The troubadour's song Page 2

  The archers were followed by more foot-soldiers, these carrying long, sharply pointed lances. The knight called out to a sergeant-at-arms who stopped beside him.

  "Make a sharp fight at the gate," he ordered. "A distraction to lure the enemy inside. The crossbows remain above to make sure you will have no more on the bridge than you can manage."

  The sergeant nodded and clattered downward to take charge of the challenge.

  Oh, Raymond, Allesandra thought to herself desperately. / must get to you and tell you what has happened within the castle and how many men are within the town. She clenched her jaw,

  trying to still the nervousness and listen to the French knight. For in moments she hoped to be in Raymond's camp, and she could relay what she heard here.

  - The knight said no more, but as he turned, she caught sight of his blazing dark eyes, a formidable expression on what she could see of his well-defined face. Prominent cheekbones spoke of his noble birth, and determination and courage showed in the way he moved as he joined the flow of soldiers hurrying downward.

  She waited only a few seconds to see if any more soldiers would come from above. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She would have to take a chance. She was not armed and hoped to be taken for a mere squire. Surely they would not mas-' sacre the citizens yet. And mere soldiers would not be able to tell that she was in actuality a noblewoman worth interrogating.

  "Now," she hissed at Marguerite, who took her place holding the door as Allesandra slipped through.

  Her heart pounding, she took the stairs downward. Ahead of her the soldiers clanked. Every time she glanced backward over her shoulder she feared discovery, for all her bravado about her disguise. But she made it safely to the ground level in time to see the soldiers filing through the great hall. She hesitated. Her way to the stables lay in the opposite direction. Should she follow the soldiers and gain even more information to relay to Count Raymond on the field?

  At the moment of her hesitation, the knight she had glimpsed upstairs burst through the passage at the opposite end of the great hall. Instinctively, she stepped behind a screen. Now, sword drawn, he glanced about the hall as if to ascertain if there was any danger from the rear of his guard. Since the Frenchmen were in a hostile citadel in a hostile town, there was always danger of treachery from within.

  Two servants had been sweeping up the soiled rushes from the floor and had hidden behind the wall hangings as the soldiers passed. Now they crept out to continue their task, but froze at the sight of the tall, fierce Frenchman.

  For a moment Allesandra held her breath as the knight's eyes

  swept over the screen behind which she hovered. But he must have decided it wasn't worth his investigation, for he turned and followed the rest of his men down the passage. Clearly they were on their way to the north gate.

  She decided to follow them no farther. The stables lay in the opposite direction, and if she were to ride out of the south gate, through the old town and out the small door that led to the quay beside the river, she could tarry no longer.

  She turned and wended her way through the castle, reaching out to offer reassurance to those she passed who worried for their fate. For with her hood thrown back, most of Marguerite's household recognized her.

  "What will happen, my lady?" asked the wife of Marguerite's steward. "The bishop has left the priory and has taken refuge in the lord's bedchamber above." The woman's eyes lifted to the ceiling above which lay the master's sleeping chamber.

  "Don't worry," said Allesandra. "Your mistress will direct the defense of the castle."

  Marguerite's husband was in the field with Raymond. Simon de Montfort had taken the town of Muret in order to control communications between Toulouse and the Pyrenees. With her husband absent, the lady of the manor assumed full seigneurial duties, as in all households of this sort, and that included defending the castle when there was danger.

  Allesandra hurried on to the stables and located her own steed, the chestnut mare she'd ridden here from her own castle, a day's ride to the southwest. She'd come here to meet with her friend Count Raymond and to take word of the latest danger back to the Cathar believers who met in her district. But it seemed she must assist in a battle before she could have her conversation with Raymond.

  She left the stables none too soon. One of the squires dashed into the courtyard from the lower town just as she opened the side door leading to the quay. The water outside carried the sound of sudden cries and clashing metal. She grasped the squire's arm.

  "What's happened?" she demanded.

  "An assault," he answered, his eyes round with panic. "At the north gate." He pointed in the direction of the skirmish.

  "Who is fighting?"

  "The count of Foix leads the charge against the French garrison."

  "On the bridge?" She frowned.

  "Yes, madam."

  A stupid place to fight, she thought, but held her tongue and let the squire dash on his way to be of help where he could.

  Now she wasted no time. Once on the quay, she mounted up and pulled her hood forward to shield her face. Then she kicked her heels into her horse's side and flew south along the quay, away from the battle beside the town wall. She passed the ancient Roman masonry of the old cite, and then the new wall of the lower town. Ahead was her goal, the south bridge over the Garonne that led to open country.

  But as she turned onto the bridge, the south town gate creaked open behind her, and a contingent of horsemen poured through. Allesandra's heart leapt into her throat when she saw Simon de Montfort himself lead his men forth. But the frightening sight only spurred her on, and she bent over her horse and urged the mare to dash over the bridge. For one horrifying second she imagined all of de Montfort's corps coming after her and taking her prisoner, and she dared not look back.

  Instead, she turned when she'd crossed the bridge and pressed the mare to the north, where even with her hair and the wind in her eyes, she knew that the allies' boats waited. She raced for her life. Only when the camp was within sight and she plunged her horse into the Garonne did she dare look back.

  The French army had not followed. She could now see the enemy forces riding southeast on the road away from the town. The sight confused her. A withdrawal? With the infantry still fighting at the north gate? Some deep suspicion nagged, and while she paused, her horse breathing hard after the short burst of speed, she tried to grapple with the French strategy.

  Then she urged the horse into the middle of the river. "Come on, Kastira," she addressed the horse. "Swim."

  As she swam the horse through the middle of the river and came out on the bank at the edge of the allied camp, Allesandra had time to assess the chaos in front of her. In the distance by the north gate the count of Foix's colors showed that his men still engaged in mostly hand-to-hand combat with French soldiers, fighting for possession of the bridge. The gate was open and now several horsemen slashed their way in.

  "My God," she breathed, riding through the camp, where the rest of the allied infantry still milled about, yelling and gesturing excitedly. "It's some sort of trap."

  "Where is Count Raymond?" she yelled at a knot of soldiers she approached.

  "There," one of them answered, and pointed to a tent in the middle of the camp.

  She nudged her horse forward and then dismounted when she found her objective.

  "Raymond," she shouted, her soft boots sliding on the damp grass.

  Count Raymond VI of Toulouse turned from the group of men with whom he was speaking and looked at her in surprise. He was clad in chain mail and helmet, but even if she didn't know the slope of his squarish shoulders, his surcoat of red and white identified him, as did the pennant drooping from several lances held erect by his tent.

  He stepped forward to meet her. "My lady Allesandra, what are you doing here?"

  "Come to assist you," she said in tones that brooked no argument. "Simon de Montfort is up to something and you've no time to waste."

&n
bsp; "Yes, yes, well, you see the skirmish at the gate. I had suggested building a barricade by the road in case the French do break out of the gate. But Foix and Comminges do not agree."

  They were distracted by shouts and sergeants-at-arms running through the camp toward them.

  "Sir, they withdraw," said a knight who spoke to the men-at-arms, and then turned to address Count Raymond.

  "They withdraw?" he asked, lifting his thick eyebrows under his helmet.

  "They've been seen on the road south in formation," said the knight.

  "Well," said Raymond. "Perhaps they realize that we outnumber them and are giving up the fight."

  An image of the French knight on the staircase in the tower came to mind, and Allesandra stepped between the men.

  "It is a trick, my lord," she said, making Raymond look at her. "They would not withdraw their cavalry and leave their infantry in the middle of an assault on the other side of the town. Rouse your men, sir, Simon de Montfort is going to attack."

  "My dear," said Raymond, "he will hardly attack us in the field. We outnumber him fifteen to one. It would be his suicide."

  Exasperation overwhelmed her. "You are in charge of this army, Raymond. We haven't time to argue."

  He shook his head helplessly. "I've been arguing all morning with Foix and Cumminges. Now King Peter is making camp across the road. Surely our forces are large enough to handle any sorties Simon de Montfort might make. But you heard the message. Simon withdraws. We will retake the town with little difficulty now. But you must get yourself out of danger, my dear. You could be injured by a misdirected missile."

  "Where is Peter of Aragon?" she demanded, holding on to Raymond's mail-clad arm and not letting go until she had an answer. "If you will not form into battle array, perhaps he will."

  "He makes camp on the right flank, but come into my tent, my lady. You must protect yourself."

  Instead, she dropped Raymond's arm and rushed to her horse. A sergeant-at-arms saw her fly in his direction and assisted her to mount. Then she picked her way through the disorganized camp, staying behind the line of mangonels and balistas that haphazardly launched stones toward the crossbowmen who fired down on the count of Foix from the citadel parapets.

  Getting free of Raymond's camp, she flew across the road toward Peter of Aragon. Some of the men were pitching tents, while others clumped in groups. Squires watered horses. Some of the knights even had their helmets off and were refreshing themselves at the edge of the Louge. She rode through the camp, asking her way to King Peter.

  But when she reached the opposite side of the camp, she saw she was too late. For while she'd wasted time talking to Raymond, the French corps had evidently wheeled northward and crossed the Louge above the northward-bending loop where the land was marshy, but not impassable.

  Suddenly a great cry went up as she stared in horror. Simon de Montfort's men, in tight battle formation, bore down upon the unsuspecting camp.

  Two

  All around her the complacent knights began to stir. She watched with horror as the tight French formation crossed the river at its lowest point. And then they were up the bank and upon Aragon s men. She wheeled her horse so as not to be caught in the midst of the battle.

  "A sword!" she shouted at some men-at-arms still on foot. "I'm unarmed."

  One sergeant-at-arms heard her cry and turned to respond. At that moment her hood flew back and the hair that loosened from the cape betrayed her.

  "Madam, get back," the man said in surprise at seeing a woman mounted for war.

  "Not without a weapon to defend myself," she demanded.

  The force of her words persuaded him and he handed her a short sword.

  The French corps had already penetrated the camp, which was taken entirely by surprise.

  The knights attempted to get to horse. But they hadn't time to form into battle array. Now from the other side of the road, Raymond's own men mounted and tried to join the melee. Just what Allesandra had feared would happen seemed to be taking place. And the camp had no barricade behind which to fall back.

  She struggled to skirt the men attempting to join the rush, for she was no soldier, and though she'd come to warn them and to try to talk the three armies into acting under one commander, she could not win the day herself. Now that battle was engaged, she would do best to get out of their way.

  She passed back to the road and saw that the Count of Foix's men rushed in a tangle from the bridge, leaving the enemy holding it. Not having coordinated their orders, Foix's infantry rushed into the fight, while Count Raymond's infantry attempted instead to barricade their camps with wagons and carts. She saw the men forming ranks in front of the wagons, the bases of their pikes fixed into the ground, the lancelike heads of steel pointing forward to protect archers who took aim from the wagons.

  But now the unprepared mounted knights began to scatter like the wind at the impact of the two front squadrons of the French army. As the knights of Foix and Comminges began to disperse, the foot-soldiery poured back toward the camp. King Peter's knights were finally assembled, and she could see his banner waving. But the surrounding French outnumbered them.

  A French charge was led against the king of Aragon. For a moment, the small solid mass of Frenchmen were swallowed up by the less closely arrayed ranks of Aragonese. The melee swayed backward and forward, the din excruciating.

  She watched as the knight she'd seen in the castle led a third group of Frenchmen across the river. He wheeled his small division westward and closed in upon the right flank of the Aragonese. She watched in astonishment as, riding at the head of his rank, he received a shower of blows. But he held his own, cut a space around him and plunged deep into the melee.

  In a moment the cry went up, "The king is dead. Peter of Aragon is dead."

  "Oh, my God," Allesandra whispered to herself, stunned at the carnage as more of Peter's knights fell.

  The rest began to flee. But the French army did not stop at vanquishing the southern knights. They pushed forward, cutting down the infantry like so many trees in a forest. Those who could get away fled in all directions. The sight was too horrible to do anything but numb her.

  But she realized that she, too, soon could be slashed to bits by the merciless French. She looked about for Raymond, saw his standards and rode toward them. But when she got behind the lines and approached his tent, he was nowhere to be seen. There was no more time. She could not risk being taken, for it was not merely her life that was at risk. She was responsible for her estates, and if she were captured, the French would claim her fief and all those who depended on her. The heretics she protected would be rounded up, interrogated, fined. If they did not recant, they would be imprisoned or burned at the stake. She could not stay here for this rout.

  She dug in her heels and guided her horse back to the river, swam across, then flew along the way she had come. Fortunately de Montfort's men were busy securing the north gate, and she was still able to enter the town from the quay.

  They had lost Muret because three counts could not stand together, and that brave fighter Peter of Aragon had arrived too late to save the day. Anger and tears kindled her determination to fight back at the French who had invaded these lovely lands in the name of the corrupt but powerful Catholic church. She must not allow her own lands to fall to the greedy enemy.

  From the corner of his eye, Gaucelm saw a figure with long dark hair fleeing along the edges of the rout. A woman, from the way she sat the horse. And the urgency on the angular, pale face turned his way for one brief instant was unmistakably feminine.

  Her dark eyes glared hatred, and then she was away, plunging into the river. He watched only long enough to see her horse clamber up the bank and turn to gallop beside the river. Then he turned his attention back to the field while his horse picked its way among the dead.

  "The day is ours," said Gaucelm, riding up to his commander after having organized the collection of booty among the fallen. He was winded and perspiring, an
d he removed his helmet to let the breeze cool him. His surcoat was stained with blood. Fortunately little of it was his own.

  Simon surveyed the carnage from his horse as his soldiers walked among the dead, picking up weapons and shields. He took some pride in the cleverness of his strategy, but he also believed it was a manifestation of the fact that their cause was righteous.

  "God has thrust through His enemies with avenging swords," he declaimed, "and executed His wrath on the people who have offended Him by deserting the faith and associating with heretics. What of Raymond of Toulouse and his son?" Simon asked of Gaucelm.

  "Escaped."

  "Unfortunate," replied Simon. "We have defeated the combined forces of the princes of Languedoc, but it remains for us to enter the count's own city of Toulouse."

  "Nevertheless," said Gaucelm as he surveyed the fallen, "the crusading season has been a success this year. We have taken much territory for the king of France in the name of the pope."

  "We have," said Simon. "Come, our job here is not yet done. We must enter the town and see to it that the bishop is installed."

  Simon wheeled and gathered his little entourage, which crossed the north bridge and entered the town. Inside the gate, they turned into the priory courtyard where Bishop Fulk awaited them, flanked by two deacons in church vestments. Bishop Fulk was a tall man, made to appear taller by the ornamented triangular-shaped mitre on his head, the points rising from the band in front and back. His pale cheeks flushed with

  excitement, and the satisfied curve at the corners of long, thin lips indicated his sense of righteousness at being part of the victorious party.

  Gaucelm remained mounted while his commander dismounted and walked to where the bishop had positioned himself just outside the entrance to the chapel on steps that placed him above everyone else. Simon knelt to kiss the bishop's ring.