"We must make a clear distinction between Catholics and heretics." The papal legate continued. "We must punish the Catholics for harboring and tolerat­ing heretics, but we must also forcefully and impressively demonstrate that the sins of the faithful can be forgiven -- after sufficient penance has been done. Heresy, in contrast, can never be forgiven, because a heretic is beyond the mercy of the Church."

"What do you propose?"

"If we blind the heretics, they become beggars, a burden on society, who not only litter the towns and roadsides but are also objects of pity." Ignoring de Montfort's look of impatience, Arnaud-Amaury continued self-righteously. "People forget that they earned their fate by the blindness of their souls and see in them only unfortunate victims of a cruel justice. The fate of the heretics must henceforth be a reminder of the fate of all heretics in the hereafter. The souls of heretics will burn for all eternity in the fires of hell. I think their neighbors and relatives ― all those who have been polluted by close contact with them ― should be reminded of what that means."

De Montfort gazed at him steadily for a long moment. "You want me to burn them alive."

"Yes."

They gazed at one another for a moment, than de Montfort strode to the door of the tent and ordered the guards to fetch Sirs Alain and Lambert. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "And Father Guy des Vaux."

When the others were collected, de Montfort told them of the Viscount's offer of surrender. Guillaume de Minerve requested a safe-conduct for all residents. He had offered, in a quavering voice, to abandon the town and castle in exchange for the lives and limbs of all the residents.

Now, leaning back against a table with his arms and legs crossed, de Montfort listened alertly, but calmly, as his lieutenants argued. Lambert and Alain were both adamant and relative­ly hot-tempered in rejecting any surrender that was not uncondi­tional, and not particularly enthusiastic about Arnaud-Amaury's suggestion either.

Lambert pointed out that with the Viscount in their hands, they could quickly force him to order the surrender, and then things would be over by the next day. "As for burning the here­tics," he shrugged, "see if I care, but you won't have much of a fire! They'll all pretend to convert to avoid that!" Lambert scoffed.

"And so go free to preach their heresy the moment we turn our backs!" Alain seconded him in a tone of disgust. He had never heard such a stupid idea out of the mouth of Arnaud-Amaury before.

"I don't think so." Arnaud-Amaury replied calmly, picking at a scab on his chin methodically. "First of all, heretics that abjure their faith will not just be set free, but put under Church supervision and required to do penance. Secondly, I don't think many of these fanatics will abjure their faith. They would rather die because they mistakenly believe that Hell is here on earth. They will only learn the truth after death. Their relatives and neighbors, in contrast, may yet be rescued, by being reminded of what hell means."

"And what about the garrison and faydits that gave them protec­tion?" Alain wanted to know angrily. He was less concerned with a handful of heretics, who were not fighting men, than their militarily trained protectors, who would continue to make life difficult for the occupation forces, if they were allowed to go free.

"Damn it!" Lambert joined in hotly, "it wasn't just these so called ‘perfects’ that have defied us for five weeks and, by God, it was no ‘perfect’ who attacked the siege engine! Every God-damned citizen of this town has consciously given refuge to your enemies, my lord, and thumbed their nose at your authority. If they're trying to bargain with us now, it won't be long until they collapse completely. I say wait it out, and then give the troops a free hand, or we pressure the Viscount into surrendering unconditionally at once. Once we have possession of the town, the survivors can be blinded or castrated or burned for all I care!"

"Alain?" De Montfort asked calmly.

"I agree, my lord. This bastide openly invited the heretics to come here, explicitly offered them refuge and protection. They should learn what that means. No quarter for any of them."

Guy felt very much out of place in this inner-circle of de Montfort's intimates ― especially after the incident with Pierre. True, after the initial outburst of rage, de Montfort seemed to have completely forgotten it. He had released Pierre from the stocks and attached him directly to his own household, while he treated Guy as if nothing had happened.

But the absence of punishment for defying orders only confused him. He was more nervous in de Montfort's presence than ever before. He listened with only half-an-ear to the exchange, because he was trying to figure out why de Montfort had included him.

Too soon, de Montfort turned to him. "Well, Father," (he made the title sound like a pet-name) "what do you think we should do?"

Guy moved nervously from one foot to the other.

"If you need a pee, hurry up about it." De Montfort suggested good-humoredly, and the others laughed.

Guy hated de Montfort for the effect he had, for knowing that he had that effect, and drawing attention to it. He ignored the crude joke, and answered primly, “you will do what is best, my lord."

"I know I will, but I want to know what you think." De Montfort countered. "Come on, Father," he coaxed. "You're a learned and thinking man. I want to hear your opinion."

"It's a difficult question, my lord."

De Montfort was losing his patience, but with effort he retained a friendly tone. "We all know that, Father. That's why we are giving it so much thought. Now, I want to hear what you think we should do."

Guy sensed the annoyance simmering beneath de Montfort's feigned patience. In that split second, he had to decide between support­ing the opinions of de Montfort's favorites and his real opinion. Why would de Montfort have sent for him if he just wanted to hear what Alain and Lambert could tell him? "My lord, no one doubts that you can destroy Minerve and other towns ― no one in these parts has forgotten Beziers. You can gain more by showing that there is a way out for those who submit to your mercy."

"He let the Catholics at Bram off with nothing but a fine!" Lambert de Thury reminded them in an exasperated tone.

"The image of the blinded tied together and stumbling across the countryside to Cabaret-Lastours was much more evocative than the fate of the others." Guy pointed out. He was committed now and drew courage from this fact. "Furthermore, many heretics abjured their faith, when they realized what punish­ment they faced, but we did not let them return to God. Are we not therefore responsible for their damna­tion? Will God not call us to account for taking from Him souls that He desperately loved?"

De Montfort raised an eyebrow in evident approval. He turned to look at Lambert and Alain, who dismissed this in a tone of impatience and contempt, but Arnaud-Amaury, still picking thought­fully at his chin, snapped: "Father Guy is right. We have to give them a chance to reject their false beliefs, and we have to welcome them back to the bosom of the Church, if they sincerely repent."

"There is nothing sincere about repenting just to avoid burning alive!" Alain retorted, irritated by Arnaud-Amaury's religious fervor. The more enemy killed, the more land could be distributed, and the richer he could become.

"I tell you they won't do that." Arnaud-Amaury stated unequivocally, staring defiantly at Lambert.

The fighting man gave an exasperated shrug. "See if I give a damn!"

"Then we'll do as the Abbot says." De Montfort decided uncrossing his legs and shoving himself upwards from the table he'd been leaning against. "We'll agree to spare the life, limb and property of every soul in Minerve – as long as they vow adherence to the Holy Catholic Church, and are prepared to put themselves at her mercy. Those who do not, will be deemed heretics and burnt at the stake."

Hughes could only hobble awkwardly, but it was good to be on his feet again, good to get out of the tent into the sunlight. Bert hovered beside him solicitously.

"Let me guess,” Hughes remarked, “you have laid wagers on whether I can stay on my feet from here to the latrine and want to make sure you win?"

Bert blushed, but answered quickly. "No, I bet you would trip over the gully here, and―"

"And thought you'd give me a little help. Very good." Hughes nodded as he stepped cautiously down into the dip and up again. Concentrating on his footing he did not notice Pierre Amiel coming over to him.

"Sir Hughes! It's good to see you on your feet again!" The warmth of Pierre´s greeting was genuine. Hughes was the only knight, who had not witnessed Pierre's flogging, and Pierre needed his friend­ship to replace all the illusions of fellowship that had been shattered that morning six days ago. "My lord asked me to seek you out, and inquire whether you will be able to ride with him, when he accepts the surrender of the town?"

Hughes looked up startled. "They've already come to terms?"

Pierre nodded vigorously. "My lord agreed to spare everyone, who accepts the True Faith ― life, limb and property. Only those who refuse to adjure their heresy will be harmed." Pierre spoke with the kind of wondering approval that baffled Hughes. Hughes had not forgotten the alacrity with which Pierre had advocated the immediate blinding of the heretics of Bram. But then he reminded himself that Pierre approved of any decision de Montfort made, whether it was brutal or merciful. Apparently he even approved the treatment he had himself received….

"Guillaume de Minerve has returned to the town, and has promised to open the gates at nones. My lord would like you to accompany him when he takes possession."

"You mean all of us."

"Yes, but you personally. He says you earned the honor of riding directly behind him and Arnaud Amaury."

Hughes was flattered and pleased, but he tried not to show it. He also reminded himself that it was not always an advantage to be within close range of de Montfort's tongue. Still it was undoubtedly an honor, and the first step to greater opportunities and rewards ― provided he did not disappoint or offend him.

"Pierre...."

"Yes?" Pierre sensed the softening of his tone, and felt a tension grasp him that was the dangerous prelude to vulnerability. He wanted Hughes to be his friend.

"There's something I don't understand."

Pierre waited encouragingly, and Hughes looked toward Bert, who was standing almost in his shadow listening to every word with the same eagerness with which a dog watches for scraps. "Bert."

"Sir?" He leaned even nearer.

Hughes waved his hand at him. "Sir Pierre and I have things to discuss which are not for your tender ears."

"Oh, my ears aren't tender any more, Sir. They've gotten tough as leather." He pulled at one.

"Clear off!" Hughes ordered.

"Sir!"

As soon as Bert was out of hearing, Hughes turned back to Pierre, who at once offered him the support of his arm. Hughes looked side-long at the slender man beside him. He noted the dark circles under his eyes, the straggly beard and hunched shoulders. He looked exhausted and nervous, but his offer of assistance had been spontaneous and genuine. "I've got an excellent ointment," he was saying, "It will help ease the stiffness of your wound."

"You're a good man, Pierre."

Pierre flushed.

"You deserve better than what de Montfort has given you."

Pierre stiffened and the answered defensively. "I don't know what you mean."

Hughes considered him, but Pierre refused to meet his eyes.

"It's an honor to serve him personally," Pierre persisted.

Hughes nodded. "Yes. But Simon de Montfort is not the only lord in Christendom. You could find favor with many another man."

"De Montfort is the most famous."

Hughes didn't deny it. He merely thought it sad that Pierre was willing to accept humiliations and ill-treatment for the sake of basking in de Montfort's glory. He had, by accepting the position as household knight, squandered all the sympathy he had gained as a victim of de Montfort's excessive punishment. Didn't he realize how the others made fun of him behind his back? Hughes could still hear Alain's biting remark about "once an ass-kisser always an ass-kisser" echoing in his ears. Charles had shrugged and asked: "If he places so little value on his own dignity, why should we care what de Montfort does to him?"

"It's your decision, Pierre, but I couldn't serve a man who had done to me what de Montfort did to you ― not even had it been the king himself."

Pierre's face closed. He sensed that Hughes meant well and part of him was grateful, but he felt a huge gulf between them. Hughes had been born a wealthy, nobleman's son ― pampered and loved and spoilt. What did he know of the humiliations a bastard faced? Who was he to judge what a man should accept?

And for all Hughes’s pedigree, he had not risen to Viscount either! Who was he to judge de Montfort? Of course de Montfort was sometimes hot-tempered, over-hasty and unfair. Pierre still burned at the humiliation of the flogging, but he knew that he bore the responsibility for his troops and they had been slaughtered. And who else but de Montfort had ever given him a chance? And not one chance, but two?

"You might have options, but I don't." He told Hughes bitterly.

Hughes could sense the barrier Pierre had erected, and he sighed. "I'd be willing to recommend you."

"To the king?" Pierre probed and saw Hughes flinch.

"No, not Phillip ― that would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But I could recommend you to the Bishop of Poitiers. My wife knows him well --"

Pierre shook his head and his lips were a tight line. "Thanks, but no thanks. I am not a charity case!"

Hughes sighed inwardly. "Tell de Montfort that I'll be mounted by nones."

Pierre nodded, and let go of his arm, hurrying away officious­ly. Bert rejoined Hughes instantly. "Did you manage to offend de Montfort's door-mat?"

"What?"

"Didn't you know? That's what all the troops call him. The door-mat!" Bert giggled at the joke, but Hughes didn't find it funny. He glanced back toward Pierre and felt profoundly sorry for him. Not least because he was, in his own way, intensely proud.

Copyright © 2013 by Helena P. Schrader