

Divine Vengeance

D.W. Koons

Copyright © 2016 D.W. Koons

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

Book cover artwork

© selfpubbookcovers.com/Daniela

Layout © Bygone Era Books, Ltd.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

To my loving wife,

my two children, and my parents

for their love and support.

Keep a watch, watchman there, on the tower,

For your lord: jealously he holds power,

He's more vexing than the dawn:

While words of love we speak here.

But our fear

Comes with the dawn,

The dawn, oh, the dawn!

"Gaita be, gaiteta del chastel,"

Raimbaut de Vaqueiras (c1155- c1207)

Translated by A S. Kline © 2009, with permission.

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Epilogue

Author's Notes

About the Author

One

August 4, 1209 Carcassonne

JOHAN TWITCHED LIKE A STALLION COVERED in flies. He scanned along the forest's edge at the other teams of crusaders hoisting massive ladders. Crew after crew perched at the lip of a dry moat that stretched to a distant, ominous fortress. Their bodies braced. They poised like shafts in taut bows, ready to fly at castle walls in a scream of madness.

When would they sound the attack?

It was a gamble. Hell, life was a gamble. Johan knew it—but what did he have to lose? If he had stayed at the farm, he could only look to years of shoveling muck from a pigsty. Here, he was a crusader. Honor, glory, and heaven secured by the Pope's concession. Here was a chance to pitch the farm, the filth, and the chores. And even if he died today, it would be worth it.

August heat stoked the moist air into stifling windless misery, draining stamina and testing courage. And it was only just beyond dawn. Perspiration beaded like sap at the nape of his neck and oozed down his spine. For many of the crusaders, this would be their second day of battle, although yesterday's victory over Carcassonne's northern suburb, Bourg, was no guarantee that today would be as easy. Johan had been in the third wave, and they never made it into the fortress. Today, in a way, he hoped the battle would not be easy. It was his turn, and he wanted to fight.

A ghostly chant wove through the trees like a wisp of fog, sending a shiver up Johan's back. One would have thought the monk's chanting would be soothing, like the intoned motets in a church or like a troubadour's passionate solo. This music set Johan on edge. It underscored holy purpose: to defeat the heretics holed up in Carcassonne.

Johan eyed career combatants from the north who donned decorated helmets, chain mail and tunics bearing royal crests of the lords they served. In contrast were the locals like Johan and his brother Eudes, those from surrounding villages who were promised in solidarity or drawn by duty or impelled by hopes of personal gain. Which was it for Johan? Zeal against heresy? Opportunity for a new life? Or was it simply an opportunity to flee from a worthless one?

Johan looked out past the forest to the silhouette of Castelar's crenellated parapet—a dull saw-toothed blade of a wall that loped up and to the right until it merged into the grander, massive Carcassonne with conical turrets dotting the horizon. The deep blue-black of an early western sky blurred detail, making it ominous.

Soon they would dash across the vacant moat hefting ladders. He imagined clouds of arrows surge out from those walls, and he jealously eyed the chain mail covering head, neck and shoulders of the career crusaders. Johan's quilted jacket would not stop an arrow. At least he had a helmet. Subconsciously, he edged closer to the ladder, where lashed shields provided his only real protection.

Would they just start? It was light now. He was getting antsy.

The reality was he had only heard stories of battle and what he had observed yesterday. Swordplay to this point had been with sticks and poles. He glanced down at the short sword at his belt, new and unused, dutifully secured to the leather belt hanging on his hips and strung next to his pouch and dagger. He imagined pulling the blade, slashing at foes until they submitted. He sneered in mock victory as though his opponents would merely succumb to his superior abilities. Today, he would bring glory to God and glory to his village!

Although...what good was the village anymore? There was no future in Ginestas. The second son of a poor farmer...what could that life possibly offer him?

Johan instinctively turned to his brother, to exchange a knowing glance, but the immovable log on his shoulder only slapped his conical helmet tight against his ear. Eudes stood a few feet from him, holding the opposite side of the ladder, yet Johan sensed the odd warmth of his presence, as though they physically touched. Eudes was stability in the midst of newness.

Then Johan felt the poke of guilt, for it had been he who convinced Father to let Eudes join the crusade. He had promised to care for him. He had argued for Eudes' future even though Eudes could not envision it himself. Johan sighed determinedly. No, their true destiny lay here.

"Eudes?"

He heard no reply.

"Eudes!" he said louder. His brother was probably looking at a bird in the trees or at the heels of the man in front of him.

"Johan?" replied a gruff, unrefined voice.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready?"

"Ready to fight, Eudes. Ready to fight!"

After a pause, Johan heard a grunt. "We fight? We fight now?"

"Soon, Eudes. We'll be moving soon." Johan's stomach tightened. He wanted to see his brother, to give Eudes a reassuring look—and to be reassured Eudes understood what they were to do. He wanted to be convinced he had done the right thing.

Would Eudes really know what to do? Could he fight? Would he copy Johan as he always did? What if...

Holy Mother Mary. Eudes would be fine. He was as strong as a bull. Today these brothers would prove they were not cultivated for slopping pig shit. They were crusaders for God, the swords of justice.

A blood-curdling scream yanked Johan to the moment. Chill slid down his back and iced the crooks of his knees. Hundreds of men simultaneously roared, and a rough, stentorian chant vibrated the woods.

"Huh, huh, huh, huh..."

Johan's head bobbed to the rhythm. Then, he stiffened. He felt a swell of energy too great to contain. The ladder jostled, almost knocking the helmet off his head, and when another yell rose up from behind, the ladder lurched forward and pushed Johan over the lip of the moat. Clinching the pole, he plunged down the incline along with twenty others attached to the ladder, one of a hundred, howling like wolves.

With each step, the ladder dug into the metal links along the top of his uniform. The ladder gained speed. If he lost his footing, the entire brigade would stumble and send the ladder into the ground, stabbing stringers, slamming the carriers into the rungs or into each other. And just as he had that thought, his left boot caught a rock, and his ankle buckled. Momentum dragged him along as he clung to the ladder, stumbling and lunging to regain his footing as the crew leveled onto the moat's flat expanse. Johan looked up as he regained his footing. The wall ahead had doubled in size.

Pounding soles, grunts and bellows, the team fell into a rhythm as they charged across the field. Then, in the midst of war cries and stomping, Johan heard a dissonant sound. Singing? It was Eudes... He was singing! Did Eudes really understand what was happening? His brother might have been older by three years, but he was not treated as the elder son who would inherit the farm. He was treated as a simpleton. They ridiculed his looks, his speech, his...his dull wit. Father was embarrassed. Mother coddled him like a child.

Heartless idiots. Johan knew Eudes was a man. Why should Eudes stay on the farm only to be safe? Why shouldn't he share in the joy of manhood, of conquest, of glory for God, any less than Johan? Johan knew his brother. He had seen Eudes provoked to the point of blind fury, erupting with flailing limbs, stocky and muscular, pummeling like tree trunks, to the point of almost killing. No, Johan did not need to worry about taking care of Eudes; it would likely be the other way around.

Johan's toe tripped on a rock and made him refocus. Now was the time to think of battle. Their purpose was to set the ladders against the wall, breach the parapet and fight into the fortification. Securing Castelar would mean they surrounded the larger castle, Carcassonne, their final objective. The question was who would be the brave one to mount the ladder first?

Johan jut forward his jaw. It would be Johan de Ginestas, followed by his brother.

Halfway across the moat, a barrage of projectiles erupted as though a hailstorm broke loose above them. If it were not for the panels of wood and occasional shield lashed to the front side of the ladder, now covering them, rocks the size of bread loaves would have crushed heads. The reverberating twang of an arrow hit above Johan's fingers on the outside log, and it made him flinch, sending a surge of energy up his arm. Then another arrow split through the wooden panel to his right, above him—the point pierced through, splintering the wood. From his left and right, above and behind him, screams echoed.

Motion jerked his attention to the southern expanse. Other teams approached the wall like rigid caterpillars dancing across an open field. Not all ladders had protective covering, and he saw bodies crumple like jettisoned scrap as the waves of arrows continued to hit. Johan suppressed a surge of fear and focused on the wall in front. He must not get distracted.

How long would it take to cross the moat?

Arrows rained in waves. Someone behind screamed, and the weight of the ladder increased. He wanted to turn, to see who had been hit, if it was one of his friends from Ginestas. But he forced himself to press forward. He released another howl.

Johan thought the men in front had been hit as the ladder abruptly careened forward and hit the ground. Shouts from behind made Johan realize they had reached the base of the wall. He turned to his brother.

"Push, Eudes! We must lift the ladder."

The ladder rose, arced forward and thudded against the wall. For a moment, the crusaders cheered as if they had accomplished their task and could idly walk back to the encampment. But, another barrage of rocks and arrows pummeled them. Three men went down with arrows impaled in shoulders and necks.

"Quick, under the ladder!"

Johan yanked Eudes by the arm, for he was staring at the men thrashing on the ground. Few of the original twenty men remained, and as they huddled under the protection of the ladder and shields, Johan looked out and saw Bertran and Alard, two of his friends from Ginestas, lying twenty feet from the ladder. Neither moved. An arrow was imbedded in the crook of Alard's neck. Bertran's head was misshapen, covered in blood. Johan squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered.

He took a deep breath and exhaled through clenched teeth. He peered up the long pole at the lip of the wall, and he pulled his sword. Gripping it, point held vertical, Johan swallowed. This was the moment.

"Draw your sword, Eudes! It's up the ladder and into the castle. Strike all you meet, for they are going to try to kill you." Then he added, "And me."

Eudes pulled his sword and mimicked Johan. He exhaled what sounded like a short laugh and said, "I kill them first."

"Are you ready to challenge the wall?" Johan shouted to the remaining soldiers.

He heard several ayes although clearly not all had responded. Johan prepared to propel himself around to the front of the ladder. He dug his heels and cocked his knees.

Then he heard a cry from the other side of the moat. A yell went up again, and it echoed up and down the moat as each group of men passed on the message. They had sounded retreat. Next came laughs and jeers from above them.

"No!" Johan's jaw pulsed, grinding. His sword quivered. He regarded the wall; he looked across the moat to see soldiers dashing up the opposite side. Movement came from behind, and three crusaders charged out from the ladder and darted toward the opposite bank.

"We can still fight!"

"But they have signaled the retreat," said a soldier behind him. Two more departed in frenzy.

Johan yelled and struck the pole with his sword, dislodging a wedge of pine. Eudes copied, although he was only able to tap at the shield in front of him.

"Come, we must go," said another crusader in a low, gravelly voice. "We plan another tactic. Look, Castelar is prepared to fight, unlike Bourg. We must retreat, for now."

Johan turned and looked into a scarred face, an older man with flecks of grey in a matted beard.

"We cannot retreat," Johan insisted.

"There will still be time to fight. Don't be a fool." A shove and the crusader took off running across the moat, followed immediately by the remaining, leaving only Johan and Eudes.

"We run?" Eudes asked.

Johan looked up again and then back across the moat. He slammed his sword into its leather scabbard and slapped his hand against the pole.

"Damnation!"

Then, Johan grabbed Eudes by the right arm and drug him into a wild sprint back across the moat.

"We must go back and forth so they cannot hit us."

They dashed in a zigzag pattern, dodging strewn weapons and motionless bodies. With each step, Johan felt an arrow would suddenly slam into his vulnerable back. He flinched and ducked as shafts flew by and stabbed the ground ahead of them. His lungs burned. Why had they not taken one of the shields lashed to the ladder?

Finally, Johan reached the far end of the moat and mounted the incline. On the rim above, soldiers waited and watched, safely out of arrow range. But when he scaled half way up the slope, it dawned on him he no longer heard footfalls behind or heavy breathing. He froze. Then he turned, frantic. His heart stopped. Where was Eudes?

He scanned the moat in a frenzy, his vision landing on objects, strewn bodies—looking for something familiar, spotting a grey jacket, not Eudes', heart thumping, looking, searching. He saw no other figures running, only lumps heaped haphazardly. A vacuous graveyard. Where was Eudes? He was... He had been...

Then a faint, distant call, "Johannnn!"

He followed the sound. About a hundred feet away, below in the moat, lay Eudes, prostrate, head arched up, sloped forehead, bulging eyes, mouth agape, large lips quivering. Johan tensed to dash to Eudes, then he hesitated. He winced. Impaled in Eudes' back was an arrow.

Two

Three days earlier. August 1, 1209 Carcassonne

BROTHER RAIMON RESIGNED HIMSELF TO pressing bodies, jabbing elbows, the foul odor of a thousand mouths, to shins scraped by cases and farm implements and the absurdities people chose to save from their homes. He could not but think how each person's objective of getting through the gate and into Carcassonne could be satisfied if they would simply work together. The crowd shook like a cramped muscle with palsy.

Hundreds had fled Castelar when they heard of the attack on Bourg. Now they pressed into the narrow western Toulouse gate hoping for the protection of Carcassonne's massive walls, hoping to escape the horde of crusaders bearing down upon them. People jostled and shoved and cursed.

The tension periodically eased, cautiously, as though urgency and fear had paused to fill their lungs, and the tight ball of bodies relaxed and took a step forward. Only for a moment though, for as if startled by a sudden scream, they cramped again, halting progress. At this rate, he would never make it into the cité by sundown.

Raimon thought of the peace and solitude of Prouille's monastery—less than a day away. If Raimon could turn around and walk away and get out of this confining vice, he might...yet he knew he could not forego his mission. Brother Anseau depended on him.

Raised voices spewed obscenities. Raimon wanted to lift a calm finger and chide the parishioners, to plead for decency, but his arms were trapped to his side. Dust filled his nostrils, and he fought to keep from coughing.

The clamor and the commotion were interrupted by a discordant sound, and even though not loud, it picked at his awareness. It wasn't a curse or an angry retort, but a meek, slightly shrill woman's voice which came from somewhere nearby. Raimon cocked his head, as though the words reached into his awareness to grab his attention, like hearing his name amidst hundreds of voices.

"Help, Please!"

Raimon looked about, searching for the voice, but he could barely move. He was forced to wait until the mob relaxed its grip.

Resigned, he gazed up at massive columns standing to either side of the Toulouse gate. Carcassonne's conical caps reflected the afternoon sun off shiny black slate. Walls and towers with their miter crowns and stilled flags spread out like a massive hand balancing the sky. Soldiers staring out narrow arrow-slit windows eyed the melee below. To the left and right along the parapet an audience gathered to gape at the commotion.

Perspiration flowed from Raimon's not-too-recently tonsured head, down through dark oily hair and a four-day stubble that looked more like a disheveled beard. He should have removed his scapulary, for the white rough woven monk's robe was hot enough for this August day, too hot, but there was not much he could do about it now. There was nothing to do but submit to the crowd.

There, again, he heard the cry, "Please!"

It sounded closer than before, which seemed impossible for there had been no progress.

The odd reality was that he should not even be there. He knew the crusade made its way to Carcassonne from Béziers. He knew Carcassonne prepared for battle, and in preparation, the Viscount Raymond-Roger burned the surrounding fields, amassed weapons and fighters and cleared out the suburbs. But how could Raimon not come? Brother Anseau lay in a cot in Prouille, in dire need of medicines the monastery did not have. Brother Anseau had already experienced the horror of crusade. Raimon had hoped to preempt the crowds by arriving early and making a quick stop at Saint-Nazaire-Saint-Celeste to visit Father Mattieu, pick up needed herbs and be on his way back to Prouille the same day. Now that was futile. The crusade had come earlier than he thought, and the residents knew the suburbs would not offer as secure a place as the main cité within Carcassonne's walls.

Something jabbed into the small of his back, and he wrenched to his left to avoid the pain.

Then he heard the woman's voice again, coming from farther to his left, persistent, as though aimed directly at him. Raimon shoved as hard as he could, grunted with each successive push and wedged his way toward the cry.

"In...the...name of...God."

And then he saw her. She knelt next to a prostrate figure, trying to cover it with her own body. People trampled, heeding them no more than refuse on the road. She wore a black robe, and Raimon instantly recognized it as that of a perfect, a Cathar priestess or credente. Despite the heat and the crowd, her hood covered her face, making her look like a bobbing cinder in a disrupted pond. A Cathar. One of the many in this region who were the targets of the crusade. One of a religion that was claimed a heresy, diametrically opposed to the orthodox views of the Church. But one to whom Raimon would gladly share views with the hope of dialog, for Raimon and the monks at Prouille worked to balance the forceful arm of the Church.

Another shove and Raimon was next to the woman...and then he almost toppled over her as the crowd surged. He pushed back to no avail, trying to avoid stepping on either of the figures, arms splayed, until the mass retracted again and he found himself next to the woman.

"Let me help you," he shouted above the din.

When the woman looked up, Raimon froze. Despite the black garb, perspiration, wearied look and dust, her face shone like a Madonna. It was the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Raimon had always been a pragmatic monk who enjoyed the company of women despite the strict regulations of the Cistercian order. But the feeling in this instant was different from any encounter he ever had. Normally, he would make a mental comment of the particular looks of a woman, thanking God for the beauty of His Creation, and move on. This woman's looks weakened his knees and gummed his mouth so he remained perched over her, a mute, staring, noting her smooth white skin, her oval eyes with a glitter of green and hazel, her delicate mouth and full lips. Lips that moved.

She was saying something. Raimon blinked. The crowd and its motion, which must have been temporarily blocked from his awareness, returned, and slapped him into the moment.

"My father!" she repeated. "Please help."

Raimon glanced at the man on the ground. People trod on his legs and stumbled against his torso. Raimon looked back at the woman and this time noticed a stream of moisture flowing down from the outside corners of her eyes and gathering along the underside of a soft but proud chin. A trace of moist dust outlined the tear trail. Behind her eyes, Raimon saw terror.

In a snap, he pushed and shoved at the crowd who encroached on the father.

"Move! Clear off. In God's name..." He stepped over the man to the other side and used his own body to create space around them. "Take his arm and shoulder, and lift," he shouted to the woman. She nodded and braced herself.

Heaving, they pulled the man up to a near-standing position. His legs would not function; he was unconscious, or—Raimon feared—dead, for he weighed more than a frail old man should. And then as though relieving pressure from the bubble they had created, the assembly collapsed upon them. The crowd pushed Raimon off balance. He yelled out of frustration, "Stop!" and heaved ineffectually against a wall of bodies. Only when they recoiled was he able to gain his footing, and he quickly bent over and lifted the old man on to his back.

Slowly and methodically, Raimon plodded through the crowd until he reached a short wall, knee high, that lined the path entrance to the gate. He stumbled over the ledge and crawled, still carrying the old man on his back—he assumed the woman was following—onto a grassy and rocky hill that ran up at a sharp angle to the castle walls. Even more people were scrambling up the incline and attempting to merge in to the crowd, to much arguing and fist-shaking. Raimon fought against a strong tide until, finally, the commotion cleared, and he gently lay down the old man. Then he collapsed, gasping for air.

Raimon watched the woman pass below him and step gingerly over her father's feet. She sat on her left side, regal as though side-saddle on a horse, and caressed her father's forehead.

Raimon's heart throbbed in his throat. He wiped perspiration from his forehead and thought to remove his scapulary. Then, hypnotically, he stared at the woman, watched her every move, noted concern on her face, the delicate eyebrows that framed her eyes, the soft wisps of brown hair floating from the hood beneath dainty, smooth ears and tiny lobes. She bent over and softly kissed her father's forehead. Raimon felt his own lips pucker. Then she glanced up at Raimon. Immediately, she looked back at her father as if embarrassed.

Raimon bit at his lower lip, feeling stupid for what he must have looked like. Swallowing, he spoke. "He needs aid, but I see no way of getting into the city for some time." Raimon looked back at the gate and followed the massive crowd down the angled walkway. At a point some forty feet below the gate, the track split. To the west, numbers of people lessened as the trail descended to the Aude River. But the route south and then east to Castelar was packed, as was the area between the pathway and the fortress walls.

When Raimon returned his attention back to the woman and her father, she spoke.

"We were trying to leave Carcassonne."

"Leave? But surely not with the crusaders..."

"We were with a larger group from up north, from near Béziers, but we got separated. They wanted to reach Montsegur. I think we should have gone to Minerve and not even come to Carcassonne." Her voice quivered. She looked back at her father.

Raimon had heard of Montsegur, a heavily fortified Cathar castle built on a plateau. He was not familiar with Minerve. Raimon had only been in this part of the country for the past year, focused mostly on the path from Prouille through Carcassonne and toward Fontfroide and Béziers. What had started as a sabbatical to the Fontfroide monastery from his home in Santes Creus, south of the Pyrenees, had turned into an enigmatic year of conflict and confusion. Everything had happened so quickly. One moment he was on sabbatical, the next he accompanied Brother Anseau and a papal legate to preach—or rather lecture—to Cathar blasphemers and vehemently extol the virtues of conversion over burning. Now legate Pere de Castelnau was dead, murdered by a Cathar soldier, Béziers had been sacked and thousands put to the sword, and Anseau lay on a pallet in Prouille recovering—Raimon hoped—from massive wounds.

"I come from Prouille," Raimon pointed to the west.

"You are a..." The woman eyed Raimon's garb. "A priest?" She spoke in the local tongue, Occitan, which Raimon had easily picked up as it was similar to his dialect from Barcino in the south.

"I am a monk. Priests are attached to churches. We monks live in monasteries, work the land and serve the needs of the people." He hoped his explanation was not as biased as it sounded. He knew the Cathars rebelled against the Church and its institution. They would not be as familiar with his branch of Cistercian belief.

The woman nodded. She did not seem to display any animosity. "My name is Guilelma." She looked down with sad eyes. "And this is my father, Artal."

As if hearing his name, the old man moaned and rolled his head back and forth slowly, eyes closed.

"Rest, father," Guilelma said softly. "We will get you aid soon." She looked up, hopeful.

"Yes. Somehow this crowd has to enter, but I don't know how long it will take." Raimon looked back at the horde. Then after a few moments, he returned his gaze to Guilelma. "My name is Raimundus de Barcino, or...Raimon, to...ah...friends."

Guilelma offered a meek smile, and then she returned her attention to her father.

Not wishing to lose the moment, Raimon continued. "You said you came from near Béziers. Did you know of the siege there of that city?"

"Yes," Guilelma said without looking up. "I come from a village near there. Although we did not see it, we heard stories of how the crusaders slaughtered the entire city in one day." Guilelma then glanced up with a pained expression. "It was a city founded on tolerance and yet the abbot chose to kill everyone." Now Raimon saw anger in her eyes. He hoped she was not channeling that anger to him. He was, after all, a monk of the Church.

"Yes, I had heard." Raimon swallowed. "The Church is in a sad situation. There are those of us who do not agree with the Pope."

"Is that possible? For a monk to not agree with the Pope?" Guilelma's tension was palpable.

"Possible, yes." Raimon paused. "How much disagreement he will abide, that is yet to be seen." Raimon wondered how benevolent the crusade would be toward Carcassonne and its viscount Raymond-Roger Trencavel, known to have Cathars as well as Jews in his court. He wondered how benevolent the Pope would be to the monastery at Prouille, and its founder Domingo, who espoused a tolerant, peaceful approach to the Cathars. Supposedly, the Pope sanctioned both the crusade and Domingo's efforts.

"Brother Raimundus!" A call echoed from above, as though from the heavens. Raimon looked around.

"Brother Raimundus!" It came from behind him. Perched on his elbows, Raimon craned his neck to look back and up the incline. A young priest scampered down the slope, holding his robes above his knees and looking down to avoid stumbling on the rocks.

Raimon pushed himself up to stand, leaning into the incline, as the young priest came upon them, sliding to a stop before barreling into Raimon. The young priest did not look familiar.

"Father Mattieu..." The priest, out of breath, paused a moment to regain his composure, hands on hips. "Father Mattieu watches from up there," he turned and pointed up to the crenels to the left of the gate. Raimon saw a familiar silhouette wave to him. He waved back.

The priest continued, "Are you in need of help?"

Raimon blinked. "Yes! We must get this man inside. The crowd has trampled him."

"Please. He's my father," Guilelma added. As she spoke, Raimon noticed she had replied in the common tongue, switching seamlessly from the Occitan, the local language they had been speaking. The priest, gazing upon Guilelma for the first time, looked briefly taken aback. Raimon was not sure if the reaction spoke of his discomfort of her as a Cathar, or if he, like Raimon, was startled by her beauty.

"Yes, of course. We can take him in through the soldier's gate."

"Very good," Raimon said. He stepped to the other side of the father. To the priest he said, "Help me carry him, and you mark the way."

The priest nodded, and the two hefted the old man up the sharp gradient. Raimon could not see where they headed, for he hunched forward carrying most of the father's weight. Soon his legs burned with exertion. As he slowed, ready to rest, the priest stopped, gasping for air.

"A moment, please, Brother Raimundus."

Raimon nodded. He could only crouch, heaving, to acknowledge his agreement. In a few moments, his breathing slowed. He glanced over at the priest, who when catching his eye, nodded, and they continued their climb.

After two more stops, they came upon the wall, and the slope leveled off for the last four feet. Raimon's heart pounded rapidly, and he found it hard to get enough air into his lungs.

The priest moved them to the right, and Raimon noticed a staircase etched into the stonework. Narrow steps led to a thin arched alcove hiding a heavy and thick door covered in wrought iron. The door rasped open, and an older priest, in his sixties with well-groomed white and silver hair, effervescent eyes and a familiar large smooth nose, poked his head out, smiled, and said, "Brother Raimon; I thought it was you. What has happened?"

"There is much to tell," Raimon responded. He detected a surprised look on Father Mattieu's face, and then he became aware of Guilelma's silhouette in his periphery.

For a moment, Raimon felt a pang in his stomach as he turned to see Guilelma catch up to them, also out of breath. She swayed as though she could not keep her footing.

She was trying to say something but it would not come out. Simultaneously, a moan came from the ailing father. Father Mattieu gasped and reached out to Guilelma. Raimon turned to see Guilelma's eyes roll back; she collapsed and began rolling back down the hill.

Three

JOHAN SLID TO A STOP AND CRASHED TO HIS KNEES. A dreamlike haze blurred his peripheral vision. His gaze pinpointed on the shaft imbedded below Eudes' right shoulder blade.

"My God, Eudes. What happened?" he asked, and then realized the stupidity of his question. His hands splayed as if to hold Eudes' head, but they remained suspended in mid-air, trembling. "Can you move?"

"My back hurts, Johan." Spittle foamed at the corners of Eudes' mouth. He sounded like a young child whining to his mother. A swell of crimson pooled at the entry point, and seeping into the jacket's quilted material, a smear of blood spread.

"You have to get up, Eudes. We have to get you out of here. Can you stand?" Johan tentatively grabbed the quilted jacket at Eudes' shoulders. Slowly, he pulled.

"Ahhh! It hurts, Johan. It hurts."

"I know. But you must stand." His voice cracked. "We have to move. Now!"

An arrow slammed into the ground at Johan's right. He recoiled, shifting Eudes, for he still gripped the jacket. God damn those heretics! He knew they had to use their strongest archers to reach this far. Eudes moaned. Then another arrow fell short, and Johan jerked into action. In one motion, Johan pulled Eudes to a crouching position and shoved his shoulder into Eudes' armpit. Eudes released a mournful wail, like a bellowing cow. Johan paused briefly, wincing, then pulled Eudes' arm over his shoulders, stood and hobbled, dragging Eudes' feet across lumpy grass toward the moat incline. Another arrow stabbed the ground next to Johan's foot.

"You can do it, Eudes. Come on!"

Then another arrow, and another behind him; he only heard the splitting air and the thwack, like a strange beast stomping, chasing him step by step across the moat. The closer to the incline, the more distant the sounds. Johan became aware of Eudes' sporadic grunts with each difficult step.

Oh, God. He should never have brought Eudes to the crusade. What was he thinking? What would happen now? Oh, God. He pulled and lugged his brother up the incline. Half way up, two soldiers dashed down and helped pull Eudes up the rest of the way, taking him off Johan's shoulder. Eudes' head lolled side to side. He was unconscious.

"We must take him to the infirmary," said a tall, bulky man. In a glance, Johan saw a long scar above the crusader's left cheekbone that ran across a grizzled and pockmarked face. Pitch black hair protruded from a dented and rusty helmet, and perspiration gathered along a hairy brow. "This way." He pointed and led them into the trees, picking up the pace.

"Can we not take out the arrow?" Johan pleaded.

"Better to leave it. To remove it would make the wound bleed far worse. The doctors will know what to do."

They trudged through trees, congregating soldiers, stacks of armaments, tethered warhorses, and gawking pages. Johan became more and more agitated. His gut felt distended. What was going to happen to Eudes?

Soon the trees opened into a clearing, and erected in the middle was an expansive tent. At first, Johan thought he heard the sound of dozens of flying insects, swirling in a high-pitched whine, but the closer they came to the tent, he realized it was a collective wail.

A weary young monk with wide eyes and drooping mouth ushered them near the center of the tent, close to a massive pole that rose to the apex holding up sagging grey material. No words passed between them. He had them place Eudes on the ground in a rare open spot among the injured. Shapes lay scattered about in no real order, forcing the helpers to tentatively step over battered legs and heads wrapped in bloody linen. Most were recent casualties, the seeping wounds still bright red. Some around the perimeter looked to be the injured from the Bourg attack. They were quiet, morose, and passively eyeing the commotion.

The monk motioned to the only doctor, a man wearing the traditional red robe and a black floppy hat. With stern face, the doctor nodded and barked out instructions to other monks who stumbled about the tent attending to various tasks. They looked weary...and it was only the second day of battle. One such monk, thin and cadaverous with contrasting black tonsure, brought linen to wrap the wound of the soldier next to Eudes. Crouching, he paused and placed the linen on the ground. Reaching down and holding his hand in front of the man's mouth and nose, he hesitated, then looked up as the doctor approached. He shook his head. The doctor shrugged, wiped his hands with a rag, and then looked at Eudes.

"What have we here?" Other than a damp brow, the doctor appeared nonchalant, imperturbable.

Johan formulated an irritated retort stating the obvious, but as he opened his mouth, the doctor turned and yelled, "Bring the probe and spoon." He knelt next to Eudes, shook his head and gently pressed at the base of the arrow. Eudes did not move.

Looking up briefly at Johan, the doctor said, "He'll need some leather."

Johan returned a blank stare.

"In his mouth. Good heavens man, to bite! Have you never been at battle?" The doctor shook his head as Johan blinked. And then Johan understood what the doctor was asking, looked at his hands, pulled off one of his gauntlets and handed it to the doctor.

"Here, bite on this," the doctor instructed Eudes. But Eudes did not move. Johan knelt next to Eudes, opposite the doctor, and held the glove to Eudes' mouth.

"Eudes," he said softly. "Eudes?" Johan patted the side of Eudes' face. His eyes flickered open and stared up at Johan. Large brown, pained, heavy-lidded eyes. Johan said, "Open your mouth." Eudes slowly opened his mouth, lips trembling. "Now bite on it."

First, the doctor took a large knife, stuck it into the hole next to the arrow, and at an angle began to cut up along the quilted material of Eudes' jacket until he had created an opening the size of a fist. Then he took an iron tool that looked like a long rod, hooked at the end, and with his left hand placed the hook at the base of the arrow shaft and pulled at the skin, exposing muscle and more oozing blood. Eudes went rigid and moaned through his nose as his teeth clamped onto the gauntlet. With his other hand, the doctor took a diamond-shaped tool, like a tiny spatula. He pulled with the probe while working the arrow spoon into the wound. Eudes cringed and released a resounding groan, like a forlorn bear. Johan winced in sympathetic pain.

"Hang on Eudes," Johan said in a whisper. Another maneuver from the doctor, and Eudes arched his back and let loose a shrill cry. The gauntlet fell from his mouth.

"Ahhh!"

Johan went rigid. He wanted to stroke Eudes' hair. He wanted to tell him everything would be all right. He wanted to touch Eudes and make the pain go away. But all he could do was fix his eyes on the doctor's implements as they jammed into Eudes' back. Blood poured from the wound. Deep maroon, almost black.

"There," the doctor finally said. "Got it... You see," he turned to Johan as if instructing him in class, "once you get the tip of the arrow into the spoon, we can extract it without the arrowhead tearing at the surrounding mass." He slowly pulled the arrow out, working it back and forth in slight movements as though clearing room in the hole in Eudes' back. Eudes jerked spasmodically. "Ahh...ahh...ahh..."

"There we are," he said as he removed the arrow. Then he yelled, "Cauter!"

Eudes' body was as stiff as wood. His face froze in a grimace as though extracting the arrow had locked every muscle. Johan leaned forward to tell Eudes the worst was over just as a monk approached them holding a red-hot poker. Then before Johan could warn Eudes, the doctor took the poker and thrust it into the bloody mass as though branding a steer. Eudes' head arched up, as did his feet. He shook and bellowed. Several turned to look. Johan closed his eyes and gripped Eudes' arm. He felt a stab of pain in the middle of his own back. The hiss of hot metal against blood. Steam rose as the doctor cauterized the wound. Bile rose in Johan's throat, and he tried not to think about the stench; it smoldered like burning hair and skin. Then Eudes went silent, and Johan felt him go limp. As Johan opened his eyes, he saw Eudes' face hit the ground.

The doctor rose and handed the cauter to his assistant.

"There we are."

Then pulling a rag from his robe, he wiped his hands, nodded and moved on to another patient. Johan stared blankly at the blackened spot on Eudes' back.

Two monks arrived to remove Eudes' jacket. They rolled him like a sack of turnips on to his side, untied the leather straps and slowly pulled his arms out of the jacket. Next, the monks applied a balm of yarrow and wrapped linen around him.

Johan's eyes still fixed on the spot of the wound. He ran his hands through his long brown hair and down past a wide forehead. He rubbed grey eyes lined with thick bushy eyebrows. Both hands pressed grimy fingers into the inside corners of his eyes, and then he drug his hands down past a prominent nose and rasped his chin which was covered with several days' stubble. The monks rose to leave.

"Can we not move him to a better place?"

"The mattresses are all used." The monk looked around. "But we do have some straw we could lay him on. However, I suggest we let him be for some time, for I hesitate to move him."

"Very well." Johan sighed.

Eudes' face pressed against the dirt, eyes closed, and he breathed in short bursts. Johan touched his brother's hair. Eudes should be the one caring for his younger brother, not the other way around. Maybe Eudes was not as smart or as quick or as brave as others were, but there was nothing wrong with him despite what people in the village might have thought. Johan had defended Eudes' honor while younger boys ridiculed him, calling him the village idiot. The brothers were inseparable, working in the fields, running errands, skipping stones across the river. And it was Johan who convinced their father to let Eudes join the crusade. It was Johan who promised to take care of Eudes. ...Johan who was to blame.

He surveyed Eudes' matted black hair and the top of his bulbous brow. His nose, normally as straight as Johan's—the family trait—was smashed against the ground, and his lips were screwed up into a grimace. Spittle drooled from the corner of his lips and onto the ground like a rabid dog just killed.

Despite the activity and noise in the tent, Johan sensed a presence close to him, and he turned and looked up.

Henri looked like a ghost, and Obert stared with vacant eyes. Henri, the taller of the two, with gaunt cheeks but fiery eyes, held a staff with metal knob. The spearhead that once stood atop the staff had snapped off. In Henri's other hand he held a battered helmet. Stringy deep brown hair plastered against his forehead and framed a long and thin face. Johan saw a trickle of dried blood in front of Henri's left ear that extended down to his chin. Otherwise, he looked unscathed, just weary.

Obert's arms hung by his sides. Weaponless and helmet-less, Obert's leather pouch remained on his right hip with dagger neatly tucked through the top, unused. Obert and Henri were dressed like Johan, with dirty quilted jackets, loose sword belts, heavy hose and leather boots. Heads wet with perspiration. Hair on the right side of Obert's head looked dented as though he had lain on it for some time. He looked dazed; his green eyes unable to focus. Traces of dirt and grass caught in his hair, and a large spot of mud covered his right shoulder, with pieces of turf in the metal links that lined the arms of his quilted jacket.

Henri spoke. "Bertran and Alard are dead."

Johan swallowed. "I know."

"Damn it all. Why did they have us storm Castelar? They had not let loose the mangonels nor set up any machines as they did for Bourg."

Johan stood up stiff, glanced briefly at Eudes, and then touched Obert on the arm. "They must have thought for an easy victory. Bourg lasted only a couple of hours."

"But we had an entire day to prepare!" said Henri.

"I know. I know. I cannot speak for the leaders of the crusade. Maybe there is another plan afoot." Ironic, he was now defending the order to withdrawal.

"They killed Alard... He was shot. I did not see how Bertran met his fate."

"I think it was a rock," Johan offered. The three stood silent for several moments.

Johan looked closer at Obert and frowned. Obert's cheeks were drained of all color. Johan waved a hand in front of Obert's face, but his eyes remained vacant, and his pupils tiny, despite being inside the tent where it was darker.

"Let's go out of the tent." Johan looked at Eudes to make sure he breathed. It pained Johan to walk away from Eudes, but he knew there was little more he could do for his brother. His duty as a soldier was to return as soon as possible to the battle, and as he was not hurt, there was no excuse. Besides, he knew this was still his best opportunity for advancement...

Stop. That was not a thought he wanted. Not now.

Eudes would be cared for; Johan would come back and check on him.

As the threesome started walking away, the young monk returned. He brought a covering and placed it over Eudes.

"As soon as you can," he said as he caught the monk's eye, "please move him to a bed of straw."

Johan fought back a shudder and bit his tongue as tears pushed their way into his eyes. Then he turned and ushered Obert and Henri out of the tent.

The fresh air was overwhelming. Johan had not realized how stifling the infirmary had been, how the pain and anguish and death made the air inside the tent difficult to breathe. And the noise. He must have blocked it out until now. The change affected Obert too, as some color returned to his cheeks, and he blinked as though waking up.

"Bertran is dead," Obert said vacantly.

"Yes, I know." Johan looked into Obert's eyes. "But know this; they died in service of our Lord. They are in eternal bliss as promised us all who join the crusade. May we be so lucky someday. But for now we have a duty to our Lord and to our village to shake off this day and continue fighting."

Henri snorted. Johan saw him clench his teeth. "Johan, not everything is easily explained away. Our friends are dead."

"Henri. Don't start. You know the duty we were all called to. Bertran and Alard knew. Now is the time to put this aside or else we will drive ourselves mad." Henri was always the idealist; weak too.

Henri shuffled his feet nervously. He frowned and stuck out his lower lip as though about to say something, but he was thinking. Thinking, but not courageous enough to snap back. Henri glared at Johan. His nostrils flared as he inhaled.

For several tense moments the two held a stare. Johan squinted his eyes, knowing Henri would eventually give in and back down.

Henri inhaled deeply. "You're right, I suppose. But it doesn't make it any easier."

"I'm sorry, Henri. It's just... It's just so much has just happened."

Commotion just past Henri pulled Johan's attention near the end of the forest and the lip of the moat. Henri turned to follow Johan's gaze.

"They are building a causeway," said Henri.

"A causeway?"

"Yes. Others are building a siege wagon."

"To approach the wall," Johan said. "Finally. Some strategy." He paused briefly. "They'll want sappers."

"Yes."

"Good. I shall join them," said Johan.

"As a sapper?"

"Why not? Any duty to the cause is worthy."

"But, Johan, a sapper?" Henri's brows wrinkled together.

"Have you not heard about how they dig at the base of a castle wall, set fire to a cavity and thus weaken the wall? I heard the whole side of a castle has collapsed with this method." Johan kept looking past Henri.

"I suppose," Henri responded meekly. "But sappers do not have a good reputation."

"If one were a sapper—and a fighter—they would be the first to charge." Johan raised his eyebrows and looked back at Henri.

"I don't know where you get your insane sense of glory, Johan, but yes, I suppose that would be one way to be first. You always have to be first in everything, don't you?" Henri slapped the back of his hand into Johan's chest. At first Johan scowled, but it soon gave way to a smirk.

"Maybe so," Johan replied. "But I only do it for the glory of our village."

Henri snorted. "And because of her."

Johan's cheeks flushed red. He forcibly hit Henri's chest with the palm of his hand. Henri took a step back and held his arms up.

Slowly and deliberately, Johan said, "Don't ever mention her again."

"Sorry, I didn't think you still felt..."

"I feel nothing. Don't mention her ever again." Johan regained his composure and took a deep breath. He looked at Obert. "How are you now, my friend?"

"Better." Obert sighed.

"Good. Tell me, what do you think so far? This is not our little boring Ginestas, is it?" Johan started toward the moat, and Henri and Obert fell in step with him to either side.

"No," replied Henri. "Have you ever seen this many soldiers? And the ones from the north, their warhorses and armor? They look invincible."

"Yet they fall too, in battle," Johan retorted. "Did you see the troop that came in yesterday?"

"Looked like a king."

"I heard it was King Pedro, from the south. He came to negotiate for his vassal, Trencavel. Nothing must have happened, because he and his soldiers left late in the day."

Henri said, "I had heard Abbot Almaric offered Trencavel and eleven of his chosen to leave Carcassonne. But Trencavel refused. He must think he can outlast the crusade from within his castle walls."

Obert spoke up. "With Bourg taken, the northern approach to Carcassonne is secure as are the wells. Now if we take Castelar, it is only a short time until the cité runs out of water and food."

"Now, you are talking like a soldier." Johan smiled at Obert, who smiled back. "That's exactly what they must be planning. And since the direct assault did not work, they are to breach the wall. Look." As they came to the edge of the forest, commotion surrounded what looked like a cottage or shed on wheels. Johan gazed past the siege wagon at the walls of Castelar. The full light brought out the detail of crenels and merlons. A slight motion of flags pulled his attention to the right, to spires that dotted the circumference of Carcassonne.

"They'll need sappers...sappers who can fight."

An image of Eudes lying on the ground flashed into his awareness. A mixture of guilt and anger made him clench his fists. His eyes burned as he eyed Castelar. They were the ones who shot Eudes. Those heretic cowards shot him in the back, and now his brother lay in the infirmary...and God only knew what would happen to him. Now more than ever, Johan wanted to fight. He wanted to kill.

Four

IF RAIMON'S EYES COULD HAVE LEAPT INTO ACTION, they would have. In a fraction of a second, trapped on one side by Artal's limp body, Raimon gauged Guilelma's decent, how the young priest, frozen in indecisiveness barred his way, and that Father Mattieu was too far up the steps to be of any help. Without a word, Raimon heaved Artal at the priest, and dashed after Guilelma.

Sprinting in short steps, for if he had not, his knees would have knotted in his robe and he would have launched himself head over sandals down the incline after Guilelma. More deftly than he would have thought himself capable, Raimon sprinted down at an angle and caught Guilelma as she rolled onto her back. Digging his feet into the side of the incline, Raimon cradled her head, placed his other arm under her knees and lifted. As he stood upright and the woman fell against him, a tingling sensation washed over his entire body.

Guilelma's eyes fluttered open. She stared at Raimon, dazed, trying to focus. "What happened?"

"You... You fell," Raimon stuttered. His face flushed and moisture drained from his mouth.

Slowly, Raimon trudged back up to the stairs carrying Guilelma.

"I think I should be able to walk now," Guilelma said when they arrived. "I am sorry I put you at inconvenience, Ra..."

"Raimon."

"Thank you, Raimon," Guilelma said as she locked eyes with him, and in that instant, his knees went weak and he nearly collapsed. Raimon gently set Guilelma's feet down. With legs wobbly and tentative, she slowly climbed up to Father Mattieu, whose outstretched hand helped her up to the doorway. Raimon hesitated, briefly lingering on the memory of touching her, until she passed through the doorway and two novices came skipping down the steps to help with Artal. They carried him, leaving Raimon to follow—feeling somewhat useless and disconnected—up the narrow stairway that led through a small dark opening farther up the wall near the parapet. There was a momentary lapse of sound, leaving the commotion of the crowd cramming into the Toulouse gate, entering the dark and dank stairwell, and then emerging on the inside of Carcassonne to more noise and confusion.

Raimon brushed abrasive brown stones as he navigated down cut steps on the inside of the fortress wall. Periodically, he glanced forward to check Guilelma's progress as they carefully made their way down into the cité, into a boiling mass of humanity.

Looking down from the steps, Raimon observed groups of families and neighbors huddled into every spare spot along the streets. The market tucked between the cathedral and the western wall, normally scattered with farmers displaying rough woven baskets full of vegetables or artisans peddling their wares from carts, was densely packed with people, their belongings and their animals. Some stood; some squatted. Distracted. Nervous. Awaiting direction. A rumbling reverberation of voices, handcarts upon cobblestone, and donkeys braying filled the stifling air.

Raimon's eyes agitatedly picked from one distressed face to another. His mind was a blur, unable to process the cacophony. He stumbled onto a cobble-stoned street. To his right, a group of men dressed as merchants debated animatedly, their hands pointed at each other or waved to the distance, to the north. A pig squealed, and he turned to see a cart covered in wide woven strips where a boy with a stick poked at two concealed swine. Next to the boy, hidden in shadow, a mother crouched coddling a child, her eyes frantic. She swayed back and forth; her lips moved in silent conversation.

The next moment Raimon was keenly aware of Guilelma's presence. What was it about this woman that kept pulling his attention toward her? Never before had he seen such beauty and grace. Without understanding why he should be doing so, he began an internal conversation to convince Guilelma and her father to join him in Prouille, that it would be an excellent place to convalesce before mounting their final trek to Montsegur. He imagined himself accompanying them, for it would not be prudent to allow a young woman to travel without some kind of protection... Thoughts ricocheted inside his head like flies trapped in a jar. And as he imagined himself tending to the father's wounds, he saw an image of Anseau.

Brother Anseau. A pang of guilt—Raimon had almost forgotten his primary purpose for coming to Carcassonne. Brother Anseau lay in pain, and Raimon obsessed over a woman. Raimon briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. Exhaling a sigh, he chuckled to himself. How ironic: a monk who has taken a vow of celibacy, preoccupied with a woman bound as a Cathar credente, whose religion abhors procreation! He was a fool. Better to focus on the real intent of why he was in Carcassonne. He snorted, and suddenly felt self-conscious, as though Guilelma heard his thoughts.

Yet he kept returning to the woman and her plight. Would her father survive? What kind of wounds had he suffered while trampled by the insane crowd? What would Guilelma do should her father not survive? Raimon tensed as his imagination sought to believe he would somehow console Guilelma and thus win her attention. And then the sensation of touching her returned.

He shook his head again—this was not productive thought. There were too many concerns to be resolved at present. Medicine for Anseau, care for the father, service to the needy trapped within fortress walls with limited water and food, and a horde of crusaders imminent.

As they picked their way to the cathedral of Saint-Nazaire-Saint-Celeste, Raimon glanced up at the familiar Gothic edifice. Tall square supports flanked the cathedral, capped by miniature roofs with crosses at their apex. One hexagonal tower to the left of a massive stained glass rose with tracery reached into the sky, pointing to heaven with its conical spire. Taut beasts protruded perpendicular from the eaves, their mouths gaping to channel rainwater away from the structure. More irony. It had not rained for over a month. He squinted as his view went from the top of the cathedral into a bright, cloudless sky dominated by the shrill gleam of an intense sun, and he reached up to wipe his forehead of gathering perspiration. God, let there be sufficient water for Carcassonne to survive.

"You should have stayed in Prouille," Father Mattieu said after they delivered Artal to one of the rooms in the cathedral and found a doctor to attend to him. Furrowed brows crumpled soft skin about solemn eyes. He wore a black robe, disheveled as though he had either hastily donned it that morning or he had been running frantically about all day. Likely the latter. Father Mattieu was a good Catholic priest. He had been a welcome confidant for Raimon, for even though he represented the institution that now sought to persecute the Cathars, Father Mattieu believed there were better ways to conversion than by brute force.

Father Mattieu was a priest caught in the middle of loyalty to the Church and faithful to the precepts of his faith. He strove ardently to rid his parish of the Cathar influence, yet he took compassion on a population disillusioned by an inflexible institution. He could stand before Abbot Almaric and vow to quell the heresy, and at the same time administer healing to a Cathar perfect and her father. Raimon was not sure if the father was playing a dangerous hypocritical game, or if his faith was pragmatic, and he acted when the need arose, without judgment.

"But, I must get vervain or tormentil and some arnica for Brother Anseau as we have none at Prouille." Raimon wrung his hands. Perspiration dribbled down both sides of his olive-skinned face. When he reached up to wipe at his jaw, the thick black stubble rasped between his fingers.

"Yes, I had heard about Brother Anseau. I find it unbelievable he went to Béziers to begin with, let alone what he must have seen and suffered. You must tell me more when we have the chance."

"There is much I do not know. We did not have time to talk before I came here." Raimon paused, catching his breath and realizing how exhausted he was. "I was wondering if there was anything even growing here, inside the cité, for all the way from Prouille to Carcassonne, the fields have been burned."

"Yes, we can thank Trencavel," Father Mattieu said as he led Raimon down a corridor and then outside to the steps of the cathedral. "He had all crops burned so the crusaders would have nothing with which to support their efforts. Of course, that leaves us with no further resources. And, I wonder if we shall have any medicine left before long."

"The stench of the fields was so bad I had to tie a rag to my face. It is sad to see this beautiful countryside now charred black like some kind of hell on earth."

"Hell it is quickly becoming," Father Mattieu said.

One of the novices who had helped carry Artal down from the soldier gate came dashing up the steps, panting.

"Father. Father, they are recruiting again. The crusaders are outside of Bourg."

Father Mattieu briefly hung his head. Then he said, "As expected, unfortunately. This city, as formidable as it looks, is not really in a position for such a siege. I still cannot believe Raymond-Roger has not protected our water source. And now with this..." Father Mattieu indicated the crowded masses. Forlorn groups settled on the steps up to the doorway, and the sanctuary was already full. "We cannot survive a waiting game. I pray they honor the morrow and do not defile the Sabbath."

Sounding as though coming from the vicomital residence, blaring horns echoed from the north.

Soon the clatter of hooves signaled the movement of Viscount Roger-Raymond Trencavel's soldiers. At the same time, shouts echoed from the Toulouse gate. Although he could not see directly, Raimon heard the rumbling of wood against stone. The gate must have been slammed shut. He crossed himself. Had the multitude pressing to get inside been able to enter? If not, those trapped outside would either have to return to Castelar and fend for themselves, flee across the Aude to seek refuge, or wait and try again tomorrow in hopes the crusaders would honor the Sabbath.

Father Mattieu spoke. "I must go calm those in the sanctuary and prepare for evening mass. Let us talk again later. Maybe, God willing, this madness will not last long."

When Father Mattieu left, Raimon turned to the novice. "Were you able to see the crusaders?"

"Yes," the novice replied. He wiped his forehead. Blue, mischievous eyes gleamed in the evening sun. The boy had wide brows and a flat nose, looking as though it had once been broken and not fully mended. A serene and confident posture tempered his impish look. He trembled in agitated eagerness to share something exciting. "I can show you if you like."

What of Guilelma and her father? What had the doctor found? He felt a pull to return to the room and console the beautiful woman. But would she even want or need his company? He chewed on his lower lip. Shortly, he spoke. "Give me a few minutes. I shall promptly return, and yes, I would like to have a look." He raised his eyebrows. The novice smiled.

Dashing inside, Raimon made his way through the crowded aisles to the chapter house. Despite the high arched ceiling, the space felt small, and the mass of bodies—somehow managing to remain respectfully quiet despite their numbers—consumed every conceivable space except a narrow path down the hallway. Raimon peered into a dark room, lit only by a few short tallow candles near the head of the bed, and he saw the glow of Guilelma's face. It looked like an apparition, suspended slightly above the bed, on the opposite side, gazing down at her father. She had removed the hood. Raimon's eyes traced her forehead. Long brown hair loosely pulled back. Several strands fell softly to either side of high, confident cheekbones.

When she looked up, Raimon felt a flutter in his stomach and the tingling sensation returned. He also realized he was gaping again. Slowly, he stiffened his back and entered.

"How is he?" Raimon said softly.

"I don't know. The doctor said he had several broken bones. They are set now, but he has a fever."

Stepping up to the bed, Raimon noticed she was dabbing Artal's forehead with a damp cloth.

"Is... Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, thank you. You have been very kind, sir, and I am grateful we have been able to get Father the help he needs."

"Raimon... Please call me Raimon."

"Yes, Raimon."

There was an awkward silence for a few heartbeats, and then Raimon spoke again as he subconsciously wrung his hands. "When this... This siege is over; I can help you and your father on your way to Montsegur." Why did he say that? They had hardly even met, and he was already offering his service.

"Thank you for your kindness... Raimon. It is hard to say what will happen now. Maybe I will reunite with the others, and..." she paused and looked back at her father. "That is if Father..."

"I am sure your father will recover," Raimon offered.

"He is old." Guilelma continued to look at her father, and as she did so, Raimon followed her gaze. Artal, pale and sallow in the candlelight, already looked like a corpse. There was no obvious breathing, as shallow as it must be, but there were droplets of perspiration forming along the upper lip and chin.

Guilelma continued. "Our religion does not fear death. It is but a steppingstone on our path toward bliss." She looked up at Raimon. "Do you fear death?"

Raimon swallowed. The question took him by surprise. He tried to read Guilelma's expression. He had been in many debates with Cathar perfects during the course of his assignment to the papal legate, but since joining Brother Domingo, his focus had been on service. Of the Cathars with whom he worked, few had initiated a theological discussion this soon after having met. Part of him wanted to seek the most agreeable path; there was a fear inside him that Guilelma would reject him because of his call to the Church. But that was absurd. He was a monk. He was not courting Guilelma. With that thought, Raimon straightened again and calmly exhaled.

"No, I do not fear death. I know God, who I believe is the same Good God you worship, is ultimately in control." He refrained from delineating between his knowledge of One God as opposed to the Cathar belief of two, a good God of Spirit and an evil god of the world. He knew there were dramatic differences in thought and belief between their religions, but he also knew to point them out now would only serve to damage, not build. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was alienate Guilelma.

"That is interesting the way you say it. My experience with those of the Church has not been so...amenable."

"Maybe if we have the time, I can explain to you about Brother Domingo and what we do at Prouille. We are different, and I do not support those who seek violence to mend a disagreement of the soul. You can see, also, those here at Saint-Nazaire-Saint-Celeste, Father Mattieu for example, are not of the same mind as the Pope or Abbot Almaric."

Guilelma remained silent for several moments looking at Raimon. It made him self-conscious, and he adjusted his stance nervously.

"Yes, I would like that."

Raimon blinked a few times, and then said, "Well, for now, let us hope your father recovers successfully. Please do not hesitate to call for me if you need any help." He paused as Guilelma smiled. His knees went weak again. Then he inhaled deeply and regained his composure. "May I call on you and your father tomorrow?"

"Yes, please."

Raimon nodded, then slowly turned and left the room. As he walked back to the cathedral steps, he noticed a slight bounce in his walk. The novice was still there, waiting.

"Now, tell me your name," Raimon said as he approached the novice.

"Gilles."

"I am Brother Raimon." Both bowed their heads slightly. "So, where is it we can go to see what is happening?"

"Follow me," Gilles replied, raising his eyebrows. "I can take you to view the northeastern exposure. A place I doubt even the soldiers know exist."

Five

THE SUFFOCATING STENCH OF ROTTING FLESH hung in the thick, damp air. Horsehides—from those struck by arrows and rendered otherwise useless—provided the siege wagon cover, protecting the roof from flaming arrows. Those that would strike the roof would snuff—Johan hoped—when they hit skins flayed and stretched blood side up.

Wooden pails of tar hung from rafters. Their earthy and acerbic bite blended into the viscid atmosphere. Adding sweaty sappers who had not bathed in years made the interior claustrophobic and oppressive.

The siege wagon resembled a building on wheels. Inside, twenty men provided the force to propel it initially down the causeway—built to ease the descent down the embankment—and then channel a way across the moat until they stuck up against Castelar's wall. The protection should allow for the sappers to do their work without fear of persistent bombardment.

Johan squeezed his way in from the rear and ducked under horizontal poles which spanned the interior like a ribcage. His position was near the middle, although against the exterior wall; he would have preferred to be further toward the center. He laid his pick on a shelf up against the outside wall and glanced around, squinting from the stinging air at the assembling mob of disheveled and dirty men.

Despite feeling alien, Johan knew this was where he needed to be, in the midst of the action. He shook his head as he thought of Obert and Henri. Neither had the pluck to join with him. They stared, shifting weight from one foot to the other as if embarrassed, dreaming excuses until Henri finally said he preferred to wait until the wall was breached, and then he would engage in battle. In the meantime, Obert offered to keep watch over Eudes. He had the gall to suggest Johan should take care of his brother rather than look for glory in battle. Johan had almost struck Obert. He should have. Obert did not understand the importance of the crusade, the moral obligation they held as agents for their village, or the plague of heresy that must be overthrown. Obert would never amount to much anyway.

A command barked, and everyone grabbed the beam in front of him. Then in successive short bursts, the crew heaved and relaxed, heaved and relaxed to loosen the wheels from divots created by the siege wagon's weight, until a final burst jogged the structure free, and it rolled several feet before more shouting and commands issued to slow its progress. They had reached the incline and the causeway. Tethers attached to the rear of the siege wagon stretched around thick tree trunks and tied to war horses and dozens of men who pulled in opposing direction to slow the descent into the moat. For the last few feet, as the angled structure began to level on to the moat expanse, it appeared the ropes were disengaged, and the siege wagon picked up speed forcing Johan to jog as he pushed. He did not relish the idea of falling and being trampled.

As they slowed to a quick walking pace, Johan breathed deeply and paused to think. He glanced up and said to himself, "This is for you, brother...and for the glory of God." Then, a sinking feeling bit into the base of his stomach as he held a brief image of Eudes lying face down on the ground in the infirmary. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, and allowed a shudder to pass though him before setting his attention to the task in front of him.

Having surveyed the preparations, Johan knew the siege wagon and its occupants were not the only ones moving on the moat that afternoon. A well-orchestrated maneuver staged groups of archers who launched successive waves of arrows at the fortress walls as the siege wagon began its trek across the moat. They were accompanied by a movable mangonel, a catapult large enough to heave rocks the size of large helmets.

Why had they not been as organized that morning to support the ladders! Why had they not done something to inhibit a counterattack from the fortress? If they had, many would not be lying dead in this field. Alard...Bertran... Eudes would not be in the infirmary. Johan tasted blood as he bit the inside of his cheek.

The siege wagon lurched briefly as the front wheel raised going over a lumpy object. It was not until the rear wheel mimicked the motion Johan realized they had run over one of the deceased crusaders. Shouts of encouragement to keep the structure moving sounded like chants by an oarsman to slaves in a galley. Johan heard the twang of arrows hit the wood above his head. They must have entered the castle's range. If the arrows were aflame, he hoped the moist hides would quench them.

A massive thump jerked Johan's head to his left. Barely visible from under the logs and hides, he saw a pole as large as a pike slam into the ground at an angle. It was aflame. This was no normal arrow. They must have a ballista, a massive crossbow engine. If that were to hit them...

"Lad." A gruff, scratchy voice bellowed next to Johan.

He looked over at a middle-aged sapper with long stringy hair. Deep lines of black etched into a grizzly face, crisscrossing his cheeks and forehead as though someone had taken a cheese knife to him. His clothes were as dirty as his face, likely due to working with tar. Johan could not tell if the man sneered in arrogance or if his half-smile was of camaraderie.

"First time?"

Johan hesitated answering. He was not naïve. He was not some green youth on a quest to play war alongside real men... Or was he? These men had probably killed more men than Johan had killed chickens. He knew he looked inexperienced as well as young. And probably too clean.

"Yes."

"Thought so. Lose a wager?"

"No. I chose to be here." Johan inhaled sharply, flaring his nostrils. He stiffened his neck, looked forward and continued pushing.

"Sappin's dirty business. Done it for years. Nobody likes you, nobody wants your company, but they all cheer when the castle walls come tumblin' down." Someone from behind the man grunted in agreement.

He continued. "Do you know what to do when we reach the wall?"

Johan rolled his eyes. "We dig at the base."

"That's right. We dig and we chip. We dig an' we chip. We dig an' we chip." Others surrounding the man joined in the repetition. "An' when we've got a cave, we stuff it with wood and straw and tar, and we," here the chorus joined, "torch it, torch it, torch it."

Johan shook his head. They sounded like children only with baritone voices.

"And do ya know what happens then?" the man continued.

Johan inhaled, turned his head and said, "The heat makes the stones crumble, crumble, crumble."

The man slapped the pole, reared his head back and laughed. The chorus joined. Then turning and smiling—Johan noticed several teeth missing—the man said, "That's right youngin'."

Johan knew the process of sapping, but he was still not sure how carving out a small hole at the base of a wall could do any real damage. Would it not collapse and create another hole above it? He imagined the fire, and he imagined rocks falling. He shrugged to himself. And what would the sappers do when the cave collapsed—where would they be as they torched the opening? In the siege wagon? And how were they to siege the fortress once the wall crumbled...assuming that was to happen?

As if he knew what Johan was thinking, the man next to him said, "We better be out when that 'appens, eh?"

"Out and back to the siege wagon?" Johan asked.

"You'll see. When they bring in the fire, it's usually early, before sunrise. Since it's still dark, we make a run for it. Soldiers don't want us in the way. They just want us to get the job done."

"Don't you stay and fight?"

"What, fight? Naw, sappers don't fight." He chuckled as did those around him.

Johan looked down at the grimy jacket and the man's belt. There was no sword there.

"This one does," Johan muttered as he returned his gaze forward and gave an extra shove.

They had reached the incline on the opposite side of the moat, the final push. The structure creaked and groaned. Men grunted and strained. The number of projectiles hitting the roof increased and sounded like fitful drums. Johan hoped their accompanying archers and mangonels would pummel the fortress allowing the sappers to do their job.

Then Johan heard the man murmur, "Cheeky bastard." Johan snapped his head and menaced, but found the man smiling. "I suppose I was young once too," the man said. "Let's take this wall down first, what do you say?" His eyes looked genuine, not pretentious.

Johan exhaled and relaxed his face.

The siege wagon hit the castle wall, and it caught Johan off guard. He slammed into the pole and fell sideways onto the ground. A large strong hand crashed onto his shoulder and jerked him up as though he was but a sack of vegetables.

"Grab your pick, lad."

There was room for only half of the sappers to dig at one time at the base of the wall. They took shifts, allowing for rests between swinging picks. Some set to removing rocks to keep the rubble from piling up, impeding progress. And through the duration, thudding objects intermittently hit the roof, but none seemed to inflict much damage or cause much concern.

When it was Johan's turn to rest, he knelt down, inverted the pick and rested his arms along the iron arc. Someone pulled down bladders from the rafters and handed them out. Johan took gulps of watered-down wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his grimy hand. He thought about removing his quilted jacket, for the heat was overwhelming, but it lent him some sense of security. Maybe something would make it through the roof. He stared at the fresh men hacking away at the wall base and saw they made progress, albeit slow. Thus far, in what seemed to be a couple of hours, they had made an arched opening large enough for one man to crouch completely underneath.

The respite diverted Johan's thoughts to Eudes. He wondered how his brother fared. It was not easy to recover from a wound in the back. For a moment, he suppressed the feeling of guilt that maybe he should have stayed with Eudes and not be here huddled under this smelly structure attempting to hack away at the base of a massive wall. But, he reminded himself, this was no mere siege for the sake of winning a castle. It was a holy war, against those who called themselves the Cathars. Heretics, blasphemers. Johan knew them all too well. They had plagued his village for many years, the perfects in their black garb spreading lies about two gods: that all in the Church followed the evil god of this world and were doomed to repeating lives of imperfection, and good Cathars were to abstain from all worldly things, not to eat meat, not to procreate. He felt a surge of anger as he had an image of the girl. He grit his teeth and sneered. He would have jumped up and taken more strikes at the wall were there not men in the way. She would rather walk around like a specter in black than... That was the reason they were here. To stop this heresy, permanently.

Johan remembered the rumors of a crusade, and then the report of a massive army coming down from the north to Béziers. Everyone thought it would be a long waiting game until the people of Béziers surrendered, or the crusaders relinquished. No one expected the crusaders to have stormed the city in one day and put everyone to the sword. They even destroyed the cathedral—some said there were thousands trapped inside. But the result was a far-reaching lesson for the heretics. They would no longer be tolerated, and the lords who took their side would not be allowed to keep their rule.

Of course, everyone flocked to Béziers afterwards to express their solidarity, even if they were heretic sympathizers, for they did not want to suffer the same fate. Johan recalled how he had to rally the village to join the crusade. Many wanted to remain quiet, to avoid notice. Johan thought it a clear sign of the heretic-lovers he already knew in his village. Even his friends, Bertran, Alard, Henri, Obert... None of them wanted to join the crusade until Johan convinced them it was their moral obligation—not to mention their chance to pull themselves from the mundane existence of the farm and launch them to glory and prestige.

The first to leave were the heretics. They fled from the storm like spiders seeking shelter and were probably stuck inside Carcassonne right now. Why they took flight was such a contradiction. They claimed not to fear death; why run? Cowards! It merely showed their true mettle, and their heresy was nothing more than a farce.

As the day wore on, Johan took his turn at sapping, and he saw the hole grow larger and larger. He continued to hear rocks glance off the siege wagon's roof and flaming arrows sizzle as they hit and doused into the still-moist carcasses. Once, they heard the scream of someone from up high. The crescendo of an eerie wail ended with a heavy thud on the roof, and then a body landed in a heap on the ground next to them. An arrow protruded from the soldier's chest.

A series of loud curses came up from the rear. Johan now worked at the hole; they had made enough of a space for the workers to be completely under the structure. Some brought timbers to prop up the ceiling.

"Clear the timber and everyone into the hole!"

Johan looked out at the siege wagon. The left side was in flames. He turned to the grizzled man whose name he had learned was Raoul.

"How?"

"Happens. We got lucky 'til now. They must have dropped flaming tar. It can drip over the eaves, and it's got the frame afire."

Those in the siege wagon grabbed timbers and tar, and passed them to the men in the hole. Flames grew up the sides and licked at the inside of the roof, and soon a dense choking smoke bellowed out from the sides. The sappers crowded into the hewn cave. All, except for one who had slipped out the opposite side of the siege wagon instead of into the cave. He stood gawking at the fire, as if assessing it.

Raoul bellowed, "You stupid bastard, get in here!"

The other man snapped his head toward Raoul and suddenly discovered his mistake: he stood exposed, vulnerable. In that moment, he quickly glanced up as an arrow slammed into his shoulder.

"Gahhh!" It sent the man to his knees.

Raoul twitched, and made to leave the cave except the siege wagon was nearly all aflame, and he could not directly get to the man. Then, as the man hit the ground on his knees and leaned forward, his left hand lamely going to the arrow on his right shoulder, another arrow hit the base of his neck, and without a sound, he slowly fell forward, slumped into the grass, motionless.

Johan did not have time to think about the stupidity of exposing oneself at the base of the wall, for the structure was now fully on fire, and they pressed as far back into the cave as they could, covering mouths to keep from being consumed by smoke. The heat seared his face and hands, and he wondered if his clothes or hair would burst into flames.

Raoul yelled at some of the other sappers, and they dashed to the nearest poles not aflame. They heaved the siege wagon several feet away from the cave, and then they dashed back safely to cover before rocks and arrows pelted down from above.

Saved from the final intensity of the flames, Johan watched a burning mass fully consumed by fire. Amid the cracking and spitting of the wood and the roasting carcasses on the roof, Johan heard cheering from above. He looked over at Raoul, who smiled and winked.

"It'll be us cheering before sunrise."

Orders came to resume digging, and the operation continued. Digging, chipping, setting timbers. The cave doubled in size.

As the sun set, the order came to stop sapping. Johan leaned on his pick and looked out at the moat. Shapes moved, looking like scuttling animals dashing between rocks. Men under protective shields picked their way towards them. Johan expected arrows to fly from above and cover the shields like a porcupine, but nothing came. He had not noticed stations set up until now, scattered about the moat. These must have been how the crusaders protected the siege wagon for this long. Now, as night approached, they could move under the cover of the fading light.

Soon the first of the soldiers arrived at the cave; they brought more pails of tar. Others arrived shortly afterwards hauling bundles of branches. Sappers soaked the timbers in tar, and stuffed branches until there was little room for them to stand.

"Time to go," said Raoul.

"What?" Johan turned, puzzled.

"We won't be fighting tonight, eager one. Come, let's return to the camp and sup. They won't light the fire until dawn, and there won't be any fighting until then."

"But..."

"Sorry, but that's the way it is. Here," Raoul picked up a large wooden shield; those who had brought the tar and branches also brought extra shields. "Let's go."

Johan sighed. Thwarted again.

Then, holding a large shield to their backs, he and Raoul traversed the moat, station by station.

As soon as they were about thirty feet from the castle wall, an arrow cracked the shield behind Johan's head. Thwack. Another arrow, then another. A barrage forced them to crouch and cover themselves with the shield. There must have been twenty arrows stuck into the ground around them; Johan wondered how many more were in the shield.

"They were waiting," Raoul said. "I thought they were much too quiet."

"They must know what we are doing."

"Indeed. Their only hope is to discourage us from bringing back the fire."

A large rock crashed into the ground to the left of Raoul, catching both of them off guard. "Holy Mother of God," Raoul yelled. "A mangonel. That was too large for anyone to throw. We had better move. Ready?"

Johan nodded. Simultaneously, they lifted the shield, now heavier, and ran. The arrows returned, magically appearing all around their legs.

Stabbing hot pain shot from Johan's heel. Johan howled and stumbled forward as though tackled from behind. His right foot pinned to the ground, he crashed forward on his forearms, cheeks slapping onto the ground. Raoul lurched forward, taking the shield with him. An arrow had grazed off the side of Johan's right heel, pierced his boot and nailed it to the ground. Another arrow slammed into the ground to his right.

Exposed! With each arrow that hit nearby, Johan felt accompanying pain. He pulled at his boot, but neither would it budge nor would his foot come out. Raoul regained his balance and turned with the shield. He held it horizontal, imbedded shafts up, to thrust the shield over Johan. But, as Raoul stepped within two yards of Johan's head, an arrow smashed into Raoul's knee. He cried out in pain, tripped forward. The shield crashed on top of Johan, covering him. Raoul curled into a ball, slumped forward and turned to land on his back only a foot from Johan's face. Raoul gripped the base of the arrow protruding from a bloody knee and released a slew of expletives. Slowly, still grasping the arrow, Raoul crawled, sideways toward Johan. Wincing, he reached for the top of the shield, no doubt to angle it to protect them both. Suddenly, an arrow sliced into his throat.

Raoul gasped, froze a second, his eyes wide. A gurgle of blood gushed from his throat. The arrow went completely through Raoul's neck and stuck out the other side. Silent agony. He clawed for moments of life. He tried to speak, but nothing but blood came out. His eyes glistened white. And then he collapsed forward. Inches from Johan, Raoul's face slammed to the ground, splattering blood.

Johan recoiled. In a flash, he saw Eudes with the arrow plunged into his back. He pressed his eyes closed, shutting out the sight of Raoul's face frozen in agony.

Then, a thought. Was he to die here? Fear dug into his gut. He inhaled sharply, about to release a pent up scream. Then, another spike of pain. A white hot poker thrust through his leg. He howled and arched his back. His hands reached back; he tried to curl and reach for the pain, but he could not. Panting, grunting, he craned his neck. An arrow had gone straight through the side of his thigh and pinned the rest of his right leg to the ground. It was still exposed out from under the shield. Any small movement sent sentinels of pain radiating down his leg and up through the small of his back. As another arrow hit only inches away, he pulled his other leg in under the shield. He screamed again, straightening, and as he looked back to the forest, that unreachable destination, he faced Raoul's bulging and unmoving eyes.

How long until the final blow? Did the shield cover him? It seemed an eternity while pain radiated up his leg. Each breath made it feel as though someone stirred the hot poker in his leg, churning it like butter. He breathed in short, controlled bursts.

Then the arrows stopped. The sun had receded beneath the horizon, casting an orange glow. He heard wailing nearby and wondered if the attackers had shifted their target onto other retreating sappers. He smelled sweat intermingled with fresh grass.

Footfalls approached. The shield lifted. A crusader, replete in chain mail, white tunic, a double-tailed golden lion set on the shape of a red shield. A regal face framed in long brown hair and a full beard. Wispy eyebrows, showing equal concern and purpose, merged over a straight nose. A small mouth firmly closed. The man pulled up the shield and immediately set it behind Johan's feet, protecting both of them from projectiles.

The man looked familiar but Johan could not place him. Then, the man reached forward and pulled the arrow from Johan's boot. Johan's lower leg lifted in the process, and more intense pain exploded from his thigh. Johan released a surprised, "Ahhh," as the crusader methodically snapped off the arrow's head—which Johan thought later must have been a particular feat of strength—and removed the arrow from his boot.

Then the crusader spoke. "This will hurt, but we must move you now." His voice was deep, with authority.

Johan's eyes asked what was to happen when the crusader reached for the arrow in Johan's leg and pulled it, simultaneously with lifting him off the ground. The arrow came out of the ground, but it stayed in his thigh, for it had pierced completely through. The barb stuck out the front. Johan cringed as though his leg was being chopped off. The sight made the pain more intense, and he saw bright flecks of light in the corners of his vision.

Quickly hoisting Johan to his shoulders, the crusader ran for the other side of the moat. Acute pain. Bright white flashes accented each step. Teeth gnashed.

Johan expected more arrows, but only a few hit, falling short of their mark. The sun had fully set by now. It must have been dark enough to make aim impossible. But the thoughts of being lucky an arrow did not slice into his back were fleeting, for the jarring ride sent more pulsing spasms of pain through his leg, and he imagined the arrow being pushed in and out as his legs hit the crusader's sides and arms. When they reached the incline, Johan heard the faint cry of cheering voices as all sound faded, his vision narrowed, and everything went black.

Six

"ARE YOU SURE WE SHOULD BE HERE?" Raimon whispered. Although he needed not, for they were remote, neatly tucked and secretly within an offshoot of the southeastern Casteras tower. Not only did few in Carcassonne even know this vantage point existed, Raimon and Gilles were sufficiently removed to be out of harm's way...at least temporarily. They squatted in a small cylindrical room, dank, musty, and dark. The room could not be more than five or six feet in diameter. He felt the roughly hewn rock walls as he tentatively descended down a narrow staircase, into a room with ceiling no more than a few feet above him. Raimon peered wide-eyed out the narrow arrow slit into a vague landscape barely lit by the hint of dawn.

"No problem," Gilles replied. Despite the darkness, Raimon sensed the boy's excitement. Gilles had grown up in Carcassonne with free reign to explore the city and its fortress. He also knew all of the soldiers. Three days ago Raimon and Gilles had watched the attack on Bourg from a similar vantage point on the northern wall, only to see a complete rout. Raimon had never seen such force before, the mass of crusaders looked like wave after wave of heavy tide persistently crashing on the smaller Bourg fortifications. Battering rams, war horses, chanting monks—although none were of his order. Bourg was easily overtaken, and according to Gilles and Father Mattieu, it signified the beginning of Carcassonne's demise. The crusaders secured the northern wells and then spread around to the west, blocking any access to the Aude River. Raimon knew little of castle sieges or how to defend one, but he thought it odd such a massive city as Carcassonne would rely heavily on an outside water source. And the moats were never filled.

"Do you think they will attack again today?" Raimon asked, already knowing the answer.

"Surely. Sancho told me they were sapping somewhere down on the southern wall, at the bend. Down there." Gilles pointed to an indistinct outline of Castelar's wall, as it connected below them to Carcassonne's larger, more formidable fortification. Farther down the hill from their vantage point, Raimon made out where the wall turned to the southwest.

Gilles continued. "Yesterday's attack was nothing like Bourg, eh?"

"Well, no, at least from what we could see." Raimon remembered spending several hours yesterday crouched in the same room, peering out over Castelar. Despite the heat of the day, their small space remained relatively cool, protected from the sun. They had not seen much, for most of the action targeted the southern wall, but he had observed the crusaders gather along the opposite side of the moat. Moreover, he had a good view of the catapults from inside Castelar, massive wooden structures that hurled rocks of various sizes up and over the wall to crash somewhere south. He wondered how many men had died and gone to face their Creator.

The whole concept was absurd. The Cathars were peaceful and promoted tolerance between those of differing beliefs. And now the Church, who espoused the sacrificial love of Christ, ignored His teaching. Faced with the brutality of war, would Raimon engage or would he continue to watch passively?

"Sancho said they came with ladders, but Castelar repelled them all. But, he says today may be more difficult because they are sapping. They built some kind of shelter on wheels and pushed it across the moat to dig at the base of the wall. I saw it coming out from the trees before it went into the moat down there." Gilles pointed again. "But I can't imagine tunneling under the wall would do them any good."

"You were here yesterday evening? Again?" Raimon subtly referred to Gilles missing mass for the second time. As it was still dark in the room, Raimon only suspected Gilles had a smirk, since he did not reply.

A pinkish-orange hue from the rising sun glowed several inches into the arrow slit. Raimon gazed out onto lush green rolling hills, now tinted with an aura of that same orange. Birds began their morning serenades, and if it were not for the looming fear of violence, it would be another pristine and crisp morning with its hour or two of coolness before the heat of an August sun would dominate the sky.

As the trees turned a luscious ginger and Raimon saw the glowing orange-gold sun peek over the horizon, a loud crack pierced the serene morning stillness and made both he and Gilles flinch, straighten their backs and stare intently down the incline to the southern Castelar wall.

"What was that?" Raimon held his breath.

"I don't... Do you think...?"

An intense rumble reverberated up the moat and along the castle walls. Raimon had not heard such a sound before, maybe only thunder or of heavy surf crashing on the shores of Barcino. There was a weighted pause, and as the sound receded, a collective bellow, and a thousand voices roared. Raimon shuddered.

"They must have breached the wall." Gilles' voice mixed fear and excitement.

And then Raimon spotted it. A cloud of smoke and dust rose from the south wall, and as the haze dissipated, tiny shapes crawled over the parapet, streamed into Castelar and along the wall's allure. A dark mass carpeted the barrier as crusaders streamed into Castelar. Soldiers from other areas of the suburb dashed from their posts to help stem the influx. It did not look real. The subdued light and the faint noise made him feel like he watched a disrupted ant nest.

In a matter of no more than ten minutes, the crusaders spread out and fought along two thirds of the wall. A greater mass spewed into the suburb and engaged in battle in the streets. Raimon crossed himself and said a prayer; hopefully no residents and only soldiers remained in the suburb—but the soldiers, too, were children of God, and husbands, fathers, brothers—Raimon shivered at the thought of so many people being killed.

Raimon grabbed Gilles by the arm as he watched the horde spread. "We should leave. They are coming up the wall toward us."

But neither Raimon nor Gilles could pry themselves away from the view. Soldiers stationed along the wall overlooking the eastern moat dashed south to meet a charging band of crusaders. Raimon heard their yells and then the first clash of sword. Shouts came from above. It must be Carcassonne soldiers watching from the tower above Raimon and Gilles.

Castelar's wall-walk was no more than ten feet wide, and only four to six could fight at the same time. The air filled with grunts, roars and the sharp clank of metal against metal. Raimon could not tell who was on which side, for the crusaders looked little different than the Castelar soldiers—except for some with white tunics—and soon it looked like a jumbled mass of jostling forms and flailing weapons. Bodies plummeted down the inside wall. Shrieks pierced through the rumble. Bellows of triumph echoed up the stones.

Then, like a receding tide overtaken by a new wave, those soldiers whose backs had faced Raimon disappeared, and a charging mass of about fifteen crusaders headed straight for the Casteras tower.

Raimon's heart seized, and he fell back from his squatting position to hit the cold stone floor. "We must flee."

"Wait," said Gilles. "Look."

Raimon regained his position. Crusaders had halted their advance about a hundred feet from the tower. Arrows and rocks flew out from above and hurled toward the crusaders. They must have come close enough for the soldiers positioned along the top of Carcassonne's wall to fire upon them. Several bodies fell and lay silent as the rest of the horde turned and fled away from the onslaught. Jeers came from above, but they soon quieted as the crusaders moved out of arrow distance and blended into the suburb and the mass of other crusaders quelling any resistance. Castelar was taken.

Raimon and Gilles crowded together and gazed at the allure below them, extending south, at the bodies strewn haphazardly with arms and legs contorted in unnatural postures.

"Look, there," Gilles said as he pointed.

"What?"

"Down there, by the third column. He's alive."

Suddenly, Gilles turned and scrambled through a small opening in the back of the cylindrical room. It sounded like Gilles descended further down the narrow spiral staircase. Raimon crawled to the opening and followed.

"It's me... Gilles." Raimon heard Gilles' muted voice from down below as Raimon carefully descended the steep rock staircase. Gilles was somewhere below, but Raimon saw little in the dark. He shuffled down and around another bend as haze glowed through a small opening, and he heard voices echo from above.

"Gilles, you idiot! What the hell do you think you're doing down there?"

Gilles did not reply.

Raimon crouched and gingerly stepped out of the small opening. The hole had a large rock swiveled out on a rusty hinge. The sudden daylight made him squint, but he saw Gilles running down the allure at full speed.

"Gilles! Do you hear me? Get back here!" The voice from above continued, edgy with concern. Raimon glanced up and saw several silhouettes leaning over the parapet. One shook his fist. Looking back at Gilles, he saw Gilles crouch down next to a figure.

"Damnation," Raimon muttered as he took off in a sprint to reach Gilles.

"It's another one," came a different voice.

"Stop or I'll have you with this arrow!" It was the first voice.

Raimon skidded to a stop and turned around. "Raimundus de Barcino. I'm going to help Gilles."

"What, are you crazy too? You'll both get yourselves killed. Get that foolish child and bring him back into the castle!"

Raimon turned and dashed to Gilles.

"This is lunacy. We need to get back."

"This one." Gilles looked up. "He's injured but alive. See, he must have been hit with a rock." Gilles lifted a young man's head, where large amounts of blood flowed from a gash above his right temple. The crusader—or one of theirs?—moaned, but otherwise was completely inert. Stringy deep brown hair matted with blood and perspiration framed a long and thin face. Eyes closed, the cracks and crevices around his nose and eyes were caked with dust. "We must get him to a doctor."

"Come, let's go," said Raimon as he moved to the other side of the figure. "Grab under his arms." Raimon nodded to Gilles as they both secured the man in their grip and lifted. Pulling the injured soldier, his heels dragging, they carted him back up the incline to the tiny entrance. Gilles craned his neck up and shouted.

"Sancho! Throw us a rope or something. He is injured and we must get him to the cathedral."

"Gilles you fool. He's a crusader. Leave him."

"He's somebody's son, Sancho. Throw a rope for God's sake."

"Can't. We've been called to Porte Saint Nazaire. Looks like Trencavel has a plan. Sorry. If you're so sure about saving that one, cart him up yourselves, but make sure you secure the door." And with that, the silhouette disappeared.

"How are we ever going to get this man up that tiny staircase?" Raimon asked as they came upon the tower wall. The opening was no more than about two feet in diameter.

"I have no idea," Gilles responded. "But we'll find a way." He smiled.

Foolish young man. But a true heart of Christ. Raimon returned the smile. "That we will."

Seven

SPORADIC YELLOW FLICKERS BURST THROUGH an indistinct haze of muted oranges and reds. His attention moved to his legs, and what he saw should have sparked action: patting, slapping, rolling to suppress a kindling fire that licked about his ankles and crept up his legs. But there was no sensation of heat. And no urgency. He merely watched, complacent, and somehow thought he deserved it, although why, he knew not.

A distant call. Was that his name?

Then upon looking closer, he noticed other legs near his, and in this realization he discovered it was not his legs aflame but some others' close, almost touching. His first instinct was to edge away, and as he did so, the flames grew.

A louder call. Definitely someone was calling his name. He wanted to respond, but all he did was stare at the legs. He inched back towards the flame and it subsided slightly, although this time he felt heat. Should he help? If he did, he could get burned. He knew he should help; he wanted to help, but the discomfort of the heat, the flames...

"Johan. Johan!" said a voice, clear.

He blinked. Then he shook his head. The fire dissipated and was replaced by two spherical shapes. Heads.

"Johan, are you all right?" One of the heads was Obert.

Johan pressed his eyes shut and reopened them to find the haze gone. Standing over him—assuming he lay on his back—Henri and Obert peered at him, their faces reflecting a burnt orange glow from nearby candles.

Obert looked concerned. Henri had a smirk.

"You were thrashing about," Obert continued. "How is the leg?"

Johan shifted, and a spike of pain stabbed his thigh.

"Hurts like hell." Johan muttered. "Where am I?"

"Look around. You're in the infirmary," Henri's voice sounded terse. Johan glanced down at his leg and found it wrapped in bloody linen.

"The arrow..."

Henri chuckled. "It's been removed. You were lucky; it went through your muscle and missed the bone. You will only have two holes in your leg, one in back and one in front. They should complement the one in your head." Henri was in fine spirits. He was not smiling, so Johan could not perceive if he was angry or simply harassing.

Johan grimaced as he perched himself up on to his elbows. He lay on a bed of straw, and looking around, saw injured soldiers scattered about the large tent, now obscure and ominous in the vague candlelight. It was as packed as when he had brought in...

Eudes! Johan searched the room. "Where's... Where is Eudes?"

Obert bent closer to Johan. His eyebrows lowered as he spoke. "Eudes has a fever. He asks for you."

"Where is he?"

"He's over there, to your right, in the back."

Johan craned his neck to look through the dark room. He noted a few candles set atop poles driven into the ground. They cast converging shadows across quiet, shapeless forms.

"How is he?"

"They put yarrow on the wound and gave him some poppy juice for the pain. But I fear the wound is infected."

Henri spoke. "I was told sometimes the enemy puts their arrows in night soil so disease can take over if the arrow strike does not kill."

Obert glared at Henri. Johan closed his eyes and inhaled as he controlled an angry retort.

Obert spoke. "They tried to keep the heat down, but it seems to be of little use."

"I must see him," Johan said as he started to sit up straight. As he did, it felt like someone ran a white-hot rod up his thigh. For a moment, he imagined flames jumping from his leg. He collapsed back on his elbows.

"You still need to rest," said Henri. "Let me fetch you some food. No doubt, you have not eaten all day." Henri turned and left.

Johan winced, trying to bring the world back into focus. As he did, he saw Obert sit down next to him. They sat in silence for a while. Johan thought of Eudes. Then the memory of the flight, an image of Raoul's face, the arrow...

"Obert, have they lit the fire yet? What did I miss?"

"You have missed little. You were asleep for only a couple of hours. Although there is something..."

Henri returned with bread, a slab of cheese and a wooden mug filled with ale.

"Here, Johan. Eat. This is a soldier's ration." He had emphasized "soldier's." He glanced at Obert. "Did you ask him? You look guilty."

"No. I haven't."

"Asked what?" asked Johan.

Henry returned his face to a smirk. "So, did you have any idea of who brought you here?"

"Mmm? A crusader, no? I remember someone lifting the shield, picking me up. But not much beyond that. I must find and thank him."

"Indeed you should. Your savior was none other than our leader himself, Simon de Montfort." Both Henri and Obert broke into wide, toothy smiles.

"Simon de Montfort? Why he's... Why would he save me?"

"We don't know. I thought maybe you could tell me how you rose in importance from the village idiot to being rescued by the leader of the entire crusade." Henri grinned. He looked to be more proud than jealous.

Commotion at the tent opening turned their heads. Several monks moved quickly toward a group of three, whose importance was obvious by how the doctor bowed his head repeatedly and held his hands in front of his chest as though praying. The doctor then turned and pointed towards Johan and his two friends.

"It's him," Obert whispered.

Johan's position did not lend itself for an easy view. In the group, it was obvious which one was Simon. Tall, erect posture, wearing a red cape. Simon and two others made their way towards Johan.

Henri and Obert moved to the other side of Johan as Simon de Montfort stepped up to them. He paused a moment and peered down at Johan, his lips pursing.

"This is the young soldier I returned from the field." He gazed at Johan, but seemed to be addressing the three.

"Yes, sir," Johan responded eagerly.

Simon smiled and dropped to one knee, placing his forearms across his right thigh. "Your name?"

"I am Johan de Ginestas. And I thank you for risking yourself to bring me out of the moat."

"It is I who came to thank you."

"Me?" Why would Simon thank him?

"Yes. You see, I observed you earlier this day when you ran back to save a fallen soldier. It made me think of how we in leadership often forget the men we send to battle. It could have just as well been ourselves."

Johan swallowed. "It was my brother. The one who fell." He thought of Eudes and saw the arrow poking out of his back and the pained look on his face.

"Ah, I see. How does he fare?"

"I am not sure..."

"He suffers from a fever, sir." Henri spoke. He sounded keen to impress the leader.

"Well, I pray he recovers due to your valiant effort."

"Thank you, sir. But I..." Johan paused. "I only did what any man would do."

"Nonetheless you acted. It took courage, and I thank you for the example you have set for all my men. And for me."

"You are too kind."

"Well," Simon said as he pushed down on his knee and rose. "If you have recovered by morning, I invite you to join me as we set fire to the sap which you and your other men dug. We shall breach the wall and take Castelar at dawn."

"I am honored, sir."

"A good night to you all," Simon addressed the three, but with sweeping arm, seemed to address the entire tent. Obert's mouth gaped open, Henri smiled, and Johan made a single nod. Simon turned and talked with the other two men as they left the tent. Johan heard Simon instruct one of the men to return at dawn.

As soon as they left the tent, Obert spoke.

"Unbelievable. Johan, they will be amazed at home when we tell them you inspired the great Simon de Montfort."

Henri broke in. "Yes, and you shall watch as we storm the castle."

Johan looked at Henri and said nothing; he raised his left eyebrow. Looking back at the empty entrance, he wondered how he could have been so lucky. Maybe this was supposed to be—his call to serve God in the crusade at the side of the great Simon de Montfort? Was that presumptuous? Or was it Destiny?

Johan looked to where Eudes should be. "Henri, Obert. Can you have me moved over next to Eudes?"

Obert responded, "Do you think that wise, Johan? Your leg..."

"It doesn't matter. I want to be with Eudes."

Obert went over to one of the monks and returned shortly with a pallet. He and Henri helped Johan onto the stretcher, moving Johan slowly as his leg was still intensely painful. Soon, Johan lay next to an unconscious Eudes who obviously burned with high fever. Johan touched Eudes' hand and felt the heat.

"It's me, Eudes. Johan is here." Then he whispered, "Everything will be well."

Henri and Obert had backed away. Johan looked at them and said, "Thank you. Now I must rest. And I think you should too, if you are to join the assault on Castelar tomorrow."

"Yes. We will return to see how you and Eudes are."

Had he slept? Or had he merely closed his eyes and then reopened them? There had been no dreams. But he sensed a presence, and after blinking several times to wash away a thick cover on his eyes, he saw a figure sitting next to him.

"Obert?"

"Johan. How do you fare? The siege is about to begin." Obert rose. He must have been waiting for Johan to wake up. Garbed in fighting jacket and helmet, Obert adjusted a new sword and leather scabbard. He did not say anything about it, but he seemed to overemphasize the motions to bring attention to it.

Johan grunted. He rose to his elbows and then glanced at Eudes. His brother lay quiet; he looked peaceful. Johan touched his brother's hand. It was cool and a little clammy. The fever must have broken.

"How am I to get there?" Johan asked.

"We shall carry you." The voice was not Obert's. Another soldier stepped into view; he must have been standing where Johan could not see him. When he did come into view, Johan thought he looked perturbed. But all thoughts focused on the shifting leg and the ensuing pain as they moved him to a pallet and carried him out of the tent. All the while, Johan glanced back at Eudes. Maybe the infection was finally under control.

Outside, it was still dark. Commotion all about the forest made the trees come alive. Soldiers gathered at the forest's edge and massed in columns that stretched to the infirmary tent. Few spoke, and those who did were giving orders. Horses snorted and scuffed their hooves against the dirt, while swords and shields rasped as soldiers jostled into position, impatient, keyed for action. Johan felt the surge of excitement in his stomach. For a moment, he thought he could jump off the pallet and join the fray. How he wished he could be a part of the attack.

Yet, he was consigned to watch. Impotent. How he wanted to suit up and ready for the charge! Maybe the siege on Carcassonne, formidable as it was, would last long enough for him to finally engage in battle.

When they reached the forest edge, Obert and the other soldier delivered Johan to a group standing to the side of the amassing soldiers. Simon de Montfort, still replete in flowing cape, pointed animatedly to the fortress and discussed strategy in a low voice. He must be planning the attack with his advisors. A pinkish-orange hue faintly glowed along the top of the wall.

As they placed Johan on the ground next to the group, Simon turned and caught Johan's eye. He nodded, then resumed his discussion.

Obert leaned over. "Wish me well, Johan. It would be better if you were to join us."

"I agree. Godspeed, Obert. Tell Henri the same."

"I will." Obert dashed into a throng of soldiers.

The sky hinted at dawn. A faint ginger color washed over the fortress and the empty moat. Bodies still lay strewn about the moat, although they looked like vague bumps in the darkness, as if already buried and their remains were only markers to an ill-conceived tactic. Bertran and Alard were out there somewhere. In an odd way, it looked peaceful.

To Johan's left, he caught the flicker of a small fire, the only light out at the edge of the forest other than a golden glow along the tops of the trees. It moved, and then descended into the moat. Johan leaned his head forward, focusing on the light. Carried by someone—no, maybe two people—and in front of them was a large mobile barrier.

As the glittering shape moved across the moat, the sun broke somewhere on the horizon behind them, lighting up the sky enough for Johan to see a torch nearing the wall and the dug-out cave at its base. It was possible sentries high above on the walls could not fully see what was coming toward them because of the barrier and the sun, but surely they would be expecting it. Just then, he heard shouting echo from the fortress, and shortly afterward, arrows loosed on to the flame carriers.

Their barrier held, and they made it to the cave, or at least it looked so, for Johan could not accurately see that far, especially from his position. Nevertheless, they must have made it, for monks behind Johan began chanting.

Slowly, a light grew at the base of the wall. The timbers and branches soaked with tar and oil had caught fire. Black smoke belched from the opening and rose like an omen.

Then, without warning, he heard a loud crack and then a splitting rumble. Focusing his eyes on the wall above the cave, Johan sensed movement. At first, he wondered if it was simply the heat waves caused by the fire, but as the rumbling grew louder, the structure buckled and slid down toward a single point near the ground as the cave collapsed. It instantly put out the fire, but at the same time, the merlons atop the parapet vibrated and then slid together with the collapsing rock. The wall in that section, in less than half a minute, crumbled and left a gaping, smoky, dusty void where once stood an impenetrable barrier.

And at that moment, a roar went up, and a surge of men oozed over the moat embankment and dashed toward the breach. A black tide crashed on the shores of rubble and mounted the opening into the fortification. Another shout went up, and mangonels and catapults, as if appearing from the forest, flung stones and boulders at the other sections of wall in coordinated diversion. Johan knew there would be arrows fired, spears thrown, swords drawn. Somewhere in the mêlée Henri and Obert, soldiers for Ginestas, battled for God against soulless heretics.

How he wished he could be with them!

Eight

"NO, I CANNOT ALLOW IT."

Animated voices echoed into the hallway from the cell in which Guilelma and her father stayed. Raimon hesitated as he stood outside the doorway, unnoticed. He had left Gilles with the injured crusader, and now he distractedly rubbed his forehead. His stomach knotted. That was Father Mattieu's voice, and he sounded agitated.

Next, a man spoke, but Raimon could not tell who it was. "But he must receive the rite, and if you will not allow him to be moved, he will be consigned to repeat his miserable life despite what you do or do not believe."

"The doctor said it was unsafe to move him," Father Mattieu continued. "He has suffered greatly."

"You say that as if you care. You fear our religion more than you do this man's health. He shall die nonetheless. What do you care?"

Raimon heard a short cry. The sound pricked the skin on the back of his neck, for it was Guilelma. Through the darkness, he saw her in a chair on the other side of the bed, near her father's head.

A set of fat candles near Artal's bed cast a soft orange glow about the cell. Flickering, agitated flames shifted shadows on the four faces, making them appear malevolent. They stood in a semi-circle about the bed, three facing Raimon from behind the bed, with Father Mattieu on the left at Artal's feet, mostly hidden from Raimon's view. A hunched older man in black stood next to Guilelma on the opposite side. His face was the most visible. A great round nose, bushy eyebrows, dark crescents below his eyes. Then on the right, obscured in black was a woman, yet by only looking, Raimon could not be sure. Then she spoke, cracked and hoarse.

"Mascaro, I am sure the priest has good intentions."

There was a pause. This was as good a moment as any. Raimon inhaled sharply, held his breath and stepped into the room. As he did, four faces turned to glare at him. Anxious silence held the room as if Raimon had rudely barged in.

Father Mattieu cleared his throat and then spoke. "Brother Raimon. We are discussing how difficult it would be to move this man, for he suffers greatly, and the doctor has said he should not be moved."

"Merely an excuse," said the old man.

"Let him finish," the woman chided. The man rolled his eyes like an impatient child. He must have been at least sixty.

"Raimon, they wish to perform consolamentum. But," he shook his head slowly as though struggling with the statement, "I cannot allow it within the cathedral."

The Cathar sacred rite. Raimon sighed; this was not going to be easy. He glanced at Guilelma. Despite the poor lighting, he noticed red-rimmed eyes. She sat upright, stiff, biting on her lower lip. She had said she did not fear death, but that surely did not negate the emotion of watching her father die.

It did not matter whether or not they performed consolamentum here or anywhere. Ultimately, the truth is the truth, regardless of what is said or done. Words spoken would not force the hand of God. Raimon remembered how Brother Anseau had silently administered extreme unction for Beatriu's mother, Emilisse, while the Cathar perfect performed consolamentum simultaneously. God would hear the right words, or the intent. God knew Artal's heart better than any in this stuffy room full of intensity. And if Artal was to receive God's grace at his last hour, that was for God to decide, not institutional incantations.

He had better keep that thought to himself. He doubted even Father Mattieu would understand what he meant and might think Raimon full of heretical thoughts.

Father Mattieu was the one caught in this situation. He was normally tolerant, but maybe, given the encroaching crusade, he had an image to uphold.

The Cathar priest sneered. "Obstinacy. You want to vie for his soul. Don't lie to me. Your church of wolves..."

"Mascaro!" It was the old woman. "That is enough. These people have been good enough to care for Artal, and you should show respect for them regardless of what you think of their religion."

The old man cringed, then frowned. "Very well," he finally said.

"Young man, what have you to offer?" The old woman tilted her forehead. Detached eyes. Raimon shifted his gaze to Guilelma. Expectant eyes. Then he looked at Father Mattieu, but he could not read the father's eyes. Irritated? Frustrated? Resigned?

Tension stretched like a wet hide drying over a small frame.

How should he respond? He knew engaging in another religious debate was not in order, and he knew what both sides wanted to hear. What did Guilelma want to hear?

As Father Mattieu moved to speak, Raimon said, "I understand you feel it important to perform consolamentum for Artal, and you are frustrated. On the other hand, you are in a cathedral, and Father Mattieu is bound by the Church in matters of faith." Raimon was about to mention the timeliness for Artal, but knowing consolamentum was given to Cathars on their deathbed, he did not want to disturb Guilelma.

"He will side with the priest. You know it, Gaucelis."

"Tell me," Raimon ignored the man, "is it possible to move Artal only a short distance for a brief time?" He looked at Father Mattieu and raised his eyebrows.

Father Mattieu shifted weight to his other leg. He closed his eyes briefly and spoke.

"From what the doctor told me, the man should not be moved. He has suffered many broken bones. To move him would risk their healing and cause great distress."

"But," Raimon offered, "if carefully moved, only for a brief time, would it be possible?" Without waiting for Father Mattieu to respond, he turned to the Cathars. "How much time do you need?"

"Very little."

"There is a stable not more than a hundred feet from this room. Father Mattieu, would it be acceptable for them to perform their rites there? It is not within the cathedral."

"Well," Father Mattieu pursed his lips. "I am still concerned for the man. But if we first check with the doctor..." Father Mattieu sighed and appeared to relax. "Very well. If the doctor agrees, get several of the priests to move him extremely slowly. I want to make sure the move does no harm. But," he raised a finger, "I want him back in the room as soon as possible—it is an inferno out there."

Raimon asked, "Would that be acceptable to you?" He looked first at the man, then the woman, and then he glanced over at Guilelma. Grateful eyes made Raimon want to rush to her side.

The old woman spoke as the man opened his mouth. "Yes, that would be acceptable."

Father Mattieu walked to the door. At the doorway, Father Mattieu spoke softly.

"Brother Raimon, when you get a moment, I would like if we could talk."

"Yes, Father."

Gilles, breathless, eager and full of pent-up energy, dashed up to Raimon.

"Raymond-Roger is planning some kind of attack."

"Attack? What do you mean?"

"The crusaders have left a contingency in Castelar. We've been watching from the walls." Gilles had not relaxed all day. He ran from one event to the other, reporting faithfully—Raimon knew not why—back to Raimon. After delivering the injured crusader, Gilles was off to probe for information. He made Raimon tired simply watching him dash up the steps of the cathedral in the midst of unbearable heat. Although, Raimon was tired for many other reasons, not the least of which was ushering Guilelma and Artal back to their room after the strange Cathar rite, consoling Guilelma when she did not appear to want comfort, and dealing with smug Cathars and an irritated Father Mattieu.

Raimon blinked and sighed. "Say that again? The crusaders have vacated Castelar?"

"Not completely," said Gilles. "Our soldiers said it was a rout. They killed everyone in Castelar, and then afterwards, the majority returned to their encampment."

"So much death." Raimon paused and crossed himself; Gilles copied. "God in your mercy, forgive them; forgive them all." Then he muttered, "This is insane." He touched Gilles on the shoulder. "It was a good thing you did for that man."

Gilles shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, for boisterous clatter from dozens of hooves rattled down the Rue Diderot toward Porte Saint Nazaire. Shouts of "Make way!" echoed up the cathedral steps. Those standing in the crowded street scattered and shoved into those who lined the street. Steeds snorted, leather rasped, and iron clinked as more than twenty mounted soldiers cantered by. They were followed by dozens of foot soldiers, too many to count. Then, like water thrust aside by a cart wheel, the bystanders oozed back into the street.

"We must go," said Gilles.

"What do you mean?"

"We must go to see what they plan. I heard Raymond-Roger seeks revenge for Béziers."

Raimon sighed. He knew nothing good could come from revenge. Only escalation. "Very well. However, this time, Gilles, we stay out of it." He raised a chastising eyebrow.

Gilles flashed his mischievous grin, turned and shouted over his shoulder as he loped down the cathedral steps, dodging back and forth between those camped or milling about. "Follow me."

At the bottom of the stairs, Gilles halted. Raimon, who had followed at a slower pace, moved up behind Gilles as the street scene repeated, people pushing and shoving to clear the road, for another set of horses cascaded down the road from the north, heading in the same direction as the soldiers. This time several horse-drawn carts followed four mounted soldiers. The soldiers reined the horses as they approached Raimon and Gilles, and they halted in front of them. The horses paced agitatedly.

"You there," shouted the soldier in the lead. He could not have been more than eighteen years of age, clean face, bright eyes, and proud posture. He wore a soldier's uniform, chain mail covered with a white tunic and Trencavel's crest: a shield with horizontal gold stripes alternating with ermine. His gaze went to Gilles. They seemed to know each other.

"You have been recruited. I need four others. Boy, go to Father Mattieu; we need drivers and carriers to gather the wounded... If there are any."

Gilles pressed his lips together tightly. Then he said as he nodded, "As you wish... Esteve." The soldier flashed a scowl. Gilles scurried back up the stairs and into the cathedral.

The horses shuffled on the cobblestone, snorting. Esteve's horse was close enough Raimon felt moist heat and smelled the thick scent of the beast. A trickle of perspiration dashed down his back. He stared at the soldiers. They gazed ahead, to the south, their minds likely anticipating their task.

"How can we help?" Raimon asked.

The soldier, Esteve, straightened his neck and slowly regarded Raimon. "I'll need you to take a cart; two of you for each. After the charge, when the signal is given, you will go in to find any injured residents and bring them back. There will not be much time, for as soon as they hear of our foray, they will re-launch their attack. You will need to act quickly and retreat. You may not find anyone alive."

Another soldier, behind the Esteve, leaned sideways and added, "And only residents. No crusaders." This soldier, too, could not be much older than Esteve. He looked to be of more southern blood, darker hair and skin, thick eyebrows, more akin to residents of Raimon's hometown, Barcino.

How absurd to ask a monk of God to choose among the wounded. He folded his arms and asked, "How would I tell which is which?"

"If they reply in the common tongue, they are crusaders."

"And I am to simply ignore them?"

"Yes," Esteve replied, definitively.

Raimon made a scoffing sound. He hardly thought he could ignore an injured man regardless of his loyalties.

Gilles returned along with several priests. "Father Mattieu says to bring the injured back to the cathedral, and we will care for them here," Gilles said, panting.

Esteve barked, pointing to Gilles, "You two take the first cart. The others: move on back to the remaining carts."

Raimon and Gilles mounted a rickety cart cobbled together with old wood, shiny from use. The driver could not have been more than twelve years old. The boy handed Raimon the reins as though dispensing a dreaded task. He scratched his head, dismounted, and took off running back up the street.

The horses sensed action. They pranced in place, jittery, clicking the stone street in asynchronous rhythm. Esteve swiveled his horse and walked it past the carts. As he did, he repeated the orders he had told Raimon. Gilles leaned over to Raimon and whispered.

"Esteve is the one who did this." Gilles pointed to his flattened nose. Raimon raised his eyebrows. Gilles continued. "He likes to think he's in charge of the garrison or probably all of Carcassonne." Gilles winked and then smiled.

The grating of iron against stone, heavy and dragging, rumbled from the south. The gates were being opened. Then, abruptly, a collective roar, followed by the thunder of horses and bellowing soldiers. Raimon held his breath. The crowd recoiled. His stomach twitched. It dawned on him he was about to be thrust into the middle of the siege.

Everything moved quickly; Raimon had not the time to think or consider what was happening around him. The entire past year was one torrent of turmoil, conflict and subterfuge, all blended together. And now, poised to ride into the midst of a bloody conflict—one which neither Raimon nor Gilles fully understood—Raimon could only imagine what they would find in Castelar. The crusade's forces far out-numbered Carcassonne's soldiers, and it was inevitable Carcassonne should fall. Unless Raymond-Roger gambled that by frustrating the crusaders and holding out, the crusade would run out of supplies, or become disillusioned, or have to return north as the crusaders' term neared its end. With no source for water, limited food, hordes of people packed into every crevice the city offered, the oppressive heat of August, how could Carcassonne hope to survive a prolonged war of attrition?

And this mad dash into Castelar... To do what? To retaliate by killing their remaining forces? Pure revenge for the massacre at Béziers? How many would die? And to what real purpose?

At least he and Gilles could attempt to save a few souls.

How would they find the wounded? There was no plan. Raimon had no idea of the street layout in Castelar. What if they got trapped in the midst of battle? Would the crusaders respect their office, or would they be slain along with the rest?

"Now we go! Forward!" Esteve jerked his horse's head, pulled the sword from his scabbard, held it aloft and wildly kicked his horse into a gallop.

Raimon's stomach seized in reflex. He grabbed the reins and whipped the horse into motion. The cart complained into action, creaking and wincing as its wheels thudded over cobblestone toward the gate.

Raimon glanced at Gilles. He was white, drained of all color.

Nine

"JOHAN, IT WAS GLORIOUS!" Obert's eyes were wild and wide, sparkling bright green as if lit from within. Johan had difficulty dealing with such exuberance given the state he was in.

His jacket showed little battle-signs other than a tear on the upper arm on his right side. He still held his short sword, unsheathed, to his side, and Johan saw nicks running down what used to be a sharpened edge, and the tip was covered in a light hue of crimson-brown. Seeing Johan eye the sword, Obert snapped from his reverie and put it away, fumbling as he searched for the scabbard opening. He knelt next to Johan, quivering and excited.

"Your sapping pulled down the entire section of wall, and all we had to do was climb into the opening. It was like mounting a set of stairs right into the belly of Castelar. We met our foes head on; but there were at least twelve rows of men in front of me as we pushed our way inside. I was so nervous I almost wet myself." Obert broke into a wide grin.

Obert's description sounded simple, but Johan knew they would have been pummeled with arrows and rocks until they could fully break into the inner courtyard. He was jealous, and he felt a twinge of excitement, but immediately had it suppressed.

"I slew three. I don't know about Henri, for we lost each other during the battle. Once we got past the wall, it was clear they were not prepared to meet us, for there must have been four of our soldiers for every one of them. And they fled. Some got into the back gates of Carcassonne, but most were put to the sword."

"Where is Henri?" Johan asked.

"I'm not sure. I think he stayed behind to guard. Simon de Montfort said we were to retreat to the tents while a contingent occupies the southern walls. It appears now that we have taken Bourg and Castelar, it may only be a matter of a few weeks before Carcassonne surrenders. Their supplies will be limited, and we have cut off all access to water."

"Hmmm," Johan replied. "I wonder if it will be that easy. After Bourg, we thought Castelar would be the same effort."

"True, but Johan, I wish you could have been there." Obert paused a moment, and after taking a deep breath, seemed to calm himself. He eyed Johan like a curious object. His eyebrows crumpled, as if he had just noticed Johan. "Are you well, Johan? You look like a corpse."

Johan stared back at Obert a few moments in silence. Then he swallowed. "Eudes is dead." The words hurt.

"What? No! You said his fever had broken."

Johan said slowly, "I..." He closed his eyes briefly to stop the gathering moisture. "When I had touched Eudes this morning, he was cool. But what I did not know was he must have just died, for when I returned from watching the battle, they had placed linen over him." Johan choked when he said the word linen.

"I am sorry, my friend." Obert sat back on his heels then laid his hand on Johan's forearm. "I know how much Eudes meant to you."

"You will never know," Johan replied. His voice held an edge to it. "Eudes was... At least, he will never be ridiculed again." Johan laid his head back. Obert awkwardly removed his hand.

Closing his eyes, a droplet squeezed from Johan's left eye and ran down past his temple to his ear. He heard Obert rise and shuffle nervously. He was about to open his eyes and ask Obert to leave him be for some time, when from outside the tent came shouts.

"To arms! To arms!"

"I must go see what is happening," Obert said as he paused a moment looking down at Johan. Johan blinked and looked questioningly at Obert. Why had they called for arms so soon after the victory? As Johan opened his mouth to agree Obert should go, Obert dashed out of the tent.

Soon, one of the young monks stumbled into the tent and came over to speak to the doctor. They were near enough for Johan to hear, and he listened intently. What he heard made him cringe.

"They are being slaughtered," the exasperated young monk said, breathlessly.

"Who, boy?"

"Our soldiers. They say Trencavel and his men have ridden out of Carcassonne. They are killing all of the soldiers left and putting the village to the torch."

Johan tensed. Henri was still there.

"And we are charging back; but they say it may be too late to save any of our men."

"Prepare more space," the doctor replied indifferently, and he turned to tend to the patient next to him. The young monk stood a moment, surprised by the doctor's sudden dismissal. He gazed absently around him at the wounded, and then he darted off to talk to the other monks on the opposite side of the tent, speaking softly but wildly gesticulating.

Tension grabbed at the skin between Johan's shoulder blades. His fists balled, and a knuckle cracked. What the hell was going on? Picked off one by one. That was what it was like, as though each from Ginestas was being selectively plucked and tossed aside as a casualty of war. God be with Henri. Johan shook his head. Should Henri die, it would only be he and Obert left, two out of the six from Ginestas.

Maybe battle was not so glorious. He had thought it would be exciting, compelling to thrust into mortal combat against the heretics. He had treated it as a game. The reality was all too permanent. Yes, these four would be in heaven, for that was promised. But, damnation, not Henri too. They may have had their differences, but Henri was probably the one friend the most like Johan. He felt as though his heart had been carved out and its exterior shell left intact, a façade.

The evening wore on, and Johan heard no more word from Obert. Monks brought wounded men in on pallets, and the tent soon became overcrowded. Johan hated the stench of blood and sweat and whatever else came from the injured. He witnessed first-hand the damage arrows could inflict; those like him who had arrows pierce entirely through were the lucky ones. Imbedded barbs caused far more damage upon removal, only tearing, ripping flesh.

Then there were sword wounds. Few of the men brought to the tent wore chain mail. These were the unlucky ones, the poor ones, not like the professional soldiers. Cloven flesh, lost limbs, bleeding punctures. Why brought here? Surely they could not survive. The man next to him had lost an ear, his head was wrapped in a bloody cloth with only his nose and eyes poking through. Most would not return to the battlefield this year, many never. But not Johan. He stirred and sat up fully, tolerating the pain from his own wound.

"You," he shouted at a monk passing by.

"Not now," the monk snapped.

"I need not be in here," Johan said nonetheless. "Have someone take me out and make room for others needier." Fresh air must be better than this stench. He needed to get away from death.

"In a moment," the monk said as he delivered an arrow spoon to the doctor.

"Here, let us help you," came a voice from behind. Someone had come in upon Johan without him noticing. It was Simon de Montfort.

"Here I am again, impressed." Stepping into easier view, he eyed Johan a moment, and then he turned to a knight at his right. "Help me lift the boy." Simon moved to Johan's feet. Then the two bent over and picked up the pallet under Johan; it must have remained there after returning him to the tent earlier that day. Johan had not noticed. The linen sheet over Eudes was enough to occupy his mind.

As they navigated out of the tent, Johan said, "Sir, you do me honor again. I have done nothing to deserve it."

Simon did not speak until they had left the tent and placed Johan at the base of a nearby tree.

"Your name again?"

"Johan de Ginestas."

"Ah, yes. Johan." He turned to the knight, who also wore a tunic with the same emblem as Simon's. "A young and eager crusader who risks self to save a fellow soldier, and with the integrity to ask to be removed from the infirmary so others might have a place to convalesce. There must be a place for such a man, should there not, Ponç?"

"As you say." This Ponç was the same who came for Johan earlier. He still looked perturbed.

"I shall have an attendant." Simon turned to Johan. "Tomorrow you shall join me. With a staff, can you stand?"

For a second Johan wondered how he could stand on his wounded leg, but he quickly answered, "Yes, sir."

"Good. Then you shall join us at my tent. Ponç will send someone to fetch you... Until tomorrow." Simon nodded at Johan, who nodded back. What was happening? He had done everything wrong, yet Fortune smiled upon him.

Johan rest in euphoria despite the commotion of monks and soldiers moving the wounded about him. It was as though he was not there, but already in Simon's tent, feasting on whatever lords feast upon, taking part in discussions to plan the next stages of the siege, sleeping on a real bed... Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice chastised him for being naïve, but he ignored it.

Before long, Johan had fallen asleep on the warm August evening. Obert never returned that night, or the next day.

In the morning, one of Simon's servants brought a crutch to Johan and helped him move further north to a large tent replete with colorful flags, identified by a gonfalon hung from a rod suspended on poles to the right of the tent entrance. The gonfalon displayed the same double-tailed lion as was on Simon's tunic.

As he hobbled into the tent, a gregarious Simon greeted him.

"Welcome, Johan." He turned to another servant. "Bring him new clothes." He eyed Johan again with penetrating stare.

"I believe I would like to show you to the bishop."

Ten

RAIMON AND GILLES PLUNGED INTO A FRENZY of dust and flying chat. Jarring and pounding against the wooden seat, Raimon's vision blurred as their cart thudded onto dry packed dirt, sending up a cloud of dust, and wheeled through an open space between Carcassonne's walls and the first buildings in Castelar. And then he saw the first of the dead.

As soon as they had descended onto the dirt road, it switched back to cobblestone and the cacophony of hooves and wheels echoed off ramshackle houses packed together in no particular plan other than they lined the street. Exposed timber and mud façade was interspersed with beige stone. Single-story mixed haphazardly with double; overhanging second floors made rooflines dip and rise like a warped saw tooth blade. Raimon slowed the cart as he dodged the slain. Hundreds of corpses lay strewn about the streets.

They rumbled into a plaza where three paths diverged off at different angles, plunging further into the suburb. An occasional pig and cowering hound scuffled into corners. Esteve jerked his horse around; it snorted and puffed, head and neck arched, muscles convulsed in spasms, ears cocked forward and eyes bulging. Esteve pointed to the path immediately to the right.

"You take that one."

Within seconds, Raimon and Gilles barreled past Esteve and into a narrow alley packed with houses whose overhanging second floors came within six feet of each other. The darkened street, vacant and threatening, was eerily stagnant, a graveyard.

Gilles still white, blinked as though trying to compose himself despite apprehensive eyes and white knuckles gripping the wooden bench.

"Are you all right?" Raimon shouted above the noise of the cart.

Gilles nodded. He, like Raimon, peered at the battle's aftermath.

Raimon pulled on the reins and slowed the cart. Battle sounds became immediately prevalent, and he found the commotion of the cart and the race into Castelar had numbed his vision and his senses. His ears rung.

The streets looked as though some great plague had swept through the suburb. Shouts and screams echoed randomly from every direction. Metal clashed and reverberated like warning bells. Horses clattered through the streets. If the sound were removed, the street would appear calm and quiet as an early morning before residents arose. Raimon felt anxious, like creeping through a crypt in the dark...regardless of one's theology.

The corpses lay like rubbish waiting for the pigs or dogs to consume. It was impossible to tell crusaders from Castelar soldiers, except when he spotted an occasional tunic with hint of some northern lord's coat of arms, or chain mail. No movement. No moans of pain. No cries for help.

Gilles yelled in Occitan, "Is there anyone? Come quickly! We come to help." Raimon looked at him; his color had reappeared. Then Raimon repeated, although he shouted in the common tongue.

They continued to shout as they made their way toward the far south of Castelar. They neither saw nor heard anyone other than fighting soldiers somewhere, remotely to their left who must have pressed their quarry back to the eastern wall. Raimon suspected any of the crusaders able to avoid the slaughter fled down the rubble from their breach in the wall and back to their camp. They would call for reinforcements.

Wild pounding of hooves approached from behind. Raimon craned his neck to see horses gallop down the road toward them. Soldiers carried lit torches. They stopped periodically to dismount, dash into a house, and set it afire. Someone in the lead continued toward their cart and pulled up behind them.

"Back to the castle! They are coming!" He turned his horse and galloped down a side road to the east.

Raimon careened the cart around in the narrow alleyway and thrashed at the reins. Flames spewed from the houses, smoke billowed out of window openings, orange fingers flashed over eaves. Houses with thatched roofs ignited in an explosion of fire. Heat burned at Raimon's cheeks. He whipped the reins harder.

Pulling into the plaza, bellows of bloodlust assaulted them as they slid into the small courtyard. Full of clashing swords and screams, a line of Carcassonne soldiers stemmed a host of crusaders who streamed in from the wall breach. Raymond-Roger's mounted soldiers converged, swiped and stabbed from on high as though harvesting wheat. Raimon looked about frantically. They were trapped.

Gilles had clamped his hands on the cart's seat and had again lost his color. Suddenly, a crusader broke loose from the melee and charged, sword held high, straight for the cart. Gilles flinched and shoved instinctively into Raimon, for the maniac came straight for Gilles. As the sword crashed down on Gilles, Raimon swung his right arm out and back, knocking Gilles violently backwards, and sent him plunging into the cart behind. The sword split into the seat, the tip barely missing Raimon's thigh. Raimon gazed into bloodshot eyes, a grimace of animalistic furor. The crusader's helmet covered his eyebrows, and a nosepiece extended several inches to a flared end. A wiry beard mixed with perspiration and dirt stuck out in all directions, making the crusader look feral.

In that moment, Raimon wanted to shout, "We are men of God!" The crusader jerked his sword out of the wood, raised it again for another strike—this time directly at Raimon. Raimon lifted his arm out of reflex, as though it would be sufficient to block a sword strike. Stupid. He winced for the ensuing split and pain and dismemberment.

In that instant, a horse appeared and rammed into the crusader, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Get out of here!" The soldier yelled. It was Esteve. He urged his horse forward, trampling on the crusader, then slapped the rear of Raimon's horse with the flat his blade. The cart leapt into motion, and despite the mob surrounding them, soldiers parted, and soon Raimon and Gilles were on the road to Port Saint Nazaire. Raimon glanced back to make sure Gilles was safe. As the horse broke into a frenzied gallop, Raimon heard Esteve above the clamor.

"Retreat!"

Half way to the gate, faster horses blazed past them and charged into Carcassonne. Soldiers on top and around the gate, along the parapet, cheered and whooped. They acted as though they had won a great victory. What of the foot soldiers? Would they be able to escape?

Barreling up the incline and into Carcassonne, the rumble of the path erupted into clatter on cobblestones. Raimon pulled the cart to a stop some feet into the cité and turned to look behind. Below, several mounted soldiers charged toward them. Further down, nearer the plaza, foot soldiers dashed, and immediately behind them charged crusaders, three times their number.

Raimon pulled the cart to the right inside the gate to allow in the mounted soldiers. Esteve shouted upwards as he cleared the archway, "Prepare the arrows!"

Then, as the foot soldiers neared the gate, a command to fire set loose a barrage at the pursuing crusaders. Several immediately fell. The others turned and fled back to the safety of distance.

"Gilles," Raimon called. Looking down, he saw Gilles curled up in the cart's bed, shaking.

"Brother Raimon, you do not understand. It is only a matter of time before Viscount Trencavel surrenders, and we will be faced with the scrutiny of Bishop Almaric. I cannot be seen as a sympathizer... There is too much at stake." Father Mattieu paced in his room, rubbing his temples. Raimon sat facing an empty fireplace. He was exhausted after the ordeal in Castelar, and he still worried for Gilles.

"Bishop?"

"You had not heard? The pope appointed Almaric bishop."

"Hmmm," Raimon shook his head. It was bad enough the abbot was in charge of the crusade. Getting back to the subject, he continued. "But it's dangerous to move Artal—as you have said—and few are able to survive this heat even if they are in healthy condition."

"I know. I know, Raimon. But, you heard what happened at Béziers. They showed no mercy, and even if somehow we end up with a peaceful solution—which I pray for constantly—to be seen with Cathar perfects within the cathedral would be a death knell. I cannot allow it any further. Not now. It has dangerous, far-reaching consequences. I'm sorry if I sound a hypocrite."

"We would take them at Prouille, if it were possible." Raimon glared at Father Mattieu. In the back of his mind, Raimon shuddered to face Guilelma with the news they must relocate her father, after expressing such concern over moving him for consolamentum. And where would they take him? According to Father Mattieu, nowhere within the premises of the cathedral or its grounds would be permissible. Raimon understood the pressure. But he also struggled with what was the right thing to do, and moving an injured old man into the heat, who knew where, was not right.

"You are welcome to take them to Prouille once you are free to leave." Father Mattieu met Raimon's gaze. They stared at each other until, in concert, they both sighed, and angry eyes slowly lowered.

Raimon rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and stood. Placing his hand on Raimon's forearm, Father Mattieu said, "Brother Raimon, I am sorry."

"These are challenging times," Raimon replied. "I do understand the position you are in, Father Mattieu. Is there a place we can take him?"

"Let me find someone willing."

"And I will speak to the woman." Raimon's stomach fluttered.

"Thank you. I hope you can understand and forgive me, but we must move them out today. I cannot risk them being here any longer." Father Mattieu paused, and then he said, "I fear the worst after Trencavel's attack on Castelar. I fear they may seek revenge. God have mercy."

Raimon nodded. He shuffled to the door.

Father Mattieu continued. "Raimon, should things become as dangerous as I fear, Prouille will need to be careful. If word got out anyone was harboring Cathars, the bishop would send troops."

"Well, we are not harboring anyone at Prouille...yet," Raimon said as an idea formed.

"If you do, do not tell me directly." Father Mattieu held Raimon's gaze intently. Raimon detected a slight rise of his eyebrows.

Raimon nodded. It must have been difficult for Father Mattieu to have made this decision, to avoid having to lie to the bishop. It would be better he did not know of any of Prouille's activities. Not that there were any.

As Raimon stepped into the hallway, a chill swept down his back. Not from the ambient temperature, for the hallway was hot and stuffy and lined with squatting families intermixed with injured soldiers. It smelled of liniment and of death.

A consistent foreboding crouched at the edge of his awareness. There was too much pain and suffering, too many families torn apart from their homes, their crops destroyed, their very lives threatened by a looming army. All for what? For a differing belief of God? Was blasphemy by a few worth creating hell for many? In reality, it came down to the bishop and the Church, and the viscount. All the others were casualties.

Raimon ambled distractedly down the hallway. The direction was toward Guilelma, but he hesitated because he did not know what he would say. Soon he came upon Gilles, who knelt by a pallet administering some liquid to an injured soldier. The man's head was wrapped in bloody linen.

"Gilles, how do you fare?"

"Better," Gilles replied. "This one woke up briefly, but he did not know who he was or where he was. He's the one we pulled up from the Castelar wall."

"Ah, yes. How bad is the wound?"

"It may not be as bad as we had thought. The doctor says he should be up and about in a day or so."

"Hmmm. I wonder if that will present a problem."

"What do you mean?" Gilles placed a cork into what Raimon assumed was a container of poppy juice. For a second, before answering Gilles, Raimon thought of Anseau again. He had a similar wound, although much more severe, and the poppy juice would have been useful.

"What do we do with a healthy crusader, I wonder?" Raimon was not looking for an answer. How might the soldier, Esteve, react? Would he have killed any crusaders found in Castelar? Likely. Would this one pose a threat? Yet another problem to solve.

The crusader stirred and blinked.

Gilles said, "You're awake. How do you feel?"

For a moment, the crusader, looking like the dead waking, wrapped in burial cloth, stared at the ceiling. His head slowly rocked back and forth. He moaned.

"The poppy juice should help in a minute," said Gilles. He looked up at Raimon. "I suspect he'll not say much. He has a large swell where he was hit. And the doctor had to secure the flesh that had split there."

Squinting his eyes, the man appeared to force himself to focus. He gazed intently at Raimon, looking confused. Then he spoke, slowly, with slurred speech.

"Where... What happened?"

Raimon knelt on one knee closer to the pallet. "You are being cared for. You received a severe hit on the head. How do you feel?"

Small pupils. Bloodshot eyes. Had he heard Raimon?

"I... What is that sound?"

"Sound?" responded Raimon.

The man closed his eyes, concentrating. "Bells. I hear bells." His head listed to his right, and it looked as though he had fallen asleep again. Then he opened his eyes, fluttering his lids. For some time, he merely stared at Raimon. His eyebrows furrowed. Raimon was about to rise and continue down the hallway when the man spoke again.

"You're a priest."

Raimon smiled. "Almost. I am a monk, of the Cistercian order. My name is Raimundus, and this, the one who saved you and cares for you, is Gilles, a novice at Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire."

The man glanced at Gilles, then returned his stare to Raimon. "I am in Carcassonne?"

"Yes."

The man paused again. His eyebrows looked to come even closer together. "You... You are a heretic?"

"A heretic?" Raimon chuckled. "No, why would you think so?"

The man glanced between Raimon and Gilles. "Where am I?" Had he not heard?

"You are within Carcassonne. You had been on the walls of Castelar, and I think hit by a large rock. You are blessed to be alive." Raimon thought about the successive attack launched to slay all crusaders left in Castelar, and how the soldiers put the entire suburb to fire. Smoke lay thick about Carcassonne, and they smelled it within the cathedral. This man was lucky to be alive.

"But you are not a heretic?"

Raimon smiled. "No, my friend."

The man closed his eyes again and spoke. "They told us all within Carcassonne were heretics." When he opened his eyes, he looked as though he had again forgotten where he was, and his stare bounced between Raimon and Gilles for several moments. "Are there heretics here?"

"Well, I suppose the bishop would say so. There are those here who believe differently. We work to understand our differences and seek common ground. And, yes, you could say some here are heretics. But there are those of us who feel it is better to deal with difference through compassion and not violence." Had the man heard or understood what he said? The man remained quiet for some time, and Raimon rose as though the conversation had ended.

"We were told all were heretics and were to be punished as blasphemers," the man finally said.

"I see," replied Raimon. "You may judge for yourself once you have sufficiently recovered. I think you will find those in Carcassonne are much more tolerant than your leaders are." Raimon was not sure if the man understood him. Then he asked, "What is your name?"

The man continued to stare. His eyes moved left and right as he thought. He appeared to have some difficulty remembering. Finally, he spoke. "Henri... Henri de Ginestas."

Eleven

FOOD HELD NO DESIRE FOR HIM—despite there being plenty of it within Simon de Montfort's tent—for the burdensome heat made Johan want to do nothing but find a stream or river in which to immerse his sweltering and fatigued body. The past week and some days held little action since the siege on Castelar. Johan moved moment to moment in the company of the northern lords, a world alien to him, yet compelling, for it was vastly different than his experience in the tiny village of Ginestas. At times, he pondered why his fate led him here; his mind's eye had positioned him as a great warrior; but now injured and temporarily worthless, Johan's role was merely to recuperate and observe. At least that appeared to be his role, for he had learned little otherwise. He was neither a page nor a servant.

Johan moved between depression and loneliness—he had heard nothing of Henri or Obert—to excitement and intrigue with the machinations of the house of Simon de Montfort. In one hour, he hopped up full of motivation to exercise his recovering leg, and in the next hour, he wallowed in lassitude inside a stuffy, stifling tent, bored.

The crusaders did little more than patrol the area they had secured about Carcassonne, maintaining careful distance from occasional errant arrows. With all entry and exit barred, water and food source denied, Carcassonne baked in the summer sun, and Johan wondered how long a city of that size could survive with so many inhabitants crammed into it. There was chatter of catapulting in diseased swine corpses, a disgusting tactic, to further their misery, but the lords maintained the décor of battle and continued chivalrous respect of Viscount Raymond-Roger Trencavel, despite their overarching objective to dethrone him, appropriate his lands and persecute the heretics he harbored.

Simon's massive tent billowed to an apex of about thirteen to fifteen feet and fanned out into a circular space that held an eating area, beds for Simon and his knights, and a place for consultations. Johan jealously eyed framed beds with thick straw mattresses. He had a straw mat on which to sleep, more comfortable than any he had ever had, but when he regarded the beds, he imagined the day when he too could sleep in such luxury.

Beams radiated from the center pole to provide an internal frame, and tapestries hung from them, creating private space for Simon in a quarter segment of the tent. Beige fabric, crested with Simon's double-tailed lion insignia, parted to reveal a bed covered with a deep red cover embroidered in gold. Given the heat, Johan assumed Simon slept on the top of the cover. Each night Simon's servants pulled the tapestries closed, leaving Johan's mind to conjure what occurred in Simon's private space. Candleholders and censers dangled in midair. Braces near the tent walls held Simon's clothes on pegs. A large chest, covered with small, ornately carved boxes flanked the bed. Near it stood a stool and a wrought iron candle stand.

About a third of the tent was devoted to the conference area, sparsely furnished with board slat chairs and a flamboyant rug replete with intricate interlocking designs. Johan assumed it was of foreign origin. He wondered if the objects that decorated the tent were plunder from Simon's crusades in the Holy Land.

The three knights who attended Simon: Ponç, Godebert and Lorens, sat in a semi-circle. Ponç and Godebert wore familiar uniforms, simple garments covered with tunic that displayed Simon de Montfort's crest. Since they were not preparing for battle, they did not wear chain mail. Who would be foolish enough to wear such heavy clothing in this stifling heat? Lorens' uniform was not of Simon's house. His was a grey tunic sporting a shield emblem, blue background with a diagonal silver stripe flanked by meandering blue embroidery on a gold band. Ponç and Godebert hailed from Paris, near Simon's estate north of the Yveline forest. Lorens was from the house of Champagne, a knight gifted to Simon from Count Thibaud de Champagne who had joined Simon in the Crusade at Acre.

Ponç and Lorens spoke in hushed tones while Godebert sat back in his chair, feet splayed out, straightened legs, looking at the tent ceiling. Ponç had a long face and prominent chin. He carried himself with a pompous air, and Johan thought Ponç was irritated with Johan's presence: terse commands, impatient with Johan's recovery from his injury. He ignored Johan whenever possible. Godebert, on the other hand, reminded Johan of Obert, somewhat humble and eager verging on childlike. He had a knot of a brow and thick brown eyebrows above vivid blue eyes. Lorens held himself regally; erect and muscular, he strode with confidence. Light hair, angular cheekbones, continually pursed lips. Johan thought Lorens was a lord until he discovered since Thibaud had been injured in the last crusade and could not join Simon, Thibaud insisted his top man be assigned to Simon.

What was Johan's role? At first, he merely lay convalescing on his mat while he observed the commotion in the tent. After several days of overhearing Simon's tactical instructions and attempting to follow possible outcomes of the siege, Johan hobbled over to Godebert and introduced himself. It was then Johan learned his role as attendant would be to carry Simon's sword to him at bequest, to listen and learn, and one day take on some level of responsibility. Other than that, he merely participated in whatever was happening around Simon.

Johan limped over to a table and grabbed a wineskin. After several gulps of lukewarm diluted wine, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and swiveled to the tent entrance as Simon burst in. Godebert uncoiled his legs and hopped up. Ponç and Lorens remained seated but halted their conversation and turned their attention to Simon.

"Come, all of you. Benard Ato has arrived to parley." Simon immediately turned and left the tent.

The knights snapped into action, donned chain mail and tunic so they were replete in uniform. Ponç and Lorens charged out of the tent, calling for their pages. Before Godebert left, he motioned to Johan.

"Simon will want his sword. You should carry it to him now. I don't know if you're to attend with us or not, but we'll see."

Pages gathered horses and met the knights, helping them mount. Johan walked up to Simon and offered the sword. Simon took it, clasped the belt around his waist and mounted his horse without a word.

"Take one of the mares," Simon said as he looked past Johan, at one of the pages. "Hermenion, pull out one for Johan." Then to Johan, "Join behind us. You may find this interesting."

Then, addressing the gathering crowd, Simon announced, "Benard Ato has arrived from Nimes. He is kin to Trencavel, and has convinced him to parley. We are to meet on the Narbonne road. Let's see if this is more productive than King Pedro's attempt."

The group of five traversed north through the forest, scattered tents, milling crusaders and their assemblage, until they reached a much larger group of mounted soldiers, lords, the Bishop Almaric and his five priests. Johan remembered the brief introduction to the bishop several days ago when Simon told of Johan's bravery in battle. Was Johan some kind of prize on display, or did Simon have plans for him? The bishop had hardly even acknowledged Johan's presence. He seemed preoccupied.

Simon's entourage merged with the larger gathering, and wordlessly, they set out through the forest until they cleared the trees about a half mile east of Carcassonne. Soon several dozens of mounted soldiers approached from the cité. All but one wore tunics emblazoned with a gold shield with bands of white ermine staggered horizontally, the Trencavel arms. The other soldier, once the party reached within fifty feet, separated and rode to join the crusaders.

Godebert sided up to Johan's horse and spoke softly, "That's Benard Ato de Nimes."

"Which one is Trencavel?" Johan whispered.

"The one in the middle."

Surprisingly, Trencavel was not much older than Johan, ruddy cheeked, long brown hair sticking out from under chain mail that framed a sharp jaw. Despite a regal demure—not being intimidated by the event or gathering lords—he did not look like a fighter.

When the horses and dust settled, Benard addressed Trencavel. This must be a formality for surely they had already spoken.

"May you and your people prosper."

Trencavel nodded.

Benard continued. "As my kin, I advise you to remain within Carcassonne to outlast this siege... If you expect reinforcements to arrive soon." He paused. "Of course you are also aware that this is unlikely. King Pedro has abandoned you, and your uncle Raymond cannot help you. Surely you see Carcassonne will go the way of Béziers." Benard emphasized the last word.

Almaric snorted. Otherwise, the over fifty men and horses stood silent; it was quiet enough for Johan to hear a fly buzzing through the gathering, and it was tense enough to scare the fly away.

After several moments of silence, Benard spoke again. "Will you surrender?"

Trencavel adjusted his posture, and then leaned over to the soldier on his right. He whispered something. Soon, he sat upright again and spoke, his voice high but confident.

"Your word of safe conduct to and from a meeting place, to negotiate terms?"

Benard glanced at Almaric, who nodded.

"Yes. Choose two men to accompany you."

Trencavel and two soldiers separated from their pack. The young viscount turned and nodded. Trecavel's accompanying force retreated to the castle, leaving him vulnerable.

"This is the tent of the count of Nevers, Hervé de Donzy," Godebert said as they dismounted before a massive pavilion, green with triangular flags poised along the circular frame and on the conical apex. A gonfalon hung from a pole to the side of the tent entrance, displaying the northern king's heraldry, a blue shield with repeated patterns of gold fleur-de-lis. Silently, the entire group entered the tent, for it was large enough to host everyone. Johan stepped through the opening and shuffled to the right, staying back at the tent's wall. He did not feel he should accompany Simon and his knights. All stood in a semicircle before a large wooden table. Trencavel was positioned at center in front of the table, facing the bishop, Simon, and four other lords. All sat stock still, rigid.

Johan eyed the bishop, replete in his regalia, black robe with a massive dangling jeweled cross, bishop's miter on top of white hair. Almaric sniffed through a gnarled nose and smiled cockily out of the right side of his mouth. He impatiently rapped his fingers on the tabletop.

Soon, the bishop could not contain himself any longer and spat words.

"We put up with his insolence at Béziers, now let us finish it."

The man seated to the left of Almaric cleared his throat and spoke. His high forehead gave way to unusually close-cropped hair. "I am William of Tuleda. Do you, Raymond-Roger Trencavel, release all rights to the city of Carcassonne?"

Stiffening, Trencavel said, "Certainly not! You have no right to populate my lands and lay siege to my town."

Almaric slapped his hand on the tabletop. The loud smack startled the crowd, a collective flinch.

"Spare us. You tried to save your heretic friends at Béziers by submitting to the Church, although I never believed your sincerity, despite your groveling."

Trencavel's lips pressed tightly together. Even from where Johan stood—he saw Trencavel's right side—he saw veins pop from Trencavel's temple. When Raymond-Roger composed himself, he spoke evenly, his voice slightly shaking.

"Once again, I must protest. Carcassonne, like Béziers, is a city of tolerance. There are many innocent who do not deserve the murderous rampage you set loose on Béziers." Trencavel looked back and forth between the lords seated along the table. He seemed to be avoiding Almaric's glare.

"None are innocent who blaspheme," retorted Almaric.

"Who are you to judge?"

It was clear Almaric was more interested in dethroning Trencavel than the crusade against the Cathar heresy.

"I represent the Church," Almaric replied nonchalantly as he glanced at his fingernails and looked as though he was assessing their cleanliness. Then he directed himself to the lords at the table. "My patience wears thin. I was generous by allowing him to leave Béziers, and even let him take his train of Jews. It has gone too far." Turning his attention back to Raymond-Roger, he continued. "Submit or let your city rot and die, for we all know you cannot survive. Even your weak uncle cannot stand by your side." Johan had heard of Raymond of Toulouse, scourged at Béziers and submitted to Almaric's will.

An unsettling feeling swept over Johan. Up to this point, he knew with confidence the crusade was the arm of God, sweeping away the plague of heresy that consumed Languedoc. But seeing Almaric's disposition, and somehow relating to the young Trencavel... Was there something deeper going on? He scanned the lords at the table. None appeared surprised by the conversation. William pursed his lips and tilted his head to his right. Simon stroked at his beard with his left hand, his gaze bore into Raymond-Roger.

How far had Raymond-Roger gone with his tolerance? Johan thought of the Cathar influence of his own town. Their heresy pulled in converts and destroyed all that was holy and Catholic. They claimed to be peaceful and moral, but who knew what occurred in their secret assemblies? Then he had that familiar feeling, the pit in his stomach, as he thought of the girl. It was this miserable religion, this blasphemy that took her away from him. No, they were heretics. They deserved punishment. Almaric must be fed up with the antics.

Trencavel ignored Almaric and addressed the crowd, spreading his hands out as he spoke.

"Brothers, can you not see this is less about heresy and more about control of my lands? There are hundreds of people in the city dying for no reason. We have no water, no food. Surely, we can come to some agreement." He paused. "I put myself before you in exchange for my people."

"How valiant," Almaric retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Are you suggesting we halt our siege in exchange for you?" It was William of Tuleda. "To what advantage?"

Trencavel paused. Before he could respond, Almaric interrupted.

"This boy has abrogated his right to his lands by blaspheming as his uncle has. I will accept nothing less than the city in its entirety. If you are dogged to give yourself over to us, so be it. We will have Carcassonne."

"And my people?"

"I care not for your people. Let them go, but not an iota will they take with them." Almaric waved the back of his hand, dismissing Trencavel.

Silence again until William spoke. "Is this acceptable?"

"You are to empty the cité then? Not a one to be harmed?"

Almaric smirked. "Let them go. But..." He leaned forward. "Be assured this day and this day only. We will cleanse this country of heresy. For now, you will be stripped of all rights, and you will submit yourself to the will of the Church."

"Damn you," Trencavel spat in muted vehemence. "Very well then."

"Excellent," replied William. He and the other lords seemed relieved; collectively they sat back. "Send in Trencavel's men. They can pass on the message. Simon, you shall organize with the houses of Aragon and Foix to monitor the evacuation."

Trencavel's men entered the tent. One eyed his master as though looking for some sign. The other stood passively with hands clasped at his back and shoulders straight. They looked weary, gaunt.

William spoke. "We have reached an agreement that all in Carcassonne are free to go. All within the cité shall exit the Narbonne gate in due order, but none shall take any possession other than the clothes on their back."

"And where shall they go?" asked the soldier on the left.

Almaric interrupted, "It matters not, and it is not our concern. They shall abandon the city, and it shall be resettled."

"You have four hours," said William.

Both soldiers looked at Trencavel with concerned eyes. He nodded, closing his eyes briefly as he did. Then he puffed out his chest, lifted his chin and stared defiantly at the tent ceiling.

When the soldiers left, William turned to the bishop. "How shall we proceed with Viscount Trencavel?"

Almaric smiled from the side of his mouth. He sneered at Trencavel.

"Bring in the shackles."

Twelve

"FATHER, THERE IS NO MORE WATER," Gilles mumbled, his mouth dry, his lips cracking. Raimon turned to see Gilles catch himself on the doorframe before entering Father Mattieu's room. He looked dizzy and distracted. Sunken eyes, taut skin, etched lines across his forehead. He looked many years older than he should.

Twenty-three in the cathedral had died since yesterday, most elderly or infant. Weary priests wheeled body-laden wagons to a mass grave dug by the south wall west of Port Saint Nazaire. Incessant moaning, sporadic arguments, collective despair hung like a low fog over the cité. Families huddled under whatever shade they could find or create, children cried, soldiers wandered in and out of structures searching for remaining reserves of food or drink, for the wells went dry, and they had no access to the Aude river.

"Yes, son. Come here," Father Mattieu motioned for Gilles to join him at the table. A bottle stood with three wooden bowls. "We found this wine in the cellar, but I fear it may be the last. Here, drink. You need to keep your strength to help others."

Gilles stumbled to the table, his eyes agape as though he had seen Father Mattieu open a treasure box. After pouring the bowl about an eighth full, Father Mattieu handed it to Gilles. The novice coddled the bowl with both hands and stared into the shimmering maroon liquid. As Raimon placed a hand on Gilles' shoulder, the boy turned and trudged out of the room.

Raimon raised his eyebrows at Father Mattieu, and then he followed Gilles. His own feet dragged like the boy's, and achy muscles spawned an involuntary grimace as he pursued Gilles into the hallway. Gilles staggered down past several doors and turned the corner. Makeshift pallets for the sick or elderly lined both sides of the hallways, leaving only room to walk down the center. What was Gilles doing?

Gilles stopped at a pallet, knelt down and talked to an old woman. She lay on her back, bent knees slumped listlessly to the side. Unresponsive. Gilles reached down and gently raised the woman's head. He brought the bowl to her lips. Raimon found he held his breath until the woman finally stirred and drank in slow sips. She stared vacantly at Gilles.

After several sips, the woman closed her eyes. Gilles gently laid her head back on the pallet. Then he immediately rose and dragged himself purposefully farther down the hallway. Raimon smiled and shook his head as he watched Gilles stop again, kneel down and offer the bowl to a young girl about the age of three. The girl's hair matted against her face, wet with perspiration. She only took a sip, for the wine must have been strong, and she screwed up her nose. After Gilles parted the hair from her forehead, he tweaked her nose, and then offered the bowl to her mother. Raimon noted deep-set eyes and parched lips.

The mother reminded him of Angelesa, a comely young nun at Prouille. Angelesa was once a Cathar, came to the monastery as a refuge for women rejoining the faith, and had been there when Brother Anseau returned with the young Marti, whom he had saved from the collapsing cathedral. She had immediately taken to the boy, and the way this mother looked at her daughter was the same look Angelesa had for Marti. For that matter, it was the same look Guilelma had for her father.

Raimon sighed as he thought of Guilelma. Nothing seemed real any more. He felt suspended, hanging above multiple possible futures, each unknown, each wrought with peril. The crusade controlled their destiny, or so it seemed.

Raimon regarded the woman and child for a while after Gilles rose and continued down the hallway. He sighed again, and then returned to Father Mattieu. He seemed to sigh a lot lately.

As Raimon stuck his head through the doorway, he said, "Father, I believe you no longer have a novice."

Father Mattieu's eyes widened. "You mean he's..."

"No, Father Mattieu. I mean he is no longer a novice. He took his portion of the wine to others."

"Ah, I see. I only hope and pray he will see the day when he can take the cloth." Father Mattieu shook his head slowly. "We cannot last much longer. Still no word?"

"Nothing." Then Raimon turned and left. The thought of Gilles' selflessness made him wish he could have taken the remaining wine to Guilelma. It hurt him to see Guilelma suffer as she tended her father, but he knew it was not his place to determine who should and should not receive the wine. He licked his lips and thought of the sip he had taken earlier...and felt guilty for it.

Since Father Mattieu's insistence to move Artal from the cathedral and grounds, Raimon made a daily visit to the house of a parishioner, in whose courtyard Artal had been placed.

As Raimon left the cathedral, descended the stairs and walked through the crowded stable area, he glanced at emaciated animals and noticed they had the same look as did the people crammed in the sheds seeking shade. Vacant eyes. Sunken cheeks. Donkeys brayed continually until they collapsed from exhaustion.

There was little ambient movement. Groups of families shuffled to make room for Raimon's passage. He gazed ambivalently at many who sat with feet splayed, staring emptily at the cobblestone walkway. Children, normally energetic and playful, lay static and apathetic. People erected shade from cloth or clothing, propped with twigs or farm implements. Ironically, Raimon expected the people to riot, to charge any place in the cité that might contain reserves, but they instead looked quiet, resigned, and indifferent.

Raimon passed through a narrow archway, lined with smooth tan stone, and entered a courtyard. Spiraling steps went up from the right to second floor living spaces. A dead and withered tree stood in the middle of the courtyard, lonely as it stuck out from the midst of terra cotta tile. Several black-robed individuals milled about the courtyard. He looked to where Artal lay. Next to the pallet, Guilelma sat on a stool, her head cradled in her hands. On the pallet, Artal lay, completely covered by a dirty linen cloth...covered head to toe.

Nervously stepping forward, he came to Guilelma.

"Guilelma, I'm..." Raimon looked at the shrouded figure. "I'm sorry."

She looked up. Raimon expected to see tears streaking down her cheeks, but her face was dry and cracking. Deep-set eyes and grey skin; she looked hollow. The lack of food and water stretched her beautiful face making it look cadaverous.

"Do not be sorry," she said, her voice groggy. "He has received consolamentum and is far better than those of us who remain in this life."

Raimon nodded. He squatted down to come level with her gaze. "What will you do?"

Guilelma inhaled and licked her lips. "I will join with these others." She indicated those in the courtyard. Raimon saw most were Cathar perfects. "We are discussing what to do should we be able to leave Carcassonne."

Raimon tried to swallow, but his dry throat only made him cough. "You had said you were going to Montsegur?"

"Since this crusade against our people has become so fierce, we wonder if such a journey is wise, or if we should go closer, to Minerve. The problem is Minerve is north, and should we still need to get to Montsegur, we would have farther to travel."

Raimon paused and slowly wiped his finger across the tiles. Looking up, he said, "You are certainly welcome at Prouille. If you find you need a place to stay and recover or wait out a decision, Prouille is only a short distance from here."

Apparently overhearing, one of the older women perfects turned to Raimon. None of those gathered were the two Raimon had met earlier, arguing over Artal's consolamentum.

"And why would we wish to visit a Catholic establishment?" Her voice was shrill. It made Raimon twitch.

Before Raimon spoke, Guilelma interceded. "Elene, there is a group of monks who do not follow the Church and its current action. This is Brother Raimon. He tells me Prouille is a place of tolerance."

"Tolerance, humph. How can you speak of tolerance when your pope murders thousands in Béziers and threatens to repeat it here?"

Raimon shook his head. How many times must he go through this? "It is complicated. I know it must be difficult to understand, but there is dissent within our institution as to those who pursue violence, and those who pursue peace. Prouille was established by Brother Domingo. We prefer to spread the message of tolerance. And ironically, the Pope has sanctioned us. As you can see, he chooses dual paths, for what reasons I do not know. In the end, you will find Prouille quite different, and you have my word you would be treated as guests and protected as best we can."

The old woman stared at Raimon for several minutes. It made Raimon uncomfortable. Raimon bit at the dry skin fragments on his lower lip. They felt like scales.

"Very well," she said finally. "We shall consider your offer. Thank you." Elene nodded.

"You are most welcome," Raimon responded. Turning back to Guilelma, he said, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, you have been extremely kind. They will take my father's body away, and I will wait like everyone else until something is resolved."

Raimon wanted to tell her of the wine they had found. He wanted to take her back to the cathedral, give her a room and shade in which to sit more comfortably. He wanted to stay by her side and talk. But as he watched her return her head to her hands, and he sensed the gaze of the old woman on the back of his head, he knew there was no more he could do. He spoke softly. "I shall return to check on you tomorrow."

When he returned to the cathedral, Father Mattieu met Raimon at the entrance. Grabbing Raimon's elbow, Father Mattieu said quietly, "We have received word something is afoot."

"Tell me," Raimon replied eagerly.

"Let's go to my room; I do not wish to concern anyone."

As they traipsed to Father Mattieu's room, Gilles came up to them.

"Father... Brother Raimon... You must come and help." Gilles wrung his hands and gazed at them with wide and sunken eyes.

"Gilles, what is the matter?" Raimon asked.

"It's the old lady."

Raimon and Father Mattieu exchanged a quick glance, and then they followed in step behind Gilles to the old woman's pallet.

It was obvious she was dead. Raimon gently put his hand on Gilles' shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Gilles. She is in a far better place."

Father Mattieu stepped to the pallet and knelt down next to the woman. Forming the sign of the cross, he muttered a final prayer, "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem sempiternam." He stood and turned to Gilles. "Go and tell Andri and Foursi."

Gilles, still wide-eyed, turned slowly and moped away down the hall.

"I think we have had enough death," Father Mattieu said as he led Raimon back to his room.

After they entered and closed the door, Father Mattieu continued. "Evidently some kin of Raymond-Roger has arrived and seeks parley. Some have said Raymond-Roger will ride out with a band of his soldiers to meet with the crusaders to negotiate terms."

"That is good, no?"

"Good for whom, that is the question. One can never tell with the young Trencavel. On the one hand, he can be reasonable—the people here love him—but on the other hand, he can be impulsive as you saw with his attack on Castelar. I don't think he realizes what he is up against."

"But surely if he engages them, there is likely a better outcome than what happened at Béziers."

"Yes," said Father Mattieu. "The question is: what will they do to Carcassonne? And what will they do with us at the church? I fear they will associate us with Trencavel."

"Only God knows."

Hearing the door slowly creak open, Raimon turned to see Gilles lean against the doorframe. His face was ashen. Bloodshot eyes peered out from under frowning eyebrows.

"Ai," Raimon muttered as he walked over to Gilles, shaking his head. "Come, let's go somewhere and talk."

"I do not understand why God allows people to die."

Gilles was on the verge of tears...if his body had any moisture left. He and Raimon sat perched on a narrow walkway, half way up the west wall near the Cuhuzac tower. There was enough shade to cover them; only dangling feet caught the sun as the day moved into the late afternoon. The shade provided some respite, but the rock fortress radiated heat, making it uncomfortable to sit without shifting.

Raimon sighed and tapped his feet together. "God's ways are certainly a mystery at times."

"But why? Why did she have to die? Why couldn't the crusaders...or someone else? I know it's God's Will, but..."

"Gilles, it is not God's Will for people to suffer and die."

"But we are told God knows all, and we are all in His plan...and it must be in His plan for her to die."

Raimon paused. He had had this discussion before, and that was when he first began realizing he did not strictly follow the same beliefs as the other monks at Santes Creus, his home monastery. "Gilles, what would you say if I told you a crusader had secretly entered Carcassonne with a bottle of poison, and this crusader placed poison into a cup the old woman drank from?"

Gilles jerked up straight. "I...that is evil! He had no right to do this! She has nothing to do with the battle; it is not fair." Gilles' his eyes moved back and forth as though trying to reconcile inner confusion.

"Yes, it is evil," Raimon said. "And that is what you are accusing God of."

Gilles squinted. "What do you mean?"

"If you say a crusader would be evil for causing the woman to die, then claiming it is God's Will for her to suffer and die would also be evil."

"But..."

"God does not wish evil for us. But we are all subject to the evil of this world. '...solem suum oriri facit super bonos et malos et pluit super iustos et iniustos.' 'He makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.' We, both the good and the evil, enjoy the joys of the earth as well as the pains. God does, however, have a plan that overshadows the evil we bring into the world, and the devil may seek paths that deter from God's plan, but God only brings good. It is too complex for me to fully understand, but we are here—sitting on this wall in the midst of war—partly by God's design, partly as the result of the evil of this world. The outcome is ultimately in God's hands, and it will be good even if the present does not look that way. I pray for God's peace, and I may be a part of healing and making good out of a bad situation from the evil of the world."

Raimon was not sure if Gilles understood. He was not sure he understood. Gilles did not answer; he sat staring vacantly out into the cité. After a few moments, he began shaking, and then he put his face into his hands and sobbed. Raimon put his arm around Gilles' shoulder and sat silently as Gilles wept.

Inhaling deeply, Gilles tried to calm himself. He raised his head with a final shudder.

"She was like a mother to me."

"The old woman?"

"Yes. I was an orphan to be dedicated to the Church, but she cared for me when I was younger."

"Gilles, I'm sorry."

Gilles rubbed the tops of his thighs and sniffled.

Raimon gazed down through the cité to the vicomital residence. Between the black tiled roofs, he saw where the main road coming in from the Narbonne gate intersected with the square in front of the palace. Packed with people, they separated to allow two mounted soldiers weave through the plaza and disappear into the palace gates. Raimon looked north to the conical caps of the Bourg towers, and then scanned the cité in an arc to the east and south to stop at the Gothic spires on Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire.

The two sat for some time in silence until commotion at the square attracted Raimon's attention again. Horses and riders dispatched from the palace, fanning out through the crowd. At each intersection of road, they stopped for several moments before moving on. Raimon sat up straight.

"Something is happening." Raimon said. Gilles flinched. "We should get back down to the church. I think the viscount's soldiers are delivering a message."

By the time Raimon and Gilles had reached the cathedral steps, apathy had turned to mayhem. People gathered what belongings they had, wheeled about carts piled with clothes and pots and farm implements. Screaming echoed from buildings as arguments ensued, orders bellowed, children cried, and once slothful donkeys brayed and contested thrashings for not moving fast enough. No one stopped to inform Raimon and Gilles of what occurred other than a frantic mother searching for her child. She spat out words as though cursing them. Carcassonne had been ordered to evacuate.

"Father Mattieu, what has happened?" Raimon caught the father by his sleeve as he ordered priests about and helped the sick and dying who still lined the cathedral corridors.

"Everyone must leave. Trencavel has surrendered, and the order came they are to empty the entire city to the last one. I don't know what we're to do... There is no place to go, and what shall we do with the sick?" Perspiration beaded along the father's forehead and slipped down his temple to his jaw. His eyes searched frantically; deep crescents below them bunched into pockets billowing above his cheeks. "The soldiers came by moments ago; did you not hear them?"

"No. Gilles and I were on the castle wall. What did they say?"

"We are to leave and take nothing. They said the crusaders would stop anyone with so much as a trinket and force them to leave all behind. They made no provision for the infirm."

"But people are filling carts and running about as if they had to gather all their belongings," Gilles spoke.

Father Mattieu shook his head. "They don't understand. Some try to hide their possessions so one day they may return to recover them. The others don't understand."

"And you have heard nothing of what the church is to do?" Raimon asked.

"Nothing. I assume Almaric is out there. We shall see."

"You shall come to Prouille," Raimon said definitively. Then he looked about as if searching for something. "And... Father Mattieu, have we any medicines left? Vervain? Tormentil?" To return to Prouille without the medicine for Anseau would be such a waste.

"Very little. But we cannot take anything with us."

"A monk's robes can at least hide some needed medicine." And with that, Raimon dashed off to the infirmary.

"Will they let the carts through?" Gilles asked as Raimon approached the line of priests and their patients. "They said we could not take a single thing."

"We shall see. At least we can convey the sickest to the gate on carts." A sea of heads filled every space on the road to the vicomital plaza as well as the main plaza itself. Thousands numbly awaited exit through the Narbonne gate. Each painful, fearful step brought the broken population toward an unknown future.

Where would they go? Surely many would have relatives or friends in nearby villages. The soldiers, after dropping any weapons or armament, would undoubtedly head for a neutral city and reconvene. Raimon could not imagine they would give up easily after such vigorous defense of Carcassonne. Who would lead them?

With all of the nearby fields destroyed, the people would have to travel far to find a place where they could restart their lives. And what would become of Carcassonne? Who would take it over and govern where Trencavel had ruled?

And what of Guilelma? This could be the last chance to see her. Where would she go? Raimon twitched uncomfortably, a vacant pit in his stomach grew, and he turned to dash off to the house in which she and the other Cathar leaders had been staying. Maybe they were still there. Maybe he could convince them to...

But as he turned, he saw a group of black-robed figures push through the crowd—most stood aside to let them through—and head toward him and Father Mattieu. Raimon's heart fluttered as he recognized Guilelma.

Her face shaded by a hood, Guilelma stepped up to Raimon.

"Several of us wish to accept your offer of a place to stay while we determine what to do." Guilelma was the spokesperson.

"You are most welcome in Prouille," Raimon responded. Did he sound over-eager? His legs needed to move. It was difficult to stand still.

"Raimon," Father Mattieu placed a hand on Raimon's arm. "A moment." He pulled Raimon to the other side of the line out of earshot of the Cathars.

"What are you doing?"

"I merely offered Prouille as a place to rest as they determine their final destination. They were considering a journey to Montsegur, but now are not sure of security with Carcassonne falling. None believe the crusade will stop here."

"I know that," Father whispered. "But we cannot be seen leaving Carcassonne in the company of Cathars. It's suicide! Besides, do you really know what you are doing? Almaric will not stop at Carcassonne. What if he traces them to Prouille? What then?"

Why did everything have to be complicated? Taking a deep breath, Raimon said, "I understand. It may only be for a short time, but what else am I to do? We are called to serve regardless of our own security. It is the right thing to do."

"There are times when we are called to use our head, too, Raimon."

"They need not leave the cité together with you. Let me have them go behind a way so there will be little connection."

"That's not the point. Think of the association. These crusaders do not distinguish intent." Father Mattieu looked back and forth between Raimon's eyes.

"I imagine Bishop Almaric will be here to observe the proceedings." Surely, the bishop will gloat over another city falling. Raimon hoped he would not have to confront the bishop again. The last time, Almaric accused Raimon of being sympathetic to the Cathars. What would he do seeing Raimon leave Carcassonne with Cathars?

"Those were my thoughts. I despise having to act politically," said Father Mattieu.

"Nonetheless, I understand you have your parish to consider. It will be an issue if you plan to join us in Prouille as well, no?"

Father Mattieu rubbed an eye with the back of his left hand. "I know of no other place to go at present. Very well. We need to at least leave Carcassonne separately and hope we are not followed. We can travel two paths. I shall veer north and cross the Aude at Saint Vincent."

"And I will lead Guil...the others south and cross by the mills."

"And pray we are not followed."

Raimon's head ached from prolonged exposure to an intense sun. How many hours had they stood in line, waiting as the city slowly emptied? The crusaders surely stopped each resident on their way out. The crowd had turned quiet again. Limp figures, heads and shoulders sagged, dragging feet. Few spoke, but many moaned. Raimon felt guilty he had chosen to remain behind with Guilelma while Gilles, Father Mattieu and those from the cathedral ushered the sick and dying along toward the gate. Surely, some of the more difficult cases would not survive.

Raimon reached up and wiped his forehead. He swayed as the crowd moved, and drug his feet about twenty steps before stopping again. Now close enough to the gate, he heard taunts and chides from crusaders. They restricted the line down to three or four abreast. Father Mattieu must have already gone through, for Raimon could not see their group anywhere ahead. He hoped the crusaders let them take some of the carts for the sick.

Stepping again, he bumped into Guilelma who stood at his left. It was barely a nudge, but it sent a tingling sensation down his arm.

"Raimon, how far of a walk is it to Prouille?"

Raimon could not see her face for the hood.

"Normally, it is a day's hike. But we are starting late, and I fear none of us has the energy to go far. We may have to stay the night somewhere opposite the Aude."

"As I thought."

They both went silent again. Raimon struggled to think of something to say, but he could not concentrate. He was exhausted, thirsty, and his ankles ached.

Now they were at the gate, and the line narrowed to pass through crusaders past the opening. One of the crusaders droned. "You are to take nothing with you. Place anything here or risk us taking all."

After the third repeat, another crusader spoke up.

"Like risking your clothes."

Several of his compatriots chuckled, and one joked, "I hope some wench decides to take something with her. I'd like to see a little something more than these pathetic villagers." Raucous jeering. One crusader poked a stick at a young woman carrying a baby. She squealed. The crusaders collectively guffawed.

As Raimon entered the gauntlet, the crusaders became quiet. Was it they did not know how to deal with a monk? Or was it the Cathar perfects? What would they do? Should he have moved elsewhere in the line and not be in the midst of Cathar priests? Jesus Christ have mercy. With each step Raimon imagined being called out by a crusader.

Passing the gauntlet, Raimon then entered a massive stone structure, two towers connected by wall and arched portcullis. The sudden cool and shade of a short tunnel briefly shut off crusaders and crowd. A momentary sigh of relief. Then, exiting back into the heat, they passed sentinel towers flanking the stone walkway across the moat. Raimon still thought at any moment the crusaders would call them back. At least Almaric was not there.

When they were half way across the bridge, Raimon heard the crusaders behind begin jeering again. Their voices echoed out of the tunnel.

Raimon cringed. There was another gathering at the end of the bridge, on the other side of the moat. This time, mounted soldiers lined both sides of the road. And past them, residents fanned out, dispersing north to pass by Bourg, or south to circumvent Castelar. A tent was being erected to the southeast. Raimon scanned the road to the north, but could not see Father Mattieu's group.

Then, south, near the tent, stood a group that looked like the cathedral priests. They milled about forms on the ground; it must be the sick. A group of riders emerged from behind the tent. His stomach twitched as he recognized Bishop Almaric.

He would have to veer away from the tent to avoid Almaric. Raimon again bit at the dry skin on his lip. His fingers trembled. His eyes flicked between the crusaders in his foreground and the bishop, until reaching the path lined with horses, he found his view blocked.

These crusaders did not turn quiet like the ones near the gate. As soon as Raimon approached the horses, the crusaders jeered.

"The heretics flee like rats from a sinking ship."

"I thought they didn't mind dying. How about we finish them off here?"

One soldier spat, "Cat fondlers!"

Raimon glanced at Guilelma, even knowing he could not see her face. She walked stiff, tense. Her trepidation must be far more than his.

As they came to the end of the line, Raimon detected Guilelma shrink and move closer to him as if trying to hide in his shade. Or was she huddling close for security?

"You heretics take warning," taunted a soldier poised above them on the right. "We will not stop until the last of you converts or receives the punishment you deserve. Don't think you are being freed today! Simon de Montfort will not stop until every one of you succumbs."

Raimon glanced up at a young crusader. Long brown hair flowed neatly past around a wide forehead. Grey eyes under thick bushy eyebrows, a slight tilt upward with his chin made him look like the young who have been given power beyond their capabilities. The soldier caught Raimon's eye and seemed to assess him.

"You there. Are you a monk?"

"Yes." Raimon answered hoping he could quickly pass. He tried to swallow, but he could not.

"Go to the tent. The bishop is receiving all men of the church to decide who shall return to Carcassonne."

Raimon nodded, although he had no intention of going there.

The young man seemed to eye Raimon as he passed. Then he spoke again. "Besides, you can get out of this crowd of heretic scum." Raimon heard the man return his attention to the crowd. "Keep walking heretics. If you stay in our lands, we will find you and put you to the flames you deserve."

Another soldier joined in the foray. "They'd make a right pretty bonfire, wouldn't they?"

Instinctively turning south, Raimon edged to the right of the path as they passed by the tent. Now it was Raimon who tried to cower not to be seen, although Guilelma and the elder Cathar to her left were only two-thirds his height. The tent's center pole lifted, and the motion drew Raimon's attention. He spotted Father Mattieu. Walking up to the mounted group, Father Mattieu addressed Almaric. They were sufficiently distant, and Raimon could not hear any dialog. Besides, he only wanted to slip by, unnoticed.

Father Mattieu was right to separate from the Cathar group. They would now surely be able to return to Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire. Where was Gilles? Raimon never really had the chance to wish him well, and now it looked likely they would not be joining them in Prouille, it may be some time before Raimon would see Gilles again. Raimon found himself wanting to crane his neck to look for Gilles, at the same time wanting to hide in his cowl.

What lay ahead? How long would Guilelma and her Cathar friends stay at Prouille before he would have to see her go? Would their presence endanger Prouille? Would their leader seek to persecute the Cathars as the soldier indicated?

Raimon passed by the tent. No one had noticed, and the tension slowly released from his neck and shoulders. He took several deep breaths and allowed his gaze to wander. Glancing along the fortress walls, he saw Castelar in the distance, to the south. A gaping divot in Castelar's wall spewed rock like a ramp out and down into the moat. He followed the moat to the east side, now to his left, where tents and crusaders intermingled within the trees. Someone shouted.

Raimon felt a tug at his arm. He turned as Guilelma pitched forward, collapsing at his feet.

Thirteen

MOUNTED ATOP ONE OF SIMON de Montfort's steeds, Johan stiffened his back and posed regally as heretics moped through the last gauntlet before scattering into the countryside. He held a tenuous grip on the reins. Not having ridden much, Johan clamped his knees against the horse's warm flesh, his rigid body balanced between haughty smugness of victor's pride and dread of not being able to control the beast on which he sat.

The procession was accompanied by a chorus of jeers. Crusaders basked in the giddiness of the moment, the release of tension compiled over several weeks, the thrill of victory, and they channeled their jocularity at the gaunt figures who filed past them. The figures looked morose, desolate, defeated. It might have settled easier with Johan should some of them snap back defiantly, but they simply shuffled past, miserable and mute.

Before long, he became numb to the jeers, and the voices faded into the background as the procession drug on. He sat atop one of Simon's horses along with several other mounted crusaders as they lined both sides of the path beyond the bridge exit outside the Narbonne gate. As the peasants filed past, looking fatigued, vacant-eyed, their spirits disconnected from their bodies, Johan's gloating waned. It must have been hell in Carcassonne the last few weeks. No water. No food. Oppressive heat. Well, it was no less than they deserved. According to Godebert, heretics in his hometown up north were burned at the stake. These should be singing praises to their captors. They would simply walk away. They got off easy in exchange for their lord.

Why did the bishop choose to free them? The crusade had the power to crush the heresy in this singular moment, and could have. They had the momentum. But Almaric seemed more interested in capturing Trencavel. Was it a statement of power? A statement he would back up later? Surely, there could be no tolerance for heretics. Maybe now that Simon had been granted Trencavel's lands... Johan found it interesting to see how the spoils of siege were distributed. The bishop first outlined how the lords of the north with their lands would find a conflict of interest between managing their holdings up north and adequately subduing Languedoc. All but Simon, for he had no lands other than his home. Johan was surprised. Simon did not appear taken aback when the bishop made him the new count. He took the news as though he expected it. There seemed to be some silent acknowledgement between him and the bishop.

Johan shrugged. It was not his concern to deliberate over the intrigues of royalty or the Church. In the end, in merely a few weeks, Johan had transformed from a slopper of muck to a crusader who would soon join Count Simon de Montfort to occupy the great walled city of Carcassonne!

Johan had no idea what lay ahead. There was talk of Simon's men occupying Trencavel's palace. A palace! He could only imagine what it would be like, for he had never even set foot in a city such as Carcassonne, let alone a palace. What would the beds be like? His life thus far consisted of sleeping at best on a straw mat in the corner of the family hovel, sharing it with other animals and his family. He winced at the memory of giggles in the midst of pig snorts as his parents shuffled in the darkness. Itchy lice infested everything. The blaring snores of Eudes.

A pang of remorse struck deep in Johan's gut. Eudes. Would Johan feel this way every time Eudes popped into his mind? A wave of emptiness? A surge of anger? How would he ever explain to his parents what happened? Eudes died in glory fighting for God; how could he have ever achieved anything this lofty in Ginestas? Mocked and ordered about like a child, he would have spent the rest of his life with pigs, hoping at best for food on the table and clothing on his body. No. Eudes was far better this way. His eternity was secured in the promise of the pope. His parents could never give Eudes anything that great.

Johan shuddered again: he was now the eldest son. Even though no one had ever expected Eudes to take over the measly farm plot his father kept, it now became Johan's full responsibility. Johan slapped the saddle horn, causing the horse to jitter. He pulled back on the reins to calm the horse, and he breathed heavily as he fought the worry the beast would lurch.

No. That was the past. A new future was charted. No longer would Johan be stuck in the drudgery of labor in soil and animal feces. He was now attendant to a great crusader, overseeing the exile of a besieged city. Ha! If the village could see him now...

As Johan scanned the queue, he spotted a large group of priests. These must be the priests from Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire of whom the bishop spoke.

Johan spoke to the elder of the group. "You. You are of Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire?"

The older man looked up slowly. Disheveled white and silver hair fell to the sides of dull eyes and a large smooth nose. He squinted at Johan and nodded, emotionless.

"Bishop Almaric has given orders you and your priests are to join him at the tent." Johan swiveled on his saddle to point behind him. Gathering soldiers erected a tent near the forest. "Who are these you carry?"

Johan saw many of the priests carrying limp bodies between them or draped over their shoulders. Some heavy enough their feet drug behind.

"They..." The priest's voice cracked, and he had a coughing fit. "They are the sick from the city."

"Well, I know not what the bishop wishes to do with them, whether they are heretics or not. Take them to the tent, and he shall decide."

The man nodded and continued as though nothing had transpired. Johan watched the group shamble past. Then he chuckled. Oh, that his parents could see him now, could hear him issuing orders from atop a royal steed. It felt natural, as though he had been destined for this moment. As though all along, he had been called to be a man of action. God must have led him here for some purpose, some grand purpose. Johan inhaled and puffed out his chest.

"Hey, back off you!" The crusader next to Johan snapped. Johan, jerked from his reverie, frowned at the interruption. He watched the crusader kick at someone who had broken from the line. A figure came straight toward Johan.

"No, wait," said a cracking voice. Somehow, the voice sounded familiar. The figure's head was wrapped in linen, and he looked like walking death, arms outstretched. Was this a feeble attempt at attacking Johan?

"Back in the line or I'll have your scalp," threatened the soldier. "Or at least what's left of it." He laughed as he drew his sword halfway from its scabbard.

"Johan! Johan, it's Henri."

Johan hunched forward for a closer look.

"Christ in heaven. Henri?"

"Yes, Johan. It is I. I was taken into the cité after our siege on Castelar."

Johan's tenseness to this point diffused and replaced with a rush of relief, a swell of happiness. Henri was alive. Johan was not the only remaining soldier from Ginestas.

"Good God, what happened to your head?" Johan threw back his left leg and dismounted. Grabbing Henri by the shoulders, he pulled him behind the horses, away from the crowd.

Soiled linen encased most of Henri's head. A large brown stain filled one side.

"I thought you were dead. You lucky bastard! How did you survive with the heretics? I see you got to the cathedral where the priests could harbor you...you were always the smart one."

Henri blinked several times and lost his balance. Johan realized he had been shaking Henri, he was so excited.

"I... They saved me."

"The priests?"

"We attacked the south wall. God, it was stupid. We never even thought they would be up there. We were easy targets."

"What do you mean?"

"We thought we had the full reign of Castelar, but got too close to Carcassonne, and they pummeled us with arrows and rocks. I was the lucky one and only got this." Henri pointed at his head. "It's crazy, but I understand a couple of monks pulled me off the wall and took me to the cathedral where they tended me."

"You are fortunate, Henri. The heretics would just as easily have killed you."

Henri paused. He squinted. "You have not seen Obert?"

"Not for many days." Johan shook his head. "I fear the worst."

"Damnation." Henri looked at his feet. "Things are certainly not as we thought they would be. What a waste."

"Indeed a waste. We have lost many of our friends."

The two stood silent for several minutes. Background noise of the crowd sounded like a nearby stream. Flies buzzed about the horses, and a trickle of perspiration raced down Johan's back. He glanced back at the crowd momentarily, and then spoke.

"Even more a waste the bishop has seen fit to let the heretics go. You were lucky to be at the cathedral. I can't imagine the evil you would have seen at the hands of the heretics."

"These people," Henri pointed back to the line, "they aren't evil. All of this—all of this destruction—it's completely senseless."

"What are you talking about?"

"Those we have called heretics. They are not evil. They tended me with no thought to what I represented."

"I thought the priests tended you."

"Yes, they did. But there were others too. I talked to several and learned about this heresy we fight. I thought I knew it, but I did not. Even some of the clergy do not believe it right to persecute as we are doing."

"Henri, you have been through much. That blow to the head must have knocked something loose! Let's get you back to the encampment and to the infirmary. You'll be thinking clearer in a couple of days."

"No, Johan, you do not understand. This is wrong. The Church fights a peaceful people. These who we call heretics are little different than we are. The entire city was full of peasants, normal people trying to make sense of their lives and eke a living."

"Now you are talking nonsense, Henri. You know full well what the heretics are like. They were in our village. They deceive, they blaspheme against our God and our Church. Nothing less than treason to God. I can clearly see you have been taken advantage of while you were injured, and they have deceived you."

"No, Johan. It's not like that."

"As you say. But I think you would be better to go to the infirmary and see to your wounds."

Henri shook his head. "No, Johan. I think I will return home."

"Henri, listen. You need only recover from battle. There is great opportunity here. Look at me! I ride one of Simon de Monfort's horses. We will take over Carcassonne and occupy Trencavel's palace. Why return to the stench of Ginestas? Stay with me, and I will speak to Simon."

"No, Johan. It is not right. It feels like taking something from a child. Power for the sake of power."

The two stood looking at each other for several moments. When Henri pulled back, Johan found he had been grasping tightly onto Henri's shoulders. He released Henri, who stepped back to regain his balance.

This was just like Henri. Contrary for the sake of being contrary. He was always jealous of Johan. It was because he ended up wounded in battle and Johan the one in Simon's inner circle. Jealous. That was it. Johan's hands balled into fists. He bit his inner cheek.

Finally, Johan burst out, "Very well then. Go back to your life on the farm. I choose to stay and fight for God."

Henri shook his head. "Johan... What's happened to you?"

"Only what should have happened to you." Johan stormed past Henri and remounted his horse. He refused to turn around even when he heard Henri call his name. This was absurd. Henri knew better than to succumb to the heretics. To leave now was to flee like a coward. Bertran, Alard, Eudes, Obert...to walk away now would be to dishonor their brave sacrifices. Peaceful indeed! How peaceful was it to fire arrows and launch missiles...to murder the crusaders who occupied Castelar? No, these heretics deserved far more than simply to vacate their city and forage for a new home. As he glared at the heretics their faces looked less gaunt and more sinister.

After several moments of stewing, Johan stole a glance behind to see Henri had left. Good riddance! Yet Johan also felt a pang of loneliness. His last friend had abandoned him. Turning back, he sneered at the passing exiles.

"You heretics take warning. We will not stop until the last of you converts or receives the punishment you deserve. Don't think you are being freed today! Simon de Montfort will not stop until every one of you succumbs."

The clamor and excitement, the cheers, whooping crusaders strutting into Carcassonne as victors claiming a great prize, all faded into echoes the moment Johan stepped into the stairwell to the dungeon. It was as if a great blanket draped over him, muting ambient sounds.

Footfalls grated on stone steps as he followed Simon, William of Tuleda, Bishop Almaric and two monks, two soldiers, Ponç and Godebert. Trencavel led with trepidation, uncertain as though he did not know his own dungeons. His feet drug heavy chains attached to ankle shackles. Simon prodded Trencavel with the pommel of his sword as they stepped into a long corridor lit only by the two torches held aloft by the monks. Foreboding breathed on Johan's neck like an evil face too close in the darkness. The shadows alternatively crouched then jumped off dingy, uneven walls.

The air was suddenly damp and cool, and Johan wondered if many had sought respite down here from the August sun despite the association with torture and death. The odor was old and stale, as if from disuse. He pulled his hands along the moss-covered walls. They were rough and dry, not damp, but cool when his fingers brushed across exposed stonework.

This is what happens to the supporters of heresy. Trencavel had allowed heretics to be a part of his government, and he even allowed Jews at his table. Johan guessed Trencavel never thought he would someday reside in his own dungeon.

When they reached their destination, the soldiers thrust Trencavel into a tiny cell so small he could have reached out both hands—if they were not shackled together—and touched opposite walls. As the bars grated shut, the bishop spoke.

"Raymond-Roger Trencavel, you are hereby condemned to your own dungeon for your treacherous acts against the Church." His words echoed ominously.

For a moment, as Johan peered past Ponç and Godebert into the small cell, it looked as though Trencavel thrust out his chin in defiance. But then he collapsed to his knees and shook.

"Please," Trencavel said with a small voice that nonetheless echoed down the hall. "Take mercy on me. My family has ruled here for generations. I... I tried to submit to the Church, but you would not let me..."

"You blubbering fool," spoke Almaric. "I've had enough of your groveling."

"Take courage." It was Simon, the new Viscount of Béziers and Carcassonne. "In your heart you know what is right. Be a man of honor and take your punishment. There will be time for restitution later."

"Humph," replied Almaric. He turned and wisped away back down the hall toward the faint light of the stairwell. Trencavel was instantly covered in shadow as the monks carrying the torches also turned and followed Almaric. Then William, Simon, Ponç and Godebert brushed past Johan, leaving him standing with the soldiers. As the torches disappeared up the stairs, the walls pressed in on him. He startled into a brisk walk to the stairwell, leaving the soldiers behind in near darkness.

"I shall have my retribution!" Trencavel yelled. Not bold and angry. Frightened.

Johan felt the darkness behind him as he quickened his pace toward the stairwell. Like an icy finger clawing down his spine, like a hundred bony hands reaching out to pull him back into the depths of the dungeon. He sprinted for the steps.

Johan felt warmth as he stepped out from the stairwell. He heard the echo of a wail—or a scream—coming from the dungeon below. Simon and the bishop stood not ten feet from him, laughing as if nothing had happened. But then Almaric's face turned serious.

"Simon," he paused briefly for effect, "see to it Trencavel's men do not cause you trouble."

"I've made a pact with the northerners. If my army proves insufficient, they agree to reconvene...on the assumption the Pope Innocent will extend concessions."

"He will; you have my word. But I should not wait for the heretics to gather forces."

"True. We will need a quick sortie," Simon said.

"But where?"

"Easily found out. I have men following Trencavel's soldiers as we speak."

"Excellent." The bishop smiled from the right side of his mouth.

"Be assured, your grace, I will not stop until we have quelled this heresy. I have also set out eyes to follow the Cathar leaders who were in Carcassonne who now seek refuge east of the Aude."

Almaric's eyes looked up for a moment. He pursed his lips. And then a flicker of recognition.

"Prouille."

Fourteen

RAIMON GAZED AT THE MONASTERY and drew a deep breath. The emotional reaction was overwhelming, and he found his knees weakened as he led the way down the hill toward the gate. As he passed each tree, his body tugged him from the path as though it wanted to lie down in the shade and sleep for an eternity.

Pointed, vertical logs skirted an open area scattered with structures that from a distance looked like refuse. A dilapidated church. Several square buildings with sloped roofs—more like shacks. And surrounding the enclosure, undulating trees milled about as though waiting for something interesting to happen.

"I am afraid Prouille does not look like much," Raimon said as the group neared the fortified enclosure. He looked next to him at Guilelma. She had recovered from her spell after leaving Carcassonne, but he noted her pale skin took on a yellow tint, and dark crescents settled beneath eyes that did not sparkle as much as they had several days ago. She had lost her father, gone without food or much water for several days, walked—or trudged—along rough roads from Carcassonne.

"We do not require much," said Guilelma. Her voice was resigned, and Raimon knew there was another layer of emotional stress deep within her, manifesting in a perpetually wrinkled brow, nervous rubbing of hands, distant eyes. Guilelma had shown herself to be of strong, proud countenance. There was much about this woman Raimon did not know. But he wanted to find out.

It had taken two days to get to Prouille. Normally, in good health, Raimon could have made it in a day. But their lack of energy made it difficult to go for long before someone in the group, usually the elders, needed to rest. They still had no food, and the numbness of hunger turned into a burning sensation. Any fields that might have held summer crops had been destroyed by Trencavel. The acrid smell of residual smoke filled the air, and starving stomachs soured.

Prouille was an odd place. Unlike the majestic cathedral and cloister at Santes Creus, Raimon's home monastery. Over the years, the Church had dwindled funding to Prouille, and the monastery had fallen into disrepair. Until the bishop of Osma and his cannon Domingo discovered this parish of Fanjeaux to be the ideal hub to reach out to the Cathars. From simple rude accommodations, itinerate preachers set out to villages in order to engage in dialog, to find commonality between the austere Cistercian approach to Christianity and the simplicity of the Cathar perfects. It made much more sense to attempt relating at a level of respect than to march in with soldiers and demand conversion. And yet, the same pope who condoned crusade also supported Domingo's ministry? Raimon shook his head. He would never understand politics.

Prouille was also a nunnery, so it made for an odd assortment of nuns, itinerate preachers and monks. And it was to become even odder with the addition of Cathar perfects. How would Domingo react? Would he see the same call to help those in need, regardless of who they were? Or would politics prevail and he fear association with the heresy? That is, if Domingo had returned from his trip to Rome.

By the time they reached the fortification, the tall pointed gate slowly swung open and out rushed a young woman dressed in an un-dyed woolen habit, her head covered with a black wimple. Youthful, gentle eyes. Her eyebrows knotted in concern. She dashed up to Raimon, nearly colliding, as though she came to hug him and then remembering decorum, stopped and breathlessly exclaimed, "Brother Raimon!"

"Angelesa, I have returned." Raimon had subconsciously held out his hands as though to catch Angelesa and now nervously clasped them in front. He smiled.

"We heard the crusaders attacked Carcassonne. I... We thought of you and prayed constantly. What happened?" And then as though becoming aware of others in her midst, Angelesa peered past Raimon, looking confused.

"It is a story of great difficulty I will have to tell after resting and supping. Please tell me there is sufficient food, for none here have eaten for several days." And then as though an afterthought, Raimon added, "How does Brother Anseau fare?" As though letting go of a taught rope, Raimon's strength waned, and he wavered.

Angelesa still looked past Raimon at the others as though trying to figure out how to ask who they were. She blinked several times, and then she replied, "Brother Anseau fares well. Considering. It may still be some time before he is able to rise, though." She caught Raimon's eye, and for some reason, Raimon's stomach had the feeling of embarrassment, although he could think of no reason why he should feel so.

"Please come in, you all must be very tired. Let us get you to the church to rest, and I will bring you food and drink," said Angelesa.

Raimon became keenly aware of Guilelma's presence. She had been standing slightly behind him to his right, and he sensed her even though he could not see her. He swallowed, his throat constricting painfully and with difficulty. Parched like a dry riverbed. "Angelesa, these good people came with me from Carcassonne. I promised them safe haven with us at Prouille. There may be many difficulties to come now the crusade has established itself in Carcassonne."

"Of course." Angelesa crooked her neck to the side, looking past Raimon again. "You are all most welcome. Prouille is a humble place, but we will do our best to accommodate you."

"Thank you." The voice was Guilelma's. A tingle dashed down the back of Raimon's thighs to the crook of his knee.

The diluted wine made it even more difficult for Raimon to walk, but the food could wait. He had to see Anseau. Stumbling, Raimon came to the doorway of a cell in one of the buildings adjacent to the church and steadied himself against the rough wood frame. A shape lay on a cot against the back wall.

Diffused light oozed in from a window hole to the right, scattering across a floor littered with straw, over a rough stool and small table on which stood unlit candles. Raimon stepped into the room; his sandaled feet crunched straw. He smelled the musty residue of burnt tallow candles. Something scurried into the corner behind him.

Anseau was barely recognizable with his head wrapped in brown cloth over his wide forehead. His nose stuck out like the rudder of a boat turned upside down. Nostrils flared slightly as he breathed. Eyes gently closed.

Raimon glanced at the bedside table and noticed a small pouch with leather strap. This must be Anseau's bible-fragment, the only page remaining from an illuminated bible Anseau had penned himself. Something had happened to the original when his troupe was attacked on the road out of Saint Hilaire. Anseau rarely spoke of it, but religiously wore the pouch around his neck.

Fumbling in his robe, Raimon pulled out the medicine he brought from Carcassonne. He placed them on the table, dropping the small pottery bottle of arnica ointment. The resulting knock echoed in the room. Anseau's eyes fluttered open.

"Angelesa?" Anseau said. "Any word of Brother Raimon?"

"It is I, Brother Anseau. I have returned."

Anseau turned his head slowly, and with squinting eyes, spotted Raimon. He smiled and lifted himself to his elbows. Raimon reached out to discourage Anseau from rising, but he stopped as it appeared Anseau was not in great pain.

"Brother Raimon, it does me good to see you. I told Angelesa she should not have let you go. Who knows how swiftly the crusade will act? Tell me, what happened? How long were you gone? I confess, I do not remember much as the days pass. You got to Father Mattieu and back before the crusaders?"

"Brother Anseau, Carcassonne has fallen." He pulled the stool to the edge of the cot and sat down. It felt good to relieve the pressure from his ankles. Shaking his head, he continued.

"Many died from the heat and lack of food and water. But in the end, Trencavel surrendered. They evacuated the city. Thank God the siege lasted as short as it did. They never breached Carcassonne, although they destroyed Bourg and Castelar."

"They evacuated the city?"

"Yes. We think it was in exchange for Trencavel."

"Everyone? Even the Cathars?"

"Yes, surprisingly. We all walked out the Narbonne gate, leaving everything behind."

Anseau stuck out his lower lip. Eyebrows low over his eyes. "Did you see Almaric?"

Raimon felt a pang in his stomach. "Yes. He was there. But luckily I did not have to confront him."

"Interesting. And no one else was held captive?"

"Not that I know of."

"What of Father Mattieu?"

"He and the priests may be able to return to the cathedral," Raimon said. "I have not heard. They were supposed to join us here at Prouille, but I saw them near the gate talking to Almaric, and I suspect they were allowed to return."

"And where will all the people go?"

Raimon shook his head. "I don't know." He looked at Anseau intently. "How is the head?"

"The head? Oh, fine. I still cannot get up and walk, but I have no complaints for being alive." He smiled. Raimon thought how odd it was to see Anseau smile. When Raimon had first met Anseau, smiling would have been farthest from possibility. A strict Cistercian, disciplined, pious to a fault, orthodox. Now, after confronting Bishop Almaric and the Church as it attacked Béziers, Anseau was a changed man.

"I brought you some medicine. It should help further your recovery."

"Thank you, Brother Raimon."

The two looked at each other in silence for a few moments.

"You can come in, Marti," Anseau said.

Small feet shuffled behind Raimon, and he turned to see a boy of no more than four meekly step up to the cot. Ruddy cheeks, wild dark brown hair, emerald eyes.

Raimon reached out and mussed the boy's hair. "Has he spoken?"

"Not yet. But he will soon. Won't you Marti?"

The boy's face lit up as Anseau spoke, and he grinned. It was good to see the boy smile. When Anseau had brought him from Béziers, he had looked completely drained of emotion. Raimon wondered if he would ever recover fully, having seen such brutality, having seen both his father and mother slain.

Raimon heard someone come in behind them.

"Brother Raimon, you must get some food." It was Angelesa.

"Not until I know Brother Anseau is well, and my delay did not make things worse."

"You have not eaten?" asked Anseau.

Angelesa responded, "No. He hasn't eaten for several days."

"Nor shaved," said Anseau.

Raimon smiled. "That, Brother Anseau, may be the first time I have heard you say something of humor. You must be recovering, or else that blow to your head knocked something loose."

"I am recovering, thanks to the care of this woman. And the companionship of this boy. Go, get some food. We can talk later."

Raimon rose slowly, feeling dizzy, and tottered back to the church. He was warm, not from the heat of the day, but from inside.

When he reached the church, he stopped at the doorway. The scent of food—was it vegetable stew and salted pork?—made his stomach wring.

The hushed tone of an intent dialogue grabbed his attention. Guilelma sat with her back to him, and she spoke with an older woman perfect opposite. Despite other discussions around the table, and the commotion of nuns serving, Raimon's attention focused on the women's conversation.

"Are you sure it was him?"

"Yes," said Guilelma. "I did not expect him to be there."

"What connection would he have with the crusade?"

"I have no idea. But he was clearly a part of it. And not just a foot soldier."

"Interesting. No wonder you fainted."

Raimon tried to piece together the story, but nothing appeared clear. Something to do with Guilelma collapsing on the path? It was none of his business anyway. He straightened, and stepped into the room. Strange. What was that feeling he noted when Guilelma used the word, "he"? Jealousy? Fear?

One of the men sitting opposite the table spoke. "Ah, our host returns. Sit Brother Raimon. You have not eaten."

Guilelma turned, and for a second, her eyes connected with Raimon. He lowered his gaze and shuffled up to the table.

There was too much to think about. Carcassonne falling. Guilelma. Her father. Prouille a safe haven to a group of Cathar leaders when the bishop crusaded against them. Anseau. Was his anxiousness a result of lack of food? Of weakness? The pit in his stomach, was it gnawing hunger, or foreboding?

As Raimon brought a cube of turnip to his lips, someone dashed to the door, stumbled in and, out of breath, shouted, "Brother Raimon. Where is Brother Raimon?"

Raimon turned to see Gilles heaving air as if he had run the entire distance from Carcassonne, his eyes frantic.

Spotting Raimon, Gilles ran up to him, and placing his hand on Raimon's shoulder to steady himself.

"They're coming. You've got to get them out of here... They're coming!"

Fifteen

HIS SOUL FELT DISCONNECTED FROM HIS BODY, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not reel them back together. It should have been the grandest moment in his life, yet his emotions were dissonant, like a pool in which a dozen pebbles had been tossed, and his life reflected the confusion of colliding circles disrupting the murky surface.

Two such circles froze in the image, and before he recognized it, a face formed, staring straight at him. Bulging eyes. A gaping mouth forming words but the lips never touched. No sound. Forehead unnaturally wide, sloping. The form coalesced. The image was Eudes.

"What? What is it Eudes?"

Johan knew his brother was trying to say something, but he heard no sound come from those lips. All his ears detected was an incessant spitting and cracking and rushing, like fire. It was distracting and annoying.

Eudes' eyes beckoned.

"What do you want?" Johan cried again.

Then Eudes' eyes darkened and turned black, until his face looked hollow like a skull. The image faded, and slowly, it was replaced by...replaced by Henri. His head swathed in bloody linen. His eyes deep-set and hollow. Was that a sneer on Henri's face? He always thought himself superior to Johan. Pompous...

"Go back to your pigsty!" Johan shouted. "Ginestas has nothing for me. I am a crusader."

He wanted to push Henri, but as he moved to do so, his body swiftly rose, yanked by the neck as though hauled by some unseen block and tackle, until he looked down on Henri from six feet above. Henri moved his lips, and like Eudes, no sound came out.

"What is it Henri? An apology? Are you going to admit your foolishness? Cathar lover!"

Henri shook his head slowly. Then he, too, faded away, pushed aside by a line of black hoods, black hoods marching four abreast, and as Johan observed from his suspended position, the spectral figures melded and churned into a muddied, tumultuous river. Then, from the midst of turbulence, a bare head bobbed to the surface, a monk's head, for Johan saw the top of a tonsured skull floating in the roiling mass. Then it slowly turned to look up at Johan, and in a flash, Johan recoiled. The face was of the dead sapper, Raoul. An arrow stuck out from his neck.

Johan shuddered. He found himself panting as Raoul's image blended back into the river of shapes as it slowly turned orange. At first it looked like molten lead. From the midst of the river he saw faces, children, gazing up at him. He was compelled to reach out to them, to save them from the river which now flickered with fire. Burning. Searing. He cringed, for as he reached towards the children, his hands and his forearms burst into flames. He recoiled, and the flames subsided. He knew he wanted to help, but each attempt was the same.

Then the faces disappeared into the burning river, and it rose—or maybe he descended into it—and soon his feet immersed into the river of fire. They burned. The flames licked up his ankles, to his shins, to his knees. Pain!

"Ahhh!" Johan burst out loud. The sound echoed into a dark room. He sat up, propped by elbows, sweating, gasping.

"Johan, is that you?" It was Colin, one of the three who slept in the room with Johan.

"Nothing. Nothing," wheezed Johan. "Just...a bad dream."

"Mmmm," said Colin. Johan heard rustling of a mat, then silence.

A bad dream? A nightmare! And the third night in a row these images plagued him. Johan thought he would finally get a decent night's sleep, now that he enjoyed a double mat inside the palace. Sure, the room was down near the entrance courtyard, where the soldiers and servants slept, but it was in a palace. Yet each night brought fitful sleep.

Johan could not shake the image of his brother. He was not responsible for Eudes' death. Yes, he was supposed to take care of his brother, but he was not responsible for the person who shot the arrow. It was Eudes' time to go; God had called him to Heaven. And he was far better off. Their parents would never understand, though. Henri had probably returned to the village by now. What would he tell them? Would they blame Johan?

No, it wasn't his fault. Nor was he responsible for Bertran, Alard, or Obert. Johan was fully awake now. He sat upright in the dark, and as he stared into the void, faces began to emerge in his periphery, like summoned spirits.

Enough! He slapped the side of his head. He rolled out of the bed to his knees and stood, stiffly stretching. Looking at the door, he detected a faint glow barely seeping into the room. Thank God it was morning. He would never get back to sleep anyway.

As he walked out into the courtyard, a cool breeze brushed his cheeks. Birds chirped in the distance, and as he looked up, he saw a slightly pink glow against faint cloud puffs. As Johan inhaled fresh air, he savored the contrast with the stuffy sleeping room. He closed his eyes briefly, relishing the calm. Soon his tension diminished, and he calmly stood watching the flitting shadows of birds diving in and out of the palace walls.

Someone else was awake as well. Striding across the courtyard, a form neared Johan, and it was not until he stepped up that Johan could tell it was Godebert.

"Glad to see somebody on time." Godebert walked past Johan and leaned into the first sleeping room. "Everyone up, you lazy scum. Today we move!" His voice was like a slap in contrast to the calm morning.

Godebert repeated this at each doorway around the courtyard, and soon, stretching and yawning, the occupants rose and shuffled into the square.

Yes, today Simon de Montfort's troops were on the move. And Johan would be with them, attending the great crusader. Simon's spies relayed the bulk of Trencavel's soldiers had retreated to Caberet, in the north. That was where Simon would go, to begin what he called a "cleansing of the county of Toulouse."

As Godebert passed the final door, he returned to Johan. "Follow me. We shall ready the master." All vestiges of Johan's nightmare dissipated.

Johan remembered his seemingly insignificant task of retrieving and presenting Simon's sword. But even such a menial task had its advantages. Johan was privy to all discussions and able to witness Simon's deeds by his side. He was not sure to what end, however. At times, it appeared Simon groomed him for some larger role. Then other moments he was like a slave. All he wanted was action.

But it was the greatest opportunity of his life. Johan jutted his chin as he thought of Henri. How little would Henri's life amount to at a farm and tiny village? Johan, on the other hand, would be a great crusader.

Yet somehow he felt uncomfortable in the midst of this glorious future. How long would the nightmares last? Why did he have an insecure feeling about what seemed to be happing in the background, unbeknownst to him? What was it? Was it because of Trencavel? Johan had heard the young lord had died in the dungeon. He remembered the feeling of walls closing in on him as he had dashed up the stairs. The two soldiers had stayed behind. That sound, had it been a scream?

No. Simon was a godly man. He halted everything for the Sabbath. He attended mass daily. He was zealous to the Church, wanting to punish blasphemers, traitors to God, and return the truth. He spoke of courage and honor; why, was he not the one who risked his own life to rescue Johan from the moat?

Johan caught his boots on the steps on the way up to the royal chamber. He must focus. Today, they set out for Cabaret by way of Prouille and Bram. He was not sure about Prouille's significance, but the bishop wanted to join them on this leg of the trip, even though it was west when Cabaret was north. Something about the "crossroad of the heretics."

Johan leaned closer to Godebert as they neared a fortified enclosure. The journey had not taken long, and despite the time it took to organize troops and assemble the entourage, it had only taken the day to get here. Constant rumble of a hundred horses, tintinnabulation of chains and weapons and stirrups, wispy clouds of dust from four hundred hooves... Better to be in the front, for the soldiers in the rear must be choking.

"Is this it?"

"What do you mean, 'is this it?'" Godebert responded.

"Prouille."

"Yes, Prouille."

"What is the significance?"

Godebert shook his head. He scratched the back of his neck. "I understand it's where a group of the Cathar leaders fled to."

Johan thought a moment. "So, it shouldn't take long to subdue and bring the heretics to trial."

"Not as easy as that."

"What do you mean?" Johan edged his horse closer to Godebert's. "There are over two hundred of us."

Godebert relaxed his posture, slumping his shoulders and letting the methodic rise and fall of his horse's stride bobble his head. "It gets complicated." He did not seem to want to go into more detail.

"The bishop has something to do with it," Johan said, prodding.

Godebert sighed. "Actually the pope."

"The pope?"

"Yes. There's this monk—I think the name is Domingo—who has somehow bent the pope's ear. He operates out of Prouille. They try to convince the heretics through preaching to convert them to Catholicism. Stupid, if you ask me. But somehow, he's convinced the pope to protect this mission."

"So, why are we here?"

"Well, if they are actually harboring Cathars, maybe the pope wouldn't be as protective." He raised his eyebrows.

At the front of several rows of mounted soldiers and the bishop's entourage, Simon de Montfort raised a fist. The entire brigade halted.

Simon dismounted, as did the bishop and his attendants.

"With me," Simon said to Godebert and Johan.

The group walked to the gate, and as they approached, it slowly swung open. A man in a white robe and black scapulary stepped out.

The monk looked familiar. Johan was not sure why; maybe the monk looked like someone he knew at Ginestas. But this one was from the south, not like anyone of his home town. He could tell by the sullen eyes and a darker complexion.

"Brother Raimundus," the bishop spoke, flat. It was not much of a greeting. So the bishop knew him. "Pray tell Brother Domingo we have arrived."

"Brother Domingo has gone to Rome." The monk stood with his feet apart, his hands clasped in front. Dark oily hair. Recently cut and shaved, a hint of a shadow already formed on his strong chin. Was he nervous? His eyes switched between the bishop and Simon de Montfort. Or maybe these somehow knew each other better than they indicated and something unspoken passed between them.

"I thought as much," responded Bishop Almaric. His words punctuated irritation. "I suppose you have had word of recent events."

"Surely."

This monk was not prone to elaborate. There was something going on...something the monk was hiding. The monk did look familiar...but where would Johan have seen him?

"I am sorry to report your," the bishop paused, "your compatriot, Brother Anseau, has fallen in Béziers."

"Oh, but he hasn't. Brother Anseau is here in Prouille."

The bishop twitched. "Most interesting." He appeared calm, but Johan sensed deeper concern.

There was clearly tension between the monk and the bishop. Whatever it was between them, dislike bordering on hatred was obvious from the intensity of their stare. Simon, too, was notably irritated. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Arms folded, his fingers tapped against his ribs.

Then Simon spoke.

"Brother Raimundus, in all respect, after we had reclaimed Carcassonne, we followed a group of Cathar perfects. They came here. What might I ask would you know of this?" His voice was polite, yet with an edge to it.

Brother Raimundus paused a moment. He had inhaled sharply when Simon mentioned the Cathars. His eyes still flicked between Simon and the bishop.

"As any Christian establishment would do, we fed them, let them spend the night, and we sent them on their way."

"So there are none here."

"Correct."

More silence. Simon and the bishop appeared to gaze through the gate rather than look at the monk.

"Well then," said the bishop. "I suppose we shall also take advantage of your hospitality for the night."

The monk blinked several times. "Yes, of course. I am afraid, though, we cannot accommodate your entire..."

"My men will camp outside the enclosure," said Simon.

The monk nodded.

"Brother Raimundus," the bishop said. He tilted his head to the left and had a crooked smile. "Should we find otherwise...harboring Cathars would be reason enough to break the insulation you have from the Pope. I trust you and Brother Anseau will convey this to your Brother Domingo upon his return?"

"As you wish," the monk replied as he nodded slightly.

The bishop turned, Simon following, and returned to their horses. As Simon passed Johan, he whispered, "Johan, I want you to stay in the enclosure with the bishop. See what you can find."

Prouille was not much to investigate. The enclosure contained only a few buildings, mostly rundown, and what useful space there was for the church and living quarters was in disrepair. It was obvious they had received little to no maintenance for quite some time. Johan could not understand why such a pathetic place held power with the bishop. This Brother Domingo must have some connections.

This place reminded Johan of the family farm. Never able to fully keep up with repairs. Wild, weed-infested fields. At least the animal pens, what little they had, were in reasonable shape. A boy fed the pigs as Johan sauntered past. These hands will never shovel pig shit again. Johan felt sorry for the boy. Probably doomed to this kind of labor; the best he could hope for was to become a monk and have another novice do his work for him. The boy looked up. Flattened nose. He must have gotten in a fight with someone.

From what he was able to gather, Prouille was not a typical monastery. It had recently started a nunnery; a couple of local women founded it along with Domingo. A place for Cathar women to recompense for the stupid decisions they made by following blasphemers. Maybe that was why the Pope allowed this to continue.

Johan walked past one of the better constructed buildings where monks evacuated their space to make room for the bishop and his entourage. Where would Johan sleep tonight? Simon was not clear about that. Maybe he was only to observe during the day and go out to the tents with Simon at night.

The monk, Brother Raimundus it was, came out helping an injured man. He had been looking down, and as he approached Johan, looked up, startled.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I must get Brother Anseau to another location to continue recovering."

"What happened?" Johan asked indicating Anseau with a nod toward the other monk.

"An accident."

Johan peered at the monk, Raimundus.

"Have we met before?"

The monk seemed to flinch. "No, I don't believe I have had the pleasure."

"Johan. Johan de Ginestas."

"Brother Raimundus de Barcino."

A moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Well, you had better get Brother..."

"Anseau."

"Brother Anseau to his resting place. Maybe we could talk later?"

Raimundus hesitated. "As you wish." He nodded, and continued past Johan. The injured monk never said a word, but he stared constantly at Johan until they passed. The monk had sad, introspective eyes.

Johan ambled over to the church. Here several of the nuns cleaned, and Johan stood in the doorway watching them. The habits they wore hung like sacks. Wimples covered whatever indicated whether they were male or female. Why wear so much when it was the middle of summer? It could not be comfortable.

One of the nuns on the other side of the church swept. Noticing motion, she turned and glanced at Johan. In that moment, Johan's heart stopped, he snapped rigid. It was she.

She quickly turned away from Johan. His pulse hammered. Could it be? Guilelma? What in God's name was she doing there? A nun? Maybe he was mistaken. No. He could never forget her face!

Johan took a step forward. He wanted to shout. He wanted to run to her, grab her by the neck and whip her around. He wanted to... He stopped. No, he couldn't confront her. Not now. What would he say? What was she doing in a nun's habit, in Prouille? She was sworn as a Cathar, a young perfect. Oh, Johan. I still care for you. I always will. But not enough apparently. Not enough to lay with him. Not enough to stop training from that hag Galiana, that blasphemer.

Arms tensed, toes curled, teeth ground. Johan shook. This was all a ruse. These weren't nuns. They were Cathars. The monks were hiding Cathars, blatantly, and he must inform Simon. This could be his greatest chance for recognition, as one of Simon's confidants. Godebert, Lorens, Ponç. Johan knew they all looked down on him. Godebert maybe not as much. But Johan was hardly an equal. An attendant. But now, now he knew something none of Simon's other advisors knew. What the hell was Guilelma doing here?

Johan spun and stormed out the door. He headed to the gates, toward the encampment where Simon would be, in his tent, joined by the other three. This would be extraordinary. Guilelma of Ginestas. Cathar perfect. Right here in Prouille... And the monks orchestrating the deception.

An image flashed. That monk. Raimundus. He was one of the monks leaving Carcassonne. Johan stopped in mid stride. Yes, that was why he looked familiar. And he was with that group of black-robed Cathars. At the time, Johan had not noted it. Unbelievable! Simon will be ecstatic. Simon will be furious. He will probably...

He would probably haul the heretics out of the enclosure, along with the monks and burn them as a message to all who would thwart his new rule and the bishop's mandate to crush the heresy.

The twinge of anger switched suddenly, and Johan had a sensation of fear. For a moment, he imagined Guilelma brought forward as who she really was, a Cathar. Exposed. Johan felt elation, triumph, but at the same time his insides wrenched in confusion. Did he still care for her?

No. She was the one who had walked away. She was the one who chose the heresy over a life with Johan. She was the one who deserved punishment no less than any other heretic.

Johan stomped off toward Simon's tent. He breezed through the enclosure, past the gate, and through the tent flaps. Simon and the three advisors sat in a semicircle drinking wine. Simon looked up. He furrowed his brows.

"Johan. Back so soon? What have you learned?"

"Ah. Um," Johan stammered. His throat constricted, and he tried to swallow, but could not. He had a sudden flash, an image of Guilelma and of fire. "I, ah..." He paused again. A moment of tense silence. "Nothing. There is nothing to be found at Prouille. Only dilapidated buildings, and...nuns cleaning."

"Good," Simon responded. He eyed Johan with half-closed lids. "Is there something else?"

"Um, no. I came to ask whether you wished me to, ah, sleep in the enclosure or to return to the camp at night."

"Sleep in Prouille. There still may be something to find. Come back at dawn as we prepare to move out. Tell me if the bishop has any further conversations with the monk."

"Yes, sire." He stood nervously wringing his hands.

"You may go."

Johan bowed and left the tent. He strutted back to the enclosure, and all the while, he felt as though Simon's eyes bored into his back. When he reached the gate, he paused, and leaned against a pole. He breathed with difficulty and tapped together his teeth. What in God's name was he doing?

Sixteen

RARELY USED, THE AUXILIARY BUILDING'S walls crumbled and its roof was not intact. It was the only sheltered place left after vacating rooms to create space for the bishop and his entourage. Quite silly, as they surely traveled with complete accommodations, undoubtedly much more comfortable. Almaric must be doing this for spite.

"Who was that?" Brother Anseau said after he was repositioned in his cot.

"I am not fully sure. He looks familiar, but where I would have seen him, I cannot say."

"I don't recall seeing him with the bishop before, or at Béziers."

"Béziers," repeated Raimon distantly. The immediate concerns disappeared as he remembered he had hardly the chance to talk with Anseau before having to dash off to Carcassonne. Too many priorities. Too many interruptions. He found the stool and pulled it next to the cot.

"Anseau, since you arrived, we have not had time to talk. Much has happened. I have not even asked you much about Béziers. How it felt. How you feel now. I know it must have been terrible."

Anseau stared up at the rafters. The linen covering his head wound made him look foreign. "There have been times over the past weeks when I tried to ignore those thoughts. But I still see everything clearly. Almost too clearly."

"You never told me how you escaped the cathedral," prompted Raimon.

"Escape? No, I wouldn't call it that." Anseau rolled his head to look at Raimon. "Divine providence. Nothing I did, nothing I do on my own volition ever amount to much. God must have something in mind for me, for I surely do not deserve to be alive."

"Nonsense, Brother Anseau."

"It's true. I spent too much time fighting the truth. I lived in confusion as a youth. Then out of guilt for many years. And then blindly followed Pere de Castelnau, never really questioning the underlying purpose of confronting the Cathars. And then, myself, excommunicating the monks at Saint Hilaire, excommunicating you."

"That is all in the past. Forgiven."

"I still feel the fool. And it took someone nearly killing me until the veil before my eyes dropped. Before I understood what you had easily seen."

Anseau paused.

Raimon said, "Tell me what happened at Béziers. The only thing I know is you miraculously survived and then showed up here in a cart with Marti."

Anseau closed his eyes a moment. Then, blinking, he looked back at the ceiling. "We were in the cathedral when they attacked. They broke through the apse and set fire to the altar which burned the interior frame. Everyone rushed to get out—it was madness, people trampled, fighting to get out only to find a battle raging outside. The boy ran out into the midst of it all. His mother went to... She went to her husband... Who was slain, and she, too..." Anseau's voice cracked.

Raimon placed his hand on Anseau's shoulder. Anseau eyes glistened, red.

He continued. "They killed her, and would probably have killed the boy. I have never seen such insanity. They were a pack of wolves. Not human. Nothing mattered, only to kill. It was evil, Raimon." Anseau looked at Raimon and blinked. A tear rolled down the side of face. "Evil incarnate."

Silence.

"And so I ran out to the boy, and the cathedral collapsed." Anseau went silent again. He did not need to describe the scene for Raimon to imagine the horrific sound of rumbling stone, of billowing smoke and a cloud of dust. Thousands trapped inside. Shrieking...then silence.

Anseau reached up and wiped at his face. He shook his head slowly. "Father Geoffrey." His voice sounded resigned.

"Father Geoffrey?" Raimon asked.

"You remember him. He was the priest at Béziers I chastised for his weak backbone against the Cathars. Well, we met again as I returned to Béziers, and together we got the women and children into the cathedral thinking it a safe haven. Father Geoffrey would have been inside." Anseau swallowed. "He so easily forgave me."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't know how the Lord moves and why things happen as they do. For some reason, I was spared. As I held the boy..." Anseau looked at Raimon again. "His father was named Marti. That is what the woman called out as she ran to him. That is why I call the boy Marti."

"I see."

"My injuries are minor compared to the destruction Almaric has wrought. I stood before him and begged for him to have mercy. I told him they were not evil, only disillusioned, not deserving of a military siege. And he called me a heretic. Part of me would like to have you bring him here, now, so I may speak to him directly, but I fear I still have only hatred inside me."

"Understandable, Brother Anseau. It was difficult for me to confront him. Clearly, he thinks me a heretic too for following Brother Domingo. Besides, I do not think he would listen anyway."

"I can't understand it. Why did he let everyone go from Carcassonne? It's good, considering, but confusing."

"It baffles me too," Raimon said. "But I think it may have more to do with controlling the region, and to supplant Trencavel with Simon de Montfort."

"Simon de Montfort. I think he was at Béziers when I confronted Almaric."

"Yes. He is a crusader from the north. He now has Trecavel's title, an army, and the bishop's promise to return the entire crusade should he need. At least, that is what Gilles tells me."

"And who is Gilles?" asked Anseau.

"The novice from Carcassonne who brought us the news of Almaric's arrival. Now, I wonder what Almaric and Simon will do. I will not sit by idly and watch them murder innocent people."

"None are innocent who blaspheme," Anseau said, mocking the crooked look of the bishop. "That's what he said to me...just before saying they might as well kill everyone at Béziers, Cathar and Christian alike, and let God sort out which were His. And that is precisely what the bastard did. Pardon me for saying so."

"No pardon needed."

Rushing feet pounded to the doorway. Peering in, out of breath, Guilelma supported herself in the doorframe. Her eyes were wild, her lips tight. She breathed heavily. Guilelma looked odd wearing a nun's habit.

Raimon rose. "What is it?"

"He... He saw me."

"Who? What do you mean?"

Guilelma controlled her breathing and took several steps into the room. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

"A young soldier. He is from my village. We... He and I were once...friends. But he knows I am a Cathar. He went to tell; I know it. We are doomed." Guilelma began to shake.

"Calm, please," Raimon said. "Come here and sit." He pulled the stool closer. "Now, tell us. What happened?"

Guilelma stepped nervously to the stool and slowly sat down.

"I was in the church, cleaning. When I looked up, I saw him standing there, in the doorway. I tried to look away immediately, hoping he hadn't seen me, but he suddenly took off for the encampment. I know he saw me. He hates me. He will go tell them, and they will discover us." Guilelma wrung her hands.

Raimon wanted to console her, to hold her, to calm her. "Why would he hate you? Surely that is not possible."

"We were betrothed when I chose to enter training. He was outraged. I think it embarrassed him. But he was a farm boy, in Ginestas. His name is Johan. I have no idea why he would be here, and with the army. I saw him as we left Carcassonne, mounted on a horse as we left the city. But I was sure he had not seen me."

Raimon's eyes widened. "That is he. The soldier past the gate. Yes, I remember."

"But now, Raimon, he will tell all."

Raimon's neck tensed and he clamped his jaw tight. The pace was quickening again. What would they do? Would they condemn the lot based on the word of one soldier? Yes, they would. Almaric would take any excuse.

Why had he thought of hiding only the eldest in the forest and not all of them? Why did he think dressing the Cathar women as nuns would deceive the bishop? Stupid! Now they were to be exposed. Treason. Heresy.

He scraped at the stubble on his chin and finally said, "It is in God's hands now. Maybe this Johan did not recognize you dressed so."

"I fear he has. Why else would he leave for the encampment?"

"We shall see. You stay here. Let me go out and see what is happening."

Raimon found the young soldier standing in the doorway to the church. All else appeared normal, other than the obvious disruption the army's visit had made. Maybe the man had not recognized Guilelma. It would appear that way, as surely there would be commotion if he had.

Raimon walked into the church and past the man. He did not think it prudent to acknowledge his conversation with Guilelma by noticing the soldier.

"Monk." The man said. It startled Raimon. "Brother Raimundus, no?"

"Yes," Raimon said as he turned to face the soldier.

"This is a strange monastery. Don't you usually have monks in a monastery, not nuns too?"

"Normally, yes. But Prouille is a different place."

"Why? Why be different?"

What was this man up to? Was he trying to catch Raimon somehow, through divergent conversation? Or was he really oblivious to Guilelma's presence and truly interested in the monastery?

"Most of us come from the Cistercian order. Other monasteries are designed as a haven for prayer and devotion, where the brothers work to supply the needs of the monastery. Here, we are more of a base. We send out preachers into the local communities to talk with the Cathars and hope to convince them to return to the Church. And recently, we have also become a nunnery for women who wish to devote their lives to Christ."

"You preach to the heretics?"

"We believe the dialog builds trust, which may eventually lead to conversion."

The soldier curled his lip. "It will never happen." He shook his head. "You're wasting your time."

"Some of us would disagree. Many of these women are examples of those who have converted."

"What does a nun do? They're never to marry are they?" He leaned his back against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.

Raimon was not sure of this one. He appeared confident, but the way his hands nervously tapped indicated otherwise.

"They devote their lives to prayer and to helping others. And, no, like us monks, they never marry."

"Pity." The soldier remarked. "I saw a pretty one here earlier." He raised an eyebrow.

Raimon bristled.

The man continued. "She's not here now. You know the one of whom I speak?"

"It is, ah, not my place to comment on the nuns."

Chuckling, the man said, "But you're a man, aren't you? The pretty one, young, brown hair—not that you could see much under the coverings—I saw her cleaning up here earlier. She's gone now."

"I am sure all are pretty in God's sight," Raimon responded.

"Hmmm." The man eyed Raimon. He pushed his tongue into his cheek, making it bulge as it moved back and forth over his teeth, lips closed. "So, which direction did the Cathars go? The ones you were hospitable to."

"South."

"You think they headed to Montsegur?"

"I do not know. Possibly." Now the man was fishing for information. The man eyed him, assessing something.

After a brief pause, the soldier spoke. "You and the bishop don't get along, do you?" His statement was flat, a comment not a question.

"We have our differences."

"Well, you must have something on him. I would have thought we could have simply overrun you, but apparently not. Do you think what he's doing is right?"

Raimon was taken aback by the question. So direct. What was this man searching for? To trap him?

"It is not my place to comment on right or wrong in this situation."

"Oh, but surely you have an opinion."

"I believe we all seek to understand what is right and wrong. We have chosen a path of peace. Both our approaches have approval of the Pope. I don't know how else I could answer your question."

"At least not by getting yourself into trouble, eh?" The man smiled.

Raimon could not figure out this young man. Was he here to spy? Was he here on his own volition? Raimon stood silent for several moments. He was about to nod his head and move on, when the soldier commented again, this time in a softer voice.

"I have a...friend. A friend who, like me, came from the village of Ginestas up north. He was one of the crusaders who attacked Castelar. He was captured and taken into Carcassonne; I guess he was injured also."

"Yes?" Raimon thought of the young man Gilles had saved.

"When he came out, he told me what we were doing was a mistake. He said the Cathars were a peaceful people, and they were not evil. What do you think?"

"I would agree."

"How can you say a heretic is not evil? They blaspheme. In the north, there is strict punishment for blasphemers, you know."

"I know. But we are taught to follow Christ's example of forgiveness and understanding. To not judge lest we be judged ourselves. The Cathars have a different understanding of the divine. Misguided. But as a people, they are not evil. I believe as they learn more, they can come to understand what the truth is."

"Interesting." He eyed Raimon again. "You are sure we have not met?"

"Yes." Raimon swallowed and blinked several times.

"You are not from around here, are you?"

"No. I am from Barcino. South of the Pyrenees."

"That's right." He paused briefly, his eyes boring into Raimon. "We may meet again, Brother Raimundus."

Raimon nodded. Then he slowly turned and walked through the church to the back. He noticed some of the nuns had halted their cleaning, and stood silently until Raimon approached. He frowned at them, and they resumed.

Anseau's and Guilelma's heads turned simultaneously as Raimon walked into the room. Guilelma looked expectant. For some reason, Anseau had a slight smirk.

"I can't tell you what has or has not happened other than he did not recognize you or he has chosen not to speak. I spoke with this Johan at length, and he gave no indication."

Guilelma dropped her forehead into her hands. "I don't understand. I know he saw me. He looked right at me."

"Yet no one comes to take us."

Guilelma looked up. "What is going on? When I left him last, his anger was so great, I worried he would kill me. I stayed with Teacher Galiana for a long time without going into the village."

"It was difficult to know what the man was thinking. He asked a lot of questions. He asked about you."

"He asked about me? You see, he knows me!"

"I was not sure."

"How could you not be sure if he calls me by name?" Guilelma's face showed a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"Not by name. He asked for..." Raimon realized the position in which he had put himself. He swallowed uncomfortably. "He asked about the...pretty nun." Raimon felt heat on his cheeks.

Guilelma looked down. Anseau smiled. Raimon shuffled his feet.

"And what did you say?" said Anseau. Raimon detected a twinkle in Anseau's look.

"I, ah... I said all are pretty in God's sight."

Anseau broke out in an uncharacteristic laugh. Guilelma coyly smiled and looked back at Raimon. Her cheeks were flushed. Raimon shrugged his shoulders and put his hands out, palms forward at his side, a gesture of surrender.

"It would appear," Anseau said, "for whatever reason, we need not fear immediate danger. Guilelma, you had better stay as secluded as possible until they leave tomorrow. Better not to risk another confrontation."

"Let us hope he does not seek me out."

"Indeed," said Anseau.

Guilelma rose, and as she passed by Raimon at the door, she looked at him, deep in his eyes, only for a moment, but that was enough for Raimon's insides to dissolve. Raimon held his breath until Guilelma left, and he exhaled. He looked over at Anseau.

With a large grin, Anseau said, "Raimon. Come, sit."

Anseau now looked intently at him.

"Brother Raimon, I have spent most of my life concerned about how much dedication I could give to prayer or to fasting or to penning my Bible. I never was one women looked at anyway, and after joining the cloister, I rarely gave it much thought." Anseau paused. "On second thought. Beatriu."

"The woman at the house where I found you?"

"Yes. She aided my recovery after that first attack. Her friendship was very important to me. And, yes, I could say affection. But, not about me, I was referring to you. I know affection when I see it. You are much appreciated. I also sense you have affection for Guilelma."

"Yes. Brother Anseau, it has been very difficult for me. The moment I saw her, I became weak. I've never felt this way before."

"Never?"

"Not that I can think of. But you see how foolish it is. She, a Cathar perfect, I a monk. Is it possible for us to be friends?"

"Friends, yes. More than that..." Anseau paused as he firmly pressed his lips together. "I would only urge caution. What you need to think about, Raimon, is what your vow means and how you will deal with your emotions. I confess I may make it sound easier than it probably is, but we have promised ourselves for sacred purpose."

"I know." Raimon closed his eyes. "I struggle with this daily. Does God not instill in us these feelings? They are not bad. Why do I get nervous every time Guilelma is around? I would sacrifice my life to save her."

"I am not suggesting these feelings are wrong. Only, you be careful lest your feelings take you down a path...a path wrought with conflict."

Seventeen

GOD MOCKED HIS PAIN BY FLAUNTING her that brief instant, teasing him, dangling her out of reach. A lump formed in his chest as he remembered the hurt, the embarrassment, the wrenching emotion as though someone stretched his guts. She was no longer a part of his life, and he wanted to say to hell with her. He should stride confidently to Simon and inform him of the treachery at Prouille.

Then instantly the spark of anger snuffed, and he longed to sit with her, to see her face again. The glimpse of her smooth skin and green eyes reset years of jumbled images and an imagined persona.

Johan wondered if he would ever see her again.

He inhaled deeply, feeling resolved. This would be his parting legacy. He would show compassion despite what she had done to him. He would let her go on her way, for she chose a path toward doom anyway, and ultimately her actions would prove her fate. She was no more than a heretic after all, fleeing like a rat from a burning shed.

Yet...

Johan closed his eyes. This was not the time to think of Guilelma. That moment had passed. The bishop and his entourage had bid their tense farewell, along with a not-so-subtle warning, and had returned to Carcassonne, and soon to the bishop's home at Fontfroide. Simon quizzed Johan again about what he discovered in Prouille, but this time it had been easier to lie. There would be another time to worry about a few Cathars being harbored in a monastery.

The worry Johan faced now loomed above, physically manifest with jagged peaks and lonesome spires. A partial moon directly overhead sashayed through wispy clouds and cast a spotty glow on the rugged Montaigne Noire. Along the crest, bobbing like flotsam on a heavy sea, three castles poked into the deep blue-grey sky. Cabaret, Surdispine, Quertinheux. These were the refuge for the lords and vassals of Lastours. And holed-up within them were—according to Simon's spies—the soldiers fled from Carcassonne led by Peter Roger, and their Cathar cohorts. Simon said a victory at Cabaret would seal the valley for the crusade.

But the first day of attack had not turned out in Simon's favor. Johan began to wonder how Simon de Montfort commanded such historical respect for his military prowess. The initial raid on Castelar, the one that ended with many dead from Ginestas, including Eudes, seemed impulsive and ill-conceived. Here, too, a raid up steep slopes—almost cliffs—into a shooting gallery between three looming castles proved futile. They must have lost thirty men in one day. Simon departed Carcassonne with pomp, but had left behind siege engines, thinking the might of their numbers sufficient to overwhelm any obstacle.

But adversity breeds opportunity. Now was Johan's prospect to prove his mettle. Thwarted by the arrow at Castelar, now fully recovered, Johan finally had the chance to fight. Yesterday was fruitless. A day spent scurrying for cover, what little there was. They were ducks in a pond with archers lined along the bank. But then Simon broke out groups of about twenty men to attempt a night foray.

"I will need four teams to scale the east side," Simon had said. The east side was the steepest, of course, but also the least likely for an assault. "Godebert, Ponç..." Simon would have chosen Lorens, but he suffered a fall when dodging boulders tossed from the castle. "Bouchard..." Bouchard de Marley had joined Simon's inner sanctum of advisors at Carcassonne. "And..." Simon looked around the tent.

"I..." Johan spoke before he meant to. He had never led anyone into battle...for that matter he had not really been in battle but for a few moments underneath a ladder and inside the siege wagon. The only true instruction on the short sword had been given him by Godebert the past few weeks as they bided their time at Carcassonne and then on the trek north to Lastours.

"Excellent," said Simon. Then speaking to the crowd, "An example of courage we should all heed well."

Despite the nervous pit in his stomach, Johan straightened his back and puffed out his chest. He noticed Ponç roll his eyes.

Now Johan grappled like a spider on a steep incline, clinging to rocks to keep from tumbling into the men below him and cascading an avalanche of bodies hundreds of feet down precipitous cliffs. His stomach felt like an animal was inside, clawing to get out. The height and the darkness reminded him of the edging fear he felt running out of the Carcassonne dungeon. What would they encounter once they reached the walls of Surdespine? What would they do? He had been given no instruction. How was Johan to lead twenty men on a raid when he knew barely more than how to lead pigs into their pen?

"This is where we part." It was Godebert. "We will continue to the left and approach Cabaret from the north. You'll have to position your men on the south of Surdespine, for that is the point of least distance up the façade. I don't know what you will find, or how you can scale it, but do your best."

Godebert eyed Johan a moment. A glint of the moon reflected from eyes neatly framed in dark chain mail. Godebert nodded. "God be with you."

"God be with you," Johan replied and swallowed. Godebert and his men shuffled silently off to the north. Occasional trickles of stones dribbled down the mountainside, but their sounds were muted in a slight, cool breeze. For a moment, Johan froze, summoning courage to move his legs and hands. He turned to the dark figures below him, hanging on the cliff, and motioned toward Surdispine.

Whether their clandestine skulking went unnoticed or was simply unexpected this soon in a siege, Johan did not know. Nonetheless, as dawn hinted a glow from the east, Johan and his men crouched at the base of a thirty to forty foot wall. The rocky outcrop on which the castle was constructed left only a few feet of level ground around the wall, and then it veered sharply down the crag, making it impossible to amass any force. Johan had no idea what they would do when the sun rose. For now he looked at the wall as clarity formed and the morning shadows revealed tightly fitted rock unlikely to support any handholds. He smelled rosemary in the air and heard the chirp of an early bird somewhere down the slope.

"You two," Johan indicated, whispering. "Make your way around the left and search for the entrance. There may be some leverage there to scale." He thought a moment. "Has anyone here ever been here before?" Heads shook. "Any ideas?"

Silence for a moment. Then one man spoke; he crouched several feet below Johan. "In the south they have Castels."

"What of it?" whispered the gruff voice of a man next to him.

"Human towers. They make them south of the Pyrenees, you know, the tradition. We could build one here."

"That's stupid," said the gruff one.

"What else are we to do?"

"He is right," said Johan. He looked up at the wall and wondered if it were possible to scale this height with a ladder. "But how?"

"Put six of us at the base. Lock arms, like this," he said as he indicated a crooked elbow. "Then more climb to their shoulders. Make a ladder with our bodies. The last may make the parapet."

Johan tried to visualize the effort. It could be possible. But only a few would make it into the castle, and then what? Maybe while it was still dark, they could steal into the fortress and open the gate. And the rest could storm into the castle. That was it!

His whisper betrayed his nervousness. "Let's try. Put the biggest of us at the base."

Slowly, amid grunting and stepping on feet and hips and shoulders, a tower formed. Fifteen men, four levels, and the two at the top were within four feet of the wall's lip. The three remaining, of whom Johan was one, readied for the climb. Johan indicated he would go first, and slowly clawed his way up backs, slipping occasionally on the chain mail. When he reached the final set of shoulders, he crouched and slowly pulled himself to the parapet's edge. Above him, the wall extended out over him about a foot and a half, and as Johan looked along the ledge, he saw periodic holes, murder holes from which burning tar or projectiles could be dropped on intruders.

Johan reached for his short sword and placed one hand on the ledge, keeping his head ducked. How was he to launch out, up and onto the parapet with one hand? As he pushed the sword back into its scabbard, the dark silhouette of a head poked out over the ledge.

Light reflected off a domed helmet, point on top. The man gasped as a view formed of the intruders. Without thinking, Johan pulled out his sword and slashed upwards in an arc. It caught the man's throat as he extended it out, and sliced through. Blood spat out over Johan, catching him on the forehead. The figure slumped forward, hanging on the edge. His helmet tumbled past, and hit the ground, muted in a grassy spot, then began rolling down the incline. It all happened so fast Johan could not think. He had killed.

Before the rush of anxiety, before the bile had a chance to rise in his throat, Johan reached up, grabbed the man's tunic and pulled. The body slid out and plummeted to the ground.

Simultaneously, a shout went up from within the castle, lower down. "To arms! They are at the wall!"

Johan quickly replaced the short sword in its scabbard. Looking down, he barked at the remaining two soldiers. "Quick! Up behind me!"

Placing both hands on the rock surface, he propelled himself out and up. He got his foot on the wall top and lifted himself onto the ledge, crouching. He pulled his sword. The full view of the castle appeared before him. Square tower, house, cistern. Then the sound of approaching feet. Twenty guards rushed at him from either side of the parapet, and more from below, clacking up ladders, now yelling at the top of their lungs. Johan froze. He was going to die.

Eighteen

WHEN GUILELMA CAME TO THE DOOR, Raimon knew. He knew she was leaving, and he may never see her again. It was inevitable, their relationship tenuous, his hold on her no stronger than a fine strand of hair. And now Almaric, Simon and his army had left, and there was no stopping the group of Cathars from leaving.

"Our council would like you and Brother Anseau to join us," Guilelma said. She peered into Raimon's eyes, and in that moment a silent understanding passed between them.

"Yes," Raimon said. "We shall be along shortly."

When Guilelma left the room, Raimon shuddered as if breaking a spell and turned to Anseau. "Do you feel strong enough to walk?"

"I do, Brother Raimon," he said as he sat up on his cot and paused a moment. "Tell me. What do you think they will ask of us?"

"Ask? What makes you think they will ask anything? They are preparing to leave."

"I doubt they would request our presence unless they needed something. I suspect they would have simply gathered their things and set off. They must want or need something."

"We have little to give."

"And yet they are the ones asking," Anseau said with a smirk. "Here, help me up, and I shall try to walk."

"Are you sure?"

Anseau looked twice his age. He was not that old when they had first met, although he acted much older. His obsession with discipline, his hard line approach to his faith, his silence and obedience to Saint Benedict's rules. Now he looked old and stiff, but his demeanor indicated otherwise.

Anseau walked hunched over, tentatively stepping, and it was clear there was still much pain from his head injury. Despite the obvious physical difficulty, he behaved as though a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled. He laughed. He enjoyed the simple pleasures of a crisp morning filled with vociferous buntings, warblers and pipits, and he noted their coloration as if he had never seen them before. He walked slowly to the church, easily distracted by birds or a grey squirrel. Reluctantly, Raimon stepped into the church with Anseau.

The council was comprised of several of the older Cathar perfects who had accompanied Raimon from Carcassonne. Donning their ever-present black robes, they sat around a trestle table, looking like a funeral procession. All eyes turned to Raimon and Anseau as they stepped into the room.

One of the elders spoke. "We wish to thank you for your hospitality. We realize the position you placed yourselves in, especially during the bishop's visit. It has been refreshing to see not all Catholics are as close-minded as...others."

Raimon nodded acknowledgement.

"We feel we can trust you and request a great favor."

Raimon was not sure how to react. "Yes?"

"It is apparent Simon de Montfort will not relinquish his fervor against us. There may be difficult times ahead. And as there are few routes to Montsegur that can circumvent his presence in Carcassonne, we may need a place where our people can feel confidently welcomed."

"Any idea of how many?"

"No. That will depend on the individuals. But, we will need at least to secret our leaders, lest they fall to Simon."

"We can accommodate you as best as we can." Raimon glanced briefly at Guilelma, who smiled. He quickly looked away.

"We ask no more than a place our people can rely on for temporary safety. However, we also do not wish to compromise your own standing with the Church."

Anseau cleared his throat. "Brother Raimon, we do need to consider Brother Domingo may have a different opinion. It is unlikely, but I feel it necessary to bring up."

"Yes, that is true. But," to the perfects, "you have my word I will talk to Brother Domingo in all confidence not to compromise you either. Any who come this way seeking help can ask for me or in my name, and they will receive help." Was he saying this to please Guilelma, or did he truly believe he could help independent of Brother Domingo? What if Anseau was right? What if Brother Domingo returned and had a change of heart?

"Thank you."

The room fell silent for a few uncomfortable moments.

"We will be leaving in the next few days," Guilelma said.

Raimon's stomach twitched. "I see. You are to proceed to Montsegur?"

"No. We talked at length, and given the need to spread the word in the region and to do what we can to protect our people, we will first go to Minerve."

"You will have to cross back to the north of Carcassonne... through Simon's territory."

Guilelma nodded. "That's correct."

The prospect of Guilelma leaving for Montsegur, to the south, the stronghold of the Cathars, seemed...safer. Definitive and unreachable, as though Montsegur represented a final destination. But Minerve. It was still within the realm of Simon's reach. Less secure, yet—oddly—Raimon thought there was something less conclusive about it, as though there was still a chance he would see her again. Not that he should be thinking of Guilelma past this week. How long could he hold on to the illusion they could have a relationship? It was absurd. Brother Anseau was right. It could only lead to conflict... The thought of never seeing Guilelma again brought such an empty feeling, Raimon did not know if he would be able to recover himself.

"I will accompany you part of the way to Minerve," Raimon blurted out. He did not know why the thought came to him suddenly. Anseau looked at him from under furrowed brows. Guilelma tilted her head to the side. "Only to see you through the area where Simon may journey," Raimon continued. "I understand them to be at Lastours and Cabaret, and their return to Carcassonne could intersect with your journey."

"That is true Brother Raimundus," said the man. "However, I am not clear what reason you would need to accompany us."

Raimon paused a moment. Think! "On your own, they will harass you. With me present, maybe I could convince them you were recent converts, or something. You might need to travel without your...robes."

The man rubbed his chin. Then, nodding, he said, "Yes. Yes, that might be reasonable. I suspect we would only need you to accompany us to Rieux."

"Gilles can join. He needs to return to Carcassonne anyway, and he should know the area."

"Then it is set. We shall leave in two days."

Raimon turned and took Anseau by the elbow, escorting him out the door. He did not look at Anseau, for he knew the chastisement would come. It was a foolish thing to offer. It had nothing to do with concern for the Cathar leaders' safe passage. It had only to do with Guilelma, and he knew it. Raimon felt Anseau's silent stare on the side of his face, as though it bore into his cheeks. And he had dragged Gilles into his excursion.

As they walked back to the living quarters, Raimon expected Anseau to speak at any moment. But he did not. Maybe there was nothing to say; Raimon had committed himself. Although, it was only for a few more days, and a journey through the countryside in cool, fall weather would be enjoyable.

If that were true, why did Raimon feel a deep foreboding? Was it the prospect of meeting up with Simon again? Was it simply having to say goodbye to Guilelma, the finality of it, despite he had postponed it a few days? Something did not feel right, but he could not attach the emotion to any particular thing. He did not know Minerve, but the name evoked the feeling of sadness. Of loss.

The smoke in the distance was a harbinger of Simon de Montfort's rule. Bram lay four miles northeast of Prouille, and would have been on their route, but they thought it best to avoid the village in case Simon had left men there. Smoke on the left, and Carcassonne ten to twelve miles on the right, the entourage set out at an angle cross-country toward Rieux. Gilles thought they should reach Pennautier or maybe Conques-sur-Orbiel by nightfall, depending on how fast some of the older perfects could travel.

The walk thus far had been quiet. Gilles and Raimon led, the others followed behind, looking like a family outing. Since the perfects agreed not to wear their black robes, they looked entirely different. Raimon looked back occasionally at Guilelma, hoping she would join him, but thus far she had remained in the midst of the group talking to one of the older women. Cresting a short hill, Raimon saw the other side dipped down to a worn path.

"That should be the path from Bram to Les Alauses," said Gilles.

"Have you traveled this area much?" asked Raimon.

"Yes. There were times I went with Father Mattieu to the villages surrounding Carcassonne. Once, when I was much younger, we took this path to Bram. They claimed to have found a miraculous icon of the Virgin Mother. People said if they touched it, they would be healed. As it turned out, it was a hoax by the," Gilles lowered his voice, "the Cathars. They wanted to make the Church look foolish. Which they did."

"Interesting." Raimon squinted as he detected motion on the path below. "Looks to be some people on the path."

A gathering of five people congregated about a flat rock. One lay on the rock, with two attending. The other two rose from the ground as Raimon and Gilles approached. Several had linens wrapped about hands or head, most looked injured in some capacity.

"We beg you leave us in peace," said the one on the right, a man. His face was mostly covered with linen, but the skin exposed on his cheeks and nose was blackened, red and blistered.

"Friend, we travel in peace. What has happened?"

"Are you of Carcassonne? Or Bram?" The man eyed Raimon and Gilles.

"No. Prouille," Raimon responded.

The man looked visibly relieved. "We flee from Bram. The soldiers from Carcassonne came through several days ago. They burned many homes surrounding the village. We have lost everything."

Raimon inhaled sharply, lips tight. His neck and back tensed. Simon probably ignited havoc through every village on their way to Cabaret. This would continue until the entire region was subdued, for who could amass a force strong enough to counter him?

"May God be with you. Is there anything we can do to help?"

"No kind sir. We are on our way to Les Alauses where other of our family resides. Then we will travel south. As far away from Simon as we can." The man's red eyes narrowed.

From behind Raimon, someone spoke in Occitan. "Bon dieu vai amb tu." May the good god go with you. It was the greeting of a perfect.

The man's eyes widened, and then he stepped past Raimon and began a series of three bows to the ground, the Cathar melioramentum. "Bless us," said the other as he, too, joined in the Cathar greeting.

Raimon felt an alien. Were all of the people in the County of Toulouse of the Cathar religion? As the two finished their greeting of the Cathar perfects, the man wrapped in linen came back to Raimon.

"Bless us too, brother, for we are good Catholics."

This startled Raimon. Could a Catholic also be a Cathar? It was not possible, for their beliefs were divergent. He thought of the debates he and Anseau witnessed between the Cathar leaders and Pere de Castelnau. They were clearly different religions, yet this man called himself a good Catholic. Was it out of convenience? A good luck charm? Did they maintain the exterior of religion, but inside, in their heart, was there only emptiness?

Judge not lest you be judged. These words popped into the forefront of his mind. What right did he have to judge their hearts? The Church surely had not made it easy for them to understand the difference. The Church tainted God's grace by rampaging through villages in God's name. How could peasants distinguish the message of Christ's love through the actions of people claiming to be of Christ and showing only violence? And then, when they confronted an austere, humble religion... No wonder Catharism was rampant.

"Of course," he responded. Raimon noticed Gilles looking confused. He would have to talk to Gilles later. "Da, Domine, propitius pacem in diebus nostis. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen." Peace, ironically, seemed a distant hope.

After talking briefly with the rest of the family and exchanging blessings, the entourage continued across the path and up the hill. Shortly, Guilelma came up next to Raimon and matched his pace.

"Raimon?"

He felt lighter. "Yes?"

"I am interested to know about what happened with those people. I saw after we had blessed the family, they asked you to do the same, and you did. I did not know Catholics would do this. In my experience, the priests at Ginestas would only give a blessing to a true convert. Do you not fear the duality of religion?"

Interesting question. It was exactly what Raimon had been wondering, whether he performed the blessing out of a genuine desire or if pressured because of the Cathar presence.

"I guess for me, I do not see duality as a threat. People seek the truth as best they can. We all seek it. We apply what information or experience we receive. Ultimately, what we say or do does not alter the truth itself. The hope is we eventually come to know it, but the key is we seek it."

"What do you see as the truth, Raimon?" Those eyes. They sparkle when they already knew the answer. Why was she asking?

"I suspect you already know how I would answer." He smiled nervously.

"Would you say I am confused about the truth, that I still seek it?"

Was she baiting him? Raimon had to be careful what he said, for it would be easy to think him pompous in his belief the Church held knowledge of the one and only Truth, and the Cathars were the ones in the dark. He had to be careful lest he erect a barrier between them.

"Tell me, Guilelma, have you always been a Cathar?"

"No. I grew up in a Catholic house."

Raimon pursed his lips, his eyebrows furrowed. "But your father, Artal, he was not a Cathar?"

"No. Only at the end did he ask for consolamentum, and mostly because it was I who wished it for him."

"What made you change?"

"I can't say age and wisdom brought me to my beliefs. I was, and am still young. But, as I observed the Church and its people, I could not help but be drawn to the simplicity and genuineness of these." She waved her hand to the side and back. "People do not follow the precepts of the Church. They claim to be wholly Catholic, yet rarely attend mass. They desire power and wealth and do many things at odds with the beliefs of the Church. And what I saw of the Cathars were people who rejected the lure of things, desired to be pure and strove each day to be closer to the holy."

After a brief pause, Raimon spoke. "Now that you have met some Catholics who are—hopefully—not as those you knew in Ginestas... Do you consider our ways consistent with the beliefs of the Church?"

"I suppose. Yes," Guilelma said. "You are different. Although, I have not met a monk before. I had heard monks confined themselves to monasteries to pray."

"Many do. Brother Anseau and I have been thrust into the world. Now, I see my role as less passive. That the prayer and study were preparation for the work of being in the world." Raimon paused. "Do you..." Should he say it? How would she react? Without at least an attempt, she would be lost to him forever. "Do you think you could give the Church another chance?"

"It is doubtful," Guilelma responded, too quickly. "I feel much more at home with these people. Besides, I could never abandon them at a time of such need."

"If you seek to know the truth..."

"Are you saying only the Church has the truth?" Guilelma frowned. Her response was terse, flat.

"I...well..." Raimon stuttered. How could he answer? To say what he believed would surely offend her. But how could he not answer? Guilelma was going down a path that could only lead to death, in more ways than one. The words came out before he could stop them. "What if you are wrong?"

Guilelma started. Her chin tucked, and her neck stiffened. At the same time, Raimon noticed Gilles dropped behind, leaving the two of them alone. Raimon had not noticed Gilles had kept pace with them to this point, no doubt listening in on the conversation.

"What do you mean?" There was anger in her voice. He had better take care.

"Let us say you spend your life on your current path. What if, at the end, the truth you have chosen is not the truth?"

"Are you suggesting we are wrong? That despite your seeming tolerance, you have the objective of converting me? I thought you were different." Anger. Definitely anger. Raimon cringed. The conversation had gotten out of control, and he did not know how to resolve it.

"I... I was merely suggesting—hypothetically—as a Cathar, should you meet your end and the truth you thought was not, you will have missed out on the promised bliss as taught by the Church." Guilelma made a "huh" noise that made Raimon's chest tighten. He could not look at her; he stared ahead. The words kept flowing. Was he descending a well from which he could not recover? "On the other hand, if you had spent your life with the precepts of the Church, and found it not to be the truth, according to your religion, you would at least have the opportunity of another life to...to try again. You would have less to lose by the stricter path." Raimon wrinkled his nose. He knew his words were inflammatory. He did not know why he spoke them. The words simply came out.

Guilelma sighed. "I see what you are getting at. But, Raimon, life is not a gamble, to pick a course with the best odds." There was a tangible reduction of tension in the air. A profound statement. This woman had a depth to her he had not experienced in other women.

"I am not suggesting life is a wager, although you must admit it feels that way sometimes." Raimon looked at Guilelma and smiled. Guilelma tentatively smiled back as he continued. "I only wish you not eliminate the Church and its teachings because of some of its followers or the mistakes it makes. Mistakes are of people, and people bring evil. But the One who holds the truth still exists."

"I admit it is difficult to separate the people from the beliefs. But, Raimon, I hope you can understand. I cannot change. There is too much at stake. I do believe I am on a path to truth."

They walked in silence for a while. Raimon's stomach tugged at him again. There was not enough time. This woman was wonderful. How could he convince her to at least question her beliefs? It was clear to him she chose the Cathars because she was accepted, she had purpose. Those were all good things.

Then Guilelma spoke. "My mother died four years ago."

Raimon looked questioningly at Guilelma. Her comment came as a surprise.

"A fever took her. Father was never able to recover from the loss. He was much older, as you could see, but he loved her deeply. He never remarried despite the pressure of the village. They wanted him to marry someone who could give him sons. Evidently, I as an only daughter was a disappointment. But not to Father." Her voice trailed off, cracking slightly on her last words.

Raimon saw moisture gathering in her eyes, and when she blinked, a small droplet caught on the edge of her eyelid, and then spotted her cheek. She reached up and wiped it with her index finger. Raimon wanted to be the one wiping away her tears. He wanted to be able to console her. He was trapped in his white, rough-woven monk's robe.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Johan's family thought they were doing me a favor by offering to take me in marriage. But I hated him. Or at least I hated the idea. Of leaving my father. Of living with that man, knowing how he had lain with other girls in the village."

Her cheeks flushed.

"And you sought solace with the Cathars."

"Yes. They accepted me for who I was. They taught of peace and simplicity, of how the things of this world are evil and only the spirit is to be sought. How women have a place in the world other than birthing. I saw how the evil god had affected the world, and I wanted nothing to do with it."

"I understand."

"Do you?" She turned to Raimon. Imploring eyes.

"Yes, I do." Raimon paused. "Guilelma. I only said those things about the Church because I... Because I care what happens to you."

Guilelma's rosy lips formed a smile. "And I you." More silence. Raimon found it difficult to look into her eyes without his knees weakening and causing him to stumble. Soon, as Raimon looked ahead, they both settled back into pace as they climbed up another hill.

At the crest, Guilelma spoke again. "In another place... Another time."

Raimon questioned with his eyes.

"We are both marching down a path of destiny, Raimon. I fear our paths will divide soon."

Raimon closed his eyes briefly. He feared the same. The closer they came to Rieux, the sooner they would part ways. He knew conversation and convincing would not change her path. Not now. Would she be lost to him forever? He felt a sudden emptiness.

Then he said, "Promise me if you do journey to Montsegur, you visit Prouille on the way."

Guilelma smiled again. "I will."

They continued cross-country until arriving at Villesequèlande where Gilles indicated they needed to cross the Fresquel River. There, assuming passing the village would be absent of trouble, they could continue northeast, where north of Penzens the river turned south and they could continue on an angle to Conques-sur-Orbiel.

The afternoon sun cast pleasant warmth on Raimon's left side. To his right, the tree-lined Fresquel burbled in a soft stream. Birds called out in greeting to the strange group of travelers as they side-stepped rocks, bushes or clumps of grass. Occasionally, an animal path provided sections of smooth hiking. Otherwise, trudging through unkempt landscape made for slow progress, and Raimon doubted they would make their destination by nightfall.

The closer they came to their parting, the more a hole grew in Raimon's stomach. There was nothing he could do, short of renouncing his oath, leaving the order and joining Guilelma on her trek to Minerve. That would be absurd. He knew his faith. He knew what lay ahead for the Cathars with Simon terrorizing the region. He could only hope. Hope for some future that would bring them together again. But under what circumstances? What would change? Would it be enough simply to be in Guilelma's presence? Would he desire more?

The way ahead opened up slightly to a secondary valley between several low-lying hills. The river flattened out and ran shallow, or at least that was the way it looked as the surface churned white, bubbled and tumbled over rocks, and the sound increased.

As they crossed the low part, Raimon turned to Gilles.

"It looks as if we could have crossed the Fresquel here. The path is worn. Horses have crossed before."

"Yes. I've not been here before. I guess it might have worked. Next time, no?" Gilles eyes twinkled.

They crossed the flat area and walked toward trees that skirted the hill and merged into the river bank on the opposite side. As they approached the trees, the ground began to rumble.

Then a sudden roar, hundreds of hooves, the leads of a multitude poked up over the rise. Mounted horses were on a path to the river where Raimon and his flock had just passed.

"Quick, into the trees," Raimon shouted. Had they been seen? Was this Simon's army returning to Carcassonne?

Crouching behind trees and bushes, they held their collective breath. Raimon gazed out past a tree he and Gilles lay behind. An army flowed over the crest and down into the valley for the shallow crossing.

Then, the lead horse lurched. It reared up on its hind legs, and collapsed. The rider tumbled off his mount. With a scream from one next to the leader, the company thundered to a stop. Yelling. Pointing.

Then, as suddenly as the horse had collapsed, three riders near the fallen soldier dispatched at a fast gallop. They headed straight for Raimon!

Nineteen

WHEN HE OPENED HIS EYES, he lay on a mass of bodies. He must have fallen backwards and collapsed the human tower, and now his men were sprawled at the base of the wall. Some slid down the steep incline frantically grasping for a handhold. Looking up he saw heads peer over the edge. Some laughed. Others called for the archers. Johan quickly searched for cover. There was nowhere to hide.

He rolled off one of the crusaders and knelt by the pile as the men slowly came to their senses and crouched wondering what to do next.

"Quick. We must find shelter, for they will bring the arrows." It was one of the older crusaders.

Johan looked down the slope to and spotted a steep rock outcropping. "Down there," he said, pointing.

Sliding on backsides, sending a spray of rocks in a waterfall down the mountainside, sixteen men made their way down the slope; Johan was not sure, but possibly two had either already escaped or had slid down the incline to the cliff. Soon Johan scraped over a wild oak bush and hit the ground next to the rock. He scooted along a narrow ledge to make room for others. Then he glanced up to check their position. Surdespine was obscured; Cabaret and Quertinheux were still in view to either side. He detected motion—a quick dart of darkness, maybe a flash—an arrow must have flown by overhead. Then a scream, and a body tumbled down the hill. Johan scanned his troops and discovered only twelve soldiers remained. They jammed in together, huddling against the rock outcropping. What happened to the two he had sent around the other side of the castle?

And then he heard more yelling, echoing between castles. This time it came from the direction of Cabaret, and then a ricochet from Quertinheux. The other teams must have reached their destination. Screams mostly. No clashing of metal. Johan only imagined them as vulnerable as his men, easy targets for the archers who stood safely in their towers, picking off victims from on high. Why had Simon not ordered covering fire?

Johan paused and sunk his head. His first foray was a failure. He closed his eyes...and immediately an image filled his vision. It was the soldier. The soldier with neck extended. Then Johan saw the sword flash. He saw the blood, and he saw the fallen body. He reached up and wiped his forehead. Looking at his hand, he saw crimson red, starting to brown. Johan felt a surge from within, and he heaved, sending his stomach's contents spilling down the slope. He had killed a man. It had happened so fast. Someone he did not know. Did that man have a family? Did he have friends? Now he was instantly erased from the earth. Johan had a mixture of excitement and disgust, the kind of thrill he had the first time he slaughtered a pig. The feeling of guilt and of accomplishment. The feeling of repulsion and of victory. Commingled. Killing was not as glorious as Obert had made it sound.

"Merde! How incredibly stupid, you incompetent oaf."

Simon was furious. He stomped around the tent as Johan cowered at the tent's entrance, his remaining men behind, outside, shrinking from the tent flaps.

"What the hell were you thinking? A human tower? Holy Mother of God." Simon threw his hands in the air. Johan felt as small as a pebble. This had been his chance. His opportunity to shine, and now he felt like a rotting pile of pig muck. Worthy only of shoveling off to the pit.

"I...we..." Johan stammered.

"Silence! God, it was stupid to have put you in charge." The vein on Simon's forehead protruded.

At that moment, Godebert entered the tent to stand beside Johan.

"And what of you?" sneered Simon.

Godebert shook his head. "We failed, my lord. I lost twelve. There is no approach on the north side either; we were exposed."

"You idiot!" Simon raged. "I am surrounded by idiots. What did you do, run back here with your tails between your legs?"

"Sire, we fought as best as we could. But foot-soldiering will not take these castles. We need archers, trebuchets."

"Don't tell me how to fight my battles. Many were the castles in the Holy Land we took, and they were no less formidable than these minor bumps on a hill."

"But, sire. The terrain..."

"Silence! No excuses. A man of courage does not make excuses."

It sounded like Godebert was about to say, "Sorry," but squelched it before it became audible.

"Leave me," Simon bellowed. "I must think." He rubbed at his temples.

Godebert pulled Johan with him as they went outside.

"I'm sorry, Godebert. I tried my best."

"Don't let Simon's raging get to you. He does this all the time. Cabaret flaunts him, and he is irritated we cannot simply overrun the castles. He will realize eventually how foolish a direct attack is. Unfortunately for the men, they suffer as we learn."

"What will he do?"

"I suspect," said Godebert as they moved to beneath a tree and sat, "he will retreat to Carcassonne, and wait out the winter. We will be able to get reinforcements come next spring, for the Pope has promised a steady stream of crusaders." Godebert eyed Johan. "Are you injured?"

"Me? No."

"There is blood on your forehead."

"Oh," Johan subconsciously reached up to touch his forehead. It was rough, scabby. "Not mine." Nausea rose, and he saw the image of the soldier's throat again.

"I heard some of your men talking. They say you fought bravely, and you were the first to go into the castle."

"And the first to fall from it."

"Nonetheless, we did not even make the parapet." Godebert paused a moment. "Simon will hear of it. You will do fine."

"Thank you."

"Let me go and get us some food," Godebert said as he rose and left Johan.

What a waste. One man seeks vengeance on soldiers they could have taken at Carcassonne, and sends others at his bidding to their death. All for what? To control these rock-top fortresses? Was Simon really after the heretics? All he talked about was Peter Roger. It was as if the concern over Cathars in the region were secondary, an excuse.

Now they were in a dilemma. To continue attacking, risking constant attrition of their forces—for there was no hope of taking these castles with foot soldiers—or to pull back and regroup. Wait for the influx of crusaders next spring. Or gather siege engines and plan a coordinated attack instead of sending men at random to scramble up impossible angles only to be shot at like chickens in a pen. Would Simon's ego handle failure? If he pulled back, Simon would likely seek revenge, burn Lastours, the village below Cabaret where people lived, leaving the lords and their subjects only remote castles for refuge. He would probably burn each village they passed, all the way back to Carcassonne.

Johan bit at his lip. Was it worth it? Had it been worth it to throw his lot with Simon? Simon had promised fiefdoms to those who led in his army. Maybe—maybe if he could outlast the verbal haranguing, outlast the confusion over Simon's motivation, outlast the killing. Maybe he would end up with his own land. His own village. His own subjects.

The entire retreat to Carcassonne, through Lastours, where Simon did order it burned, Lassac, Conques sur-Orbiel, and Meynière, Simon remained silent, stewing. The outrage against his own continued through the first few villages, but then turned solely against Peter Roger. Simon vowed revenge for this embarrassment. "A revenge never to be forgotten." What that meant, Johan could not imagine. But winter approached. What would they be capable of doing between now and when crusaders returned in the spring? Simply hole up in Carcassonne?

The countryside was oddly vacant. Every village they approached was devoid of peasants. Houses boarded. Enclosures pulled shut—but as they discovered, rarely barred. The people had already heard word of Simon's deeds, and Johan sensed fear and loathing.

As the army crested the rise north of the Aude crossing, Johan saw Carcassonne in the distance, rising like a crown with its conical spires scattered along its perimeter. Another vacant city—at least mostly empty of merchants, peasants, and workers. It slowly refilled, for some did return to their home seeking refuge. They had to first swear allegiance to Simon and the Church. The cathedral functioned fully, for all of the priests returned to their station. Mass was conducted daily, and Simon made attendance mandatory for all who served him.

The air had cooled slightly as the army descended toward a shallow river. Simon was in front, flanked on his right and behind by Lorens. Then Ponç and Godebert. Then Johan. The hills rolled like green surf, scattered with scrub trees. Summer gave way to fall. The crispness of the air lifted Johan's spirits, and he drifted momentarily to Ginestas, remembering the clean mornings as he rose to tend to chores. He inhaled as though he was sampling the air. His distaste for working on the farm was less pronounced now, and he felt a pang of remorse as he thought of his parents, how they must have reacted upon hearing about Eudes. Even if they did not hold Johan responsible, he still had no desire to return. Opportunity held out despite the incongruence he saw in Simon's rule. He wondered what value his life now offered. He made no wares, he did not farm, and he had no pigs to sell or anything really to show for the efforts of his labor. Only death, frustration, and plotting. Was the value of a soldier greater than a farmer? Surely it was. He was a crusader! Fighting for God.

It sounded like a bird diving at lightning speed, and it startled Johan out of his reverie. A flash of an object traveling at great speed, then a thud. An arrow slammed into the neck of Simon's horse.

Twenty

RAIMON ONLY HAD A SPLIT SECOND in which to react. The horsemen were heading directly for him. He quickly glanced behind him at the hidden Cathars, and Guilelma. They were sufficiently concealed, but easily found if sought. At least they were not wearing their black robes. But if discovered, how could he explain why they hid? Suddenly jumping up, Raimon pulled Gilles with him and stepped in front of the tree.

Maybe they had not seen the full group. Maybe the two, a monk and a novice, could talk their way past any issues and keep the Cathars secret. Still a way off, the beats of the hooves thumped, and the reverberation went into Raimon's chest. His heart matched the horses' pace.

"What are we...?" Gilles questioned.

"Shhhh. Just stand with me."

The charging mounts were half way to Raimon. Pounding with intent. Motion to Raimon's left caught his attention as a horse and rider suddenly dashed out from the trees in a frantic gallop and sprinted up the riverbank. He only had a brief glimpse, but Raimon saw a young man, possibly tall, with gaunt cheeks. He wore peasant attire, coif, tunic and hose, not military. A bow was strapped across his back at an angle. Vivid eyes. Anger. Feet flailing at the horse's side.

Two of the pursuing steeds flashed by Raimon close enough that grass and dirt kicked up by agitated hooves hit his legs. But the third rider, in the back, heaved on the reins, pulling up in a cloud of dust, and in one smooth motion dismounted and crashed his feet to the ground right in front of Raimon and Gilles, pulling his sword. It was the man called Johan, Simon's man.

"You!"

Raimon swallowed. He was sure anyone watching him would see confusion and guilt all over his face. But guilt of what? He subconsciously reached out to touch Gilles, as though to prevent him from stepping forward or saying anything.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" Johan eyed Raimon suspiciously. His eyebrows gnarled over eyes squinted into tiny crescents. He tentatively slid his sword back into its scabbard.

"I... We are..." Raimon had to think fast. "We are returning from an outing to..." From where? Raimon did not know the area. Should he pick one of the towns they were going to visit?

Gilles spoke up. "Ventenac-Cabardès. There was a brother who needed our help. They wish to develop a monastery similar to ours at Prouille."

"Yes," Raimon added. That was fast, Gilles. How had he known?

"Returning?"

"Yes."

"You know nothing of the arrow?" Menacingly, he inclined his forehead toward Raimon and Gilles.

"Arrow? I am not sure of what you speak."

"What about the rider? He came from where you stand. How could you not have seen?" Johan took a step closer.

"I swear to you by the Virgin Mary we are merely passing by. As you came over the crest," Raimon pointed back to the hill, "we saw a horse fall. But we saw nothing else until the rider came from the forest and rode past us. He came out from there." Raimon pointed to his left.

Johan stood eyeing them for several minutes. He pursed his lips. Was he reconstructing the event in his mind to see if Raimon's story corroborated?

Raimon decided to break the silence. "What has happened?"

"You saw, didn't you?"

"We only saw a horse fall. Is the rider safe?"

"The rider is Simon de Montfort. And yes, he is safe. But his horse is dead. Someone has tried to assassinate Simon. And you being here is extremely odd." Johan's eyes narrowed again.

"Kind sir, we are men of peace," said Gilles. "We seek only safe passage back to Prouille."

"You won't make it tonight."

"No. We had planned on staying in Penzens or Villesèquelande."

"And you know nothing of the rider?" Johan would not relinquish his lock on Raimon's eyes, regardless of who was talking.

"Nothing." This Raimon could say with confidence.

The other two riders rounded the river bend and trotted back up to Johan. They led a third horse, but it was empty.

"We caught the mount. But the assassin escaped."

The other spoke. "He must have jumped off at some point and now hides. There would be no way to find him unless we set out the entire army."

Raimon cringed inside. If they did that, they would find Guilelma.

"Let us report back to Simon," said Johan. "Maybe something on the horse can tell us about its rider."

"What of these?" asked the soldier on the left.

"Passersby. A monk and a novice from Prouille."

"What did you see?" The soldier peered at Raimon.

"Only the lead horse fall, and then a horse dashing by before you arrived."

"Humph," retorted the soldier. "Simon will want to talk to them." Raimon flinched. A few seconds of tension followed.

"Yes, he will," Johan responded. "Although, I can vouch for who they are." He eyed Raimon and then Gilles. "Follow us." Then he turned and remounted his horse, gently poking its sides for a slow walk.

Raimon glanced at Gilles and shrugged. They had no choice. Since Johan had not seen the others, Raimon and Gilles would bring no attention to them. But what if they were unable to return? Guilelma would guide the group on her own. Raimon winced. Would he ever see her again?

Raimon and Gilles trudged up the hill behind the three soldiers and the horse in tow. Raimon fought the urge to turn and look for Guilelma, to give her a sign, an indication it would be all right. But he knew he could not.

Ahead, the closer they came, mounted soldiers congregated up and over the hill. Above the shifting horses and the padding of the hooves in front of him, Raimon heard a single voice, ranting.

Simon de Montfort. Hands gesticulated and pointed at the collapsed horse. An arrow stuck out from its neck. Simon berated every citizen of the County of Toulouse and the parents and grandparents from whom they sprung.

"And where the hell is he?" Simon spat out at the arriving band. He shoved his fists to his hips.

"Sire," Johan said. "We lost him around the bend, and he was able to dismount and hide. We followed the horse until it was too late to realize where he had gone."

"Idiots! There are two hundred of you, and you can't catch one? I am surrounded by idiots! Who the hell are these two?" Simon peered, red eyed, at Raimon and Gilles. "I know you."

Raimon had a sinking feeling.

"Sire, these men are of Prouille. They were returning from..." Johan looked at Raimon.

Raimon tensed. He could not remember the town's name.

"Ventenac-Cabardès," interjected Gilles. "We left there today and were on our way back to Prouille when..."

"Rubbish," Simon said. "Put these men in chains with the other prisoners."

"But sire, they are innocent. They were rounding the forest as we chased the rider. They were not connected."

Why was this Johan supporting them?

"I care not." Then looking at his dead horse, Simon said, "Give me your horse. Have my things removed from this one and returned to Carcassonne..." Then looking back at Johan and squinting his eyes, "On foot."

"Yes, sire." Johan dismounted and handed the reins to Simon.

What? What was going on? Put in chains? Raimon's thoughts spun through an image of being dragged to Carcassonne's dungeon. "But sire. We were merely..."

"Silence!" Simon barked. With Johan providing a foothold, Simon leapt on to the horse.

"Sire," Johan spoke softly. "These men may have seen the rider. I wish to question them. Truly, they were disconnected with what has happened. But they might have some information of value. They are men of God..."

Simon eyed Raimon. Then he said reluctantly, "Very well, then. But this is on your head." Simon kicked at the horse's side and urged it forward. He raised a hand. "On!"

Raimon and Gilles were forced to step up with Johan to the dead horse as soldiers walked their horses past them, parting like a river around a stone. Horses plodded past for quite some time. What had the army done? Did they take Cabaret?

Toward the end of the parade, men on foot stomped by. They were in chains. Prisoners? Soldiers from Cabaret? Or from the villages Simon destroyed en route? They looked beaten. Eyes cast to the ground, shoulders slumped, stumbling. Then Raimon felt a tug at his tunic.

"Raimon," whispered Gilles. Raimon looked to where Gilles had his attention focused. On the prisoners to the right. "It's Esteve!"

"Esteve?"

"Yes. The soldier from Carcassonne."

Raimon squinted. He did not immediately recognize the man.

Gilles pointed to his face and mouthed the words, my nose.

Raimon watched the figure traipse by, the shackles on Esteve's wrists connected to a chain that led up and attached to a collar about the prisoner in front of him. The tugging of moving bodies made some heads jerk back, then in reaction, the one in front would lean forward, pulling at the arms of the prisoner behind. Esteve looked at Gilles, and Raimon saw a glimmer of recognition. His lips parted, but no words came out. Then he looked back at the ground.

When the last of the army had passed, Johan said, "Help me with the caparison and saddle. We'll have to shift this horse to get these things off. Then we talk."

Several times while helping Johan move the dead weight of the horse to urge out Simon's cloth caparison which covered the horse with his coat of arms, Raimon glanced back down the hill to the forest. Surely Guilelma and the others had moved on by now. By the time they finished here, and depending on what Johan wanted with him, it would be difficult to find Guilelma only to part ways at the next village. But if only he could see her again...

"Now," Johan said as he piled up a large mound of items needing lugged back to Carcassonne. He collapsed next to the pile and sat with legs crossed, arms to the side. "Sit. Let's talk."

Raimon and Gilles sat on the turned-up ground, bumpy from hoof marks. The sun set, softening the sky with amber and pink. Flies buzzed about steaming masses of fresh horse manure, and the moist, earthy smell made Raimon feel as though he sat in the midst of a farm.

"Tell me what you saw."

"We saw very little," Raimon said. "As we were emerging from the trees, the rider dashed by us. It was difficult to see much of him. Young, I think. About your age. He was not wearing a tunic of any soldier, more like a peasant."

"They hate him, you know." Johan's comment came as a surprise.

"The soldiers?" replied Raimon.

"No. The people. The villagers. There was no support. Not in Bram. We burned half the village. In Lastours, they all fled to the castles but left hidden traps in the village. We lost five horses in the pits they dug. So we burned the village."

Raimon did not know how to respond. Was Johan expressing frustration with his master? Or was he trying to get Raimon to commit to something considered treason?

"We lost the battle at Cabaret," Johan said.

Interesting. That would explain Simon's disposition. Raimon still did not want to add to Johan's monologue; he remained silent.

"So, now, we reconvene in Carcassonne to devise a plan for all of the villages in the area. Simon will not let up. He will see the Cathars destroyed. He's promised a fiefdom to any leader who helps him subdue the land." Johan eyed Raimon. Then Gilles.

Then again, he asked Raimon, "What do you think?"

Baiting? The look in his eyes. The control in his face, as though trying to put energy into appearing truthful, without underlying deception. The rest of his body was rigid, leaning forward slightly as if to feign camaraderie. Pursed lips.

"It is not for me to judge," responded Raimon.

Johan leaned back, his eyes still boring into Raimon's. "You do not like Simon. I can see it in your eyes. As with the bishop."

"What is it you wish? Have we given you enough information about the rider that we may go on our way?"

Johan sighed. "You have given me little. I only hope Simon moves on to other things and does not dwell on this assassination attempt. But we will have to be more careful from now on." Johan looked up. "And it is getting dark. I suppose I could make it to Carcassonne tonight. If I had help." He eyed the pile behind him and then looked back at Raimon and Gilles.

Gilles was going to return to Carcassonne after their planned stop. But would he wish to join Johan?

Before Raimon could speak, Gilles said, "We must be on our way too... If we are to make Villesequèlande." He quickly glanced at Raimon and then back to Johan.

Johan grunted as he stood. Then, leaning over the pile, lifted the saddle to his shoulders and stuffed the remaining items under his arm. It was quite a load. It would be difficult for him to walk the five or six miles to Carcassonne tonight.

"Maybe we shall meet again," said Johan. His eyes seemed to portray genuineness. What was he after? At Prouille, he fished for information. Raimon knew he was aware of Guilelma's presence and likely suspected Prouille anyway. But he had not mentioned anything. Why? This incident would not help, and Raimon feared he would see Johan again. But when? And under what circumstances?

"Al rebèire," Johan said.

Before he recognized Johan spoke Occitan, Raimon said, "Bona nuèch."

Johan smiled, then took off down toward the river crossing.

When Johan was out of hearing, Gilles spoke. "What shall we do Brother Raimon? Shall we go look for the others?"

"I fear we cannot. Johan may see us move in that direction. Besides, they should have left by now, and are not far from their destination tonight. We were to part anyway." Raimon's stomach was empty, but not from lack of food. He would never see Guilelma again. He looked in the direction of where they had been hiding in the forest. There was no movement or any indication of the Cathars.

Raimon sighed. "You had wished to return to Father Mattieu. What will you do now?"

"I will join you at Prouille. Maybe I'll return in a few days, but now would not be a good time to be in Carcassonne. You saw Simon."

"True."

"Besides," Gilles said as he looked up at Raimon. "I am starting to feel my place is more at Prouille than at Carcassonne."

"Really? Why?"

"I don't know. It does not feel right to return to Simon's lair." Gilles smirked. "Shall we go?"

Raimon nodded. They set off southwest. Maybe they would stop at a village tonight. Maybe they would sleep under the stars. The evening air was pleasantly cool, and if it were not for the circumstances, Raimon thought his spirits could be lifted by a peaceful night in the countryside. But his insides were in turmoil.

They walked in silence for some time. Moving under the horizon, the sun cast a deep pink silhouette on the trees in the distance. The way became more difficult as Raimon could not see the undulations on the ground, and he stumbled several times. Finally, they decided to stop for the night and sleep near the bank of the Fresquel south of Penzens.

"Raimon?" Gilles asked. The two of them lay on their backs staring at the emerging stars.

"Yes?"

"I must confess evil thoughts about Simon de Montfort."

"Evil thoughts?"

"He's crazy, Raimon. I don't trust him. He says he is Catholic and his mission is to cleanse the blasphemy, but I only see evil from him."

"What he is doing is evil, Gilles."

"But I had the thought... The thought if he were to die, many lives may be saved." He turned to Raimon, although the encroaching darkness made it difficult for Raimon to see Gilles' features other than a glint in his eyes. "Would it be as evil to wish him dead? To save the lives of many?"

Raimon inhaled and breathed a sigh through pursed lips, whistling. "It is not our place to judge the death of another. We know killing is a sin. Maybe it is God's Will, and we are being tested."

"But Raimon. You said God did not will for evil. You said God only works for the good."

"True. Maybe it is the evil within Simon. The choices he makes. His desire for power."

"And should we not seek to eliminate evil?"

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot help but think," Gilles said as he returned his gaze at the stars, "the good of saving lives would outweigh the evil of eliminating Simon. One life in exchange for many."

"You sound like Caiaphas talking about our Lord Jesus."

"What?"

"It was Caiaphas the high priest who said it is better one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed." Raimon detected Gilles' silhouette as he bowed his head. "Gilles," Raimon said, "I realize what Simon does is evil. But is it not as evil to do the same to him?"

"Then how can he be stopped?"

"I don't know." It was a difficult question. Simon was supported by the Church. The Church was supposed to be the voice of compassion and love in the world. Maybe Gilles was right. Maybe with Simon out of the way, there could be peace. Or maybe another would simply take his place.

"Forgive me, Brother Raimon, but I cannot stop thinking about Simon. I know he will bring nothing but death and destruction. I cannot stop thinking about killing him."
Twenty-One

"HOC EST CORPUS MEUM, HIC ES SANGUINIS MEUS."

Father Mattieu turned to the congregants and announced, "We lift our hearts to God." Simon was first to rise.

Johan followed Simon toward the altar, along with Ponç and Godebert. Lorens had left in the late Fall to return to Count Thibaud de Champagne. Then, the other leaders rose to queue for the distribution of the elements. It was a common occurrence, and one that had played out countless times through the winter since most, if not all, of Simon's army stayed in Carcassonne. Forays out to villages were foolish given the treacherous weather, and that Simon's forces were greatly reduced from the summer, since the crusaders' terms ended and they returned north. Had the summer been worth it? They had lost much ground since the onset of winter. Those villages subdued had been retaken by Peter Roger, or by other Cathar-sympathetic lords holed up in impenetrable fortresses in the Montagne Noir. Even as close as Bram, a few hours away.

Johan had seen the effect it had taken on Simon de Montfort. Bitter. Vengeful. Raging fits, where he took his anger out on those who surrounded him. Johan rarely knew where he stood with the leader. One moment, Simon spoke of Johan as though he would bequeath a region to him, for Johan to act as lord over village and surrounding territory. The next, he called Johan an idiot, and sent him to the dungeons for guard duty, the most depressing and oppressive place found in Carcassonne.

But daily, here in the cathedral, Simon was calm and reflective. He listened with interest to Father Mattieu as the service moved through the Penitential rite, the Kyrie, Gloria, the Liturgy of the Word and the Eucharist. It was as though the dismissal signified an incongruent gong. Father Mattieu's words, "Go in peace and serve the Lord," fell on deaf ears, for even as Simon left Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire, he plotted the pogrom he planned to regain his territory.

Once mass was over, they left the cathedral as a group. They were met on the steps by a messenger. The soldier looked travel worn, undoubtedly having just arrived. He shivered.

"Sire, we have word from Saissac."

"Good God, what now!" Simon's words cut through a quiet and peaceful morning in Carcassonne. The flow of exiting worshipers halted, and soldiers bunched up behind them. Johan froze. Saissac was the town north of Bram. Johan had been the one in charge late last fall when they stormed the small stone fortification in only two days. He had left Etienne and a contingent force to manage the village. All they were to do was to chronicle the citizens into lists of Catholic and Cathar. Simon had not decided what to do with the Cathars.

"Peter Roger has retaken it and has slaughtered our men. They..."

The man was unable to finish his announcement. Simon released a bellow, slammed his fist into the messenger's left shoulder as he stormed past, releasing a string of statements about Peter Roger's family, their connection to the devil, and what Peter Roger could do to himself should it be physically possible. Johan, Godebert and Ponç struggled to keep pace with Simon as he fumed, stomping over cold cobblestone to the palace.

Damn. Johan had hoped Saissac would become his own fiefdom someday, as Simon had promised. Now, all Johan wanted to do was to gather soldiers and raid, despite the weather or the lack of preparation or any strategy Simon might have. He sensed some of Simon's rage. Peter Roger was like a persistent tide to a child building castles of sand on the beach. Just when completing the structure, the wave would surge and wipe away effort and hope, and it seemed futile to rebuild only to have a successive wave repeat the destruction. Who was he, small lord of Cabaret, with the leftover soldiers from Carcassonne, to pose such a threat to the great Simon de Montfort?

Johan stepped up his pace to come parallel with Simon.

"Sire, let me return to Saissac and reclaim it."

Simon stopped. He glared at Johan.

"You stupid fool! Get out of my sight." Then he stormed off leaving Johan dumbfounded and disillusioned, standing with his mouth agape while Simon's entourage filed past.

Godebert turned and shrugged, holding his hands out to his sides, before he fell in tow behind Simon's wake.

Johan's cheeks flushed. What an idiot. What an incredible fool he was! He suddenly had a dozen simultaneous conversations in his mind. He stuttered through imagined explanations as he apologetically addressed Simon. But courageous soldiers were not to apologize. To hell with it all! Johan turned and sulked back to the cathedral, or at least in that direction, for he did not know where to go or what to do. He knew he needed to release his anger. He knew he would have to swallow his pride and return to Simon. These fits fluctuated daily, sometimes hourly. He should have known better than to have addressed Simon in the midst of such a mood. Godebert knew it too. Damnation.

Johan stopped and inhaled deeply. Grinding his teeth, he exhaled a long sigh and prepared to return to the palace. Calm. He must be calm. To run out now would not bode well and he would be throwing away any future opportunity. He was about to turn around when he saw the boy, or young man, the one with the flattened nose.

"You!" Johan called out.

The novice looked startled. Then trying to act like it was not he who was called, he returned to the long line of priests and novices following Father Mattieu around to the south of the cathedral.

"I know you. Come here."

Stepping out of the line, the novice slowly approached Johan.

"Yes? How may I be of service?"

"You were the one with Brother Raimundus, no?"

"What do you mean?"

"Yes, you were with Brother Raimundus. The assassination attempt. You were on your way back to Prouille."

"Oh, yes."

This one was not much younger than Johan. Yet he seemed younger. Maybe it was his role as novice, or his meek posture made Johan feel superior.

"What are you doing here?" asked Johan.

"I live here. This is where I serve, with Father Mattieu."

"What were you doing with the monk?"

"We are often asked to assist our brothers in Christ."

"Hmmm," Johan muttered as he tried to recall that day. "What was it you were doing? Why did we find you by the river?"

The novice was taken aback by the question. He was thinking. Interesting he could not answer immediately. What did that imply?

"We were returning from...ah...Ventenac-Cabardès."

Good memory. Something was not right. The novice was hiding something.

"What is your name?"

"Gilles." The boy swallowed.

"Do you help Brother Raimundus often?"

"Uh, no. That was the only time. Occasionally, the monks of Prouille come to Carcassonne."

"You work together. Collaborate."

"I am not sure what you mean." Gilles furrowed his brows.

There was something going on at Prouille. More than hiding the Cathars that one time. Was it worth pursuing? Would he find himself in a similar position as his last visit? Was Guilelma still there?

"I have been thinking of a visit to Prouille. Should I go there?"

The boy pursed his lips. What was he thinking, coming up with a story?

"Sir, you may do as you wish."

"Indeed. Will you be returning to Prouille any time soon?"

"I have no plans."

Johan paused a moment. He sucked at his teeth as he eyed the novice.

"Tell me. What do you think of Simon?"

"Of our lord, Simon de Montfort?"

"Yes."

"He attends mass regularly. A good Catholic."

Was there something behind those eyes? They squinted slightly as he spoke. Odd, but despite their relative positions, Johan somehow felt akin to this novice. There had to be something underlying this façade. It was too odd a coincidence to have run into the novice and Raimundus that day. And Raimundus harbored something against the bishop and likely Simon. What was it? And why Guilelma? What did she have to do with them? Johan knew he had to find out. Despite the anger and embarrassment, he knew he still had feelings for her. But how to find out? And what would he do with the information? After dealing with Simon's rages, Johan lost all confidence for predicting Simon's behavior given any news. Even if it were to uncover some dastardly plot...whatever that would be.

"I should visit Brother Raimundus. What do you think?"

Johan noted Gilles inhaled sharply. There was definitely something going on. "You are free to do as you wish, sir. I am sure Brother Raimundus would value your presence."

Smooth. This one thinks quickly.

"Good day to you," Johan said. He smirked, then turned and headed for the palace.

Stepping into the room, Johan joined Godebert and Ponç as they stood before Simon's table. Simon looked up and nodded. No malice. Just as if greeting Johan on a new morning.

"The bishop has promised an influx of troops come spring. We will mobilize and retake Cabaret from Peter Roger. This time, we will have an advantage."

Tentatively, Ponç spoke. He must also be weary of Simon's outbursts. "Sire, even with more troops, it will be difficult to siege Cabaret, given the terrain. Do you suggest trebuchets?"

Simon returned a patronizing smirk. Oddly, it reminded Johan of the bishop's crooked smile. "I have something else in mind. We will visit our friends at Bram. They were the first to thwart my authority. They will provide the impetus to Peter Roger."

"How so, my lord?" Ponç asked.

"You shall see. Then we retake Saissac. It will force Peter Roger's troops to retreat to Cabaret, where we can quell his influence once and for all."

"Excellent. This will be a great victory for you."

Ponç was seeking favor. Johan had the urge to copy and flatter Simon. To what end? One moment, Johan was engaged in the noble venture to cleanse the land of heretic influence. The next, he had a strange nagging that something was not right. The opportunity was there. Maybe holding out, weathering Simon's storms, would lead to something great. This opportunity was already far greater than what his life would have been. Henri probably lived that reality right now. Holed up in a sod cottage seeking what warmth was possible from a peat fireplace. Johan lived in a palace.

There was emptiness too. Johan did miss his parents. He missed camaraderie. A soldier's life could be lonely. And after seeing Guilelma last fall, after the shock of seeing her and thinking of the pain and embarrassment, he still had a gnawing vacuum, a yearning that could not be sated. No matter how many of the town's whores he visited. It was all a jumbled mess. One moment, the peace of mass and the call of the divine. The next bloody conflict, courage and strategy. Then emptiness and loneliness.

Two days later, Johan found himself in the dungeon again. He had been late attending Simon as he prepared for mass.

Twenty-Two

"TO THIS POINT, AT LEAST HE HAS confined himself to typical skirmishes of a new warlord."

Anseau spoke clearly and alertly from a stool next to Raimon's cot. The roles had switched in the last few months. Last fall, it was Raimon who tended, and now Anseau had recovered, it was Raimon's turn to be in need. Although his need for mending was not physical.

"Meaning?" Raimon said.

"Meaning this all started with a massacre. Thousands murdered. And then afterwards, they let the entire population of Carcassonne go, and Simon has had occasional forays out into his new territory attempting to turn those who had been loyal to Trencavel."

Raimon rolled on to his back. Lethargic. There was little to get him going each day. Ever since leaving Guilelma, there was a constant pit in his stomach, lack of energy, little desire for food. Anseau and Angelesa had both commented on his loss of weight. Anseau came to him daily, to talk, and to encourage him to join in the hours recently reinstituted at the monastery.

Today, Anseau brought up wounds Raimon thought had slowly healed. Why? To get him interested? To irritate him into action? It was not like the Anseau of old. That Anseau probably would have let Raimon be, to recover on his own time, too afraid to engage. This Anseau talked, and despite the annoyance of the moment, Raimon appreciated Anseau's friendship and his desire to help Raimon recover.

Recover from what? Lovesickness? This was absurd. He had never felt this way about anyone before. Today he did feel better, but the conversation left him wondering if Guilelma even made it to Minerve. What was she doing now?

"And as you think of it, Simon has not placed much focus on the Cathars except for his and the bishop's short inquiry here."

"Are you suggesting," Raimon grunted as he rose to sitting position, "he will be satisfied with controlling his domain?"

"I don't know what I'm suggesting. Maybe hope. Hope the crusade is over."

"I doubt it," Raimon said.

"Why?"

"Because I have little faith in Simon, or in Almaric, or even the Pope for that matter."

"Well, we have not seen fleeing Cathars. When you left with the group last fall, it sounded as though we would see many perfects through here, despite the winter. I had worried about Prouille becoming too obvious."

"Although you must admit Brother Domingo's reaction was not wholly expected." Raimon rose and nodded toward the door. It was light outside, warm. The birds chirped in a chorus to welcome Raimon as he emerged from his cell, midmorning.

Anseau said, "I assume you believed I thought he would react otherwise. Brother Domingo did not surprise me by agreeing to some level of assistance. In principle, he still wants dialog with the Cathars in hopes of pulling them back to the right path. He has understanding. He has compassion. But I sense something in him changing. Each visit to Rome, he comes back less and less tolerant."

"I suppose it doesn't matter now that he is off, again. He is off to visit the Bishop of Osma?"

"Yes." Anseau paused at the door. "Raimon, how do you feel today?"

He asked each day. At first it annoyed Raimon. How was he to answer? But with time, he came to understand it was Anseau's way, daily, to bring him out of his depression.

Before Raimon answered, Anseau asked, "Will you join us for Terce?"

"Yes, Brother Anseau." Raimon smiled.

The peace of the day remained intact until later that evening when Gilles appeared at Prouille's gates.

"It is starting again. We received word from Bishop Almaric that Simon had requested a return of the crusade, and troops are on their way south to join him at Carcassonne."

"Have you any word as to what they plan?" It was Anseau.

"No," Gilles answered. "Maybe Bram, again. And I imagine his major focus will be on Cabaret since he lost that battle last year."

Gilles made his way to Prouille at least once a month. Father Mattieu gave him leave, and despite the weather until now, Gilles religiously arrived to spend several days at the monastery. Sometimes he brought news. Sometimes he simply came. Raimon, given the state he had been in all winter, really did not notice much beyond the occasional visits. Now, he looked at Gilles and saw he was no longer a boy. In less than a half year, Gilles had grown five inches, and the boyish cheeks gave way to an angular jaw. His flattened nose gave him a rough, seasoned look.

Raimon, Anseau, Gilles and three itinerate preachers who were in residence sat in the church building. Soft flickering tallow candles cast a halo of orange warmth about the gathered men. Angelesa entered the room carrying mugs of watered ale. She was always thinking of others. As she set the wooden mugs down on a side table, she glanced up, a twinkle in her eye. For a moment, Raimon felt a twinge of embarrassment, for she appeared to be looking at him, affectionately.

But then, no, she was not looking at him. He followed her gaze. It was to Gilles. He had a funny smile. Gilles? Raimon scratched his temple.

A small form toddled into the room behind Angelesa. It was Marti. The boy Anseau saved from Béziers had attached himself to Angelesa. The monks and priests at Prouille had taken it on themselves to tutor Marti in language and stories from the Bible. Angelesa had become his adoptive mother it seemed.

Marti rubbed at his back with both hands as he stared, head cocked to the side, at the gathering of men. Then he tottered towards Raimon. As Raimon thought Marti was about to raise his hands in a desire to be picked up, the boy went straight to Gilles and hugged his knee. Interesting. A lot must have been happening while Raimon was in his melancholy withdrawal.

"I have seen the changing of the guard throughout the villages in the north." One of the preachers, Arnau, spoke. He was much older than Raimon or Anseau, but fit. A grey beard and bald head, Arnau often wore his hood to cover his head. Now, inside in relative warmth, the candle flames reflected off the shiny surface of his forehead.

"I have also," spoke Gautier, a young monk from the Cistercian order as were Raimon and Anseau. Raimon had not had much time to get to know Gautier.

"I am afraid Simon has more in mind than reclaiming the villages he lost during the winter." Anseau glanced at Raimon. "Despite my earlier hope, I fear the winter may only have been a respite."

"That is my fear also," said Gilles. "I know he will start persecuting the Cathars. One of his men... You should know him Brother Raimon, the one called Johan." Raimon's shoulders twitched. Gilles continued. "He saw me at Carcassonne and started questioning me about Prouille. I suspect he thinks we are involved with the Cathars."

"We are involved with the Cathars. We preach to them. We take in their women who wish to return to the Church." It was Gautier.

"No, I think he suspects us to be part of an effort to help them escape from persecution."

"We are," said Raimon.

"I know, but if he suspects it, he can come here and...and maybe persecute us too."

"Your concern is noted," said Anseau. "We will have to be extremely careful. Not that it has been an issue so far, but I imagine if the crusade starts up again soon, we will see things change...dramatically."

Marti crawled up into Gilles' lap, turned and settled himself. He pulled Gilles' arms about him. Raimon looked up at Angelesa and saw her staring at Marti with a silly smile on her face too. When she noticed Raimon was watching, she started, and then she left the room.

"Maybe we should construct something to hide the perfects," said Gilles.

"What do you mean?"

"If we take in boarders, we may need to quickly hide them in the event this Johan comes to spy on us."

"Yes, I see," said Anseau. "Who knows about these things?"

"There are some carpenters in the village that could help," said Arnau. "But whatever we do, it must be good enough to conceal several people."

"We need to think about food, too," said Raimon. As a thought struck him, a glimmer of hope, that maybe one of those fleeing Cathars would be Guilelma.

Twenty-Three

A THOUSAND STRONG, SIMON'S REVITALIZED army completely surrounded Bram's fortified village and church. They bunched around the perimeter like curiosity seekers gawking at a street performer. But Johan did not feel the power of their superior strength. He sensed foreboding; something was not right. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe it was paranoia... But it seemed there were hidden conversations among Simon's leaders, and Johan had been excluded.

Ponç had been unusually aloof. He was rarely cordial to Johan anyway. Not that it mattered.

Lorens was back in the fold after a visit to his lord in Champagne. Now the original three advisors to Simon de Montfort schemed something. But what? Simon continually raged about Peter Roger and wanted to make a clear military statement this year. If Johan were to rely on his gut, something sinister was about to happen.

He tried to shake off the dismal premonition; it was spring after all, and a late May morning sun sprayed earthy yellow across the circular town of Bram. Its stone walls hugged unseen houses. A spire rose from the center, implying concentric rings of buildings about a church and plaza, images still clear in Johan's memory from last fall when they first secured the village. On their third day of siege, foot soldiers assembled in clusters, conveniently out of arrow range. Siege engines were stacked like scrap. Would they even be used? Horses patiently gnawed on grass in corrals near the camp. The skirmish should not take this long for such a small village. Simon had said his ultimate goal was Cabaret—maybe he was being cautious. Cautious? Not Simon. Peter Roger must have left a reasonable contingent at Bram, sufficient to defend. Johan knew a surge would easily overwhelm their defenses. Therefore, something else transpired, and Johan ached to learn what they plotted.

Godebert stepped up from behind. "We shall take Bram today." His voice matter-of-fact.

The two men stood on a short rise in the flat expanse that surrounded Bram and regarded their target. Johan glanced at Godebert, who remained focused on the village.

"At the rate we attack, I would be surprised," said Johan.

"Simon has kept some of the soldiers from Champagne busy."

"Yes?" He knew nothing of this tactic. Simon was consulting his advisors without Johan present. There was a twinge in his stomach, of jealousy, but he tried to suppress it. After all, he was only an attendant trying to work his way into a position of importance. He was not there yet. Besides, why would Simon IV de Montfort need to consult Johan de Ginestas, pig-slopper turned crusader?

"Lorens leads a team that has constructed a battering ram."

That would explain the wait. But why the subterfuge? Why the silence? It grated Johan's nerves. Then, as if summoned, Simon arrived on his horse.

"Godebert. Assemble the troops, but leave a contingent around the village. I do not want any to escape."

"Yes, sire," said Godebert, and he dashed off.

"Johan."

"Sire?"

"Join Godebert on the initial charge."

Johan smiled, then suppressed it. "Yes, sire," he said, trying to lower his voice as much as possible. He took off after Godebert. Running was difficult in the heavy attire he now wore as a crusader for Simon. He checked his sword which hung at his side on a leather belt strapped about a white surcoat, emblazoned with a red shield and double-tailed lion. He adjusted the chain mail about his face. The running caused the links about his elbows to whip onto his chest. Finally, some action.

Foot soldiers congregated to the east of Bram, where a massive wooden gate covered in wrought iron blocked the only entrance into the village. They were still out of arrow range. Johan trotted up to Godebert, who issued orders.

"The first rank after the ram will take shields, for there will be an aerial attack. Once we've breached the gate, the two flanking teams—that's you, Lorens on the right, and you," he turned to Johan, "Johan on the left—you will take out the walls by the gate so no further arrows can be launched." Johan inhaled and puffed his chest slightly. His worries vanished. "The rest will press on into the town. I suspect once we've fully breached the gate, they will surrender. But we will not take chances. Those in the lead, press on to the square while the others fan out as soon as you enter the walls."

Johan eyed the conglomeration of colored tunics, bearing the various coats-of-arms of the lords each represented. Were they all as eager as Johan for combat? Johan grabbed a shield and slipped his left arm through the two loops. He joined Lorens behind those who manned the battering ram, a massive set of hewn logs lashed together. The ram was supported by burly men in peasant's attire. They were not soldiers, more like sappers, but broader and muscular.

On signal, the ram charged, followed by a wake of crusaders hoisting shields aloft and bellowing at the top of their lungs. Johan howled. For a second, a nervous thought poked into his awareness, the memory of his first charge at Castelar. The feeling of an arrow through his thigh. Would this venture end in frustration? He swallowed dryly as an image of Eudes flashed before his eyes, prostrate, arrow sticking out from his back. When would these images ever stop?

On cue, arrows rained from the tops of the fortification. Shafts whistled by, some struck or glanced off shields, some thudded into the ground to Johan's left, some evoked a shriek further behind him. Johan noted those who held the ram were relatively unprotected. Dirty men, donning worn leather vests merged with the color of the ram and looked as though men and wood was one object. Until an arrow struck home.

In front of Johan, an arrow split into the forehead of one of the carriers. Soundlessly, he careened off to the side to be trampled. It happened so fast, Johan could not avoid the body, and he stumbled as his foot hit something soft. He slammed into Lorens, who frowned until he realized what had happened. He nudged Johan with his shoulder to keep Johan upright and continued with the charge. Suddenly rocks pelted them.

Some rocks were small enough to glance off the shields, but others caved into metal and collapsed crusaders. Then unexpectedly, for Johan had not seen how close they were to the gate, the ram slammed into wood, pealing a horrendous crash and splitting screech, like a pig being slaughtered. Johan ran up against the man in front of him, who pushed him backwards as the burly men pulled back the ram for a second charge. Again, a crash, accompanied by orders to pull back and recharge. Each successive heave buckled the gate, reverberating the ground about Johan's feet. It held four, five times. Arrows continued picking off soldiers, now close to the walls their shields only protected their upper bodies, and Bram's defenders aimed at feet and legs. Johan and Lorens and their men huddled tightly, holding their shields to cover as much as possible. Then another pounding slam into the gate, an ear-splitting snap, and the gate parted momentarily. In that moment, Johan peered at men amassed on the inside, pushing and shoving the gate closed again.

Another chant, another heave. The ram pierced the opening and shoved through like a shaft thrust into water. And as if pulled, Johan and the crowd of soldiers, thrust behind the ram and through the arched gateway into a boiling mass of soldiers, into mayhem.

Dropping his shield to his side, Johan pulled his sword. It was just in time as a blade crashed into his shield, sending a tremor up his arm and into his back. It left his arm momentarily numb, but the shock startled him. He instinctively brushed the shield further to his left, parrying his assailant's short sword, exposing a man's body. And in that instant, Johan thrust out his blade, palm upwards. He saw the tip enter below the man's ribcage.

Then as though time suspended, his blade held there as he locked on to the eyes of a husky, black-bearded man. Surprised brown eyes, whites glistening. A wide nose, matted hair, bushy eyebrows. Then slowly, the man stepped backwards, and the sword slipped out, covered in glistening red. He collapsed.

Something slapped Johan on his right shoulder. Before he turned to look, Lorens yelled, "Now! Take your men to the walls!"

Remembering his orders, Johan beckoned the men behind him. Pointing to the left, he bellowed, "To the walls!"

Johan and his men peeled off into awaiting defenders. He parried, he thrust, and he sliced as though cutting a tunnel through dense forest. The mass of crusaders must have been overwhelming, for those defending Bram retreated step by step, flailing swords as though not being able to identify a single target. One slice hit into Johan's right shoulder, a crash as though being hit with a heavy pole. He offered a quick glance, expecting to see gaping wound and red flesh, only to realize the chain mail had done its job. Then a path cleared to steps that ran up the wall on the side of the gate, and Johan charged the stairs.

A line of archers faced outwards along the top of the parapet, still aiming for targets outside Bram's walls. But as Johan thought he could rush to the top unheeded and hack at vulnerable backs, an archer turned and shouted. A short man directly above Johan pulled back sinew, and in that second of realization, that second where he imagined the shaft piercing through his forehead, Johan pulled his left arm up and over his face as though protecting from a blow to the head. The impact made Johan falter on the steps, almost tottering backwards into the men coming up behind him. A shaft and point pierced through his shield and came within an inch of his temple.

The archer tried to reload, but his hands fumbled with the fletching, and he was unable to nock the next arrow. Johan sprinted up the last few steps. He roared as he lifted his sword to strike. But the man, cringing, dropped the arrow and the bow and covered his head with his hands as though it would protect him from a sword strike.

Johan was already in full swing. He pulled back his arm, and the sword's point swept in an arc in front of the man's chest, tearing at the fabric and hit the stone steps. Johan pulled his sword back to en garde and stared at the archer as he slowly removed his hands from his face.

As Johan's men fanned out along the wall's walkway, they met archers who dropped bows and quivers, surrendering with arms held high and pleading eyes.

Bram was taken.

Skipping down the steps two at a time, Johan went to meet Simon's entourage as he came through the gate. The town had been taken in a matter of minutes, and now prisoners were gathered into groups and led down the main thoroughfare toward the center plaza. It was eerily silent but for occasional shouts of orders, shuffling feet and horses hooves. It reminded Johan of the respite following an intense downpour. Simon rode in as the victor, but he did not show any pleasure. He instead scowled, looking forward, unwavering and determined. Johan's feeling of foreboding returned.

Without a word, Johan fell in behind the mounted soldiers and followed Simon to the town center. He glanced to the right and left, remembering the town from his last encounter. The entire village had been fashioned in concentric circles, fanning out like waves from a stone dropped in the center of a pond, and houses packed every space save for narrow alleys. Except many houses had been burned. As he approached the center, the cobblestoned road opened to a large courtyard with a modest church on the southwest side. Crusaders corralled prisoners on the north end of the open space.

Simon dismounted and strutted to the steps of the church, stopped and kneeled. He bowed his head, crossed himself, and rose, turning to face a gathering of crusaders. Johan made his way to the front of the crowd, and noticing Godebert, came up next to him.

Simon scanned the crowd, frowning. He saw Godebert and shouted, "Now we test the loyalty of Bram." Godebert nodded, turned and pushed his way through the crowd toward the prisoners.

What was going on? Clearly, Simon and Godebert, and probably Ponç and Lorens, had plotted something. They probably developed a plan while Johan was stuck in the gloomy confines of the dungeon minding prisoners still alive from their last encounter at Cabaret.

Soon, the crowd parted to reveal Godebert had organized the prisoners into a queue and marched them toward Simon. There must have been several hundred of them walking single file.

Heads down, the prisoners approached Simon. When the first was within twenty feet, Simon bellowed, "Swear allegiance to the Pope, the Church and to God."

The man stood, silent.

Sneering, Simon said, "Place the heretics over there," indicating to his left.

The next approached and intoned in a shaky voice, "I, Punhtis de Bram, swear allegiance to the Pope, to the Church, and to God."

Simon nodded and indicated with his head the man should move to the right.

This process continued one after the other, separating the prisoners like cows and calves, until there were about a hundred in the group who refused to swear allegiance, and probably two to three hundred in the Catholic group. Why would the Cathars stand firm now? They fled from the crusade after Béziers. They hid themselves. They let lords like Peter Roger defend them. But now, when faced with the decision to articulate words, an oath, their courage was so great they would flaunt pragmatism and accept the consequences? What would Johan have done in their situation? Would he have affirmed his belief? Knowing something dastardly was likely to happen to him? Or would he simply say the words and save pride for another day? And of the ones in the other camp, were they truly Catholic, or did they swear allegiance only to save their skins?

Toward the end of the line, Johan noticed a figure, and for a second thought he recognized the man. And then he knew... The man looked like Eudes. Heavy brow, sloping forehead, distant eyes, protruding lip. The man, confused, walked zigzag toward Simon.

Crusaders jeered, "This one's drunk!"

Laughter.

"The village idiot."

Johan tensed at the phrase. He would have killed someone who would have said it to Eudes. A swallow stuck in his throat. How many fights had he started when others treated his brother so? His fists balled up, white-knuckled.

Even Simon joined in the mockery. "Here is a perfect example of our foes. Well? Are you to swear allegiance or not?"

The man stood silent, looking about him, not even at Simon. Johan knew the man did not understand what was happening. He had no idea of the consequences, or probably even why he was there. His large lips tapped together as though mumbling, but no sound came out.

"A Cathar no doubt. A fine representative of the idiots who blaspheme our Lord's name. Move him," he ordered, pointing to the Cathar gathering, and he looked straight at Johan, who stood behind the man.

Johan stepped up behind the man and touched his shoulder. The man flinched and cowered as he turned to look at Johan. The same eyes, the same expression. Would this have been Eudes if he were to have been captured at Castelar?

"Come this way," Johan said.

In a flat, monotone voice, the man replied, "What? Where my brudder?"

Johan's heart sank. He even sounded like Eudes. Softly, Johan took the man by his elbow. "Come, follow me." He walked toward the gathering of Cathars. They were corralled by two levels of crusaders. At the front stood Ponç.

"What have we here?" Ponç taunted. "A dimwitted Cathar? Look at those lips!" He turned to the crusaders next to him as if he needed reinforcement. They, unfortunately, laughed and made sputtering noises, like a horse. The pit in Johan's stomach grew. He grit his teeth.

Ponç grabbed the front of the man's tunic, wagged his head and made faces. Johan predicted the reaction. Eudes had done the same. The man pushed out. His stocky arms hit Ponç full force, dislodging his grip.

A momentary shock on Ponç's face gave way to a scowl.

"You bastard!"

Before anyone could react, before the man or Johan knew what happened, Ponç drew his sword, and at the same time reached out with his left hand, grabbed the man's bulbous lips, and sliced them off, taking the tip of the man's nose.

The bellow sounded as if someone blew a trumpet call from a conch shell. Blood spurted through the man's fingers as both hands went to his face. He staggered, left and right, moaning, gasping, hysterical.

Ponç stepped back, an evil sneer across his face. Johan's body went taut. His hand went to his sword. He wanted to lash out, to kill Ponç, but before he was able to draw his sword fully, the Cathar prisoners surged. Screams, flying fists, a dozen bodies converged towards Ponç, but before they were able to reach him, they were met by constricting lines of crusaders as they drew a circle around the Cathars and tightened it. Johan's attention went back to his sword, and he renewed his grip on the handle and began to slide it out of the scabbard.

The man released a roar as his hands flung wide, sending blood splattering over all who stood nearby, and blinded by fury, he rushed Ponç. Arms like logs beat at Ponç before he was able to raise his sword. Ponç collapsed to the ground. Johan stood, frozen on the spot.

Then five crusaders descended on the crazed man and wrestled him backwards to the ground, pinning him as he thrashed and bled. Ponç slowly stood and stepped up to the man. Ponç drew his sword and raised it.

"Enough!" cried Johan. It startled Ponç. Johan was about to step between Ponç and the prostrate figure when a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to see Simon.

"Yes, this is enough." His eyes bore into Johan. Then he turned to address the crowd.

"I have had enough of the treason of these people against our God." Simon looked around at the surrounding crusaders. "I think we have all had enough of the lies and the blasphemy." Heads nodded in agreement. The prisoners quieted, fearful.

"I think we should send a message to this region we will not stop until we have cleansed the County of Toulouse."

"Yes, sire!" shouted Ponç.

The man on the ground thrashed again, pulling several of the crusaders off balance. He gurgled as he whipped his head back and forth.

"This one will not stop his lunacy! He, like all who follow the ways of the heresy, is truly blind. Let him be blind, so he can become harmless!"

Ponç sneered. He stepped toward the man. Johan cringed, tensed for action but his body could not move. All he could think of was Eudes screaming when his arrow wound was cauterized. And before he knew what had happened, Ponç brushed Johan aside, leaned over the man and gouged out his eyes.

Screams from the prisoners escalated. They pushed and shoved, but the surrounding mass was too great for them. The man on the ground wailed and moaned, rolling left and right until the crusaders released him, and he curled up into a ball, his hands covering his face. Shaking. Crying, but no tears, only blood.

Johan stared in horror. How could Simon condone this? This was not honor. This was not godly. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted to spit. He wanted to spit at Ponç. He wanted to spit at Simon and all the crusaders who supported him. His lungs burned as he withheld all the words, the shouting and screaming pent up inside him, ready to explode.

The crowd's protestations subsided to murmurs as Simon raised his hand and spoke.

"We shall send a message to Peter Roger. A message that his religion has blinded his thought. A message that we will not stop until God has received his due." Simon turned to Ponç. "Blind them all. Do the same as you have done to this man to all of them save one. This one..." He paused as the murmurs grew amongst the prisoners. "This one you shall leave with one eye, and he will lead these sightless creatures to Lastours and Cabaret, and deliver my message."

Johan knew his mouth hung open, agape at what was occurring. Simon spun around and came again to Johan.

"Johan. Tell me, how do you think I feel? How do you think these heretics affect me?" Simon's eyes squinted. Small pupils. Pursed lips.

Johan breathed in short bursts. His heart pounded. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. How was he supposed to answer? This man had just ordered the blinding of over a hundred men. To send a message to Peter Roger. Johan looked down at the man curled up on the ground, and he could only think of Eudes. Clenching his jaw and struggling for control, he wanted to pull his sword and strike Simon. But that would be suicide. He took a deep breath, and then Johan responded as coolly as he could. He knew Simon prodded him for his loyalty. If he were to answer with his true feelings, what would Simon do? Johan had seen his rages, and this was far worse than any Johan had experienced before.

Slowly he articulated, "You feel anger and frustration over those who abuse the Word of God." Had his voice betrayed his inner sarcasm?

Simon smiled. His eyes remained squinted. "And do you share those feelings, Johan?"

Johan swallowed. "Yes...sire."

"Good. Then you will help Ponç set these men on their way."

"Yes, sire." Johan seethed. As Simon locked on to his eyes for a brief moment, as though confirming what he saw inside Johan, Johan looked at the devil himself. Then Simon broke away and walked back to the church. What was Simon going to do, go give thanks to God for this? How could he one moment kneel in supplication during mass and the next brutally blind a hundred men? Johan boiled. His cheeks flushed hot. His eyes burned. Somehow, somewhere, he would get revenge.

Twenty-Four

THE WOODEN MUG CRACKED UP AGAINST the wall, spraying a blood-like stain of wine over whitewashed stonework. A collective hush intensified the ensuing clatter of mug against the floor, and for a brief moment, Raimon cringed in embarrassment. Only for a moment, for his anger was too great.

Prouille had been overwhelmed by pilgrims, although the journey these people took was in flight from the wrath of Simon. Some were injured and sought doctoring, some were surviving Cathars headed for Montsegur, and some were simply the fearful and distraught who escaped to the south and as far away from the crusade as possible. Their stories enraged Raimon. He fumed over the inhumanity of the Church's instrument. When Anseau reached to touch his forearm, undoubtedly to try to calm, Raimon jerked it away and stormed out of the church.

In slow, deliberate steps, Raimon pounded to the enclosure wall. Maybe Gilles had been right. Maybe it was better one should die for the good of the people. Simon deserved death for what he had done at Bram. Gouging out the eyes of a hundred men? As a statement to the lords at Cabaret? What kind of man could do such a thing? Simon was not a man... He was the devil. He did not deserve to live, although despite his fury, Raimon knew deep within himself this logic did not match his theology. But he saw no other way for this to end. One life in exchange for the annihilation of an entire population? If only he had the courage to do it himself. But he knew he did not, and the frustration of impotence, the inability to act, stoked a fire within him that would be difficult to quench.

And now, Prouille was bombarded with people fleeing the havoc. Devastated, forlorn, disillusioned. Many were women and children who had lost husbands and fathers. Most were Cathar or soon to become Cathar, for they saw the Church not as the agency of God's peace but of terror; ironic that the Pope's actions were doing precisely opposite the stated intent. Prouille had become the weighing point for those needing to skirt Carcassonne—the black spot on the map at the foothills of the Pyrenees... How they could accommodate so many? Would Prouille become known to Simon? For if it did, surely he would turn his attention their direction. Damn him! Not only would it be impossible to defend Prouille, it was not their way. And what would Domingo say upon his return? Would he still support their efforts, or would the influence of Rome turn his heart?

The full sun bore down upon Raimon's tonsured head. A slight breeze rustled leaves on the trees, and the buzz from a meandering bee zipped past him. Raimon inhaled. Lavender. It added some balm to his inflated tension. The chatter from birds in a nearby fig tree drew his attention as they suddenly scattered. He turned to the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Anseau.

They stood regarding each other for several moments until Anseau spoke.

"I share your frustration."

Raimon had a flash back to the one moment he had seen Anseau angry, the day at Saint Hilaire when he had excommunicated the monastery and turned his anger toward Raimon. Raimon did not see shaking fists or bulging veins. He saw resignation.

"He has to be stopped," Raimon said.

"Yes, but how and by whom? We have no recourse. The Pope has no ear for our concerns, the bishop supports this madness, and we have yet to fully learn whether our Brother Domingo will go so far as to oppose Rome."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. To be honest, I have no more idea of what to do than you. Although, the best we can do is to minister to those in front of us."

"Them?" Raimon indicated the people in the church who were now slowly filing out and wandering off to various locations in the enclosure.

"Yes. Many are disillusioned or vengeful against the Church, and I wonder if we may do something that could help them distinguish between Simon's actions and the true intent of the faith."

"Anseau, it is contradictory. Are we fools trying to apologize for our institution's conduct?"

Anseau paused a moment to wipe moisture from his brow. "I don't know. But if we do not act or do not speak, Christ's message will be judged by the deeds of a few."

Their discussion was interrupted by the scurrying of feet. One of the sentinels dashed up to them. "Someone arrives from the east."

"From Carcassonne? How many?"

"Only one, on foot."

Raimon and Anseau exchanged glances. "How is he dressed?" Raimon asked the sentinel.

"Civilian, if that's what you mean. Not carrying anything either."

"Do you suppose we take precautions?" Raimon asked Anseau.

Anseau shrugged. "We shall not know until we meet this person. Until then, we should assume the worst. They could come from Carcassonne, from Simon, or they could simply be another traveler fleeing."

Raimon turned to the sentry. "Better to be safe. Let's notify the residents. We should move everyone out the back gate." He knew their newly-constructed hiding place was too small to accommodate this many. "Since there's only one, we may only need a short time until we find out what he wants. You're sure there is no one else?"

"Yes, our scouts say he is alone."

After seeing the last of the visitors out the back, Raimon walked to the gate to see who arrived. When he got there, the sentinel was calling to the traveler.

"Identify yourself."

Raimon could not hear the answer, for the person was on the other side of the thick gate. The sentinel turned to Raimon. "Should I let him in?"

"Who is it?"

"He says he comes from Carcassonne. Johan de Ginestas."

Raimon tensed. What was he doing here? Alone? Coming to spy on Prouille? Coming to gloat? Raimon wanted to run out to Johan and strangle him.

"Is he truly alone?" Raimon called.

"Yes. As far as I can tell."

"Open the gate. But be vigilant."

As the gate swung out, it revealed the young soldier from Simon's army. This man represented the evil Simon was enacting and probably was one of those who led raiding parties. Would he have been involved in the blinding? What could he possibly want with Prouille other than to find just cause for Simon to overtake them? It was a good thing they evacuated Prouille.

Civilian clothing. Course tunic. Leggings and leather boots. He stood quiet. He did not hold his chin high like the last time he was here, he actually looked somewhat meek. What was the purpose of his visit? Another ruse?

"Greetings Brother Raimundus." He seemed defeated.

"Johan," Raimon nodded, his eyes narrowing. He was sure his eyes were red. "What brings you to Prouille?"

"Many things you will probably not believe, until we have had some time to talk."

What did that mean? Nothing but evil came from Carcassonne. Simon had out-stepped his authority. The Church had gone too far. What could this man tell him he could not believe?

"Then I suppose we should talk." The standard greeting was to offer food and drink to a stray traveler. Raimon had no desire to do so for Johan. Why should he not simply state his business?

"Johan, greetings," came a calm voice from behind. Raimon had not noticed Anseau approach.

"Brother..."

"Anseau.

"Brother Anseau, you look well. I see you have recovered significantly since my last visit."

"Come, let us offer you something to drink. Have you supped today?"

Raimon glared at Anseau. How could he be cordial to this thug? Raimon wanted to cut Anseau short, but he knew Anseau was probably right. Why divulge their true feelings? They needed to know why Johan was there.

"No, I have not eaten. And thank you."

Johan walked next to Anseau as they approached the church. Raimon stepped behind. He could not walk next to Johan.

"Brother Raimundus, Brother Anseau. I have come to speak with you in confidence. I ask for your word," Johan said after taking several sips of ale.

"You have my word," Anseau said. Raimon glared, but when Anseau pressed his lips together and tilted his forehead toward Raimon, he knew he had better play along.

"And mine."

"Thank you. It has been a difficult year."

"No doubt. Your lord has been busy," snapped Raimon.

"My lord is about whom I wish to speak."

"Your lord has blinded a hundred men and terrorizes the countryside!" Raimon burst out as he slammed his fist to the table, jogging the mugs and plate of food in front of Johan. Both Anseau and Johan recoiled. He knew this was uncharacteristic of him, but he could take it no longer.

Anseau placed his hand on Raimon's forearm, and Raimon flinched. His instinct was to pull it away, but Anseau grabbed tightly. "Let us hear what Johan has to say," he said calmly.

Raimon bit at his cheek, inhaled and as he sighed, he nodded.

"I came to you," said Johan, "because I knew you did not agree with the direction the Church has taken against the Cathars."

Anseau spoke. "Johan, we are aligned with the Pope." Anseau was right, they had to be careful. Raimon knew Anseau was not lying, simply bandying words. One did not need to agree with everything in order to align with the Pope.

"Yes, I know the Pope has sanctioned Prouille's charter," Johan answered. He must have caught the implication. "But I refer to the way Bishop Almaric and Simon de Montfort enact the crusade against the heretics. I realize it difficult for you to answer, for you do not trust me."

Raimon stood rapidly. He did not realize until he heard it crash that he had sent his stool flying backwards. "It is difficult to trust that we do not know. What is it you wish to say?" He felt like lunging at Johan, and striking Simon's representative and taking out his frustration on him. He never had this much anger before.

Johan slowly stood and held his hands out to his side. "I have to trust you, Brother Raimundus, Brother Anseau. I have to trust you because I have nowhere else to go. Simon has gone too far. He claims to be a devout Catholic, yet he rampages like the devil. I came to you because he blinded a hundred and forty Cathars and made them walk, hand on shoulder from Bram to Cabaret. Simply as a threat to Peter Roger. I came to you because I was there. I saw them gouge out their eyes. I saw the pain. I saw the...the blood." Johan paused. His response looked genuine. Raimon did not see he controlled his emotions. Raimon fixed his eyes on Johan and tried to penetrate the façade. He did not want to believe that Johan was genuine. Johan resumed, "These were innocents, not soldiers. All because they would not swear allegiance to the Pope, the Church and to our God."

Raimon could not respond. He saw sincerity, but Johan could still be baiting them, looking for agreement, to declare allegiance and thus compromise Prouille.

"I was ordered to follow the blind at a distance to ensure they stayed on task. They went all the way to the gates of Cabaret, where Peter Roger saw the mutilation Simon had enacted. He pleaded with Simon never to repeat, and surrendered his castle."

"And what has been Simon's response?" asked Anseau.

"He has placed Peter Roger and his court in the dungeons at Carcassonne, and he does not stop terrorizing the area. We have taken Lassac, Conques sur-Orbiel, Villegly, Bagnoles. He will not stop. Not until all the lords submit. Not until all Cathars are rounded up and dealt with. And each time he becomes more intent on destruction."

"What do you want of us? Why have you come here?" asked Raimon as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the table.

Johan paused, inhaled and exhaled slowly as his eyes flicked from Raimon to Anseau and back. Then he gradually sat back down and rubbed at his eyes. Placing his hands on the tabletop, he said, "I don't know. Maybe I need someone to talk to. Someone I can trust." He gazed at the tabletop.

Raimon shuffled nervously a moment, and then he retrieved the stool and sat back down. He let Johan continue.

"There is no one at Carcassonne I can trust. What Simon is doing is wrong. If I were to speak so, they would surely declare me a heretic and throw me in the dungeon; or worse. I guess I was hoping for some support...from you."

Raimon glanced at Anseau. Their eyes connected for a brief moment, and regardless of Anseau's slight nod, Raimon knew he felt the same. Johan was telling the truth.

It was Anseau who spoke. "It is no surprise to you we do not condone Simon's actions. We are men of peace. We seek dialog, not destruction. What could you hope of us?"

"Have you heard of any rebellion? Are there those who seek to fight against Simon...somehow?"

Raimon's internal warning flared again despite the apparent honesty. This sounded too much like someone who was fishing for information.

"No. We have not." Even if they had, it would still be prudent not to mention.

Johan sighed again. "Something else. I have been thinking of this for some time."

Now what?

"When I was here last year, with the bishop and Simon, I saw someone I recognized from my home town, a girl."

Raimon tensed.

"I did not speak of it at the time. This was a girl to whom I was betrothed at one time, but who had decided to become a Cathar and left the village. I went to Simon to tell him of this, for that was when I knew you were harboring the Cathars who had fled Carcassonne."

Raimon swallowed. He felt guilty for some reason. He could not speak. Guilelma. The pit returned to his stomach.

"But I could not. At the time, I did not know why I kept this from Simon, for I still had anger for what this girl had done to me."

Interesting, making it sound as though Guilelma had done something to Johan.

"But later, as I thought, and as I saw what Simon was doing; it made me realize if she, a Cathar, was not evil, others like her could be as innocent and not deserving of persecution."

Raimon relaxed. The tension left his neck and shoulders, but he still had the emptiness in his stomach with the reminder of Guilelma, and, dare he admit it, jealousy.

Anseau spoke. "God has granted you insight. You are fortunate."

"Fortunate and unfortunate. How can I persist at Simon's side? Everything he does, I cannot condone, but am forced to comply or else I face his wrath. I don't know what to do. If I leave, he will hunt me down. I know it."

"I do not have an answer," said Anseau. "But being Simon's eyes and ears, you are at least in a position to provide information in advance. I swear to you we are not involved in any rebellion, only that we agree to act out of Christian charity to house any who flee the area."

"And if you do find the opportunity to pass on information..." said Johan.

"No guarantees," said Raimon.

They sat in silence for a while. Raimon's anger subsided. Maybe there was some hope; if this man could see the evil Simon wrought, maybe others could too. Would there be a resistance? Surely, those loyal to Trencavel continue to plot against Simon. Would others? Raimon was sure many had nothing but hatred for Simon. Maybe if Johan could send information, they would be able to discover a resistance effort easier than Johan... Should he tell Johan about Gilles?

Before Raimon spoke, Johan broke the silence. "Of the girl and the people she was with, do you know where they went?"

The girl. If only Johan knew of Raimon's feelings for Guilelma. Should he tell Johan? Would it matter?

"When we met the day the assassin shot Simon's horse, we were in fact accompanying the Cathar group on their way to Conques sur-Orbiel."

"I wondered if there was more to the story." Johan smiled. "Did you know of the assassin?"

"No. Truly, our presence there was a coincidence."

"So, this girl is at Conques sur-Orbiel? I did not see her when we took the village."

"No, they only stayed there for the night. They were on their way to Minerve, where they plan to stay."

Johan stared at them intently. "Minerve?" He slammed his fist on the table and rose. "Simon prepares as we speak to siege Minerve!"

Twenty-five

TWO BROAD-SHOULDERED MEN, their disheveled brown leather vests loosely covering threadbare tunics, one with a cloth wrapped around a knotty and balding head to protect it from the late June sun, heaved at opposite ends of a massive crank. Their groans matched the creaking of wooden beams, lashed together to form a massive bow, set atop a frame that looked like a wagon. A spoon fit for a giant protruded from the center and within the bowl at the end of a long shaft, they would place a rock the size of a sheep. A rock that, when hurled, could demolish a house.

Johan eyed the catapult. He had seen them, but not this close, and the technology drew him like a child to honey. The bow set atop three pillars, with angled supports, wrapped with heavy cord. From the two ends, the cord arched to the rear of the cart where it bound neatly about the spoon shaft, below the bowl. The crank which the two men turned, perspiring and grunting, rolled a second cord that drew down the spoon, extending the bowstring and pulling the shaft taut. Restrained energy. Ready to explode in a flash, like a burst of temper.

When the spoon reached horizontal, the men halted, and the latch caught. The mechanism rasped and shuddered. A rock was placed in the spoon.

"Pull!" shouted the foreman.

With the catch released, a sudden flurry of movement, like a slap, whipped the spoon upwards. It whacked against the middle of the bow and released its ammunition. And then silence. The vague whoosh of the rock streamed through the midday air. It turned and rolled, and Johan thought it looked suspended over the deep gorge below with the crisp blue sky above. The cascading rock gently spun through the air, over the river in the gorge, and toward a neatly circumscribed village with a double-walled fortress. Johan winced.

He winced before the boulder met its target. Below, across the ravine, lay the teardrop-shaped village of Minerve. It perched on white, tan and rusty limestone cliffs above a confluence of rivers, whose gouged canyons formed an impenetrable island. Somewhere within those walls was Guilelma. And the projectile hurled straight for her.

Johan winced as the rock arced down toward Minerve's main gate, poised at the end of a long stone bridge. Not only was Guilelma down below—God, he hoped the monk had been wrong, and she was really somewhere else, far away—but he stood, opposite the canyon, hovering over the village like a deity hurling judgment and wrath upon her, as if he were the one, not Simon, who led the siege.

He winced at the thought there was nothing he could do but watch, passive and impotent, and through his inaction it might be he who cast the stone directly at Guilelma. What was he to do? Draw his sword and strike the two men at the catapult? Charge at Simon and challenge him to a duel? Travel to Rome and plead his case to the Pope? Absurd. He was trapped like a wild hog between church and nobility, and he could do nothing but squeal.

And watch the stone cascade toward the village wall.

It continued. It arced further than he would have expected it to, or did it already hit? Did his eyes—fooled by the distance—not see the impact? He saw the rock pelt the cliff face, below the fortification. Then shortly following, an echoing rapport. A miss. Johan exhaled; he had not realized he had been holding his breath.

"Pull the stakes, and move her to the left." The foreman stood by the catapult, eyeing the trajectory and following the imagined arc with his left arm. He repositioned the catapult for the next attempt.

A cart rumbled up to the gathering of workers and on-looking crusaders. More rocks delivered. Simon had organized the crusade into several teams, split into three locations opposite the western entrance to Minerve. Three massive catapults were to pummel the gate and half the city, for—at least this time—he had strategically decided against a direct assault. They would be here for some time. Minerve looked self-sufficient. An attack on foot was impossible, for the entire city was elevated above the canyon floor, and the bridge was the only real access.

The other crusaders constructed camps and shelter from the intense summer sun, for there was little tree cover where most of the action needed to occur. Simon sent Godebert off on some task, unknown to Johan, with a team of woodcutters. They must be constructing more shelters, or perhaps a bélier, a structure like the siege wagon except enclosing a battering ram under an A-frame roof. Or was Johan being kept yet again from some secret, sinister plan? He shuddered at the thought Simon could do worse here than he had done at Bram, and that Guilelma would somehow be enmeshed in his plots.

It took ten men to reposition the catapult. Once the stakes were driven in to secure the wheels, the process repeated, pulling back the spoon, loading the bowl, firing. It took probably a half hour between attempts. The third one struck.

A cheer went up as a boulder crashed into the outer wall. From the distance, Johan only saw a puff of dust cloud, immediately followed by a crack which echoed down the valley. From his perspective, it looked like it had only dented the wall. Yet this crew had been the first of the three to hit home, and they shouted jeers toward the other teams, although Johan doubted their words could be understood at this distance.

Then a thought occurred to Johan. Sabotage. He could not battle Simon or the forces that supported him. But he could frustrate them. Or could he? What could one man do? And if he were caught... unimaginable revenge. Yet...

Johan eyed the catapult again. He observed the leverage afforded by the sets of cord. He watched the entire mechanism leap when fired, stopped only by the stakes. He formulated an idea.

That night, after a full day of watching rocks hurled across the sky, and wincing each time they crashed into Minerve—its walls, the buildings near the gate, seeing a roof collapse, hearing the echoes of screams from across the chasm—Johan crept toward the silhouette of the catapult in the dim light of a quarter moon. Each step brought a tingle of fear which snaked down from his neck to his lower back and poked into the rear of his stomach. What would happen if he got caught? Should he merely feign being out for a night stroll?

It was too quiet. He heard the crunch of pebble beneath his boots. He heard the rushing of the rivers below. He heard murmurs from sentries who casually sauntered along the rim as though this was nothing more than a summer outing. He stepped up to the catapult, crouched and listened. There was nobody nearby...or at least none he could detect. He held his breath and drew a knife.

Cutting the cord would be too obvious. He remembered slicing the rope that held the pigsty gate closed, and that his father easily discovered it was Johan who did it, angry for having been punished for not feeding the pigs that day and instead dashing off with friends to play by the stream. No, it had to be more clandestine, subtle.

Johan took the edge of the knife and rubbed it horizontally against the cord, fraying it in several places, working mostly on the underside. This would at least weaken the cable. Maybe it would snap in the morning, or during the day.

Voices. Johan froze. He looked about in the dimness, but could not see any figures. Where were they? Then he saw two shadows on a rise further down from the catapult. Too far away for them to see Johan, but when the breeze shifted, their voices carried.

Next, he quietly crept to the front of the catapult. The stakes had been driven into the rocky ground with immense mallets. He could not risk discovery by using anything that would create noise. He pushed at the pole. Solid. He pushed again, straining. It shifted slightly. Johan continued until he the stakes loosened...but he could not allow them to free while he was standing there at the mechanism, lest it move down the slope with no way of him stopping it. He had the image of the massive structure rolling into him and carrying him off the cliff.

Maybe that would be enough. Johan quietly padded back to camp. He decided to sit outside for a while, to feign sleeplessness so no one would question his late arrival to the tent. He had a feeling of mild satisfaction, of smugness, despite a gnawing fear he would be discovered.

Johan rose along with the others at the crack of dawn. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, realizing he probably only had a couple hours of sleep, and he stumbled toward a line which formed to get the morning rations. Few talked. Most shuffled up to the table, picked up a wedge of bread and a wooden cup of ale.

Shortly afterwards, the catapult teams moved to their places to begin another day of pelting Minerve. Each strike now wreaked damage on the village, but even Johan felt removed from the reality of what these attacks inflicted.

As he stepped up near the catapult, his eyes went immediately to the cord. Would it be obvious what he had done? And would they see the stakes had been weakened?

Discovering they had used up their ammunition yesterday, the foreman sent a runner to expedite the rock cart. Johan shifted his weight back and forth on his feet. He found he kept looking at the cord, wondering if it would simply snap as they cranked the spoon back into firing position. What would they do if his sabotage actually worked?

The sound of feet scratching up to him from behind caused Johan to flinch and spin around. A cavity formed in his stomach when he saw Simon and Godebert approach.

Did he appear as guilt-ridden as he felt? He stiffened, and then bowed his head. "Sire. Good day to you."

"As well to you, Johan," Simon responded. He and Godebert stepped up to next Johan, not facing him but looking at the mechanism. "How goes it with the catapult?" Simon appeared in a good mood...today.

"Oh, fine."

The three stood watching the commotion of rocks being unloaded from the recently-arrived cart to prepare for the first firing. Again, Johan's eyes locked on the cord. Would it snap? Now? When Simon was standing by, watching? His guts felt like a butter churn. What would Simon do?

"Tell me what you have learned thus far," Simon said, still looking at the catapult or out towards Minerve.

"Sire?"

"The catapult. How does it function?"

Simon quizzing him? Johan felt stupid, for answering Simon would be stating the obvious. Was he in one of his paternalistic moods? Would he bite off Johan's head today?

"The crank revolves the, ah, log, there in the back..."

"Roller," Godebert muttered.

"Hmmm?"

"Roller. The log is called the roller, on the aft crosspiece." He whispered.

"Oh. Yes, the roller pulls down the spoon."

"Arm."

"The arm." Johan rolled his eyes. "...And thus creates the tension on the cord attached to the bow at the front." Johan glanced quickly at Godebert. Had he gotten that part right? "Which, when released, snaps up the...the arm and thus propels the rock."

Simon seemed to be silently chuckling.

"Tell me. If the rock falls short, what must you do?"

Johan thought a moment. He watched as the two men walked toward the crank, and he cringed as they grasped the handles and began twisting the roller.

"You must move it closer." His voice rose at the end as if he answered with a question.

"And if you cannot?"

Johan paused again. His eyes were on the roller. The cord was holding. Or would it suddenly snap?

Then, visualizing the arc of the spoon—arm—Johan imagined how shortening the arc might send off the projectile with a greater angle. Depending on the initial angle, this could cause a rock to go farther. "You could place a block, there at the center of the bow arm," Johan pointed, although he doubted the two could identify specifically what he indicated. "As the arm comes forward, it hits the block sooner, and the rock is released at a steeper angle."

Johan glanced at Simon. He slightly nodded, pursing his lips.

"Excellent."

Johan slowly sighed relief when he was startled by the foreman's yell, "Pull!"

Johan's knees weakened as he saw the catapult arm flash upwards, hit the bow arm and send a rock spiraling toward Minerve. A few seconds later, it hit wall. All turned to observe Simon. When he nodded, they went back to resetting the catapult for another shot. Other than a slight bobble at the end, the stakes did not seem to have been weakened enough. The cord had held.

In a way, Johan was relieved. Although he wanted the catapult to fail, standing next to Simon would have been awkward.

Simon turned to Godebert. "He has an eye for mechanisms. Have him work on the trebuchet."

The trebuchet? Johan knew of the other type of siege engine, capable of flinging much larger boulders, like a giant slingshot. But they had no trebuchet here. What was Simon talking about?

"Yes, sire," Godebert responded. Then Simon walked away, back toward the camp.

"Come with me," Godebert said to Johan.

"But I see no trebuchet."

"You will."

Johan followed Godebert over a small rise and to the southeast along the rim of the canyon. Suddenly, a loud crack split the air, followed by screaming. Both turned and ran back up the slope. Below, the catapult had broken free of the stakes, and men dashed to stop it as it rolled precariously toward the cliff's edge.

Twenty-Six

HER REACTION WAS NOT AS HE HAD HOPED nor expected. The anticipation and longing to see her face, the imaginary first words, the hope of a smile and of twinkling eyes all faded as he faced Guilelma, eyebrows knit together, frowning, a posture that implied anger. Ironically, the question came to him a complete surprise. He had not asked the question of himself. What was he doing here? He had not asked it of Anseau. And Anseau had not pressed the issue any time on the long journey from Prouille to Minerve. Now he faced Guilelma; his insides boiled in confusion, and his gut ached with fear of having done something foolish and somehow alienating her.

"I... We came to warn you."

"To warn me?"

"Yes. Simon and his army are on their way to Minerve. We have spoken with Johan and..."

"Johan? You have spoken with Johan?" Guilelma looked back and forth between Anseau and Raimon. Her hands glued to her hips. He had done it again. Acted without thinking. Stupid! Take a deep breath...

"Guilelma, I am truly sorry. I have spoken too fast. Please let me back up and tell you the story."

"Yes. Please do."

Raimon inhaled slowly and sighed. He was still weary from the long trek, and he and Anseau had not eaten for most of the day. The entire trip was frantic, wishing he had a steed on which to gallop and get to Minerve faster. Each step of the way, he held imaginary conversations with Guilelma, trying to convince her to leave Minerve and return with him to Prouille. And now, when the moment came, he blathered like a drunken fool.

"Johan, the same one you had seen at Prouille, and the one who was present with Simon's army when we got separated, came to us. He told us of the blinding at Bram, and how it had disillusioned him from Simon. He came to us seeking a way to subvert Simon, although we had nothing to offer." Guilelma's face pinched. He knew this was difficult for her to hear, for she probably had hoped never to hear Johan's name again.

"As we were talking, he asked where you had gone, and when we said Minerve..."

"You told him where I went? Raimon, how could you?" Her cheeks flushed. Raimon gulped.

The calming voice of Anseau intervened. "Guilelma. Please trust us. The conversation was very different this time, and the man was not seeking information about you. But in so doing, he told us of Simon's plans. And we have come to warn you and the city of the impending crusade."

"But we all expect the crusade," Guilelma said. "Lord William has secured Minerve with two hundred soldiers."

Raimon stared, not knowing what to say. Had he come all this way to simply state the obvious?

"Of course you know of the crusade. But Simon has amassed an even larger army," replied Anseau.

"We expect it. Everyone expects it. You say Simon is on his way now?"

"Yes," offered Raimon.

"Then we must seek William to tell him." Guilelma paused. Her eyes flicked between them again. "You came all this way to tell me of the crusade?" Her eyes settled on Raimon. They bored into him.

"Um, yes. It was my hope we could get you...and your people out before the army arrived."

"That I doubt," Guilelma replied. "There are over a hundred and fifty of us. Many perfects have arrived from surrounding villages to the safety of Minerve's walls. We are secure here, for it is a defendable city. No one has ever breached it."

"We thought the same of Carcassonne," Raimon said. "If we leave on the morrow, we can get a good number away from here and..."

"No. I can't see it happening. You see, we do not fear death."

Raimon tensed. "I understand. But giving in to Simon will only fortify his crusade."

Guilelma pressed her lips together. For several moments, they stared at each other. Why was she angry? He had come all this way... Then she relaxed, exhaling.

"Raimon...Brother Anseau, thank you for coming to warn me. I do appreciate what you have done. We must go and tell William, but I doubt you will see any who would be interested in leaving. Most view it safer to be here than in the countryside and vulnerable."

Raimon felt like striking himself. How could he be this stupid? He had failed. He was too eager to tell her, too eager to have her immediately agree, too eager to think she would heed his warning. And what had it gained? Now he and Anseau were in a city about to be the target of a massive siege. He was an idiot for exposing his obvious affection for Guilelma. And he had thought—or he had imagined—she would return his affection. She implied it when they talked last. No matter. He did what he thought he must do. Whether she shared his affection, of love, did not change what he felt. Yet her reaction, her seemingly angry response to seeing him, deflated his energy, made him feel like a wilted stem.

William de Minerve was more appreciative of the warning than Guilelma had been. He immediately dispatched troops to protect the city and prepare for defense by gathering more supplies, weapons, food, and ensuring their access to water was secure. Anseau and Raimon had accompanied Guilelma to speak with the leaders of the Cathars. They met in a courtyard between two large buildings which evidently were dormitories, one for the men, and the other for the women. The reaction of the head perfect was as predicted. They would choose to stay.

Feeling somewhat dejected, Raimon joined Anseau at a food stall for dinner. He collapsed on a stool and stared at the grimy wooden tabletop, his eyes following the grains around in circles.

"Brother Raimon, what you have done was right. You could not control their decision, but you needed to come."

Raimon looked at Anseau. What a friend. What a brother to have accompanied him on such an imprudent task. "Did I? Did I really need to come? Or did I come simply as a fool because my heart leads me more than does my head?" Raimon grasped a wooden mug of ale and sipped at it.

"Yes, you needed to come. You needed to come to relinquish the guilt should you have not come."

"What do you mean?"

"If you had not come, you would have wasted away in Prouille worrying."

Raimon lolled his head back and sighed. "You're probably right. But, Brother Anseau, why did you come?"

"One does not need to travel through life alone."

Raimon stared into Anseau's light blue eyes. "Thank you."

After sampling some of the summer pottage, Anseau spoke. "And what shall we do now? Shall we return to Prouille?"

"I don't know. It seems petty to have come all this way only to discharge our warning. Something does not feel right inside me. But I don't know if my hesitation to leave is because there is some reason for me to be here, or if it is still the feelings I have for..." Raimon stopped mid-sentence. Coming their way across the plaza was Guilelma. He wanted to hide.

"Anseau, Raimon, I am sorry to have left you, but I wished to speak with our leader. I'm glad to see you have found food. Forgive me for not offering to feed you."

"We did not expect anything," said Anseau. Raimon remained silent. "Thank you for allowing us to speak to your leadership".

"Raimon, I wonder if I may walk with you. To talk a little."

Raimon's heart skipped a beat. What was she asking? To be with him, alone?

"Yes...of course." He glanced at Anseau, who merely replied with a flat expression but eyebrows slightly raised. Raimon rose.

"No, please, finish eating. I must go take care of a few things, but can return in a short time. Would that be acceptable?"

Raimon agreed. What did she want to talk about? He could only think of negative things. Of her telling him she held no affection for him. That he should forget about her. That he should leave.

The streets of Minerve bustled with the combination of normal daily commotion and the added dashing about of soldiers and workers making preparations for battle. It was far from calm, far from being conducive to a conversation while strolling. The cobble-stoned walkways wound in and out of buildings, mostly houses structured from tan stonework with the ubiquitous black slate roofing. Pigs rummaged through garbage in the street, and scruffy chickens picked and scratched at the leftovers.

Raimon and Guilelma walked in silence for some time. Raimon was not sure how to start a conversation. He was not sure if he wanted to start the conversation... If it would go the way he feared. How would he react? How should he react? He imagined the depression he had over the past months would be intensified. Only this time, there would be little hope.

Guilelma spoke and startled Raimon out of his thoughts. "Raimon?"

"Yes?"

"That was a difficult way to part...like we had to, with Simon's army and the horse chase. I was never really sure what had happened. As you didn't return, I thought you had somehow gotten mixed up in Simon's concerns."

Raimon spoke of the assassination attempt, of how Simon wanted to put them in chains, of their dubious conversation with Johan. "We knew we would be watched, so we, Gilles and I, had to leave directly for Prouille and not come searching for you. I trusted you would find your way...and you did."

"Yes. It was difficult leaving. Everything happened suddenly," Guilelma said. "We waited a while, wondering if you would return, and then made the same assumption. Although, I did worry Simon had taken you with him."

"We were lucky."

"It was difficult for me to leave."

Raimon paused and looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"I..." She sighed. "Raimon, I hope you know I do see how much you care for me. You being here is evidence."

Here it comes. Raimon stared.

"I am confused," she said. "If you were not a...monk, I might understand. But I don't know how to interpret your feelings."

"Guilelma, my feelings come from me, not from me being a monk. I have struggled with it too. We are not to seek relationships. According to Saint Benedict, we are to avoid even speaking to women other than with respect to business."

Guilelma smiled. "You and Brother Anseau must not be typical monks."

"Far from it." Raimon chuckled. He shook his head. This was better. "No, we have become worldly, at least by Cistercian standards."

"I share the same struggle." Guilelma looked deep into his eyes.

He swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"As a perfect, I am to seek only the holy. Anything associated with the physical is evil, as we have seen it occur time and time again. I struggle that I have feelings for you."

Rushing air. A flip of his stomach. The feeling that the weight on his ankles lightened. Raimon smiled.

Guilelma held his stare for a moment, and then she bowed her head slightly and resumed walking. Something else was going on.

"I had said 'another time, another place' once when we talked," she said.

"Yes, I remember."

"Raimon, so much has happened. So much is happening. I do not feel I control my life, but things are in motion, and I do my best to keep pace. I wish for you to be a part of my life, but I do not see how." She stopped again and looked at him. Wrinkled brow. The hint of a tear. "My religion is important to me, and my people are in a time of great stress. I do not see how we can be together. You in Prouille. You a Catholic and a monk. Do you see?"

Raimon rubbed at his brow and pinched the crook of his nose. Sighing, he said, "I know. I don't know what to do. When we parted, I was depressed. I have struggled with this. But if you would allow it, I would stay here, with you in Minerve or wherever you should need to go. I..."

"But how? There is no monastery here," she said.

"I don't know how. But I can figure something out."

"I do not see it."

Raimon could not see it either. He knew the reality of the situation. Both would have to renounce everything they had vowed and believed in. But he still held a faint hope somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness. He did not know how to interpret it. Maybe it was his reluctance to give up.

"Are we trying to solve a problem too complex right now?" posed Raimon.

"Or even unsolvable."

"Would you allow me to stay here in Minerve, to see you through whatever befalls? I cannot leave knowing Simon and his troops will arrive here any day."

"But why? I do not want you to be placed in harm's way."

"Any more than I you."

They stared at each other for several moments. Raimon's heart pounded. He breathed in short bursts. Perspiration trickled down his spine. All noise, all sounds from the surrounding city, were blocked as though everything came to a halt while he and Guilelma peered deep into each other's eyes. If he could hold on to this moment... If he could block out the reality of their situation... If he could touch her.

Finally, when Guilelma spoke, she sounded resolved.

"Stay then. There are people in need. There are prayers needed. And it would do my heart well to see you." She smiled, which melted Raimon's insides. Then she looked concerned. "But when this is over, we will have to make a decision."

Raimon nodded. He heard everything Guilelma said, but he ignored the part about the decision and focused on the part about staying. He inhaled deeply. A smile grew on his lips.

She continued, "But I see no reason why Brother Anseau should put himself in danger by being here."

"I agree..." said Raimon.

He recoiled as three soldiers dashed around the corner and almost barreled into them, and pushing Guilelma to the side, he placed himself between her and the soldiers as they rushed by. The one in the lead shouted.

"To arms! To arms! They're coming! Simon's men are here."

Twenty-Seven

BY THE TIME JOHAN AND GODEBERT REACHED the rise of the hill, a scream echoed from below, then trailed down into the canyon. The catapult lay tilted with the rear wheels at least four feet off the ground, wheels which spun slowly, and figures grappled the wooden behemoth like flies.

Precariously balanced, the catapult creaked like an old boat in rough waters. The front right wheel must have rolled over the cliff's edge, dislodging one of the workers who had been trying to halt its progress. Shouts from all about bellowed orders, conflicting one another: to secure a rope, to jump off and save yourself, to get more on the rear for weight.

Johan shuddered. Was this the result of what he had done? A mixture of smugness and fear tightened his chest. Would they discover the ropes had been weakened? What if the catapult careened over the edge, destroying it? That might have been the best, for then no one could discover anything.

"Good God," bellowed Godebert as he ran past Johan. For a second, Johan hesitated, not knowing if he should follow. Then, realizing if he did not, it might not look well on him.

"Everyone, on to the rear...to balance the weight," Godebert shouted, mostly to the two burly crank-men who stood staring dumbfounded at the ill-fated mechanism.

A vision sparked in Johan, and before he had time to assess it, he shouted, "No! That will only cause it to roll with the weight. First drive stakes and secure the wheels, from the rear."

Godebert hesitated. He appeared as though he tensed and was going to jerk around and chastise Johan for a contrary order. Then he shouted, "Yes, secure the wheels."

Frantically driving stakes into the ground behind the catapult and lashing the rear axle, workers secured the structure. Then the order to counter-weight the rear caused several to clamor up the sides to stand near the left rear wheel. Slowly, it arced downwards, creaking and rasping, until the wheel touched ground. It shifted forward, the weight now altering the dynamics of the catapult, and the structure rolled forward until the ropes snapped taut and held it secure.

Godebert turned to Johan. He nodded a silent acknowledgement, his lips pressed together. Johan shrugged his shoulders. Ironic how in reality he should have let Godebert's order stand; the catapult would have slid off the edge, destroying it. But it would also have taken several of the men with it. At least, if they found foul play, there would be no association with him.

After pulling the catapult back from the edge and double-securing it, the crew prepared for a day of bombardment. It would have been better if the catapult went over the edge, but at least this way, they lost half a day, for whatever that was worth in a siege likely to last for weeks.

"What caused this?" Godebert inquired of the foreman.

A filthy bearded man with pockmarked cheeks curled a lip as he spoke. "Rope snapped." Johan's stomach tightened.

"What do you mean?"

"The rope. The one that secures the arm. It snapped. Made it fire."

"But that shouldn't have done anything. Not any more than when you first fired it."

"True. But the stakes weren't secure, you see."

"Weren't secure?" asked Godebert.

"That's right. When the arm snapped, must 'ave hit loose the stakes. Made 'er roll."

"Well, make damn sure this doesn't happen again."

"Yes, sir."

They did not question the rope. Johan wondered if he might get away with something like this again. To what end, if they were able to continue bombarding the city? For a moment, he remembered the scream and thought of whomever it was, now lying dead at the bottom of the cliff. No one seemed to care.

"Now we can finally be on our way," said Godebert. "Goddam idiots. They should have known better. There were only two stakes securing the front wheels. I should have them flayed for such incompetence." Now he sounded like Simon.

They trekked back up the hill, heading south and east again. After a few moments, Godebert said, "That was a good call, what you said back there. I didn't think you had much experience with catapults."

"I don't. It's just I saw it happening, almost."

"Well, you saved the catapult. Good work."

Good work. Ironic, how in reality he would have preferred watching the massive device careen over the edge and dash to pieces below. Now, the mechanism he saved would continue launching rocks toward Guilelma.

Past the slight rise, the rest of the hike was slightly downhill. On the right, scattered about in clumps like mushrooms in a forest, tents and shelters provided respite for the waiting soldiers. Most would abide their time, trying to avoid the heat, as the machines did their damage and weakened Minerve's resolve. Although, as Johan imagined, three catapults might inflict significant destruction of the main entrance and surrounding buildings, but there was still a precarious bridge to cross, easily defendable even if most of the walls had collapsed. Minerve had a double-walled fortress, and it could take weeks or even months to inflict the kind of damage Simon probably needed. Would Minerve be able to hold out that long? They seemed to be in a better position than Carcassonne, for the natural protection of the surrounding canyons made Simon and his troops appear like a gathering of boys lobbing stones.

Down into a valley, the hard scrapple sprouted taller trees into which the two descended as they headed toward a clearing at the base. Hammers echoed. The regulated beat of an axe chopped at some distant tree. Up ahead, what Johan at first thought was a tall tree, slowly materialized into a massive structure, probably fifty feet high.

"Behold, Malevoisine," said Godebert when they approached the immense triangular construction. 'The bad neighbor.' The trebuchet.

Johan's eyes locked on to poles that extended up at an angle, where at the apex, balanced with a short span on the left and a long arm on the right, a gigantic counterweight hung, poised in expectant energy. Johan had never seen anything this massive. He looked down the beam to its end, where workers fashioned a sling. At the base, two large wheels, looking more like water wheels, flanked the sides. He tried to imagine what the purpose of those wheels was, for they obviously were not to transport the trebuchet.

The closer they came, the more massive the trebuchet looked. To the left, in the direction of where the engine would fling its ammunition, the valley opened and terminated at the lip of another cliff, and across a delta of rivers, stood the southeastern end of Minerve. The structure was not built on a cart like the catapults were. It was secure to the ground. The distance to Minerve was great. Could this mechanism heave a rock that far?

"A beauty, no?" said Godebert as they approached the trebuchet.

"Incredible," responded Johan.

"Simon is brilliant. This bad neighbor will win us the victory."

"How so?"

"Follow the trajectory," Godebert said as he turned and looked out past the cliff to Minerve. "Tell me what you see."

"I see Minerve."

"Look at the base, there." Godebert pointed, although it was difficult for Johan to see what Godebert indicated.

Minerve still looked like secure rocks piled atop a mesa. Below the cobbled tan rock, sheer cliffs had striations of dark across a smooth limestone surface. Then, his eye caught a slight anomaly. A vertical stripe, like a root, which descended from the fortress to the canyon floor and river. It was vague, but he could see sections of similar color to the walls above—sometimes disappearing, and the reappearing again lower—that indicated a manmade structure.

"I see something. It looks like... I'm not sure, but there is a structure going down the cliff face, no?"

"It's their water source."

"Water source?"

"Yes," said Godebert. "A tunnel to Saint Rustique's well. Simon's spies discovered it. You see the brilliance of it? Malevoisine," he turned to regard the trebuchet as though out of respect, "will destroy their access to water. We shall have them."

Johan looked at Malevoisine, then at Minerve. It was brilliant. Depending on how accurate this behemoth was. He could see the beauty of it, despite the ever-present nagging fear whatever he did somehow hurt Guilelma. Should they successfully destroy their access to water, the city may surrender, without significant bloodshed. And maybe Simon will do the same as he did at Carcassonne, empty it. In that case... But, then again, Simon lately had not shown any benevolence toward the villages he attacked. Bram, if anything, exemplified what kind of ruler Simon was. Bloodthirsty. Evil. What if he chose to blind all of the Cathars in Minerve? Johan shivered at the thought. Then his shoulders tensed as he remembered the screams of the man who looked like Eudes as Ponç gouged out his eyes. He had not been able to talk to, less even look at Ponç since. He could only foster images of doing the same to Ponç, watching him writhe on the ground pressing his hands into his own empty sockets. Simon, too, for that matter.

"Are you all right?" Godebert asked, startling Johan.

"Yes...ah, I was wondering about the wheels."

"They are used to lower the beam."

"Oh. I see, for leverage."

"Exactly. Now, our engineer has calculated at this distance, we should be able to easily target the base of the shaft. We can adjust accuracy by changing the sling length."

"What about left to right?"

"We'll have to move her. Not easy, but you only have to shift the rear slightly to make the adjustments. They should be ready for a test fire soon."

As Godebert finished speaking, a large cart rolled up driven by two massive horses. It carried boulders. These were many times larger than the ones used by the catapults. It took ten men to roll one off the cart. This should be an interesting event, to see this engine snap up a massive rock and effortlessly fling it through the air. Johan imagined the beam arcing up and forward, but he had difficulty seeing how it could generate enough force to send such heavy boulders flying. When the time came, he would stand at a distance...just in case.

The bad neighbor earned its name. Godebert had Johan give the order. "Pull!" The counterweight, looking like a gigantic wooden basket full of rocks, dropped straight down. The beam, levered on the top of the triangular structure, flew upwards, pulling a long rope with sling attached. As it reached its apex, the sling continued in its own arc until one of the ropes disengaged and opened the pocket, snapping like a wrist and sending the boulder racing across the sky.

He held his breath as the rock tumbled silently toward Minerve. Across the river. Descending below the cliff—again, it was difficult to gauge when it would hit—lower, then it stopped. A few seconds passed, and then an echoed rapport. A cheer went up. They had struck, right at the base, or slightly above, exactly where the well should be. Johan squinted. It was difficult to see what damage had been done. Then he watched as the crew reloaded the deadly machine for another shot.

Johan could not sleep that night. It was not the change in bedding, moving down lower to where the trebuchet crew slept. It was a persistent nag. Nothing specific. That everything was at odds, and nothing was right. This was supposed to have been the adventure of a lifetime. It was supposed to be freedom, freedom from a life among pigs, an opportunity for greatness. To be a crusader fighting for God. Yet the instrument for God gouged out eyes and pummeled cities, crushing people, for what? Not for cleansing heresy. No, that was merely an excuse. For power. For possession. For arrogance.

War—soldiers dying for causes noble or ignoble—that was expected. But this...this was not right. What would Simon do when Minerve eventually crumbled? Would he be generous, or would he be vengeful? And what part in this would Johan, should Johan, play? Take advantage of the situation for his gain? Maybe become the lord over a village in the County of Toulouse? Ignore his gut; believe the Cathars deserved their punishment? Believe Guilelma deserved persecution?

No. He had to do something. But what?

And what would be for him afterwards? What kind of life lay ahead for a traitor to a viscount? The dungeon? Execution? And if he could escape...return to the farm? Return to the pigsty? Give up the palace, the food, the double mattress, the increasing responsibility in a massive army?

Johan's eyes popped open. Sleep would not come. He slowly rose and sauntered out of the tent. A partial moon on the horizon, below the lip of the hill to the west, cast a vague haze, enough for him to see the outline of landscape and the towering giant Malevoisine leering a menacing watch over the village.

He shuffled toward the structure, stopped, regarded it, and then walked off to the left, into some trees and bushes to relieve himself.

The patter against leaf and ground seemed louder than it should have been. There were other noises, but he could not distinguish them. Turning, he frowned. Light. He saw something indistinct flickering in the distance. Then he heard shuffling sounds.

He stepped back into the open area and squinted. There was something glowing near the base of Malevoisine. He walked closer.

Within twenty yards, the view cleared, for it was no longer a glow, but flickering of flames. Malevoisine was on fire!

Johan stepped forward, confused and not fully alert to the implications. Then, suddenly, a shadow appeared in front of him, blocking the light from the fire. A person. Silent. And as Johan regarded the apparition, he detected the slight glint of something metallic, a flash moving toward him.

Johan's reflex was to turn his body to the side as he detected a thrust.

"Ahhh!" Johan shouted as something pierced his stomach. Searing pain. Scraping agony. In and out in a silent stab, and Johan's hands immediately pressed to his side. He curled and collapsed, and hit the ground with the side of his face.

Twenty-Eight

RAIMON AND ANSEAU QUEUED ALONG WITH other city residents, mostly peasants. They received confused looks and heard hushed gossip. The man organizing the line asked what probably all the others wished to ask.

"Brothers, why are you here?" He looked astonished, even perturbed.

"We come to help."

"I thought the monks and priests were to be in the church, praying."

"We pray with our feet," answered Anseau. "Tell us how we can help."

"Very well, grab a pail. You will be told how far to descend. You will pass empty pails down and water up."

As they continued in line, Raimon broke the silence between him and Anseau. "Brother Anseau, there are times I wish I would listen to you instead of my heart."

Raimon reluctantly handed Anseau a wooden pail with hemp handle. They had come to the backside of the village, near the wall, after hearing orders to organize the city. Simon had arrived and was already bombarding the main entrance.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, if I listened to you, I would realize how foolish I have been, and we would not be here. I would not have dragged you on this long journey, and place you again inside a city about to be attacked."

"Brother Raimon," Anseau answered as he reached out to touch Raimon on the arm. "I am not always right. If you did not follow your heart, I would never have seen the wrong direction I was going, and I would be one of the monks joining Almaric as he struck Béziers. And then I would be on the other side of this canyon standing alongside Simon."

"Yet here we are in Minerve, of all things, because of a woman."

The line shuffled ahead, toward an arched stone opening in a small building at the base of the fortress wall.

Anseau pulled Raimon's arm and made him look directly at Anseau. "Do you love her?"

Raimon sighed. "I know I shouldn't. I know I have made a vow to God for singular obedience, to avoid temptation, to focus on prayer and service..."

"Do you love her?"

Raimon noticed several heads in the line turn his direction. Curious eyes. Smirks.

"Yes."

"Your heart," said Anseau "is not an evil thing. I could talk all day about how your vow defines your being, and how your feelings toward this woman are impetuous, and how it could lead only to pain and conflict. But that would be my head speaking."

Raimon chuckled. Was this Anseau's way of chastising him? "Sometimes using one's head is not a bad thing."

"But your heart is your spirit. Without it, we are nothing. Do you think Almaric has a heart?"

"A stone one," Raimon answered quickly.

"I am inclined to agree. If he were to use his heart, maybe we would not be in this situation."

They came to the arch, entered and began descending steps at a steep angle. The steps led into a dark tunnel, kept lit by tallow candles in crude wall sconces. Occasional pebbles clicked down the stairs, falling without stopping.

The descent continued for some time until it halted at an opening in the ground. Next to the hole, a man stood holding a torch.

"Descend two levels and stagger yourselves on the ladder," he said without looking at them.

Anseau went first, climbing onto a wooden ladder. Raimon followed. It was difficult at first, climbing down a ladder with a monk's robe and holding a pail in one hand. And the decent seemed to last forever. Rung after rung, step after step, until finally they reached a spot where another level appeared. They continued another long distance to the next level where they stopped. The ladder continued down through the hole. A small slit window on the opposite side cast a glow into the chamber.

"Is this where we are to stop?" Raimon asked as he stepped off the ladder and onto the flat space.

"It must be. As they bring up water from below, we probably take it from here up some distance and hand off to another person on the ladder."

Raimon peered through the hole. Below, approximately thirty feet, a person perched on the ladder. Looking up, he saw, about the same distance above him, another person hovering on the ladder, looking down at him.

"Raimon, if you do love her, your heart is not wrong if it tells you to help."

"But what good will it do? I know we have chosen to merely acknowledge our feelings, and to wait on determining what we will do, but I see the future etched on the wall. How is it anything good can come of it?"

"Raimon," Anseau said as he paused momentarily. "If we judged all of our actions before doing them, we would end up doing nothing. I can't say what the future holds. I can't say I agree with what you are doing, but I cannot deny it is your heart compelling you, and I cannot tell you are wrong for following it."

Echoing words from below indicated water was on the rise. Anseau stepped back onto the ladder. "I'll go down some steps, and then pass the water to you up here."

Before his head ducked below the hole, he looked up at Raimon. "We must keep going through doors until the Lord closes them. If the door is open, we go. You will know what to do." Then he ducked his head and continued down the ladder.

Raimon did not deserve to be surrounded by such good people. Anseau, strict in discipline to himself and loving and open to others. He never complained about being dragged across the countryside up to the mountains and this fortress, knowing he could be trapped there as the crusade attacked. Guilelma, strong in conviction, her wish to help others greater than her own desires. Even Gilles with his eagerness to do what is right. His spontaneous urge to help even if it put himself at risk, like when he dashed out to rescue the injured crusader. And even Angelesa. Her quiet care and concern for Marti and for the other monks.

He had placed Anseau in harm's way, all for what? Was it right for him to have followed his heart as Anseau said? Or was it his selfishness that brought him here? Would he have come if it were not for Guilelma? Yet here he was. In a tunnel, somewhere near the cliff, helping retrieve needed water for the city to survive a siege.

Anseau's head poked through the opening.

Grunting, he raised a pail full of water and handed it to Raimon. "Here. I'll go down for the next while you take that one up." Anseau grabbed the empty pail and descended.

Raimon grasped the rope handle. It was heavier than it looked. He carefully mounted the ladder, and step by step, hauled the pail up to awaiting hands. Despite his slowness, water spilled from the bucket and splashed on his head. It was cool and refreshing.

He was climbing back to the platform with an empty pail when the sound of a hundred thunderclaps shook the ground and the ladder, almost causing him to lose his grip and fall off. Rumbling, roaring, screams, a cloud of dust burst up through the hole and engulfed him.

Choking, Raimon covered his mouth and nose in his sleeve. He could hardly see for the dust, but immediately everything was brighter. The sound of rocks tumbling, of dirt cascading, someone yelling from above, someone from below moaning.

Gradually, as the dust cleared, light streamed in from the hole. Looking down, he saw a gaping breach in the wall. The ladder extended down only ten feet from the platform, and then it was missing for another ten feet. And Brother Anseau... Where was Anseau?

Raimon frantically descended to the platform and dropped to his chest. The dust had not fully cleared, and it was still difficult to see.

"Anseau! Brother Anseau!"

Then a faint reply. "Here, Raimon."

Squinting, Raimon locked on to a vague figure dangling on the end of the ladder. He immediately jumped up and got on the ladder, carefully stepping down one rung at a time, ensuring he would not slip. Nearing Anseau, clarity formed. Grasping the last rung, Anseau was dangling, holding on with all his strength. When he looked up, covered in dirt, his white and blue eyes shone wide.

Raimon crouched precariously near the last rung and reached down.

"Take my hand."

Straining, Anseau swung his body to the left, released his grip with one hand and grasped Raimon on the wrist. It was all Raimon could do to heave, like uprooting a tree, and pull Anseau up to where he placed a foot on the bottom rung and stabilized himself. Anseau tottered a moment, and Raimon pulled again so Anseau was able to bring both hands to the rungs.

"Are you all right?" Raimon asked.

"I am alive. Dizzy, frightened, but alive."

Slowly, the two retreated up to the platform. As Anseau came through the hole, he stepped to the side and bent over holding his knees. He was gasping for air.

"What happened?" It was a voice coming down from the ladder above. One of the foremen descended to the platform with them and peered down the hole.

"Something struck the wall. Something massive. The earth shook. I thought hell had burst open and was trying to suck me into it. It hit below me." Anseau rose and began beating his robe to discharge dust.

"And down below, is anyone alive?" asked the foreman.

"I heard sounds," Raimon answered. "Unless that was you, Anseau."

"I heard sounds too. There are people down there. They need help."

"But how are we to get to them?" asked Raimon.

"Leave it to me," said the foreman. "Get yourselves back up to the village." He hopped on the ladder and dashed up, shouting, "Bring more ladders. We'll need to lash them and get down to those below."

Anseau looked down the hole. "God, save and protect those souls." He crossed himself.

"We should go," Raimon said. He glanced back down the hole. What could have launched something that large, to do this much damage?

As he placed a hand on the ladder, he said, "Brother Anseau, you have a knack for surviving."

"God must want me for something great, for he has saved me yet again."

"Something must be done. If they continue tomorrow, our access to water will be completely destroyed, and we will die of thirst." The speaker was a young man in his twenties, curly brown hair, short beard, intense eyes. His clothes spoke of wealth, yet they were covered in dirt and dust from helping retrieve the only survivor from the rubble in the tunnel below where the boulder had struck.

"Yes, but what? With the tunnel exposed, it is only a matter of time before they are able to destroy enough to make it impossible to climb down to the river." Guilhelm de Minerve led the troops and had been the one in charge once the scouts had returned with news of the approaching crusade. He wore chain mail, tunic and surcoat with Minerve's coat of arms: red shield, a three-towered castle atop a stone.

"We must strike tonight," said the young man.

"You are right. I see no other way. Yet I cannot spare many men."

"We only need a few able men to carry the tinder. If we attack tonight, they will not expect something this soon. I will go. I only need two soldiers and three other men."

"Very well, the soldiers you will have. Who else will join?" Guilhelm asked to the crowd.

"I," said one man who stepped out from the crowd.

"And I," said another.

Then silence.

"You need another man," said Guilhelm.

Without thinking, Raimon stepped forward. "I will go."

"What, a monk?" reacted the young man.

Anseau reached out to grab Raimon's elbow. "Raimon, what are you doing?"

"I am able," Raimon responded. "Give me some dark clothes, and I can accompany you as well as any other man. We must stop this thing." And then, turning to Anseau, he said quietly, "As you said, we pray with our feet." Anseau did not seem to like that comment. He pulled Raimon aside.

"Raimon, this is too much. You know nothing of this."

"But I cannot sit by and watch others do all the work. Is that not why we went into the tunnel to help lift water?"

"That is different. This is suicide. Do you have any idea of what you are getting into?"

"Listen, Anseau. I will stay to the back. They need bodies to carry tinder, and that I can do. I am able and fit. Why should I not offer my services?"

Anseau closed his eyes and sighed. "Why indeed. I don't know what to say."

"Say Godspeed."

A cool breeze brushed down the canyon and ruffled Raimon's hair. The band of six, darkened with soot, stealthily made their way across the last open stretch of ground before the climb to where the trebuchet lay. Raimon was surprised by their resourcefulness, at first worrying how they would cross the river, only to discover boats carefully stashed that allowed them to cross, and then—hopefully—return a little down-stream for the climb back up to Minerve.

Had he been too impulsive? He was not a fighter. He was a monk, and now stood to risk his life on a night foray? It was stupid and impetuous. What if he was killed? All of this would be for nothing: no Guilelma, nothing. But he was doing this for her. The only way for the city to survive was with water. A door had been opened, and he had walked through it.

The ascent was slow and difficult. Raimon was the second to last, the last being one of the soldiers. He carried a bundle of rags soaked in oil, strapped on his back, slung over his right shoulder. Others carried tinder. One carried a pouch with glowing embers they would use to set the wooden structure afire.

His foot slipped and sent a rock tumbling. Everyone froze on the side of the cliff, hearing the clatter drop below. Raimon wanted to apologize, but speaking had been strictly forbidden. He was probably the only one who had not grown up here; they likely knew this exact way up the cliff face. They may regret allowing him to join the party.

When it was evident nothing came of it, the group slowly continued. Before long, they reached the edge, and pulled themselves up to the flat surface, crouching, listening. In front, barely visible by a moon shadow, stood a colossal tower, looming in the dark sky like an ominous Goliath. Except it was his sling, not David's, that threatened.

The two soldiers fanned out to the left and right while the four remained. The young man, whose name was Tibaut, raised a fist to indicate they should wait. In a few moments, Raimon detected motion near the trebuchet, heard shuffling, a grunt, and then silence. He said a silent prayer for the sentries.

Tibaut motioned for them to proceed. Approaching the trebuchet, Raimon looked up at the tall poles that arched up into nothingness. He pulled off the satchel and opened the smelly contents, pulling out rags soaked in oil and animal fat. He knew to set them strategically around the frame and especially near the wheel cranks. Others lay tinder about, and Tibaut carefully dislodged embers by the tinder and began softly blowing on them. Tiny sparks flicked into the air, staccato flashes of Tibaut's face, lips puckered, as he set the tinder and rags on fire.

Then heads turned as they heard footsteps. One of the soldiers whispered, "Someone comes." He stalked away, and moments later Raimon heard an agonizing yell.

"We must leave. The camp will hear that and come," said the soldier upon returning. The fire started to take off, with the help of Raimon and Tibaut fanning the flames with other rags.

"Almost ready," murmured Tibaut. Focused on the fire, he did not seem to register the significance. Raimon looked at the soldier, then Tibaut. He had a sickening feeling slink down his throat.

"Now!" said the soldier, his voice no longer a whisper, as he waved to the others, indicating a return to the cliff face. They took off running. Tibaut remained.

"We must go," Raimon said, hesitant, not knowing if he should dash off or wait with Tibaut. Sounds from the camp encroached like a threatening thunderstorm, and Raimon tensed.

"Right, we go," Tibaut said, and without looking at Raimon, he dashed off leaving Raimon momentarily frozen, feeling exposed, petrified. Then as if pinched, he jumped up and turned to follow Tibaut.

Slamming unexpectedly from behind, a vise of hairy muscle seized about his neck and toppled Raimon to the ground.

Twenty-Nine

"YOU SEEM TO HAVE AN AFFINITY FOR THE INFIRMARY."

Godebert's face appeared above Johan, a slight smirk, no doubt from his poetic comment. But his brows betrayed his concern.

Behind Godebert's head, white canvas fluttered slightly. Segmented lines dashed past, shadows of wide-spanned birds. The canvas glowed slightly from dawn, or it could have been a setting sun. He thought to rise, and as he tensed to raise his head, a searing pain shot from his side, and the white canvas turned red.

Johan groaned. "What happened?"

"You met with the wrong end of a knife. But, yet again, you were lucky."

"I don't feel lucky."

"Well, you are lucky. The blade glanced off a rib and did not pierce your entrails as I'm sure your assailant had intended." Godebert spoke robustly, as though there were others in the tent, and he was showing off.

"What... What happened? I remember fire."

"We had visitors," continued Godebert. "From Minerve. They set Malevoisine aflame."

"Did they destroy it?" At least, one good thing might come of this injury. A flash of hope. The soldiers of Minerve would be bold enough to attempt a night foray? With Malevoisine destroyed... Only what good would that ultimately do? The crusaders would only build another.

"No, fortunately. Your cry awoke the camp. We were able to kill several and put out the fire before any damage could occur. We even captured one."

Johan's cry? How ironic. The one person in the entire camp who would prefer the trebuchet in flames was the one who alerted the rescue. He responded with a brief, "Hmmm."

"How do you feel? Will you be able to rise to watch our final destruction of Saint Rustique's well?"

Johan tried to move again. He grimaced, clamping his eyes shut as spots of light formed, and pain radiated through his core and down his legs. "Not likely."

"Too bad. Well, I shall tell you of our success tonight." Godebert winked, and then left.

Of all the fickle fates in the world. Rising to piss and getting stabbed in the stomach. And he the one who saved Malevoisine! Johan tried again to rise to his elbows, but the pain was too strong, and he collapsed back on to the mat. Godebert was right about one thing, he was lucky to have dodged a direct knife thrust. A wound to the side would be much easier to recover from—a stab in the stomach would have been certain death.

Another head popped into his vision.

"Again I find myself in the presence of a hero." It was Simon.

Johan tensed, and the pain in his side mixed with an odd empty feeling at the base of his stomach. "Sire."

"I must constantly underestimate you, Johan. Either that or I am too consumed to notice."

"Sire, you flatter me. I was merely out looking at Malevoisine when..."

"Nonsense. If it weren't for you, we would have been set back a month. That would have put us closer to a time when the danger of winter and losing most of my fighters might have jeopardized the siege. You consistently show courage. The day you risked your life for a fellow comrade in arms..."

Johan thought of repeating it was his brother, and anyone would have done the same, but he remained silent. Besides, who knew how long Simon would maintain this jocular demeanor. And who cared? Johan did not want Simon's praise.

"I heard of your courage at Cabaret, and now this. Recover, Johan. You shall not go unrewarded."

"Uh... Thank you sire."

"Rest. I am off to see this prisoner who has tried to thwart destiny. They tell me he is dressed in black but his head is shaved as a monk. It should be interesting."

Simon then left the tent. Johan shook his head. More irony. Now the stakes were even higher. You shall not go unrewarded. In good favor with the devil? It was as if no matter what he did, no matter that he failed; he was doomed to be lauded by Simon. What did it mean? Where would it lead?

A loud cry permeated the tent. Then a snap and a whoosh. Silence. Then, echoing up from the distance, a crash, like a sudden, singular thunder clap rolling down the ravine. They had engaged Malevoisine again. How long would it be before the entire well access was destroyed? And then what would Simon do?

Johan tried to rise again. Something inside ripped, the sting deep, and he collapsed again, breathing in short gasps. Hopeless. It was all hopeless.

"Are you well enough to walk?" asked Godebert.

"Yes," replied Johan. The past week was uncomfortable both in how his wound healed and the nightmarish sounds of siege he witnessed, vicariously, imagining the worst as Malevoisine had finished destroying Saint Rustique's well and set to launch massive boulders directly into Minerve's core. With water denied, the city, held prisoner in their fleeting freedom, withdrew like a fighter trying to desperately protect itself from flailing punches too powerful to stop. Hammering. Pummeling. Smashing.

Although he could not see it, he knew the destruction. Sporadic thunderous impacts, each a harbinger of death. Johan could only imagine toppling buildings, collapsing roofs, people crushed. His tense reflex, shuddering with each impact, gripped his abdomen, radiating pain down to his ankles.

Was Guilelma even alive? Hundreds must have lost lives in days of destruction. Stories from Godebert told of bodies dumped over the cliff each evening as Minerve cleared the dead. He could only imagine the horror. He could only imagine the fear, the despondency. And he squeezed his eyes shut when images of Guilelma's body, tumbling down cliff-side, poked unwanted into his imagination.

Smiles about him, eagerly anticipating the final victory, grated his nerves, and he seethed with anger.

"Simon is most impressed with William de Minerve."

"Who?" asked Johan.

"The lord of Minerve. He has surrendered, and has been in discussions with Simon. He shows great courage, and Simon has been generous because of William's tenacity—he's been haggling as though in a marketplace. If you can believe it, he wanted to exchange control of Minerve for keeping all the surrounding lands. A man after Simon's heart."

"And what is Simon to do?" A brief spark of hope.

"It may not be Simon's decision."

"How so?"

"The bishop has arrived," Godebert continued. "And the two of them plot what to do with the blasphemers. I say: finally. Simon was in too good a temper with this William, he almost lost sight of the purpose of this crusade. Almaric will have them empty Minerve and swear allegiance to the Church. Then we will deal with the Cathars."

Another sinking feeling. "What do they plan?"

"You shall see. Come; let me take you down to the canyon floor. This should be interesting. We've been lenient for too many years, and I have not seen a good burning for a long time."

Thirty

THE BEATINGS HE COULD TAKE. The unknown, the worry, the nagging of failure was what overwhelmed him, and he collapsed to his knees, rolling on to his side, heaving as though crying, except tears would not come.

The ropes gnawed at his ankles and his wrists. His face burned hot from the strikes. His ribs, if they were still unbroken, throbbed with constricting agony. But this was nothing compared to the despair he felt. How could he have been so irrational? He had lost everything! They would kill him for treason, and who knew what they would do to the people of Minerve, to Guilelma, to Anseau. Everything Raimon had risked was for naught. He was an idiot for thinking he could escape unharmed, that he could return to Guilelma, and somehow, in the vague scheme of things, his desire to be with her would be fulfilled. And now he was going to die...never knowing what came of Guilelma, never knowing her love, never knowing peace.

From the commotion and soldiers' banter, Raimon deduced Bishop Almaric had arrived. God, he hoped he would not have to confront Almaric. On the other hand, now he had nothing to lose...

"They are setting up stakes," said a muffled voice from outside the tent.

Another spoke, but Raimon could not understand him. Then loud guffawing.

What was happening? When would they come for him? And how would he react? He opened his eyes and stared at the sparse grass and gravel on the floor of the tent. Would he cower as a beaten traitor? Or would he stand firm, knowing what the Church and what Simon and what Almaric did was wrong, against God, not for God? If he was to die, then he would not give them the pleasure of seeing his pain, his fear.

More muffled voices from outside the tent. A third voice, higher pitch. Then the tent flap opened, and a monk with hood pulled down over his face entered, turned and retied the tent flap, and then stepped up to Raimon. What was a monk doing here? One of Almaric's men. Raimon knew they chatted about his hair, that his tonsure was an obvious sign he, a monk, had forsaken his calling and joined the heretics.

When the monk lifted his hood, Raimon nearly fainted. "Brother Anseau! What... How...?"

"Shhh. Speak softly. I am to give you your last rites."

"What's going on, Brother Anseau? How did you..." Raimon's whisper died away as Anseau knelt down next to him.

"My friend. I am sorry. Part of me is joyful seeing you still alive, for we all thought you had been killed. But it is not to be. They... They plan to execute you."

"I know," Raimon said as he swallowed with difficulty. "It was a risk I took. But you, Brother Anseau, what will happen to you?"

"Do not worry for me. They have sifted the people of Minerve and required a vow of allegiance to God and the Church, which for me was not at issue. But they have segregated the Cathars, who, as you would suspect, would not swear loyalty."

"What are they going to do?" Raimon wanted to ask about Guilelma, but he knew the answer. She would not have sworn.

Anseau sighed. He reached up and pinched at the top of his nose, closing his eyes momentarily. A shudder.

"They plan to burn them."

"What?" Raimon burst out.

"Shhh. They are building a pen with stakes and tinder. Almaric has arrived and demands punishment. They will burn them all." Anseau sounded defeated.

Raimon grunted as he pushed himself up to kneeling position. "Guilelma..."

Anseau shook his head. "I am truly sorry, my friend. She has chosen to stand by her brothers and sisters. Guilelma thinks you are dead; she does not know as I do now."

"No! We must do something! If I could talk to her..."

"Brother Raimon, they will not let you."

"We must..." Raimon knew it was hopeless. Almaric would not listen to reason. As soon as he discovered who it was they captured, Almaric would cast Raimon into the fire with the Cathars. Which he would probably do anyway.

"Raimon, there is nothing we can do. I cannot see what good will come of this. I cannot see what God's Will is in this. I can only see evil."

"But I cannot... I will not..." Raimon's mind was a fog. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run until he died from exhaustion. Gasping in short breaths, panic bit at his abdomen like a viper striking and striking and striking.

"May God have mercy on us," Anseau said. "I do not have much time. I offered to come to you to give you last rites. Then I am to place this hood over you." Anseau pulled out a black sack from his robe. It had two eyes cut out.

Raimon stopped breathing. He stared at Anseau, or rather, he stared through Anseau. Nothing made sense any more. Nothing mattered any more.

"At least," Raimon finally said. "At least I will be with her at the end."

"I am sorry, my brother." Anseau looked resolute. The concern wiped from his brows as though he had made a decision. His lips pressed together.

"You are a true friend, Anseau, my brother. God go with you."

Anseau rose. He paced slowly around Raimon, out of his view. "Raimon, I know now God has saved me for some purpose."

"What, Anseau? What purpose?" Raimon was about to turn and look at Anseau. Then, a quick, bright flash of light. A reverberating thunk, as though Raimon's skull shuddered. And then darkness.

Thirty-One

HIS EYED DARTED FROM FACE TO FACE, looking for a pattern, hoping, expecting, and yearning not to find a face he knew. Johan had been brought to the canyon floor, where the crusaders had set up a makeshift camp. They placed him on a horse since he could not stand for long, and even though the horse stood still, stretching its neck out for patches of grass, Johan shifted, his legs quivered, and his hands shook not knowing where they should rest, or if they should rest.

A line, two abreast, came down from Minerve led by armed foot soldiers, two banner carriers and Simon's entourage replete in colorful surcoats and decorated horses. The bishop had already set up a tent and a viewing stand, as though preparing for a sporting event. Godebert had told Johan about how they had made everyone in Minerve swear allegiance, and how almost a hundred and forty Cathars had refused. Now they were led down to the canyon floor to a pen, like sheep, although they were not to be sheared.

Then his heart sunk. He saw her.

Quickly, he turned to Godebert. "About halfway back, on the far side, two behind where Ferrer walks, do you see her?"

"Yes," said Godebert, and he left.

He had hoped she would not do it, but he knew she would. At least she was still alive, thus far. She marched in a sea of black robes. Resolute. Staring straight ahead. Luckily there were not many women in the line. A hundred and forty! Probably none of the Cathars reneged their beliefs. Commendable, but stupid. Why be this determined? Why have to prove you are not afraid of death? Why not lie, just this once, to save your life? Would he feel the same should his honor be challenged?

Johan's hands shook even faster as the line entered the pen. Simon and his men veered to where the bishop sat in a large wooden chair atop a platform.

Would he be in time? God, this was insane. The perfects were ushered into the pen and taken to large stakes, poles probably six inches in diameter standing six feet, and then lashed to the poles four at a time. Johan craned his neck, looking for her. But a line of mounted crusaders passed by in front of him, blocking his view. He darted his head about, trying to gaze past the riders, each spasm of his abdomen sending spikes of pain across his chest, but he ignored it. Damnation! He couldn't see!

By the time the riders passed, the end of the line entered the pen. Johan frantically peered from one stake to the next. Where was she? His pulse hammered, sending thumps into his eardrums. His hands grasped the horse's mane, almost pulling out the long coarse hairs. His knees pressed, clamping on the horse, pushing his buttocks off the saddle. He had not seen Godebert...

Not a one made a sound. No complaints. No screaming for mercy. No pleas. They stood, backs against the poles, stoic. There probably was no need for the ropes.

From the tent to Johan's left, two soldiers emerged, escorting someone dressed entirely in black, with a black hood draped over his head. The man's wrists were bound, and he stumbled as he was led down to the pen to join the Cathars. It looked odd, but Johan remembered the night-attackers on Malevoisine. This must be the one they captured.

And then the workers brought in the kindling.

Large bundles of twigs and branches piled up around the secured Cathars, and soon only shoulders and heads were visible.

Where the hell was Godebert? Why had he not come back? Johan started biting the nail on his left index finger.

When the workers left the pen, the bishop rose. Commotion halted, and all was silent but for the gentle tumbling river behind them. A bird screeched in the distance, and its foreboding cry echoed down the ravine.

"The workings of divine vengeance have been wondrous. To you, ye blasphemers who have wrought treachery on the Lord our God, that vengeance shall be consummated on this day, and you shall meet the true God, as you are condemned to Hell."

Almaric let the echo of his voice die away. There had been no reaction from those in the pen.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." The bishop nodded and sat down.

From somewhere on the other side of the bishop's tent three workers emerged carrying lit torches. They walked purposefully toward the pen.

Where the hell was he?

Flames slowly flickered up from the base of the woodpiles. Soon a slight breeze fanned the tinder. Fire sprouted in bursts of orange, shooting up at random, like sporadic bursts of light.

The heat rose up from Johan's feet. The image of molten fire creeping up his calves gnawed at him, dreamlike, and he felt it as though someone held a burning stick to his legs.

Damn it. Where was Godebert? Johan became as rigid as a board. He shifted to dismount. He could take it no longer.

Smoke, plumes of grey and brown puffed up and over the stakes, caught in the breeze and diffused.

Then from behind, before Johan was able to dismount, someone sidled up to the horse.

"It is done, Johan."

Godebert. Johan sighed. Thank God. His hands released the horse's mane, and he wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Thank you, Godebert."

"She didn't go easy. We had to gag her."

Johan stiffened. Dogged in her beliefs, she would have preferred to die. She will hate him even more than she already did. But he had to do it. It was bad enough observing this spectacle, but with her in the midst?

Still no sound came from the pen. No terror-stricken cries. No painful wails. They stood as though already dead, wooden, unwavering. What caused someone to lay down their life? For what? A belief? Could they be this deceived? They thought their life was meaningless, that only spirit mattered. They would surely find out now.

The twigs were fully aflame. A rushing, pouring fire, whipped about by the wind, flared up over the tops of the bundles and thrashed about heads. From his distance, Johan saw little detail. The heat waves undulated as the fire grew, and when the wind shifted, a nauseating stench, burnt hair, burnt flesh. It made Johan's stomach churn, and he fought the urge to vomit.

And then, amid the crackling and the flag-whipping sounds of flames in the wind, he heard it. Someone sang.

At first, it was difficult to hear. But periodic changes in the wind, in the fire, allowed Johan to hear a singular voice, high but a male voice, singing.

"Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison." Odd. Johan wrinkled his brow. "Gloria in excelsis Deo."

"You hear that, Johan?" asked Godebert.

"Yes. Someone's singing."

"That's crazy. These Cathars are crazy." Godebert shook his head.

"It's a Catholic song."

"What?"

"It's a Catholic song. Whoever's singing is not a Cathar. Or... No, it doesn't make sense." Johan squinted. The smoke now hung about, swirling and shifting in the breeze, like a riptide.

"Strange," said Godebert, sounding distant.

The flames engulfed the stakes to the point of consuming his vision entirely. A woman screamed. The singing stopped.

Johan choked. The coughing racked his ribs and pulsed pain through his torso. And then he found it difficult to fight back tears, for suddenly he was empty. It was as though all the energy drained from his legs. He stared at the inferno... A hundred and forty people. His fists clenched. Simon. Simon had no right to do this. These people were not military enemies. There was no honor in this. They did not strike Simon's army. They stood, passively, peacefully, allowing Simon and the Church to set their skin on fire.

Prickles of pain raced up and down his arms, and pounced on his thighs. As the fire leapt and danced, joyful yet sinister, he imagined the sheer pain those people must feel. He felt the warmth of the fire, this time not imagined, but real. The wind had shifted, and those standing in front of him shaded their faces. It felt like the hair on his arms would incinerate.

He glanced over at the platform. Simon and Almaric were talking to each other. They looked casual. The bishop laughed.

Johan's neck tightened. Hatred replaced the pain, and if his eyes could burn by looking at them, the two would join the inferno. He trembled. What if Guilelma had been in that fire? What if... What if Godebert got the wrong person? Oh, God, no. He saw an image of her beautiful face, ivory and smooth, blacken and her hair fizzle into embers.

The wind shifted again and a powerful wave of burning human flesh assaulted his nose. And then he emptied the contents of his stomach.

"You! How dare you? What have you done? No! You can't..."

Godebert replaced the gag. Guilelma screamed through her nose. Red face. Burning eyes. She shook and struggled against the ropes. Johan had not wanted Godebert to bind her, but now, seeing her anger, seeing her seething rage, he was glad she was bound, for she would probably attack him or run out of the tent, endangering herself.

Johan gulped nervously. He was weak already: not only the pain from his ribs, but feeling completely drained from what he had experienced. Guilelma would never understand. From her perspective, Johan had robbed her of a glorious martyrdom. If that was what she had wanted. She probably felt she had betrayed her Cathar brothers and sisters, being saved from death by incineration.

Then she began to cry. Tears streamed down her hot cheeks, and shuddering, wracking spasms caused her to fall to her knees, her head veering to the ground in fits. Johan's resolve wavered. What had he done? Did she truly wish to die? There seemed to be more.

She was alive. ... Some day she would realize it and thank him. But now, what was to be done? If he released her, she would probably run to the field and see what had happened to her compatriots. Then she would demand to be burned. Whether out of solidarity or true belief, Johan did not know. But in time...in time, maybe she would change. For now, he knew he had to keep her secret. And as to how he was to get her away from here—that was still to be decided.

"Guilelma," Johan said, meekly. "I know you cannot understand. I know this day you had prepared for something else. I hope someday you will appreciate what I have done."

Guilelma looked up with bloodshot eyes. Large puffy bags under her eyes made her look childish, innocent. Then she let her forehead drop to the ground, and she heaved in more fits of sadness.

"I am sorry, Guilelma, but we will have to keep you thus while we get you away from here."

Then to Godebert, Johan said, "We will have to leave her bound. I fear her mind is not about her." Johan stiffened. He tried to look confident, but inside he melted. "Thank you Godebert."

Raising his eyebrows, indicating he probably did not understand why Johan was doing this, other than the woman was pretty, Godebert nodded. "Least I can do for a comrade. You've shown your faithfulness to the cause. We'll get her off to Carcassonne, but I think it best we get rid of the black robe."

"Yes, probably." Johan paused. "When we return, let's not put her in Carcassonne directly. How about we find a good location in one of the empty houses in Castelar?" Johan did not want her to end up in the city, for who knew what she would do?

Godebert flashed a wry smile. "As you wish. I've got a good idea of where we can go. Lots of straw."

Johan was about to snap at Godebert to say it was not like that. Guilelma was not a play thing or a spoil of battle. But he thought better of it.

Guilelma looked up and hummed through the gag.

"She wishes to speak," said Godebert.

"Do you promise not to yell?" asked Johan. Guilelma nodded her head.

"Please, Johan. Please let me die."

Johan sighed. He slowly shook his head, not out of response but out of sympathy. She was distraught.

"I have lost everything. All are dead. Rai..."

"I can't let you die Guilelma. I owe you that. You may not see it today, but you will see."

"Please..."

Thirty-Two

SOMETHING PRODDED HIM IN THE RIBS. At first, it was a poke, a soft nudge, but as he focused on it, dull pain turned sharp. Dots of light and glowing amber burst from the inside of his closed eyelids. His mind was a dense fog, and as the haze slowly dissipated, his body exploded in aches and pain.

"Wake up, you lazy monk." The voice was unfamiliar.

"Probably slept through the whole thing," said another voice. Then another prod; this time it was more like a kick.

"Get up. The bishop's leaving and we're tearing down camp."

Raimon's eyes fluttered open. What had happened? Where was he? He groaned as a sudden pang felt as though a spear slammed into the back of his skull. He reached back and felt a knot, and when he looked at his hand, he saw blood.

Raimon pulled himself up to sitting position. He rubbed at his eyes. Something had happened, but what? Looking up, he saw tent material quiver, and then the center pole collapsed to his left, the tent billowed and slowly settled toward him. But before it touched his head, the soldiers had reeled it in and folded the canvas.

Blue sky opened overhead, and the scene about him revealed a commotion of soldiers and workers breaking camp. Horsemen moved to and fro, but for the most part, people were leaving to the left, up the canyon toward... Minerve. A rush of memory.

And then he saw it.

A smoldering mass of black. An acrid stench reached out and grabbed his nose. Holy Mother of God!

Raimon stood with difficulty. He gaped at a massive pile of smoking ash. Dazed, he glanced about him, and then he looked down. His eyebrows knotted. This was not what he had been wearing. He had been wearing black hose, not a...a robe. And, there, on his chest hung a pouch from a leather strap around his neck.

And then it struck him, a sudden realization like lightening. Brother Anseau... No, it could not be! Raimon fell to his knees.

"Brother Anseau," he said softly. His eyes latched on the smoldering cinder mass. "Guilelma." A tear urged out of the corner of his eye and skidded down the side of his cheek to be lost in three-day stubble.

What had Anseau done? Raimon was the one supposed to die, not Anseau. He rose and stumbled backwards, aimlessly, as though drunk. He bumped into someone carrying tent pegs, ricocheted and staggered, reeling backwards in a daze, his eyes locked on the smoking ash.

He did not know how long he had stumbled backwards. Only when his foot hit water from the river, did he stop. He looked down to see bare feet slowly sinking in silt mud. His mind was a blur. Nothing rational, nothing sane. Then turning, head drooped, he shuffled along the river, away from the commotion and away from Minerve, toward the delta where the two rivers met and circumvented the city. Although there was no destination. There was no thought. He broke into a run.

He did not know why he recognized it, but as he came upon reeds, he wheeled to the left and up the bank twenty feet near a large bush. He collapsed, drained of energy, drained of life. He heaved in short, shallow breaths. It built up within him, like bile rushing up his throat and out of his mouth...

"No!" Raimon yelled, and his voice echoed in a vacuous canyon.

He thrashed about in the sandy dirt. His hand hit a rock, he picked it up, he threw it at the bush, and as it fell... The sound of hollow wood. Sluggishly sitting up, he grasped at dry dirt, and he ground his fingers into it, turning his knuckles white.

He yelled at the top of his voice, "It was supposed to be me!" And then quieter, a whisper, "It was supposed to be me."

The tears swelled, and he sobbed uncontrollably.

Why? Why, God? Why was it to be so? Why the excitement and passion, why the care and love, only for it to be taken away? And why, Brother Anseau? Why did he do it?

Nothing made sense. Nothing. Oh, God, that they did not feel pain. Oh, God, that they both died quickly. Oh, God, how he wished he was dead.

Everything was for naught. The bishop had won. Simon...God damn him! Simon had won. And he would not stop. Minerve, and Bram; it was only the beginning. They would round up every dissenter, everyone who was not exactly like themselves, and kill them all.

Why do you allow this, God? They do it in Your name! They murder in Your name! Was there no justice? Do You ignore Your people? Why did You not stop them? Béziers, Bram, Minerve. How many more must die before...

The pouch on his chest grabbed his attention. Raimon reached down and pulled it open. Inside was a folded piece of parchment and some coins Anseau must have kept there. Raimon pulled out the vellum, unfolded it to see a beautifully illuminated page. An ornate initial capital shone in bright blues and magentas. Gold leaf, painstakingly burnished into detailed leaves that swirled in symmetrical branches filled the spaces within and surrounding the letter. This must be the only remaining fragment of the Bible Anseau had penned himself, the one lost when he was attacked.

Raimon read the verse out loud. "He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire." Raimon chewed at his lower lip. Then he read the last part of the page. "Be still and know I am God."

Be still? His heart pounded. His head throbbed, and his chest constricted tight. How could he be still? They killed Guilelma! They killed you, Anseau! Raimon refolded the vellum with tense and shaking fingers, and he shoved it back into the pouch. Raimon stood up. He grasped the thong to the pouch, ripped it off his neck, swung it twice and hurled the pouch away. Then he collapsed.

The Church was responsible for this. Raimon wanted to tear off Anseau's robe, rip it to scraps.

Then shouting, "I renounce the Church. I renounce my vow! Do you hear me?" and he fell on to his back, sobbing.

Nothing but deep, excavated despair. His eyes filled with water, diffusing the deep blue sky above him. The sound of the nearby river faded from awareness. He rolled back and forth with rage, beating his fists on the gravel until they bled. Finally, exhausted, he rolled to his side and stared blankly, somehow hoping, wishing it would all go away. Wishing he could die right there, right then.

After a few moments, his vision focused, and he saw he was looking at the bush. But there was something within the bush, hidden. For a moment he stared at it, and then, slowly, he remembered, although in the daytime it looked quite different. This was where they had stolen away from Minerve to cross the river. Someone must have made it back, for in the bush was the wooden boat.

Raimon stood, reached into the shrub and drug out the boat. He glanced around him—nothing but empty canyon and rushing river. Then, dragging the craft to the river, he launched it into the water, and threw himself in. Let the water take him away.

Collapsing in the boat, within seconds he was asleep.

He awoke to the rushing sound of heavy water, jumbled rapids, fine spray misting on his face. The sun was setting, and it cast a burnt orange haze. Then, the slam of the boat against a rock jerked Raimon fully awake as he flew out of the boat.

Thirty-Three

IT HAD BEEN OVER A WEEK SINCE THEIR RETURN to Carcassonne, and his daily visits to see Guilelma had produced the same: silence. She appeared to be in her own world. Pale. Weak. Distraught. Although he had noticed the last couple of days she at least acknowledged his presence. She held her chin proudly, still ignoring him, and refused to interact.

Maybe today.

He walked in on her unannounced. She sat, knees curled up and hugged, head bowed, her body rocking slowly. She hadn't heard him enter.

Johan glanced about the tiny room. They had found it in one of the still-abandoned sections of Castelar. Johan had been surprised, for most of the Carcassonne suburb had been burned in the siege, and what accommodations were still left intact had been occupied by returning families who had sworn allegiance to Simon and came to rebuild house and farms. This one, small as it was, lay on the southern wall. In summer, he doubted the sun ever shone directly on the house. Only a filtered rosy glow infused the straw-strewn room from a solitary window hole.

The bedding looked unused. Food delivered yesterday still stood on the small, dilapidated trestle table, although Johan detected some of it might have been sampled by the omnipresent rodents.

As he stood in the doorway observing the delicate and fine lines of her cheek, and the long eyelashes, she stirred. Despite the weary look, she was still the most beautiful woman Johan had ever seen. And it had not been until lately he started to appreciate the woman she had become. She was not passive, ignorant like the women who served Simon's household. She had courage, conviction, and although Johan did not agree with her choices—not that his had been wondrous—he felt a respect he never had for her before, and never before felt this way about a woman.

And yet he knew; he knew he could never have her. He knew—especially over the past week—he could never change her mind and somehow make her love him. And it left a hollow cavity in his stomach every time he thought about it. Today he had come with a different mindset. It pained him, but it was the right thing to do. He would make it right for her. Even if it meant not being with her.

Guilelma's eyes fluttered open, as though she sensed Johan's presence. Eyes half open, she glanced about the room, saw Johan, and when she did, she flinched but quickly gained control and slowly rose, brushed out the wrinkles and clinging straw from her skirt, and stood, chin slightly elevated, stern. Johan knew she did not want him to see her thus, vulnerable and weak.

He stepped into the room. Clearing his throat, he hesitated and then spoke.

"Guilelma..." How was he going to say this? He thought he had been resolved; the conversation in his mind repeated over and over how he was to address her. But now, when it mattered, his throat constricted.

"You have no right to keep me here," Guilelma stated. It startled Johan, for these were some of the only words she had spoken since the day they had gagged her and secreted her away from the burning.

"I..." stammered Johan.

Guilelma folded her arms. She looked different in peasant's clothing, a brownish-maroon kirtle, a one-piece skirt-like garment, sleeveless with straps, worn over a white billowing blouse. Her hair tied and rolled up into a bun under a cap. They had destroyed her Cathar robes to not bring attention. It was interesting no one questioned the taking of a woman, bound and gagged, from the Minerve siege.

"I demand you release me from this...this prison."

"Where will you go?" Johan asked, although likely he knew the answer.

"Not with you," came the immediate reply.

"Guilelma," Johan said as he took a step forward. He clasped his hands in front, looked down at his leather boots. How was he going to say this? "I do realize you have no affection for me." Did she scoff, or was she clearing her throat? "And you may never understand this, but I have changed. I am not the boy you knew at Ginestas." Guilelma's eyes bore into his. Was she angry? Her eyebrows veered into the crook of her nose. "I am also not loyal to Simon de Montfort."

At the mention of Simon's name, Guilelma spit on the ground. "Never mention his name in my presence."

"I am sorry. I am not a part of his evil deeds."

"Not a part of his deeds? How can you say that?" The folded arms released, and her hands went to her hips. "You fight for his army. You were there. You burned my people and my..." Tears swelled, making her eyes glisten, red, until blinking, a droplet splashed on her left cheek.

"To begin with," Johan glanced behind him to make sure the young soldier who he had watching Guilelma was not there, within earshot, "I am opposed to what Si...what he has done. I started by," he lowered his voice, "by sabotaging one of the catapults and would have done the same on Malevoisine if it were not that I was stabbed." He swallowed, feeling on trial, as though he had to defend his actions, prove he was not loyal to Simon. "I have taken a personal vow to stop him, somehow, although I do not know what or how that is to be."

Guilelma did not look convinced. She remained stiff, shaking slightly about the shoulders.

Johan continued. "But that is meaningless. I have come to you this morning to release you."

She seemed to relax slightly, although it was clear it was only tentative, still untrusting.

"Where will you go?" asked Johan.

Guilelma chewed at her lower lip. Her gaze remained intense, as though with her eyes she could strike Johan down.

"Montsegur."

"I thought as much," said Johan. "I have prepared a cart with provisions."

They stood in silence for several moments.

"Although, I am not pleased about the idea of a woman traveling alone."

"I can travel alone," Guilelma said. More difficult silence. Then she spoke. "You will not follow me?"

"No," said Johan. He knew she hated him, but for a moment she looked as though her guard dropped. "Guilelma, you may never understand this, but I have great affection for you. I realize much has happened, and where we are and who we are, we could never be..." He sighed. "I will take care of you, Guilelma, and if it not be with me, then I wish what is best for you. You cannot expect I could have watched while you were taken to the stake and not done something."

Guilelma continued biting her lip. Then after a few moments, she dropped her hands. Tears welled, and a stream fell down her cheeks and gathered underneath her chin. "I know. I know. But I wanted to die." She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Drops fell to the ground, splashing in dust.

Johan wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and caress her. But he knew it could never be.

When she looked up, her face showed resolution. She blinked and raised the back of her hand to wipe away the moisture, leaving a smear.

"When may I leave?"

"Any time you wish. The cart and supplies are here."

"Thank you."

They stood in silence for several more moments. Johan did not want this to end. As soon as she left, he knew he would never see her again. She would travel to Montsegur and join her fellow Cathars. At least she would be safe, for the citadel was considered one of the most formidable, and because of the distance, and it was out of the County of Toulouse, it was unlikely Simon would attempt a siege. And if he ever did...Johan would stop him.

Stepping forward, Johan pulled out a leather pouch.

"Here, take this."

He handed her the heavy pouch, and she took it. He had put everything he had in the pouch, and he knew it would take care of her needs for a long time. But the thought of her traveling many days alone, with the cart and the coins, made him shudder. He knew she would never allow him to accompany her.

"Come," he said, and he walked out of the house into the dirt street where the cart stood. His horse was tied to the back.

Silently, Guilelma walked to the cart and mounted it. She grasped the reins and waited for Johan to un-secure his horse from the back.

"Do you know the way?" he asked.

Guilelma nodded. They locked eyes again.

"Take care of yourself," Johan said. He felt foolish for saying it, but what else was he to say?

"Thank you, Johan," she said. Then she whipped the reins and started the horse.

As the cart pulled away from him, Johan said, "God be with you."

It was the outcome he had expected. But, damnation! It wasn't what he had hoped for. Still, in the recess of his mind, he had held out hope. Hope for what? Foolish hope of a man not willing to let go? She was never his to have. Likely, she would never be any man's.

Nonetheless, Johan vowed to take care of her, even if he might never see her again. He would do something. Send her money? Whatever it was, Johan vowed never to forget Guilelma. He doubted he would ever meet such a woman again.

Saddened, the pit still ever-present in his gut, Johan painfully mounted his horse—the knife wound was healing, but still ached with every move—and he walked his horse back into Carcassonne, to the palace. What now? What would Johan do now? His life was meaningless. He served a tyrant who oppressed unjustly. He saw no way to change that, short of...short of killing him. And that would surely be the end of Johan's life. Maybe that was what it needed to be. How could he continue as Simon's attendant and now one of his leaders? Every time he saw Simon, since their departure from Minerve, anger cramped his muscles, and he found his temperament short.

Then, a thought. He should go visit the monks at Prouille again. They would have heard about Minerve by now. They, too, had to be angered by what had happened. Maybe their solidarity would create an opportunity to do something. Johan would go see them when he could find the opportunity. They would want to hear his story.

When Johan reached the palace and walked into the courtyard, Godebert was coming out from the stairwell.

"Ah, Johan. We were looking for you. Ready the men. We leave at once for Termes!"

Thirty-Four

RAIMON CHURNED AND ROLLED, his lungs to the point of bursting, as the current whipped and tossed him over a series of submerged rocks. Which way was up? Where was the air?

He could let the flow take him, open his mouth and lungs to the boiling water, inhale the burn of liquid, and die. What did it matter anyway? Lungs stretched, fighting the hiccup reflex to breathe, he popped eyes open—only to see dark waters, flashes of light and bubble, nothing he could make sense of.

Then, reeling onto what he thought was his stomach, face down, the waters briefly parted. His brain spun, resolving dissonance, as he breached the surface. And when he understood he was on his back in the water, face up, he quickly spewed pent up air and sucked in what he could before the water closed over him, and he was drug back into the depths.

Amid the turmoil, a calming hand lay on his shoulder, not grasping or clawing, but resting. Fear disappeared, he relaxed his body, and let the current bully him. The jarring rocks slipped by unnoticed. Then, moments later, he bobbed to the surface again, and this time he was able to turn, and he tread water, keeping his head exposed, inhaling air like a starving man devours food. His robe was bulky and heavy, making it impossible to move in the water. Soon, the turbulence subsided, and he had a moment of smooth water, allowing him to locate the riverbank and discover it was only about twenty feet from him.

Methodically, struggling with the sodden robe, he kicked and waved his arms until a toe grated against pebble. The current was still strong enough to pull him along the bank, scraping knees and legs until he finally grasped a jutting rock and hauled himself out of the water, first pausing to catch his breath and gather strength, then grunting as energy surged to pull him out of the current.

Gasping and heaving, he collapsed on the bank. The sunset cast a faint glow about the canyon. The walls to either side were not as pronounced as they had been at Minerve, only ten to fifteen feet high. How far had he traveled? Where was he?

Raimon rolled on his back. Early stars began to poke out from a deep blue sky, like strings of hanging lanterns flickering gaily, mockingly joyous. There he lay staring at the night sky, his mind blank, until the lights fuzzed and merged, and sleep took him again.

The morning only brought the sun. Nothing else had changed other than his robe was less saturated, but it still hung heavy. Raimon pulled himself to his feet and looked about. His stomach indicated it was hungry, but Raimon had no desire to eat. He glanced back at the river, its roiling surface nonchalantly undulating, indifferent to the concerns of the world. It beckoned him, in a morose way, and he had the urge to stumble back into the tide and finish it. But instead, he turned and walked to the embankment, found a scalable path, and hoisted himself to the top of the short canyon. And then he walked, downstream. He had no destination. He had no thoughts. He had no will. Jabbing rocks and spiky undergrowth did not affect a reaction. He simply trudged on.

At some point in the day—it must have been after noontime, for the sun was slightly to the west of overhead—Raimon stumbled upon a village. His robe had dried from shoulder to knees, but the lower portion was still damp and dripped occasionally. It was even tighter than it had the day before.

As he lumbered into the village, he stared vacantly at women sweeping the dirt in front of their houses. He kept walking. Others might have noticed him, but he was oblivious to all. Just keep walking. Keep walking.

Nearing the edge of the village, Raimon passed a small church. There was a boy out front, and when he saw Raimon, his mouth gaped open, as though seeing a ghost. Then he turned and dashed into the church.

As Raimon left the village, he heard footsteps coming up from behind.

"Brother, are you in need?"

His instinct was to stop, but he only hesitated as though the sound was a mistake, a trick of the wind.

"Brother?" This time a black-robed priest stepped around in front of Raimon, blocking his path, and Raimon stopped. The father was probably in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair, white sprinkled with black, smooth face although heavily creased at the sides of the eyes, a slightly deformed mouth where he must have had several teeth missing. The man looked concerned, his speckled eyebrows knotted above an unnoticeable nose.

It did not occur to Raimon to respond.

"Come, let me offer you some rest and food. You look in need of it." The father reached out to take Raimon's left arm, he gently turned Raimon and led him back to the church. Raimon looked at the ground, at the church, then at the sky until they entered the church and it grew dark. Raimon flinched.

"It's all right brother. Come in here and have a seat." Walking through another doorway, they entered a room lit mostly from window slits. A fire meekly fluttered on the back wall where a boy swung a pot out from its position over the fire. "Alfans, bring us also some ale."

The father sat across from Raimon and folded his arms on the table. "Brother, you look weary. I will not make you speak, for it is clear you are exhausted. I want you to feel safe here. And if you wish to speak, I am here for you. But," he said as he rose, "until then, have some food and drink, and then if you wish, we shall show you a place where you can rest... Probably after we take care of your robe."

Time was irrelevant. Besides, Raimon could not track the hours or days. It was easier to be led about, fed, wander about the churchyard. He had refused the robe after it had been cleaned and dried, and accepted only clothes of a peasant. They felt odd, yet comfortable.

That evening, the father sat across from Raimon, again like he had each day since Raimon arrived. The father talked to Raimon, and Raimon refused to respond. His mind had cleared, but there was no motivation to interact. What was there to say? He did feel compassion for the father, and his silence must confound him.

"Brother, you have been with us more than a week and you still do not speak." The father sat up straight. Was he angry? Had he enough of Raimon's inattentiveness? "I thought today I would share with you something my father used to tell me when I was young. I realize you have been through something traumatic, for your eyes tell me you are not mute nor are you an idiot.

"As you think about it, there will come a day when you will have resolved whatever it is, and you are ready to move forward. My father would say, why not make that day today?"

Indeed, why not? But what was there to do? Where was forward? What was there to do but seek revenge? He could stumble back to Prouille, and do what? He could traipse back to Barcino and Santes Creus, but there was no home for him there. He would never live in a monastery again. He would never be part of the Church again.

Raimon stared into the father's eyes. "My name is Raimundus. You have yet to tell me yours."

Startled, the father recoiled slightly. Then a smile formed on his lips, and he laughed. "Ah, excellent. I am Father Benardus. Welcome to the village of Aigues-Vives."

"I apologize for my stupor."

"Brother Raimundus..."

"Only Raimundus, please."

"Raimundus, do you feel like talking about what brought you to Aigues-Vives?"

Raimon stared at the table a moment. What good would talking do? What would it change?

"Have you come from Minerve? I have heard many dreadful things had occurred there," said the father.

What side would the father be on? Would he be in favor of what Simon had done? Could he admit not being? Maybe it was safer to let it pass. Raimon needed to go anyway. Coming out of his trance was probably a good thing, but he needed time to think. He didn't know what his life meant now, and all he could muster was a deep-seated hatred for that bastard.

"Father Benardus, I thank you for the care you have shown me. I will need to be going in the morning."

"Are you sure? And are you sure you would not like to talk with me about...about whatever has you distraught?"

"I am sure. Again, I thank you."

"As you wish."

It was unfair to treat the father so, but how could Raimon talk now? He had lost his love and his friend in a horrible...unconscionable... No, he could not talk about it. He could not even think about it without tensing, a bubbling mass of molten hatred stemming up from his stomach into his throat.

"In the morning, I will leave."

"Where will you go?" asked the father.

"Point me in the direction of Carcassonne." Better not to mention Prouille and the association with the monastery, although Raimon doubted he would stay at Prouille. And what would he do? Whatever it was, something had to be done about Simon. If there was nothing else Raimon could think of, it was Simon, and Simon being dead.

Thirty-Five

JOHAN DUCKED INTO AN ALLEY AS THE BOY turned, scanning suspiciously before entering the palace grounds, but it was Johan who could not shake the feeling of being watched. It did not help when, after stealing across the plaza and into the palace grounds, the boy descended the steps into the dungeon, and before Johan even considered following him, he began to feel as though walls closed in on him.

What was the boy doing there? It had to be him—although he was less of a boy now—the novice, who worked at Prouille, who had worked with Brother Raimundus, God rest his soul. What was he doing in Carcassonne dressed in hose and a tunic like any other villager and not in priestly garb, and walking suspiciously into the palace with a bundle? Johan had to find out.

He had to find out, since he had just returned from Prouille, and what a disaster that had been. Everything had changed since last summer. Both brothers Raimundus and Anseau assumed dead, for neither had returned from a trip to Minerve. If only Johan had known! He had been focused on Guilelma, how could he have missed the other two? He was sure he had searched every face...but now he realized as soon as he had spotted Guilelma, no one else had mattered. An anxious knot formed in his belly. Could he have saved the monks? Would they have been in the group led to the stakes? And then he remembered something that Godebert had said, forgotten until this moment, something about the one captured trying to sabotage Malevoisine... A man dressed in black, his head shaved as a monk. Surely not... And then, wait a moment, the Catholic song being sung from within the flames...

Johan cast furtive glances as he tried to appear nonchalant about striding into the palace grounds and took up a position near one of the columns, feigning indifference. The two guards stationed in the dungeon came stepping up and out into the courtyard. They looked to be counting something—payment? Ensuring no one was watching, Johan silently slipped into the stairwell and softly trod down into the darkness. If the walls had hands, they pursued him.

At first, everything appeared normal—as normal as a dungeon could be. Flickering light from torches cast an evil glow on mossy walls, and an acrid smell made Johan want to hold his breath. Faint moans. A drip of water echoing. Low voices murmuring faintly nearby. Edging around a corner, catlike, and then down a branching hallway to the right, the volume of a conversation increased enough for him to distinguish words. He stopped before he would be seen. It was the boy's voice.

"Yes, I'm telling you he's alive and in Mirepoix. He's already connected with the Cathar resistance, and they are gathering forces."

"To do what? He never struck me as the type."

"That I don't know. I haven't seen him."

"Very interesting. But the timing must be right. Simon will gather crusaders from the north, and we do not know what he will do when winter is over." This other voice must come from one of the prisoners. He spoke as though he was eating at the same time.

The boy was somehow involved in a resistance to Simon? Johan's ears cocked, trying to hear every word. At the same time, he had a feeling of paranoia. Maybe this was his opportunity, and he could join with them. Maybe this was his calling to enact vengeance on Simon.

"I can help," Johan said before he thought what he was doing. His voice echoed down the hall. It was met with silence. Slowly, he stepped around the final bend, and as he did so, a flash of steel, and the point of a knife was at his throat.

Raising his hands, Johan spoke slowly. "I am no threat to you."

"What do you want? Who are you?" The voice was still just above a whisper.

"I have just returned from Prouille, for I went looking for a way to subvert Simon."

"You'll find no support against Simon at Prouille," said the prisoner. Even in the darkness, Johan sensed a scowl.

"As I well found out."

"How do we know you speak the truth?" asked the youth.

"I swear by God and the Virgin Mary, I have no truck with Simon. I may not be a Cathar or adhere to its tenants, but I know there is no honor in what he is doing. Simon must be stopped."

The boy leaned closer. "I know you. You are... You are Johan. I remember now. The one who warned us of Minerve."

"Yes." Johan saw the boy's face clearly as he came closer. It had become more angular, less round and childlike, but the flattened nose was still an obvious feature.

The boy removed the knife. "Esteve, this one came to us last year wanting to find people against Simon. We were not sure of his intentions then..." He raised his chin. "Why should we trust you now?"

"I can only tell you it grieves me to be in Simon's army. I do not know what to do. If you are involved in some way to thwart him, I am interested."

"And what if you are merely spying on us?"

"Then you may kill me as I stand."

"Esteve, he might be able to get us information as to Simon's intentions."

Johan's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he peered into the cell. Esteve set down a bowl and stood, rubbing his bearded chin, staring out at Johan. He must have been thinking.

"That is correct," said Johan. "I am in good standing with Simon, and we... He will soon be planning for the next year. I can get this information for you."

More silence. Esteve appeared to be acquiescing, for he nodded his head slightly.

Johan continued, switching his attention to the youth. "Were you not a novice at Saint-Celeste-Saint-Nazaire?"

"Yes."

"You were to be a priest, no?"

"Correct. But no longer. I have renounced the Church."

"Your name?"

"Gilles."

"Listen, Gilles," said Esteve. He took a step forward. Johan heard metal clinking. "We do not have time for idle talk. You, Johan, if your word is as good as you say it is, come to us with information in three weeks' time. We will wait for you near the Castelar gate."

"I shall. But, are you are to be freed?" Johan squinted to see Esteve still shackled to the wall.

"Gilles here has procured the key." He lowered his chin. "Which I assume you will get to some time, Gilles?"

Gilles jumped as though suddenly realizing he had the key. Sheathing his knife, he fumbled for keys within his tunic and freed Esteve. Rubbing his wrists, Esteve stood in the cell doorway and faced Johan. More light from the torches fell across his face. He looked worn; a brown beard covered his face, and long hair fell to his shoulders. His clothes were rags, barely clinging to his body, and he looked covered in a film of grime. Yet even from the distance and dimness, Johan saw a sparkle in his eyes.

"I have been in here since you fled from Cabaret. Thanks to Gilles, I am strong enough now to leave. But we may need your help getting out of the dungeon. The guards are bribed only to stay gone to sunset."

"I will do what I can," Johan responded.

Then, ice crawled up his veins. A prickling sensation burst from his spine and his entire body went rigid. He heard another voice from behind.

"The hell you will. You will die first, traitor."

Johan jerked around to see Ponç step out from around the bend in the hallway, sword drawn.

"H-how?" Johan stuttered. Where had Ponç come from? How did he know? How much had he heard?

"I followed you, you miserable louse. Heretic scum." He spat. "I never believed you the hero. You had successfully fooled Simon, but not me. Secreting off to Prouille? I bet you were surprised to see Domingo had changed his tune. Your Cathar hiding ground is no more, and Domingo is now an ally of Simon. And then you sneak down into the dungeon. Of course I followed you! And now I will see you drawn and quartered and then burned like roasted meat. All of you."

Johan instinctively reached for his sword. In one motion, he jerked it from its scabbard and arced it upward to deflect a blow as Ponç struck at his shoulder. The blade shook violently. Ponç was strong. Another slash at Johan's left was skillfully parried, sending Ponç's tip into the wall, dislodging mortar. Johan staggered backward and hit the cage door, unwittingly closing off Gilles and Esteve into the cell. Ponç growled, returned blade to en garde, and with reprise, thrust straight at Johan's chest.

Dipping the sword tip, Johan parried to his left, and in one movement, not thinking but acting, in a prise de fer, slid his blade down Ponç's steel toward the guard, pressed outward to his right, and redirected the sword so that as Ponç attempted another attack, the point fell wide to Johan's right. Immediately, Johan riposted with a slash at Ponç's neck.

Ponç dodged to the side, and the blade missed him by an inch. He hopped backwards and brought his blade back to en garde.

"Very nice, young Johan. Something Godebert taught you? I'll have to go visit him next after dispatching you."

Johan stepped forward, trying to prevent being pinned against the cell door. Ponç's eyes gleamed at the corners, a reflection from a torch, but Johan saw fire. Ponç snarled, exposing his front teeth as he raised his sword with both hands, bellowed and stepped forward to strike Johan, to split him in two. There was nowhere to dodge.

Johan knew he might not be able to block the force coming from the strike. Frantic, Johan recoiled slightly, thinking his only course of action was to try and parry the strike to the side, hoping its force was diverted enough to avoid flesh.

Then, taking both Johan and Ponç by surprise, Ponç's sword struck overhead. Johan saw Ponç had not calculated for the low ceiling. In that instant, with Ponç momentarily incapacitated, his arms up and blade pointed back, Johan thrust with all his might at Ponç, below the ribs. The blade entered. Ponç's eyes widened. He stood frozen, glaring at Johan in disbelief.

Johan pushed the blade in further. Ponç dropped his sword, staggered backwards a step, and as Johan removed his blade, deep red, verging on black, poured from the wound. Ponç looked as though he was trying to say something. His lips quaked. He staggered back another step, stumbling on his own sword. Then veering forward, he pitched headfirst onto the ground and landed at Johan's feet.

"Good work," said Gilles as he pushed the cell door open and came up behind Johan.

Johan set his sword point down and leaned on the pommel, breathing heavily.

"Now getting out of here won't be as easy," said Esteve. "But at least we can be confident in your allegiance."

Johan stood straight, glanced at Ponç, then turned to face Esteve and Gilles. "I still need to be within Simon's court. Otherwise we have no inside information."

Gilles spoke. "We need to make it look like Esteve or I was the one who killed him."

"Me. No one knows of you, Gilles. It needs to look like one of the prisoners did this and escaped. But Gilles, you have to leave Carcassonne for good, since the guards know your face."

"But how..." Johan muttered.

"Clean off your sword," Gilles said. "Use him."

Johan frowned. Clean off the sword? He shrugged and walked over to Ponç's body. Then he wiped his blade on the underside of the tunic. He felt no remorse for Ponç.

"They must find you have been overtaken. We have nothing to tie you up with. We'll have to..."

"Do as you must, but quickly, for I think I hear someone coming," said Johan.

Gilles spoke to Esteve. "We can drag him into the cell and then hide over there." He pointed to beyond Ponç and stepped past Johan.

"Quickly!" Johan whispered to Esteve. "Where will I meet you?"

"Three weeks. Come down to the Aude from the Castelar gate. We'll find you."

"Godspee..." Johan was not able to finish his sentence when a thud came from behind, crashing into the back of his head, and he blacked out.

It was not until spring that Simon finally divulged his plans. He had subdued the bulk of Languedoc, at least enough to hold through the winter months, and retaking the smaller villages that succumbed to rebellious redoubles would not occupy much of his forces. Simon would move to the west, and take Lavaur. His ultimate goal, for he flaunted it, must be Toulouse itself, even though it represented immense gall for Simon to even consider it. Toulouse was the reign of Raymond VI, uncle of Trencavel. Lavaur was but a stone's throw away from Toulouse. Raymond had been excommunicated by the Pope. Raymond was the scourge of the church and labeled as a Cathar-sympathizer. And Raymond stood in the way of dominating Languedoc and Toulouse.

"Crusaders from the north will join Simon at Lavaur," said Johan.

Gilles lay hidden in a bush near the bank. To anyone observing, they would only see Johan enjoying a quiet sit by the river.

"Do you know when?"

"No. But it should not be difficult to tell once Simon begins his move. We can set spies out for the reinforcements knowing they will be heading south and must come by way of Montauban or Albi."

"My guess is they would cross the Agout at Saint Sulpice," said Gilles. "And I am sure we will have plenty of troops to meet the crusaders if Raymond joins us. He must. He will know Simon comes for him if Lavaur is the target."

Gilles quieted for a moment. Then he perked. "This could finally be our chance!"

Thirty-Six

GILLES STARED INTO THE FIREPLACE, mesmerized, in delayed shock. His bubbly effervescence flattened shortly after they began to discuss what had happened at Minerve. He said he had heard rumors Raimon and Anseau were dead, but he had never believed them. Now, faced with the reality Anseau was dead, he curled into a ball and fell silent.

Raimon moved his gaze from Gilles to flames that skipped over logs in a pagan dance. He had been in perpetual shock for the last series of months as he had wandered aimlessly throughout Languedoc, only to arrive, like a magnet, back to Prouille...or at least near Prouille. After a few minutes, in a quiet voice, he said, "Maiorem hac dilectionem nemo habet ut animam suam quis ponat pro amicis suis."

Gilles had aged ten years over the past one. Bags under eyes, a wearied look. Raimon had been absorbed in his own pity, and he doubted he would have seen until now that others had suffered trauma at the expense of Simon.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" Gilles blinked several times and returned his gaze to Raimon. The flickering flames reflected in the whites of his eyes.

"No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends." He paused. "That is what Anseau did. I don't know why, but he knocked me out and exchanged clothes. They led him to the stake... While I lay in the tent." Raimon put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His eyes had been wrung of tears for several months; he wondered if he could ever cry again. "I would have gladly died with Guilelma. It feels as though I have been forced to live. I did not ask for it. Now what am I to do?"

Gilles turned toward Raimon. "If it is any consolation, I am glad you are alive."

"Thank you," Raimon said, but he could not look Gilles in the eye. "I cannot return to Prouille. I have renounced my vow." He seemed to say it with pleasure. What did that mean? Was it a statement against the Church? Was it an abrogation of his moral conscience? Did he also renounce God?

"Raimon, I should tell you I have left the Church. It happened after Minerve too. But I confess my reasons are not as dramatic as yours."

"What do you mean?" Raimon looked up at the boy—Gilles was not a boy, he was a young man, with the hint of a beard.

"I have taken Angelesa as my wife."

"Angelesa? You... She has..." A sudden lightness made Raimon sit up straight in his chair.

"Yes. We both left Prouille and set up household in Fanjeaux. We have taken Marti too. He is to be our son."

"Gilles, that is wonderful. Thank you. That is the best news I have heard for a long time."

"Presently, I work at the church stables. Angelesa weaves. Together we make enough to survive." A smile accompanied his sparkling eyes.

"Much has changed." Raimon stared back into the fire.

The room held a soft glow that outlined their faces, for there were no candles lit. The damp cold of winter forced Raimon to pull the woolen blanket tighter about his neck, despite the fire. The tiny cottage was not well-insulated from the elements. Its sod roof, mud and straw walls, and dirt floors reminded Raimon more of a cattle shed than a peasant's abode. Raimon had found it; or rather he had been given directions to it by the Cathars he met near Prouille.

How he wished he could simply erase the past months from his memory. The long journey from Aigues-Vives ended up being a circuitous trek through Languedoc, winding like a random rivulet, directionless yet pulled downhill, ending up outside of Prouille. He had trudged, sometimes for days without food, and stumbled, trying to make sense of what was left of his life. He knew he could not return to the Church, which also eliminated reason to go back to his home monastery, Santes Creus. The only people he really knew were in Prouille. But as he circumvented Carcassonne, he met up with a group of Cathars fleeing from the area. They were some of the leaders who had been at Minerve, but left before Simon had arrived. One recognized Raimon despite his hair having grown out, and he no longer wore monk's robes.

He discovered there was a group of Cathars and Christians alike who sought ways to fight Simon. They had attempted two assassinations. Both failed. They told of Domingo and his switching allegiance. And then Raimon saw his chance. Alone, he could do nothing. But with these, maybe they could find a way to stop the scourge.

"I was gravely discouraged by Domingo."

"I also," said Gilles. "It was not long after Minerve that Domingo returned from a trip to Rome. Evidently, the Pope had put enough pressure on Domingo, he has aligned with Simon."

"It is contrary to what Prouille stood for. Everything was about extending God's grace to these people without judgment. What was his true motivation? How can he one day see fit to undermine the crusade by allowing Cathar refugees and the next day rally against them?" The tension returned.

"The change came all of a sudden. Immediately upon Domingo's return, those who were at Prouille were taken to Carcassonne and surrendered to Simon. The rest of us—those who refused to swear allegiance to Simon—fled when we found out. That was when Angelesa and I decided to marry."

"Well at least..." Ramon smiled—when was the last time he had smiled? "At least something good has come of Domingo's change of heart."

One of the logs popped, and a glowing ember bounced onto the dirt floor. As it slowly faded, a tiny wisp of smoke curled up and fizzled into the cold air.

"Gilles, your visit came as such a surprise. You did not tell me how you came to find me."

"I work with the same people you do."

"At the church in Fanjeaux?" Raimon said, incredulous.

"No. The church work buys bread and vegetables. This work is the work of my heart. We have been meeting and planning for about six months now. We have connections in many of the villages, we have secured the alliance of Raymond in Toulouse, and we are trying to gather enough force to someday challenge Simon. But as long as he is successful in gaining returning crusaders, we may never have sufficient numbers."

Raimon said, "I never thought I would see the day when my efforts were more bent towards aiding a military venture than helping people." He paused and looked at Gilles. What was he getting into? On the one side, he harbored a deep hatred. At the same time, his conscience pricked his awareness, reminding him violence only begets violence. When the image of Simon crept into his mind, the hatred prevailed.

"I struggle with it. I have not forsaken my training as a novice. I see no other way to thwart the evil that surrounds us. Sometimes the thought of an evil god would explain a lot. But, then, I remembered what you said to me."

"What did I say to you?"

"In Carcassonne. Do you remember? When Simon was attacking and we sat on the castle walls? You said it is not God's Will for people to suffer and die. When I saw Simon terrorizing my countryside, I knew he was not acting for God. God would not choose to blind a hundred men from Bram. God would not choose to burn the Cathars at Minerve. And I cannot support a Church who condones and even encourages that behavior. What are we to do? Cower and allow this evil to spread?"

Raimon paused a moment. "You asked me once if it was right to kill one person in order to save thousands. Do you think God would condone our actions to fight back at Simon?"

"I don't know. Does God condone revenge? Or is this self-defense?"

"'Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.' I only hope His forgiveness is greater than what mine has been. I know no other thing to do." And there was no other thing to do. But which was it? The desire to stop the crusade or the desire for retribution? He had been taught to forgive. But even the thought of forgiving Simon caused him to grind his fingers into a fist.

Raimon started when he heard several horses approach. He jumped up and cocked an ear.

"Don't worry, Raimon," said Gilles. "It's the rest of the men. Do you remember Esteve?"

"Esteve? Not that I can think of."

"He was the soldier in Carcassonne who ordered us to take the cart into Castelar. You know?" he pointed at his nose, "the one responsible for this?"

"Ah, yes."

"He had been captured by Simon at Cabaret, and was in the dungeon for a year. Now he's part of our resistance. Ironic how some things turn out, eh?"

"Indeed."

"There's someone else too. Someone else who may surprise you."

Thirty-Seven

MONOTONE VOICES ECHOED EERILY FROM THE HILL opposite Lavaur's fortified walls, drowning the cheery trills of bunting and nightingale, and casting a pall over the verdant countryside. The monk's hymns did not evoke sanctity or calm or peace. They evoked dissonance. They evoked evil.

He had heard Domingo was present, although he had never met the man. All he knew of Domingo was the man once advocated simplicity and apostolic poverty as a means to reach out to Cathars. Then, according to Raimon, something changed after a visit to the Pope, and he now sided with the crusade. What pressure had the Pope applied? Then Peter of Nemours, bishop of Paris, was there too, and his brother William, priest of the Paris cathedral chapter, who had been present at Termes to help Simon engineer that siege. Johan shook his head. Such a blending of religion and military. Not a good combination.

Every day of Johan's double-life made him increasingly jittery. One day, planning attacks on local lords and punishing heretics. The next, meeting in secret to organize assassinations and ambushes. His life was a lie. How long could he maintain the façade? Memories of Eudes and Henri and those he once called friends from Ginestas only brought pain, remorse. His own selfish opportunism led him to the crusade and what had it got him? Brother and friends dead. Embroiled in a web so complex he could not extricate himself. Realization of a love for a woman he could never have.

What would Guilelma be doing now? Had she made it to Montsegur? Was she still a Cathar... He knew the answer to that. What a disaster. Was there anything in his life he could do right?

He should send someone to check on her, to send her money. He knew he could never go to Montsegur himself...unless someday they were successful in removing Simon. Maybe... No, that was foolish talk. Stop! It could never be more than it was today. Johan would never see her again. But he could still make good his vow to care for her, ensure her safety. He would find a way.

The rising sun reflected on the Agout like a curved mirror. The river snaked around a wide bulge of land, creating an island surrounding the village of Lavaur. The town lay on the western bank of the river. As Johan followed the river to the north and then west, as far as he was able to see, he thought of Raimon and Raymond of Toulouse's men. They would be waiting for the crusaders. Despite the speed of the arrival of spring, they had been successful in garnering a great number of soldiers—most had come from Toulouse and Raymond's army—and they now lay in ambush for the crusaders coming from the north. Archers poised to remove as many crusaders as possible.

Simon, in his usual haste, launched the attack on Lavaur before his column of annual reinforcements arrived. He impatiently watched daily as repetitive attempts to storm the castle walls failed. In many respects, Johan observed with pleasure. Simon's impetuosity would be his downfall.

As the haunting chants died in echoes, shouts from three locations about the fortress heralded a daily barrage from mangonels and catapults. Johan nodded to his aide, and the catapult for which he held responsibility was loaded. They had not erected anything as massive as Malevoisine. Maybe Simon was overconfident knowing reinforcements would soon arrive, and these few weeks' effort was merely to weaken his foes, to dispirit them.

Despite their proximity to Toulouse, Simon had not mentioned Count Raymond. Was he so confident he did not expect Raymond to come to Lavaur's aid? Little did he know!

Then, as soon as the order came to fire, another shout pealed to cease. Johan and his men looked at each other, confused. An odd silence blanketed the rolling countryside; until the clomp of hooves approached.

"Johan, come to Simon's tent immediately," shouted Godebert as he reined his horse briefly enough to address Johan. Then he took off toward the second set of catapults. His voice was frantic, urgent. What was going on? News of the ambush? So soon?

When Johan approached Simon's tent, he saw several groups of crusaders milling about, ranting and gesticulating. They wore tunics with crests of their lords from the north. Johan's chest tightened. What had happened? Had the ambush failed? There were quite a number of crusaders present, but clearly they were but a small contingent of the column that was supposed to be arriving any day. Aides dashed about delivering orders. Horses were dressed and saddled. Weapons gathered.

"That conniving snake!" Simon ranted to himself as an attendant helped him belt his sword. Johan remembered when that was his role. "I'll have his neck!" Simon looked up to see Johan enter.

"Sire?" asked Johan.

"Saddle your men. We ride immediately. That bastard Raymond has ambushed my men at Ménzens. We ride, and we will crush him into the ground. Go!"

"Yes, sire," Johan nodded and briefly bowed. He dashed out of the tent. Yes! This was it. Finally, some revenge. Would it be successful? Could they demolish the column and leave Simon stranded with only his own meager forces? For the entire summer? This was the best news yet.

As he shouted orders, trying to mimic Simon's intensity, Johan felt the twinge of excitement. He nervously stepped into the stirrup and launched his leg over the back of his horse, grabbed the reins and pulled the horse into formation. Adjusting his chain mail about his head, he glanced left and right at two soldiers. Did he appear too eager? A cry from up front, likely Simon, set horses in motion, and the queued soldiers set out, inching into a full gallop. He and Raimon had planned this day for six months. If Simon's forces arrived to find Raymond, and Raimon, and the men still in battle, how could Johan fight against his own men? Would this be the turning point?

At first, a mistaken view of the valley yielded peasants working in the fields. Raising hoes, crashing them into the ground to prepare for crops. The pastoral scene halted the urgency. Ménzens was a short distance from Lavaur; it took them only three hours, most of that time in crossing the Agout—which Simon took as an insult.

Johan glanced about, looking for the ambushing forces, looking for Raimon, but none were to be seen. Only peasants. Working... But they were not working. They were finishing off fallen crusaders!

A scream from the front of the line—it must have been Simon—led the charge into the valley. Johan wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to avoid seeing Simon's men wheel their horses towards the peasants, chase them down, and lop off heads. Soon, an additional fifty to sixty peasants joined the corpses strewn about the field with arrows sticking up like new growth amongst yellow flowers and spring grass.

On either side of the valley, a scattering of trees produced straggling displaced crusaders. Many had been foot soldiers who, when the ambush closed in on them, must have escaped. In all, from a column of thousands, there were probably only several hundred left alive.

One crusader staggered up to Simon. He had blood in a line down the left side of his face.

"Enguerrand de Courcy, sire."

"I fear we are too late. Tell me, who did this?" Simon's eyes burned red. Johan pulled his horse to a halt behind the crusader and listened.

"I am told it was Count Raymond. They left in the direction of Toulouse not long before you arrived."

"Damn him! We shall ride and take him."

"But sire," Enguerrand said as he looked around at the soldiers accompanying Simon. "We will not have sufficient force to take Toulouse."

Simon clenched his jaw. For a moment, it looked like he would jump off his horse and strangle this Enguerrand, but breathing deeply, Simon calmed, and Johan saw his anger was not targeted at the crusader.

"I shall have his head. But you are correct. We are barely sufficient numbers to take Lavaur. We shall see... Tell me what happened."

"As we entered the valley," Enguerrand pointed up to a pass to his left, "we were met by archers concealed within the trees. Before we had time to react, half of the men were down. The rest pursued, but half of them were killed before the attackers fled. They struck, and they left. It happened fast."

"Gather your men. Leave the dead." Simon looked around, and his eyes settled on Johan. "This day," he swallowed as though trying to compose himself. "This day will not be forgotten."

Johan held Simon's gaze. If he were to look away, it might betray the thoughts ricocheting in his mind. When Simon looked thus, only death and destruction were to follow. Had they merely released the monster they had been trying to maim?

"We march," continued Simon. He released his gaze on Johan and addressed the crowd. "Lavaur will be our first retribution. Then, my friend," he said as he looked at Enguerrand, "we will repay Raymond for what he has done."

Johan cringed as he gave orders to build a gibbet in the center plaza of Lavaur. What did Simon have in mind? Who was he going to hang?

The gloating lightness Johan had the past weeks had slowly waned. Their victory in thwarting the massive influx of annual crusaders only produced vehement intensity out of Simon. It did not slow him; it made him all the more intent in his hatred. Had it been a mistake to fight back? Simon seethed. No one wished to be anywhere near him, for daily he abused his aides, lashed out in verbal threats and insults, called names toward the castle, like a madman, yelling at imaginary foes.

Simon had wanted the gibbet fashioned as quickly as possible. Soon after the sappers—organized by Father William—had done their job and the wall fell, the swarm of crusaders took Lavaur in a matter of an hour. As soon as Simon formally entered the village, he shot orders to gather the knights who defended the castle, the lords who had defied him, and the Cathars.

The gibbet was constructed of one large pole, standing about ten feet high with a crossbeam along the top, extending further to one side than the other and braced by an angled support. A rope was fashioned into a noose and added to the crossbeam, and a stump placed below the rope. Johan subconsciously reached up and rubbed at the base of his neck.

As the final lashing was placed on the support, the sound of marching feet made Johan and the others turn to watch Simon lead a column of soldiers. These were the knights of Lavaur, about eighty of them, hands lashed behind backs and prodded along by crusaders. Soon the plaza filled with gawking crusaders. Johan had a sinking feeling. He backed away from the gibbet.

As the marching came to a halt, Simon spoke.

"For treason against the Church." He raised his sword, and the crowd cheered.

But this could not be right! Hanging the knights? It was unheard of. Accepted rules of warfare usually held captured knights for ransom. It was expected they would be treated with dignity, held for only a short time. Simon was going to hang them? This was a breach of chivalry. This had nothing to do with heresy.

One by one, the knights were led to the gallows. The noose was placed about their necks. The stump was knocked out from their feet. The jerk of the rope. Frantic kicking and rigid bodies tried to postpone the inevitable until suddenly going limp. Eyes bulged. Froth spewed from the corner of mouths.

About thirty knights had been killed, lumped into a pile. With each death, Johan fell deeper and deeper into depression. His eyes were heavy, his shoulders sagged. He was to blame. Would Simon have done this if it were not for the ambush?

Simon went up to the next victim. A large, obese man raised his chin, exposing a frog-like neck. Although proud, there was fear in his eyes.

"How dare you execute my men," he said. His voice shook a little as he spoke, as did the bulk under his chin, despite trying to sound commanding.

"Lord Aimery. You who once swore allegiance to me to support the Church against the heretics. This is the punishment for treason."

"But you have no right. You have no..."

"Who are you to tell me of my rights?" Simon snapped. He stuck his face close to Aimery's. "You will all die! All of you!" He stood back and eyed the knights in line behind Aimery. "But first, you will see a small example of what is done to heretics...especially those who lie to the Church." Simon nodded to Godebert, who relayed orders. Soon two soldiers drug a figure into the plaza and up to Simon. They held a woman, bound and gagged.

"Geralda," Aimery said, in a whisper.

"Your sister," Simon bellowed, more to the audience than directly to Aimery. "Lady of Lavaur, to whom you have come in aid and in treachery to the Church, is a heretic of the highest order. She has siblings who are heretics. Her people are heretics." Simon breathed in short bursts as though he had run up a hill.

Geralda was known as generous, offering a hospitable refuge to Cathar perfects on the far western edge of Simon's domain. She was loved by many. What was Simon going to do? Johan felt as though a rope slowly coiled up from his legs, around his torso, trapping his arms. Ensnared into inaction by his position. All he could do was watch. Difficult as it was, he pulled his shoulders back. He must not portray his true feelings.

"Take her to the well," said Simon.

The soldiers pulled Geralda to a well at the center of the plaza. As she passed Johan, he saw the whites of her eyes swell in terror.

"No!" shouted Aimery.

Johan took a step forward, his hand instantly going for his sword. Then he froze.

"Silence him," retorted Simon, and a soldier next to Aimery took the pommel of his sword and crashed it into Aimery's face.

"Throw the blasphemer into the well. Send her to hell where she belongs."

Before Johan could breathe, soldiers lifted Geralda and pitched her headfirst into the well. A mournful cry came from Aimery as he held a bleeding mouth in his hands. Gasps echoed down the line of captured knights. All energy drained from Johan. He had done nothing. He had, through his inaction, condoned Simon's actions.

Simon looked back at Aimery. Then he looked about him, on the ground, searching for something. The soldier next to him said, "Sire?"

Simon responded, "Bring me stones."

Shuffling feet branched out into the plaza, to the walls and surrounding areas, and returned shortly with rocks, piling them up against the well. Simon picked up one of the larger ones.

"In the Bible, they stoned blasphemers." And he lifted the rock over his head, and threw it down the well. He nodded to the soldiers around him, and more than twenty copied.

Geralda was probably already dead. But the ensuing downpour of rocks ensured it. Aimery shook. A tear fell from his eye.

Storming back to the line, Simon barked orders to continue the hanging with Aimery. They had to drag the heavy man to the gibbet. Once positioned, it took several soldiers to knock at the stump with a hammer before it flew out from under Aimery's feet, and his great body pulled the rope taut. But his weight must have been too much, for first a creak, then a pop, and the crossbar broke, sending Aimery to the ground.

"Goddamit!" Simon turned his bloodshot eyes at Johan. "Johan! Fix it, now. Fix it now!"

"Yes, sire. It will take us some time to locate a larger branch and secure it so it will hold. A thousand apologies." He knew he should not have apologized. He knew as he said it, Simon would tell him crusaders did not apologize. They took responsibility. Well, Johan was glad it happened. Anything to frustrate Simon.

"Ahhh!" Simon bellowed. "To hell with you. To hell with Aimery. Crusaders..." he turned to the crowd. "Finish them now!"

Then as though needing to visually explain what he wanted them to do, Simon drew his sword, walked over to Aimery, who writhed on the ground for the rope must not have relaxed its constricting grip, and plunged his sword into Aimery's chest. The crowd, responding with a collective roar, set to stabbing the remaining knights in line, until bodies and blood were all that was left of those who had protected Lavaur.

Yet Simon was not through.

"Lead the heretics to the riverside. This day will be remembered in history. Raymond will see the effects of his treachery. He will see it from Toulouse. He will see a beacon to the truth." The crusaders roared and filed with haste out of the plaza toward the main gate.

Johan shuddered. Would he do it again? Johan closed his eyes and winced. This was worse than Minerve. This was worse than Bram. There had to be over four hundred Cathar in Lavaur.

By the time Johan stumbled out of the city gates, the fire had already started. All his energy was gone, like water rung from a wet rag. Was he the only one who saw Simon's atrocity? The crusaders, the monks, the priests...none protested. And to emphasize that thought, a chorus emerged from below, near the fire. The monks sung Ta Deum.

There was no feeling of guilt now. Johan's eyes burned. Simon must die. And by whatever means. He could be idle no longer.

Thirty-Eight

WHY SHOULD HE ACKNOWLEDGE THEIR PRESENCE? They huddled in the doorway and spoke as though he was deaf, as though he was unable to respond to them, an inanimate object about which to discuss and speculate. They had interrupted his prayer. And Raimon did not feel like talking anyway. He had not felt like talking for a long time. Maybe there would be no reason for him to talk ever again.

Those crusaders—men of whom he only had the briefest of glimpses—they would never talk again. Why should he? Raimon tried to ignore the voices. They were merely interruptions. Like buzzing flies.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Ever since Ménzens."

"That is a long time. And he has spoken to no one?"

"Oh, there are days it looks like he will come out of it, but for the most part, no. I cannot understand it. He's never been in battle before has he?"

"No. He was a monk."

"A monk? He doesn't look like a monk. Up to the point of the battle, he did well, I should tell you. Good at organizing and motivating the troops. A natural."

"But he's not designed for killing."

"Apparently not."

There was a pause.

Raimon cringed as the memory returned. He swiveled his back to the doorway, and he peered out the window hole into a courtyard lined with arched columns. A small rectangular garden, segmented into four near-triangle spaces pointed to a stone font from which spewed clear water over carved faces. If these men would stop talking, he could hear the water.

No matter what he did, how he occupied his mind, the frequency of prayers...the images would not fade. He saw each face, as though manifest in living form, lined up for his inspection, a poking reminder like an invisible nettle driving deeper whenever he searched for it. He had killed. He had taken the lives of men, and despite the justifications Raymond and others had tried to beat into him, what he had done was opposed to everything he had once stood for. It happened too fast. He never had a moment to think, to ponder his deeds, only to act, mindless, as though pushed along at the crest of a wave until it dashed on the shore, the receding waters revealing destruction. The archers signaled the start. Crusaders dropped like leaves in the fall. Then the charge. He had been wrapped up in the intensity, the excitement, and he merely aped those around him as they dashed in animalistic fury into the melee. And he had killed.

Five men.

Five men he knew not.

Five men who would never walk on the face of the earth again.

He could never forgive himself. What was the point anyway? According to the reports, Simon only responded in kind. Hanging knights. Burning perfects. He burned four hundred perfects!

"Let me talk with him," said the one who had spoken first. The voice sounded familiar.

Shuffling of feet. Someone came to stand next to Raimon as he knelt at the foot of his bed, still staring out the window. He gazed up past the roofline at a swath of Toulouse. The city sprawled, segmented about the river Garonne. It was as large as Barcino, but not as compact. Raimon heard whoever it was slide the stool out and sit on it.

This was ridiculous. He was not going to finish his prayers. They would try to talk to him again. Try and talk him out of his guilt. Justify his actions as necessary in battle. Try to convince him even if he stayed at the sidelines, the killing would still have occurred. And that it was necessary. That they had to strike back at Simon and his army. That they had nothing else they could do. That even though hundreds died at Lavaur, thousands would be saved this summer alone by the crusade being debilitated.

Raimon slowly rose, shifted and sat on the edge of the bed. He could not pray anyway.

When he looked up, he saw Gilles. Raimon stared at him for several moments. It was good to see Gilles again, although the pang in Raimon's stomach returned the guilt, and he would prefer to be left alone. Gilles looked well. He was fully a man now; his jaw was firm, his face lengthened, and his boyish impishness lost.

"What brings you to Toulouse?"

"Humph. They told me you wouldn't speak to anyone," said Gilles.

"Not anyone. I will talk to you."

"Good." They sat in silence, eyes locked on each other as though communing at a deeper level than words would allow. Minutes passed.

"Gilles, have you ever killed a man?"

Gilles bit at his lower lip. He sighed. "No, Raimon. I haven't."

"Then don't attempt to console me."

"I'm not here for that."

"Then what are you here for?"

"Simon is coming."

Raimon sat up straight. "Here? To Toulouse?"

"Yes. I met with Johan. He says Simon has vowed to take Toulouse despite his numbers. It may be our chance."

"Our chance to what? Kill more?" Raimon turned away and looked out the window again.

"Look, Raimon. I do not know how you feel, and I hope I never do. I am merely a courier. But you have to realize we are at war with Simon. People get killed in war."

"But I never thought..." Raimon turned. He knew his eyes moistened, and he paused briefly to blink several times. "I never thought I could be capable of such evil."

Gilles took a breath. "Is it evil to want to stop the devil himself from doing evil? I know what you are thinking. I have thought of it myself as I imagined driving a sword into Simon. You fear becoming like him, and killing comes easy. You feel no remorse for such a dastardly act. That it becomes as commonplace as swatting a fly."

Raimon could not answer.

Gilles continued. "If you did not feel remorse, you would be like him. It is because you feel remorse you are truly human."

Raimon clasped his hands, extended both index fingers and tapped them together. Then he placed his fingers to either side of his nose and pressed in at the corners of his eyes. "I ask again, is it justified to want to kill one to save thousands?"

"Yes," responded Gilles. Raimon looked up and saw Gilles' left eye twitch.

"If you justify that act, then where do you draw the line? Killing two? Three? Five? Five hundred?" Raimon looked at Gilles.

Gilles did not answer immediately. He kept Raimon's gaze. Then he spoke. "It is evil, Raimon. It is evil to kill. You cannot justify it. But sometimes killing may be necessary. Sometimes it may be the only thing you can do."

"And what then?"

Another pause.

"Only forgiveness," Gilles said softly.

Raimon leaned back, inhaled deeply and then released air slowly. It did not make him feel better necessarily, but what Gilles said had the ring of truth. He had been trying justify his own actions, or to convict himself, in ignorance to the One he should have been consulting all along. Killing was wrong. Passivity was wrong. Even though trapped between cords pulling him apart in two different directions, he detected a kernel of peace. He could never justify his actions, but in the moment he had to make a decision to act or not to act, and only through the grace of God could he be reconciled, redeemed.

The two sat in silence for some time. It was toward the end of the day, for the light in Raimon's room faded, and a pleasant cool breeze feathered its way through the window and across his moist skin. The days had grown much hotter, and the evening came as a respite.

Feeling of little energy, Raimon rubbed his eyes. "You say Simon is bound to attack Toulouse. When?"

"According to Johan, they are gathering forces and plan to arrive here in a month's time."

"So, what we did at Ménzens was futile?"

"No. Simon cannot hope to take Toulouse. He comes only to frustrate. To do as much damage from a distance. He has sent word to the Pope and to the King of France requesting more troops. And if they cannot come this summer, he vows to continue next year, take Toulouse, and hang Raymond."

"And what can we do?"

"First, defend as we can. Second, we have a plan. It is a long chance, but we have to take it."

Gilles paused.

"What is it?" Raimon sensed his interest returning. Or was it foreboding?

"First, we train you how to use a trebuchet."

Thirty-Nine

SIMON SIDLED UP TO JOHAN, STOOD WITH LEGS APART, fists on hips and gazed straight ahead at the siege wagon. Johan immediately tensed. Half of his body—that facing Simon—prickled as though his skin shriveled. The revulsion he felt was tempered with the hope maybe this could be Simon's last battle.

"Johan, how do you suppose I perceive the success of this project?"

He must be in another of his moods. Simon's habit of asking questions in lieu of making declarative statements drove Johan to distraction. If he wanted to say something, why did he not just say it? Why the circuitous implications? There was something he wanted said, something he expected as an answer, and Johan struggled to guess the correct one. Undoubtedly, Johan's answer would be wrong, and undoubtedly he would be chastised again for being imperceptive.

"Sire, as you have said, this will be the breaking point of Toulouse." Simon, despite the lack of crusaders, had convinced himself Toulouse could be taken.

"Indeed. At great expense."

Could it really be that easy? One siege engine the deciding factor in a battle? Johan stole a quick glance at Simon. The Viscount of the County of Toulouse wanted to make his name complete by taking the city of his newly acquired name. The last major stronghold. The bane of his control of Languedoc, perched far to the west, ruled by his nemesis Raymond.

It was a massive gamble. His attendants and knights all said they did not have sufficient numbers to take the city. They were nearing the end of summer, and what crusaders they had after the ambush earlier that year were coming up to the end of their service period, and would soon return home regardless of where Simon was in the siege. The mercenaries he had hired, with promises of wealth from the capture of Toulouse, began to question success, and Simon was at risk of losing their loyalty. In all, Simon had cornered himself into a perilous position. Maybe there was no need to subvert him. Maybe they should let Simon forge his own demise.

"And how would you assess your progress to completing this siege wagon?"

There was more. There was always more. Simon was not pleased with Johan's urgency, or lack thereof. Johan felt the twinge he often felt, conditioned as the harbinger of a sound verbal beating from Simon. Johan took a deep breath.

"I estimate we shall be completed in three days' time." Johan eyed the massive cart, the underpinning structure that looked like a building on wheels. It was designed to house fifty men, each to push against horizontal poles, the engine to move the elephantine structure. Fresh animal skins would eventually cover walls housing the men, as they had at Castelar, to protect the wooden structure from flaming arrows. Then a massive tower would be constructed out of the corner supports, tall enough to loom over Toulouse's walls, for dozens of archers to rain death upon those inside the city. Only, Johan knew he would never allow it to get that close.

"What would you do differently to have it completed tomorrow?"

Now he came to the point. Tomorrow? Simon, in his ever-present impatience, wanted Johan to complete the tower in one third the needed time. If Johan cared the tower was constructed properly, he would vehemently oppose Simon's pressure—to a point. Maybe that was what Simon wanted to hear. Johan never knew what Simon was looking for. Best to appear he was doing the right thing.

"Sire, to complete it in one day would mean we compromise on the construction. We have not installed the support beams, and if they are not properly secured, we risk instability."

"What would it look like should you still construct it with stability and complete it by tomorrow?"

Johan knew where this conversation would go. Simon would not listen to reason, for he had convinced himself the need for expediency was greater than possible consequences. What Simon wanted to hear was the siege tower would be completed tomorrow. What did Johan care anyway? Plans were set. Their gambit was in place. And Johan's real job was to ensure the tower's progress halted...at the correct distance.

"Sire. It will be completed as you need. By tomorrow, you shall see."

"Excellent, Johan."

Johan did not want this man's praise. Simon may be superior now, but soon, soon that would change. It had to.

"You see, Johan, we near a critical juncture."

"Sire?"

"If we were to fail, how do you think the lords of the north will perceive our ability to subdue these lands?"

"Surely they would understand we battle at a deficit. The ambush..."

"Do not mention that debacle. Raymond will get his due. No, they will not accept excuses. An honorable soldier does not make excuses. I will not tolerate excuses." He turned to Johan and met his eye.

"No, sire." Honor? Does an honorable soldier murder eighty knights after a castle siege? Does an honorable soldier cast a woman down a well and then stone her? Does an honorable soldier burn hundreds of people in a massive bonfire?

Johan wanted to spit.

"No, Johan. We must succeed. And we will, for God is on our side."

Johan wanted to scoff. Does God take sides? Would He take Simon's side? Does God stand at the wall between human decision and choose the victor? Is the outcome predetermined, and all decisions and actions merely feigned free will? If God was on Simon's side, then he would succeed, and the efforts of Johan, Raymond, all of the people in resistance, would surely fail, and all was futile. If God was on Simon's side, the people in Languedoc were doomed. If God was on Simon's side, there would be an evil god.

There were times Johan was frustrated with the religion he had known all his life. If God was active in determining the outcome of human events, then why did he allow people such as Simon to rampage at will across the countryside destroying lives? There were times he wondered if God sat back and watched, shaking his head, debating if it was a mistake to have created the world. Or at least humans. Or maybe God was grander, at a level impossible for Johan to even comprehend. That somehow through the course of human freedom, freedom to fail, God was able to weave a tapestry of hope and love. However, in the midst of a loom that refused to follow the directions of the weaver, Johan wondered if any of this would ever make a pattern.

"As you say, sire."

"Carry on," said Simon as he turned and walked away.

"Erard!" Johan shouted to his foreman. "What would it take to complete the tower by tomorrow?"

The morning sun cast a swath of muted yellow across the pink-stoned city. Turrets, conical like those of Carcassonne, rose behind massive walls like mushrooms poking out of grass. The city was built along the Garonne, and Simon could never dream of fully isolating it, even with the thousands of crusaders he had hoped would arrive. They had no chance to outlast Toulouse in a siege of attrition, for the city had easy access to water, and supplies could be brought in by circumventing the camps Simon had set about the eastern and southern perimeter. In all, Johan knew it was a losing attempt, which made him pleased, although not enough to dispel the shaking fingers and growling stomach that plagued him as he watched the siege tower begin its long and laborious trek towards the city walls.

He eyed the path the tower would take, tonight stopping at a distance just beyond the range of Toulouse's arrows and catapults. Or at least that would be what Simon would believe. Simon would not have the knowledge of the trebuchet. Simon would also not have the knowledge the Toulouse catapults would intentionally fire short.

In any other circumstance, Johan would be proud. His first major leadership role built the largest siege engine thus far in Simon's rampage, or probably ever seen in Languedoc. The workers called it a castle on wheels. It stood taller than Toulouse's walls, beams presenting a short-walled platform to the sky. A Tower of Babel. Only the builders were not attempting to reach God.

Johan tried to imagine what the people within Toulouse would think, seeing such a structure inch its way towards them. It would have been like watching death slowly creep towards you, like a funeral march where at the culmination, you would be the sacrifice. Strategically, they would plan ways to stop it, to destroy it. But they expected it. They anticipated it, and they prepared for it.

Shouts rang from all sides of the tower. Groans and grunts from the men inside reminded Johan of the much smaller siege wagon at Castelar, when he was stuck inside an airless chamber steaming with wet heat, the odor of un-bathed, sweating men, heaving against immovable poles, stumbling over rock and grass tufts, inhaling the stench of the dead carcasses. On either side of the tower, groups of crusaders progressively advanced behind movable wooden walls. The scene mimicked a tall ship surging through thick ocean waters, cutting a wake into the countryside.

Thud. The first projectile. It was barely perceptible, for the ambient noise blocked out even the host of workers and horses that followed the tower, waiting to reestablish camp beyond the firing range. Johan peered ahead. Another thud. Not even half way to the siege engine's current position. He eyed the distance. Had they made their attempts too short, too obvious?

The tower closed the gap half way to where the first projectiles had hit. Johan called a halt to progress as predetermined by Simon and the other strategists. Godebert came up to him.

"Are you ready for a test volley?"

Johan nodded. Godebert dashed off to one of the crusaders standing at a distance behind the mobile walls. Orders ensued. Then at one shout, forty archers released arrows from behind the walls. The darts arched up in a rainbow and fell half the distance to the fortress. Arrows impaled into the ground like haphazard fence posts, indicating an approximate range. Another command bellowed from below the tower, and a flock of arrows streamed out from the top of the tower, and in a half arc, surpassed the first volley and landed some distance closer to the fortress. Soon Godebert returned.

"Johan, we'll continue. Father William indicates we have ample distance. And, those fools within Toulouse are doing us the favor of showing us their catapult range. Did you see where they hit?"

"Yes. Just ahead, somewhere between the first and second volley."

"Father William said he calculates the reverse measurement of our volleys and the distance to the castle walls, so he knows our foe's range. And the closer we get, as they take catapult attempts, we will know when to stop at a safe distance."

"I see."

"Unless they are holding back."

Had Godebert surmised foul play? "What do you mean?"

"Father William says they may be firing short in order to fool us into coming closer."

Damn. Had they been too confident in their plans and underestimated Simon's men?

"But, he says it is not a major issue, for we need to be able to withstand an assault anyway, for tomorrow as we close the gap, they will constantly fire upon us."

Interesting. Overconfident? Or was the siege wagon really strong enough to withstand such an assault? Johan hoped Simon's impatience to complete the tower would show in its inability to remain stable.

"We continue?" asked Johan.

"Yes. I'll return as we near the first set of arrows."

Johan turned and shouted to his foreman. "Erard, resume!"

Erard nodded and ran about the siege tower shouting orders. Soon, with groans of men and wood, the gigantic castle on wheels slowly budged and eked closer to Toulouse.

As the tower neared the location Godebert identified as their stopping point, a rock the size of a table flew out from the fortress, as though a hidden giant hurled it. Slowly rotating, it arched up and out, directly toward the tower. Johan's eyes locked onto the shape and then quickly looked along its likely path. Even he was surprised. The rock slammed into the base of the siege wagon.

Then, like a seismic aftermath, there came a moment of quiet. Eerie silence, tense with anticipation, until splintering and rasping, the rock reeled backwards—a slow ricochet—and toppled to the ground. Johan saw only the edge of the rock from his position behind and to the left of the siege wagon. He had winced, a reflexive action, causing him to blink at the moment of impact. Then screams, yelling from within the structure. Muted voices. Agony. The first row of pushers must have been struck.

As Johan gathered his wits, remembering he was still in charge of the siege tower, motion from the corner of his eye caused him to look back at the fortress. Another projectile.

This one slammed in front of the left wheel sending a shower of dirt and rocks into the air.

Johan wanted to continue watching but he knew his role was to protect those in the tower.

"Pull back! Erard! Move it back."

Where was Erard? Johan scanned the area around the tower. Men ran out from under the structure. Crusaders huddled behind mobile walls, mouths gaping, inert.

There he was, near the other rear wheel. "Erard!"

Coming to him, he saw his foreman dragging a body.

"Johan, three have fallen."

"Get them out, quickly. We must reverse. We've moved within range."

Two successive impacts sent shockwaves through the siege wagon. One hit the right front wheel, and as Johan reacted to the sound, he turned in time to see a divot in the wheel and a piece of wood flying towards him. He ducked. He heard a scream.

Turning back, Johan saw Erard fall backward, his right arm clasping his left shoulder.

"Erard!" Johan blurted out. He stepped over the body Erard had been towing. The cloth from Erard's shoulder was torn, but there did not appear to be any blood.

"Ahhh!" shouted Erard.

"How bad?"

Erard raised into a seated position. Frowning and looking at his shoulder, he said, "I will live."

"Can you walk?"

"Yes."

"Get to the infirmary. See if anything is broken. I will take care of things here."

Erard nodded and slowly rose. Johan glanced back at the body, and as another rock slammed into the front of the structure, he turned to the fleeing workers and shouted.

"Stop! Get back here, you lousy lot of sappers." Heads turned. "Get back in and pull her back. We have to move it out of range."

Reluctantly, the men began back walking to the tower.

"Move! Or I'll have Simon personally remove every one of your fingers!"

With most of the workers returning to the siege wagon, Johan also recruited some of the crusaders to help, and amid a continual spattering of projectiles, the massive structure began to move again, this time retreating.

They had gone about ten feet when a massive rock slammed into the left wheel. Johan had forgotten how accurate these strikes could be. Despite the wheel being a foot thick, the rock crushed through iron bands and into the wheel's mass. It stuck. Not only could the wheel not be turned, the rock appeared to be well-lodged, and it would be difficult to remove it. Then another hit one of the forward beams, removing a chunk of the outside of the pole, continuing on through the tower structure and slamming into the roof above the men.

Simon approached on horse.

"Johan! What is going on here?"

"Sire, somehow we miscalculated the range. They have damaged the wheel, and we can neither retreat nor advance. We need to halt here and repair, assuming we can weather this attack."

"Goddammit! You were supposed to stop before the range was met."

Johan started to apologize, and then thought better of it. "We must halt their attack and make repairs." Johan said.

Simon wheeled his horse about, and as he moved off to the left, Johan heard him shouting. "Bring me Father William! Move the lines back and bring in the goddamn catapults. I want covering fire."

For the next half hour, rocks slammed into the tower, further notching beams, damaging wheels, shredding animal skins. The crusaders and their movable walls retreated behind the tower. Three catapults moved into position and began a counterattack, targeted on the locations from where the projectiles emerged. Some shots landed, but most fell short.

As the evening wore on, the attack subsided. Simon had the encampment set up a reasonable distance behind the tower, and he retreated to his tent. Johan was to supervise the repairs by torchlight. There would be no sleep that night.

Forty

"WE ATTACK IN SILENCE, AT FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN."

Raymond VI of Toulouse stood on one of the platforms constructed to raise catapults and trebuchets to three-fourths the height of the castle walls. He sounded as he did prior to the ambush at Ménzens. Raymond had summoned God's aid and buoyed the soldiers with courage and justification. Now, he was to attack the siege tower. Even though it was planned, the lack of details seemed like a reaction, an impulse, for his men would have to cover quite a distance through an open field before they even reached the tower. Why did they not plan a nocturnal attack? Raimon would never understand war, how they made decisions, what determined a good strategy. It reminded him of bulls kicking the dirt prior to charging.

"We shall burn the tower to the ground. We shall fight!"

Raimon was as guilty of any evil as the soldiers, or the crusaders, or even—dare he think it—Simon. He knew the act of war was not desired by God. God was for peace, for reconciliation, for healing. What was Raimon to do? If he remained passive, Simon would continue to murder in the name of the Church. Everything in him said killing, regardless of context, was wrong. Everything in him said doing nothing, the sin of omission, was wrong. Everything in him said, nonetheless, there was nothing else he could do.

"Your swords and maces shall drip with the blood of your enemy. And Simon shall fall!"

Evil was an infection, gangrene on his hand, spreading up his arm, inflaming, eroding, poisoning. If he did not stop the proliferation, he would die. He must cut off the hand. But in so doing, he might bleed to death. He imagined the gangrene on one hand, the other hand holding an axe, and indecisive as to what action he needed to take. He knew what he had to do. He feared what he must do.

Maybe God was the doctor, waiting to heal. Waiting to sit by bedside and nurse the wound, regardless the hand would never grow back, but persistent in making something good come from something so bad.

It was difficult to see the redemption, for now he only saw the pain and the evil.

"Are you with me?" Count Raymond shouted. The crowd responded with a roar. "Then make preparations. I want all assembled an hour before dawn. I want all machines ready as well, for as we attack, we will want covering fire." He paused. "The Good God will redeem our spirits!"

Raimon looked at the odd assortment of faces surrounding the trebuchet for which he was responsible. Two were young men who retrieved rocks the size of two or three loaves of bread and loaded them on to the trebuchet sling. The rest were women, for the Count had recruited all from within the city. Two were Cathar credentes, wearing black robes. It seemed strange for them to be there, for their religion did not condone violence. There was obviously an array of beliefs from those willing to fight to those desiring to retreat from conflict.

The trebuchet was a miniature version of Malevoisine. Standing probably fifteen feet high, the triangular structure held a movable arm. A large wooden basket on the side facing out from the castle held rocks, the counterbalance to the other end of the arm where the sling attached. The sling side was pulled down and secured for loading. Today's action proved they could be accurate, but the size of rocks they flung would do no damage to the underlying structure. That was for the massive trebuchet which stood behind the opening plaza. They could, however, annihilate a crusader. Raimon shuddered at the image. Somehow it would have been easier if their targets were inanimate like the tower, not living beings. Despite the numbness of firing into a crowd of helmets, Raimon cringed each time the trebuchet flung its missile.

Raimon said, "Let us gather a sufficient stock of ammunition. Then I suggest we get some sleep so we are ready when the time requires."

Raimon's crew stood atop a large wooden platform, built in the past few months as the city prepared for siege. Several similar platforms perched about the central wall, deemed the most likely where Simon would attack... Most likely because of the information they had received via Johan. Two mangonels. Three catapults. His trebuchet. And then the other massive trebuchet on the ground, from which rocks the size of troughs launched up and over the fortress wall. This was their Malevoisine.

"Will we be able to stop them?" The question came from the youngest woman. A Cathar credente, she could not be more than fifteen. Most her age would be married and with child, but she, slim and petite, dusted her hands onto an already dirty and dusty black robe, and stood next to the counterweight pull.

"I do not know. I have heard Simon does not have sufficient numbers, and the tower is his last gambit. If we can destroy it, we can remove any momentum he might have."

"Why does he hate us so?"

"Quiet, child," came the gruff voice of an older woman standing next to her.

"No, that is fine," responded Raimon. "I don't know if I can fully answer that question. It is complicated. He believes us to be evil."

"He is the evil one," said the older woman. She scowled. "He is the devil."

"That may be," said Raimon. "But nonetheless he is bent on destroying us, and we can only defend ourselves."

"What will happen to us if we cannot stop him?" asked the young woman. "I heard they burned over four hundred people at Lavaur." Large eyes. Her upper lip trembled as she spoke. There was something about the girl that gave Raimon a sinking feeling in his gut. Pretty. Innocent. Not proud and beautiful like...like Guilelma was.

Raimon was struck with a wave of sadness which he tried to quell as fast as it had arisen. Guilelma would probably have chosen action as these women had. But that was not to be. Now it was his chance for some morsel of revenge. God forgive him.

"We will not allow that to happen. Go and get rest. Tomorrow we will stop Simon. It shall be our trebuchet that makes the final blow!"

The two young men cheered. The woman nodded. The girl bit her lower lip. Raimon wondered if he could ever feel the enthusiasm he tried to bestow on the others.

Raimon did not sleep that night. It was still dark, scuffling feet and softly spoken orders aroused him from his mat. He rose and walked out into the courtyard. Men gathered, strapping swords, palming maces and donning helmets. They kept discussion to a minimum, undoubtedly trying not to reveal their plans to anyone who might or could overhear, regardless of the distance.

Climbing the platform, he saw the women were already awake and waiting by the trebuchet. He looked down at the gathering mass. A soft breeze blew past his cheek. Cool. Fresh. He inhaled deeply, partly in an effort to still a growing tension.

The two young men clambered up the ladder and stood by the rocks, rubbing eyes and yawning. For some reason, it made Raimon think of Gilles. He had been younger than these two when Raimon first met him at Carcassonne. Youthful exuberance. Fearless to do what he thought was right. Raimon hoped Gilles would now be safely in his home, in Fanjeaux, with Angelesa and Marti. He was a courier, not a fighter. But without him, they would never have the knowledge of Simon's intentions.

Raimon turned to look out past the wall. He walked over to it, and climbed up the stone steps that intersected the platform. It was still dark, yet the soft glow from a receding moon cast a faint glow, and Raimon tried to see the tower. Looking directly where he thought it to be, he saw nothing. Then the faint white of a tent. Then the dark silhouette.

Johan was out there somewhere. Would he be safe when Raymond's men attacked? There had been no discussion of Johan's fate. It was assumed he would somehow find his way out of the situation. Maybe he had already left camp.

Raimon stood staring for several minutes. Slowly, the outline of more objects became clear. A pale orange in the sky hinted at a distant sun, at the dawn of a new day. And then creaking hinges. They opened the gate.

As soon as the sun broke the horizon, hundreds of men took off in a silent run. Their feet rumbled the ground as they padded onto grass and aimed, like a thick ramming rod, toward the encampment.

"Ready the engines!"

Raimon heard the command, not shouted but spoken, coming from below. The gates swung shut, and he heard the beam thud back into place. He dashed down the steps to the platform. It had begun.

Forty-One

"WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING JOHAN! They will destroy the tower and kill every worker. You go in. He sometimes listens to you. This piety is disastrous!" Johan had never seen Godebert as frustrated, furious and confused as he looked now. And for good reason.

It was early morning, and as expected—and predicted—Simon and the other lords were in a large tent not a hundred yards from their massive siege engine, as Domingo recited morning mass. Outside, on the other side of the tent, mayhem reigned as Toulouse attacked. Johan was amused. He tried as best as he could to stifle the ironic laughter that brewed while he watched the most absurd thing he had ever seen.

Simon refused to halt mass in its midst to defend the tower and counter the sudden attack. Simon's forces congregated behind the tent, and from their vantage, they saw the soldiers coming as mass began. A horde of dark shapes silently encroached. The soft rumble of hundreds of feet. Then a shout from the front lines. Crusaders, all men of action, collectively tensed and readied for battle. But the orders to dash to the aid of those who manned the siege wagon never came.

Godebert rubbed at his jaw and paced about Johan, taking furtive glances back to the action. Johan replied, "Why would he listen to me? Is he mad?"

"He is so blasted pious; he refuses to move until the final consecration. By that time, the tower will be destroyed. Do something!"

"I will try," responded Johan. As he passed Godebert, he rolled his eyes, and then stole another look at the fighting. It could not have been planned any better.

He sauntered to the tent, probably too slow for Godebert's comfort, and stepped through the flaps. Some of the lords turned to see him enter. The stress on their faces was obvious. They knew of the attack. How could they not, for the sounds almost drowned a worried-looking Domingo as he intoned the litany. Feet nervously shuffled. Johan heard faint whispers. Candles near the makeshift altar burned straight and tall. If anxiety could be smelled, Johan inhaled it with relish.

Domingo finished the Eucharistic prayer.

"Sire," Johan whispered as he came up next to Simon.

Simon turned and glared at Johan. "Silence!" he whispered back. "First Godebert and now you. We will finish the mass we have begun. Now leave."

The words came out, out of obligation, but Johan did not mean them. They felt like an omen, or in his case, a pronouncement. "Sire, they are attacking the tower."

"Silence, you idiot!" This time Simon spoke loud enough for those around him to hear. Domingo paused and glanced in their direction. The monks began a chant, the Sanctus.

"As you wish, sire," Johan responded. When Simon looked away, Johan could not stop a smile from cracking his lips. The man was a fool. And a fool to his own demise. His religion was so important he would not stop it to save the lives of others. His piety so warped, he bowed to God while plotting the destruction of God's Creation. This would only help Toulouse. Maybe by the time Simon was finished with mass, the tower would be consumed in flames, all the workers dead, and his glorious plans to take Toulouse destroyed.

Johan retreated several steps, turned and went back outside to Godebert. Domingo would pass communion to Simon and the priests next.

"Well?" Godebert said, no longer whispering.

"He says he will not move until mass has completed."

"The f..." Godebert lowered his voice. "The fool! Look, they are setting the tower aflame."

Orange and yellow flickers emerged from the base of the tower structure. There was vigorous fighting all around. Soldiers streamed in from the movable barriers and clashed swords. Screams punctuated the crisp late summer morning. Those standing near Godebert and Johan looked on with imploring eyes. None could believe their leader would do such a thing. Ominous chants emanated from the tent, and then, echoing from the field, shrieks of death.

"Go back in. Try again."

"But Godebert, he ordered me to leave."

"Do it anyway. Try again. I will start with the knights so they are ready as soon as we have permission to disperse."

"As you wish," Johan said as he turned and ambled back to the tent. There was a slight bounce to his step.

"May Almighty God bless you, Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit," intoned Domingo.

The tent's occupants responded, "Amen."

And then came Domingo's ironic closing dismissal, "Go in the peace of Christ." To which the crowd responded, "Thanks be to God."

A hush descended on the tent as Simon rose from his kneeling position. He faced Domingo and the altar and crossed himself. Then he slapped on his helmet and turned to the other lords.

"Jesus Christ the righteous, now give us death or give us victory!"

A collective sigh was immediately followed by clicking of swords and donning of helmets.

"Now we charge the bastards!" bellowed Simon. The lords ran out of the tent and shouted orders. Simon turned and spotted Johan.

"Johan! With me."

What did Simon want? Another verbal beating? But it did not matter. The plans were afoot, the tower was being torched, Simon's army was taken off guard.

Simon walked briskly out of the tent, and as Johan followed, he saw Domingo and the priests hastily gather up their implements on the altar and begin stashing them into crates.

"Never disturb mass again," Simon snapped as they walked briskly toward the burning structure. Soon, Crusaders streamed past them to the fire, collectively roaring. Enough sunlight peered over the horizon to show the roiling mass of helmets crash like a wave into the brawl. Raymond must have emptied the castle, for there were hundreds of them. Simon's forces would eventually overtake them, but many would die in the process.

Simon drew his sword as they neared the battle. Johan hesitated. He had planned to be away from the encounter, but now he was being drawn into it. Would he have to strike against those he had helped launch this attack?

Simon glanced at Johan and frowned, his eyes going to Johan's scabbard. Johan pulled his sword.

"To victory!" shouted Simon as he ran into the melee.

Johan followed. Simon clashed swords before Johan came up behind him. Then the thud of rock, and in Johan's periphery, several men flew past him. They must have activated the trebuchets...as planned. Then screams of pain. Johan saw one crusader with an arrow in his belly bend forward and fall on his face.

Looking quickly at Toulouse, he saw shapes gathered half way between them and the walls. Then a dark shadow lifted from the figures, like a cloud or a murder of crows. It flew toward Johan. Arrows. They had moved archers within striking distance. The arrows would rain upon both foe and friend.

An arrow slammed into the ground next to Johan's foot. He recoiled. Then another rock appeared out of nowhere, slamming into the ground near the tower. And another, hitting the forward beam, and it sent sparks exploding and showering down upon fighting figures below it.

Simon hacked his sword down upon the shoulder of a man dressed in quilted jacket and leather gauntlets. It reminded Johan of what he probably had looked like that first time he and those from Ginestas joined the crusade. The blade dug deep into flesh, and Simon, removing his blade by kicking out his foot into the man's midsection, threw his body into another soldier, knocking him down. Simon stood quickly, swiveled his sword and struck into the man's throat.

The leader of the crusade moved silently, methodically. A seasoned fighter. No thought to what he was doing, only reacting, calculating, anticipating. Johan stood stock still, his blade still raised in front, in a weak en garde, watching Simon. Should he come up behind Simon and kill him? This would be the opportunity. Who cared if someone saw him? This would be the end, this would stop the madness.

Johan stepped closer to Simon. He angled his blade down, ready to strike. It would be in the back. Dishonorable. Should he challenge Simon? That was absurd. The man must die.

Johan summoned the courage and pressed forward. Then a reverberating slash. Someone had struck his blade. It was one of the soldiers from Toulouse. Dark beard, glowing eyes, teeth gnashing as his mouth sneered. After knocking Johan's sword out of the way, he lashed out at Johan with a fist. It hit Johan on the left cheek as he turned to avoid a direct strike. Johan staggered back. Burning seared his cheek, he felt disoriented. The man must have rivets on his glove.

Then the soldier pulled his sword sideways and hacked at Johan. Jerking in reaction, Johan raised his sword vertically, pommel up, and the man's sword hit his blade before crashing into Johan's ribs. The strike forced Johan's weapon into his side, the point scraping along Johan's thigh, slicing through hose and into flesh.

Johan wanted to shout he was on the soldier's side, but he knew he could not. Stepping back, ripping pain came from his thigh. Johan arced his sword up, around his opponent's blade, and struck the man's forehead with his pommel. A dazed look. Eyes rolled back. The man collapsed.

Johan made the mistake of looking at his thigh. Blood surged from the gaping wound. The pain intensified.

He stepped over the body and came upon Simon again. Simon was locked in a struggle with another combatant. Again his back was exposed, the chain mail lifted above the hip as Simon pushed forward. Now would be his chance. Johan leveled his sword. He thrust it forward.

Then to Johan's surprise and shock, Simon's head lashed backwards. His body wrenched from the grasp of his opponent and flew backwards as though someone had looped a noose about his neck and jerked it suddenly, forcibly. Simon cascaded on to his back several feet from where he had stood. His face covered by a rock.

When he hit the ground, the rock continued tumbling past Simon. It was covered in blood. Johan peered at Simon. His face and head smashed beyond recognition.

The great Simon de Montfort was dead! Johan wanted to shout it. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. His legs shook. Trembling hands lost control of his sword, and it fell to the ground. He turned to look at the castle, at Toulouse. The trebuchet had done its job, better than he could ever have hoped. Could this be it? Could this signify the end of the crusade?

And then the impact. It hit him like a fist, solid and pointed. As he swayed and stumbled backwards, he glanced at his chest to see an arrow sticking from his left breast.

Forty-Two

EACH VOLLEY COULD MEAN SOMEONE'S DEATH. And as accurate as he knew the trebuchet to be, he was sure someone died as rocks flew into a mass of soldiers and crusaders battling around the burning tower. Would it be one of theirs, or one of the crusaders? Did it matter?

"Forgive me lord," Raimon intoned each time the sling snapped forward and flung a stone across the expanse. How many of the crusaders really knew what they were doing anyway? Likely, most came for concessions, the promise of eternal life from the Pope. Or money. Did they hate the Cathars as did Simon and his ilk?

The sun glared over the horizon, making it difficult to gauge successive attempts. Raimon wondered what was happening out there. The plan had gone well thus far. The tower burned and would be destroyed. But, how fared the battle? Simon's men would outnumber them. How many would they lose before sounding the retreat?

A figure dashed in through the gates, reopened when they let the archers out, and shouted, "Stop! Stop! Cease firing! Cease firing!"

Raimon turned to those at the trebuchet and raised his hand. They had finished loading the sling and were ready for another launch. "Tie down the arm, and set the stone aside. Let us see what has happened."

Raimon slid down the ladder and stumbled into the courtyard. Several soldiers marched in through the gate, which was now fully open. They shouted, "Simon de Montfort is dead!" He heard a collective gasp. Then through their midst, another soldier—or maybe a page—dashed by, weaving through the figures. It looked like he was in a hurry. The soldiers repeated, "Simon is dead!"

Someone from the wall top began a rhythmic chant. Soon many followed. "Dead. Dead. Simon is dead!" The workers began to beat the rhythm with sticks and weapons. Several archers entered through the gates, their bows strung diagonally across their backs, taking up the chorus. "Dead. Dead. Simon is dead!" Raimon approached one of them.

"What has happened?"

"Simon has fallen. Hit by a rock. He's dead! We have won!" He shouted it not to Raimon but to those gathered at the city gates.

Soon, many had descended to the courtyard. All around him, people chanted and cheered and celebrated. Raimon stood in silence. Dazed. He felt deflated. This was exactly what he and they had hoped for. He should feel elated. Why did he not? Maybe it was the realization of finality, the possibility the destruction would end. Maybe it was disbelief. Maybe it was too much for him to comprehend, and he gazed numbly in shock. Simon was dead? The tide of the crusade, retreating to the ocean... Because of one man? Could all of this hinge on one man?

Raimon watched as archers returned to the city, and others who had been manning the engines wandered outside. It struck him this could have been an elaborate ruse, a counter to their plans for feigning their distance to the tower. He looked about, confused, not knowing what to do. Should he join the celebration? Should he warn for caution?

"Wait!" He dashed to the gate and confronted some who walked out. "We do not know whether the battle is over. What if this is not a message from our leaders. Don't go out until we hear all is safe."

They ignored him. They pushed past him as though he was nothing more than the gate itself. Smiling. Laughing. Oblivious. Raimon watched as they walked out into the field. He glanced out to the battle scene. It looked quiet. It looked as though the fighting had stopped, but he could not be completely sure. The tower belched plumes of black smoke.

"Make way!" Someone shouted from behind. Raimon backed toward the gate as someone on horseback—it was the page he saw running earlier—pushed through the crowd, and when free at the gate, galloped toward the burning structure.

What should he do? Raimon knew little of battle, but he knew enough to be hesitant of a quick victory. Simon may indeed be dead, but that did not mean the superior numbers of crusaders had also died. They could be regrouping. Maybe he should go find one of the leaders. But Count Raymond had gone out into battle, and as he looked about the courtyard, through the milling crowd, up the ladders and along the parapet, Raimon only saw revelers drunk with victory.

He thought to return to the platform and climb up the wall for a view. Maybe he could see better from up there. As he was about to do so, he noticed a rider approach. As it got closer, he saw it was not the page, but Raymond. He came to a skidding stop at the gates before plowing into the gathered crowd. His horse was jittery, excited.

"Gather the carts," he shouted. "We must recover the wounded." At first, the crowd had not noticed him and continued their excited chattering. Then, quickly, a hush spread. Raymond repeated his order.

The crowd parted as several automatically swiveled and hastened through the courtyard toward the stables.

Instinctively, Raimon followed, and when he reached the stables, helped pull out horses and hitch them to carts. As he hopped onto the seat and grabbed the reins, Raimon had a sudden memory. The battle of Castelar, when he and Gilles went to search for survivors. He remembered the dusty drive into the vacant suburb. Would they find survivors this morning? How many had died?

He urged the horse forward and was soon bouncing across the field toward fire and lumps strewn like wreckage all around what was now a bonfire. He pulled up as he came to the battle scene. The tower was fully aflame. A monstrous pyre licked into the morning sky. Black smoke billowed up and dispersed much higher in a plume extending to the west. Bodies dotted the countryside. Raimon was only able to distinguish between soldier and crusader by the tunic and coat of arms of his lord. There were some who walked among the dead, prodding or stealing weapons. Laughing and yelling, a group of soldiers charged the tents and tore them down.

It appeared the crusaders had left. Surely, they could not have all been killed. There was no implication of reprisal. The crusaders must have dispersed after discovering Simon was dead.

Raimon dismounted the cart and began wandering through the field of bodies. None moved. He heard moaning in the distance where other people dragged the injured toward carts. Off to his right a group congregated about a mound. It must be a body. Someone had draped a purple cloth over it. He walked toward the crowd.

One soldier, broad-shouldered and helmet-less, kicked at the corpse. "Bastard!" he sneered. Simon's body? Raimon halted. Did he really want to see Simon's body? Was his vengeance so great he would gloat over a dead body? No. Raimon took a deep breath and steeled himself. It was over. It was time for reparations not reveling in the dead.

What mattered was finding survivors. He scanned the immediate area.

Hearing a slight moan, Raimon turned to his right. Lying about twenty feet from him, an arrow protruding from the man's chest, was a crusader. The injured crusader moved and rose to his elbows.

That face. It looked familiar. It was Johan!

Raimon dashed to Johan and dropped to his knees.

"Johan! What... Are you...?"

Johan squinted. He was in obvious pain, but his eyes, pupils dilated, shifted back and forth as though he could not see. "Is that you...Raimon?"

"Yes. Johan. My God! Let me get you help." He started to rise when Johan grabbed his arm and pulled Raimon close

"Stay. Raimon, it is my time."

"No, Johan. We shall get you aid."

"Raimon, no. I am at peace with it." He rolled his head and looked at the crowd around Simon's body. "It is over." Looking back at Raimon, he swallowed with difficulty. His lips were dry and cracking, but they smiled. "We did it, Raimon."

"Yes, Johan. But..." Raimon wavered. Should he force Johan into the cart? The movement would surely make matters worse. Maybe he should charge back to the city and find a doctor.

"The idiot..." Johan winced as he let a wave of pain pass. "The idiot would not counter until mass had completed. Only then would he fight. And by then it was too late. In the end, it was his religion that was his downfall." Johan chuckled, but Raimon was not sure if he was laughing or crying because of each painful breath.

"Johan, let me move you to the cart."

As if he had not heard, Johan continued, "I was going to kill him. I had my sword drawn, and I was about to stick him like a pig, when..." Another shudder; he tightly shut his eyes. "When the rock hit him." Johan opened his eyes. "It is finished."

"Yes, Johan. It is finished. Now, we must..."

Johan interrupted him again. "There is only one thing left to do. I... I need your promise."

"My promise? Johan, what is it? We must get you help. Let me go find a doctor."

"No. I need you to promise..." Johan now looked intently at Raimon. He pulled Raimon closer.

"Yes, Johan. I promise. What is it?"

"I made a vow." He paused, as if gathering strength. "A vow to care for her. I need you to promise..."

Her? What was Johan talking about? He was delirious. The arrow had gone deep. Dark maroon blood stained the tunic and the chain mail through which the arrow had pierced. Johan gasped in short breaths. Each was becoming more painful than the last.

"Guilelma. I need you to care for her."

Raimon felt like someone had slammed a log across his chest. He recoiled, incredulous. The blood drained from his body, and he stared at Johan, shocked. "Gui... Guilelma?" Raimon stuttered. "What are you talking about? Guilelma... Guilelma was...is dead. Simon put her... He killed her and Anseau at Minerve. They..."

Johan shook his head. "No. I saved her. We pulled her from the procession to the stakes." He gasped for air. "I need you to..."

The sky began rotating about Raimon's head. His ears went mute, and a sudden intense weakness, a sapping of all energy, washed through him from head to knees as though pierced in his side, his life, his blood—what was left of it—flowed out onto the ground. What was happening? Guilelma was not dead? She was alive? Raimon fought a growing fuzziness at the periphery of his vision. He was going to faint. Not now! He grimaced and focused, staring at Johan.

Johan sputtered. "I need you to care for her. I made a vow to care for her."

"Where?" Raimon sputtered. "Where is she?"

"Montsegur. She wanted to be with her own."

Raimon mouthed the words, barely audible, "Guilelma is alive?"

"She would not have me, as I expected and deserved. But I made a vow to care for her, regardless." Johan coughed, and blood dribbled out the corner of his lips. He pulled Raimon almost to his face. The arrow passed by Raimon's head. "Promise me."

"I...I promise." Raimon's mind was no longer present. He was already on the trek to Montsegur. He imagined walking, walking for days. To see her again, when he thought she was dead... Guilelma! Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. He fought the shuddering, wracking emotion that clamored to get out. He tried to force an image of Guilelma into his mind, but only the nightmarish images of fire and smoldering cinder prevailed.

And then he thought of Anseau. His brother. Anseau must have known. He must have known about Guilelma and chose to sacrifice his life. To save Raimon. To give Raimon a chance for life. If Raimon had only known...

Johan coughed again, bringing Raimon to the moment. Johan's face was entirely drained of color. His lips verged on blue. His eyes, once wide and deep, now looked distant. He fought to breathe.

Then he said softly, "Raimon, we did it. Pray... Pray for my soul."

Raimon did not feel connected to his body. It was as though a reality played out in his vision, but it was a dream. Even Johan did not seem real. He looked at Raimon and the lines in Johan's face relaxed. Then Johan gradually lay back, pulling Raimon slightly forward, until Johan's grip released. He stared into the sky. A short smile on his lips. His eyelids appeared to grow heavy, and they slowly closed as he exhaled.

Raimon stared at Johan for several minutes. He held his own breath as he waited for Johan to inhale, but he did not. Then Raimon reached out and lay his hand on Johan's shoulder.

"Go in peace, brother." Raimon crossed himself. He reached and crossed Johan on his forehead.

Then he slowly rose, unable to take his eyes off Johan's face. Despite the arrow, Johan looked at rest, at peace. The smile remained.

And then, dazed and muted from the reality about him, Raimon stumbled backwards. His vision passed by the congregating soldiers about Simon's body, past the smoldering remains of the tower, past Toulouse, and he looked southeast. And then he purposefully stepped out of the battlefield.

Epilogue

The child squirmed as the cold water dribbled down the side of its bulbous head and through a fine mesh of black hair. A tiny cough. When the priest poured water for the third time, the baby curled up its lip, closed its eyes and waved about its hands as though it wanted to wipe away the water but did not have the muscle control to do so. Its blue-grey eyes opened and stared right into his father's face.

"Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," said the priest.

The small chapel was somewhat dark and dank, not the most congenial place for a baptism, but it was the nearest Catholic church, in the small village of Montferrier by the Touvre River. The priest, ancient, stooping and fumbling, but with a bright smile that captured both the father's and mother's hearts, wore a white stole—or a soiled white stole—over his black cassock. He smiled at the baby and interrupted the sacrament often to make cooing noises at it. Only while pouring the water and pronouncing the baptismal statement did he remain somewhat serious.

Next, rummaging within his cassock, he pulled out a small corked jar. He opened it with difficulty, chuckling to himself, and then placed his finger into it.

"May the Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath regenerated thee by water and the Holy Spirit, and who hath given thee the remission of all thy sins, may He Himself anoint thee with the Chrism of Salvation, in the same Christ Jesus our Lord, unto life eternal."

Both Raimon and Guilelma responded, "Amen."

Not too long ago, Raimon would have never expected to hear those words come from Guilelma. But she had agreed to be flexible, to not fully judge, and to allow this baptism of their first child.

The priest took his finger, dripping with oil, and formed the sign of a cross on the baby's forehead.

"Pax tibi," said the priest, smiling at the baby. He looked up at Raimon and winked.

"Et cum spiritu tuo," Raimon responded.

Then the priest corked the jar, put it back into his pocket. He stood for a few moments trying to get something else from his cassock and eventually pulled out a small white cloth. Placing it on the baby's head, he said, "Receive this white garment, which may thou carry without stain before the judgment seat of our Lord Jesus Christ, that thou may have life everlasting."

Raimon glanced at Guilelma. Her eyes sparkled from the lone candle set on a table behind the priest. Glittering green and hazel. Eyes Raimon never thought he would see again. He felt a surge of emotion and inhaled sharply.

Reaching behind him, the priest picked up the lit candle and handed it to Raimon. Looking at the child he said, "Receive this burning light, and keep thy Baptism to be without blame: keep the commandments of God, that thou may meet the Lord together with all the Saints in the heavenly court, and may have eternal life and live for ever and ever. Vade in pace et Dominus sit tecum. Amen."

He looked up at Raimon and then Guilelma. "And what will be the name of the child?"

Guilelma looked at Raimon and nodded.

Raimon said, "Anseau."

Author's Note

The depictions of characters in this book are fictional. However, the events in the surrounding history match as best as they can to historical accounts, and unfortunately the brutality of Simon de Montfort's escapades in Languedoc were not contrived. The history of the Cathar crusade was the first "internal" crusade aimed at a Christian region, and set a concerning tone that influenced Western thought for centuries. We still battle today with issues of tolerance, whether religious or racial.

For readers interested in learning more about the crusade and its impacts, see The Perfect Heresy, by Stephen O'Shea, and Holy War: The Crusades and Their Impact on Today's World, by Karen Armstrong.

About the Author

D.W. Koons has traveled the world, having lived extended periods in Hong Kong, England, China and Spain. He currently resides in Colorado, using his analytical skills as a performance analyst in local government, writing novels and painting medieval illuminations. DW is a retired Colorado State Champion saber fencer who now expends his energy cycling, kayaking and hiking. Living in close proximity to southern France inspired him to research and write about the intriguing era that led to the Inquisition where the Church launched a pogrom against a competing religion, the Cathars.

On a professional level, DW has published award winning technical books and magazine articles. He also published magazine articles about his experience living in China

