Siege Perilous Page 12

  “So Percival is here,” Raphael said with frustration. “Please allow enough goodwill between us to allow that he is here.”

  A pause.

  “He is here,” said Peire-Roger. “And well.”

  A long-held tension within Raphael relaxed a little; he heard himself sigh with relief. “Thank you,” he said. “May I see him?”

  “I am suspicious of your motives, Raphael of the Shield-Brethren,” said Peire-Roger, without malice, almost casually. He took another swig from his wineskin. Then he turned to the young man, about Ferenc’s age, who had shadowed him from the moment this audience began. He made a hand-gesture. The youth nodded, rose, and ran out of the room into the frigid, moonlit courtyard.

  “Percival is a brother-in-arms,” said Raphael. “My only motive is to make sure he is, and remains, well. He has been tormented by irrational visions for years, and sometimes he does irrational things.”

  “If I may for a moment presume to speak on behalf of our beloved Bishop Marti,” said Peire-Roger, almost singsong. “Let me say that God is the best physician of all, and provides the best remedy. Percival is aware of this. Far from being out of his wits—well, any more out of his wits than any of us who are choosing to spend the winter up here when it would be just as easy to sneak out through a tunnel—where was I?”

  “God is the best physician,” said Raphael tersely.

  “Yes,” said Peire-Roger. “And Percival knows this. He has found his calling here. Those visions you speak of—which I warrant I can describe in greater detail than even you can—they have led him here. He is in prayer and meditation all the day now, when he’s not on garrison duty, preparing to take the consolamentum of the Good Ones.”

  “That is preposterous,” said Raphael.

  “What is the consola…?” Ferenc asked quietly.

  “Consolamentum. It’s the oath they take right before they die,” Raphael said to him. “It’s a sort of last rite to make sure they don’t…”

  “No it’s not,” spat Peire-Roger in a mocking slur. “Dilettante. Don’t speak of what you do not know. The consolamentum, young man, is the oath taken by a Credent when they are prepared to become Perfect.”

  “Perfect?” Ferenc echoed in bemusement.

  “A perfect heretic,” Peire-Roger said heartily. “In the eyes of the Catholic Church. A Good One. Like a monk or a priest. All of us up here, we’re all Credents. We believe in what they believe, but we are, for this lifetime, obliged to partake in the sorrows of the world. And the joys.”

  “Like too much wine,” Raphael muttered.

  “The Good Ones have moved beyond that,” the lord continued expansively. “They are in the world, but not of it. They’re involved in trades—they support themselves, and their community, but they do nothing to cause harm to anyone. Ever. We protect them so that they can stay safe, in their meditation and prayer, and then, when we die, we come back in another body and if we’re lucky, we get to be the Good Ones and everyone else takes care of us.” He chortled a little and took another sip of wine.

  “That is not a very evolved expression of Cathar philosophy,” Raphael said, sotto voce, to Ferenc. “I will explain it to you more clearly tomorrow. He’s right, though, that the consolamentum is also used as a vow to lead a perfectly pure life.”

  “From what you’ve told me about Percival, his life sounded very pure already,” said Ferenc, trying to be helpful.

  “No, he’s a soldier and a warrior,” said Peire-Roger, now beginning to overenunciate to make up for his tipsiness. “He kills people. That’s not pure. When he takes the vow, he will stop killing people. Personally,” he went on, in a more intimate tone, to Raphael, “I find that a pity, as he looks like he’s probably very good at killing people, and I would like to maximize that ability given our circumstances. But he says he’s taking the vows, and it’s not my place to stop him. Nor,” he added, sitting up and speaking as soberly as possible, “is it yours. There are customs we abide by here.”

  Raphael stood with impatient agitation. “My friend is already a monk. A warrior-monk. I know his very soul in this regard. There are no further vows the man needs to take to dedicate his life to good. He is, however maddeningly, the purest person I have ever known.”

  The sound of footsteps outside stopped him; he turned to look through the open doorway. In stepped the youth whom Peire-Roger had sent on an errand. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man, devoid of all weapons or decoration, dressed in a simple black gown tied at the waist with rope.

  “My dear brother Raphael!” said Percival, and held his arms out for embrace.

  CHAPTER 17:

  THE PERFECT KNIGHT

  Raphael stared at Percival’s priestly garb in astonishment for the length of one heartbeat. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded loudly. He shoved the Percival out of the way and stormed out of the hut into the darkened courtyard.

  Even from inside the workshop, Ferenc noticed several things happening at once. Most dramatically, the whole armed garrison up on the limestone walls swung their attention down into the courtyard, and a dozen bows were pulled taut, their arrows tracking Raphael in his torch-lit agitation. A heartbeat later, Peire-Roger pulled himself together enough to rush out past the bemused Percival, and shouted to the garrison to stand down. Then Ferenc heard him yell something similar, but slurred, toward the far end of the courtyard; presumably people in the donjon had awakened and come outside to see the source of the midnight uproar.

  As all this was happening, the handsome man in the monk’s robe turned and quietly followed Peire-Roger into the courtyard.

  In the candlelight, Ferenc exchanged a look with Vera and they both followed quickly at his heels.

  Silhouetted by a torch, their breath all intermingling to form a cloud, Percival, Raphael, and Peire-Roger were apparently entangled. As Ferenc watched, Percival tried to calm Raphael, who was violently throwing off Percival’s embraces and dodging Peire-Roger’s drunken attempts to calm him down by patting him on the back.

  “Please, brother,” said Percival gently. “There are many people living in this very small space. You are disturbing the respite of hundreds. Come back with me into the chandlery and let us speak in lower voices.”

  Raphael threw his arms up, hands clenched, and spun away, stalking several strides into the darkness. Ferenc had never seen him this upset; even Vera seemed surprised.

  But he contained it within a few heartbeats. After a deep breath, which billowed vaporously up into the cold night, he turned back, walked past Percival, and gestured almost defiantly back toward the shed. Ferenc and Vera ducked inside and waited for them. Ferenc was grateful for the relative warmth.

  Raphael sat where he had before. Percival remained standing. Peire-Roger began to sit, but Raphael shook his head. “If you please, milord, this is a private conversation.”

  Peire-Roger scowled, looking back and forth between the two knights. “Do you require protection from these people?” he asked Percival, with the studied, intense seriousness of inebriation.

  “Oh, for the love of the Virgin,” Raphael said in a disgusted voice. “This man could kill all of us with his bare hands before we even had a chance to notice. And you have taken all our weapons. He is perfectly safe.”

  “The guard at the gate will not allow you to remove him unless he is alert and willing to go,” Peire-Roger said. “This is a sanctuary.”

  “A sanctuary,” Raphael interrupted, speaking over him. “Yes, we will respect that. Please let us be.”

  He crossed his arms and said nothing more until Peire-Roger and his squire had left.

  Then he stared daggers at Percival. There was a long pause.

  “I have been having visions, Raphael,” Percival began, with an almost helpless gesture.

  “What good has ever come from those visions?” Raphael dem
anded.

  Percival looked down into his hands and considered his words. “I have erred in the past.”

  “And in the present,” said Raphael.

  “Let him speak at least,” said Vera, slapping at Raphael’s sleeve. “Let him get it out.”

  “Thank you,” Percival said with a brief nod toward her. Then his attention went back to Raphael. “I have been following these visions for years. You know that.”

  “I do,” said Raphael tersely.

  “And they have brought me here.”

  “It’s not the first place they’ve brought you,” said Raphael pointedly.

  “Please, let the past go,” Percival said, looking into his hands again. “I cannot undo what has been done. I can only try to correct my future course, and I believe I have done so, by coming here. I do not know why I have been brought here, or what is supposed to come of it. But given where I am, and who I am surrounded by, it seems clear that I must reconcile myself to God.”

  Raphael stared at him for a moment in disbelief. “What does that even mean?” he demanded impatiently. “This rude drunkard who was just interrogating us and claiming to protect you—has he ‘reconciled himself to God’? He’s in charge of this place, but he’s not wearing a monk’s robe; he’s not living a pure life. Why on earth should you—who have already taken sacred vows elsewhere and are a stranger here—be called upon to do more than that fellow?”

  “Perhaps you were just called here by your visions to help defend the fortress, if you are a warrior,” Ferenc offered, timidly.

  Percival looked over at him and smiled. He was even more handsome when he smiled. “Hello,” he said. “We weren’t introduced. I’m Percival.”

  “He knows who you are. We’ve been talking about you for the past ten days,” Raphael muttered.

  “My name is Ferenc,” said the youth. He brought his fist to his heart and bowed his head.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” said Raphael. “Greet him as if he were your emperor. Please, everyone, let’s worship Percival and indulge his dangerous visions—”

  “I do not believe in the wisdom of visions,” Ferenc reassured Raphael quickly. “You and I are alike that way. But I do believe in the power of them. Percival has been drawn here for some reason, and as he is a knight, then probably the reason is to defend those who need defending. That seems very reasonable to me.”

  “Not if he’s taken vows not to harm another human being,” Raphael protested impatiently. “There are thousands of armed men down the slopes who want to destroy everyone up here. Percival, how can you possibly defend them without being willing to harm those who would cause harm? Can you pray them away?”

  “I agree that he should remove the monk’s robe and arm himself,” said Ferenc.

  “Why don’t you both shut up and listen to him,” said Vera. “After the headache he has caused us, I would like to hear what he has to say for himself.”

  Raphael barreled on. “There are only a few dozen men up here.”

  “I believe the number is about one hundred,” Percival said. “And there are close to ten thousand in the camp below.”

  “Well, then,” said Raphael, standing, still agitated. He had quieted his voice but his tone could have felled trees. “It seems to me that either you gear up and we prepare to take on far more than we possibly can survive, or we get the hell out of here and let this history unfold as it must. As Frederick’s Greeks would say, we either play deus ex machina, or we get off the stage.”

  “What?” Percival asked, confused.

  “We do not wallow in somebody else’s story if there is no part for us to play. We cannot save them. I am not saying they’re doomed,” he said, as Percival seemed about to disagree. “This is a siege. They are in an exceptional defensive position here. At the moment, they are probably defending themselves entirely by dumping buckets of debris over the fortress walls onto the heads of anyone trying to climb the mountain.”

  Percival nodded. “Yes, in fact—”

  “They do not need us to do that. We should leave.” He took a final breath, and then sat again, as if his sitting made that the last word on the matter.

  “I’m not the only one to have a vision of this place,” said Percival. “An angel appeared at a nearby farm—”

  “Of course he did,” said Raphael wearily.

  “A female angel,” Percival corrected.

  Raphael gave him a strange look. “There are no female Christian angels. In fact, as far as the Cathars are concerned, there are no angels at all.”

  “She prevented a terrible betrayal. A French soldier defected to our cause.”

  “Your cause?” Vera echoed, witheringly.

  Percival nodded. “And while you are here, my brothers and sister, it should be your cause as well. These people need your swords and arrows. Just last week they received word here that the Count of Toulouse is sending troops. Many troops. You should at least stay until those troops have arrived. You can help with garrison patrol, even if that just means throwing buckets of debris on the enemy’s head, and generally making sure they are doing everything they can to defend themselves. Only until the troops come. Then, when you know we are all in good hands, you can leave us.”

  Ferenc, although not a knight, appreciated the sentiment. He studied Raphael’s face and saw that he did, too. The dark-haired man grimaced. “If we’re here as knights, I expect no less from you, brother. Take off that night-robe you’re wearing and dress like a soldier.”

  Percival looked down at his robe, deflated. “You are right, of course,” he said after a moment. “I should return to arms as long as they need me to. But I go back to my robe once we have vanquished the enemy.”

  Raphael looked impatient, but Ferenc held out a hand toward him and shook his head.

  “Do not argue with men who have visions, sir,” he whispered. “Surely you know that.” He heard Vera make a sound on the stool behind him.

  Raphael heaved a sigh, leaned forward on his elbows, and rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “Very well. We stay until the reinforcements arrive. And then we leave.”

  “If you wish to,” said Percival, firmly excluding himself. “And while you are here, we will all make ourselves useful.”

  “We’ll make ourselves useful at sun-up,” said Vera. “We have bedrolls and it’s warmer in here than the courtyard, I say we sleep in here.”

  “You,” said Ferenc, risking a grin, “have to make Peire-Roger his breakfast.”

  Vera smacked him on the shoulder. Hard.

  CHAPTER 18:

  FAMILIAR FACES

  Ocyrhoe returned from her overnight trek a few hours before dawn. She had been to a village to the east, and so approached the pog in the bright moonlight by clambering up the treacherous cliff-like ascent by the watchtower on the lower end of the crest. Since the siege began last May, this tower—Roc de la Tour, the army below called it—had been garrisoned heavily, as it overlooked the second-likeliest path up the mountain. (The first likeliest was up the gentler southwest slope, but that was overlooked by the fortress and easily defended.)

  It was a very cold although strangely still night, and she had not brought the cup with her, which usually protected her from the worst of the chill. By the time she arrived at the top, her feet were numb, her fingers pulsing painfully with cold, and her whole body shivering. The guards in the watchtower recognized her coded whistle. They invited her in and gave her a warm woolen blanket. She curled up under the table, to sleep until morning.

  Near dawn, a groggy but sober Lord Peire-Roger came to the hut to greet the newcomers. With the light slanting in through small windows, Ferenc saw they had slept under and around the equipment for a small but ambitious candle-making workshop. The large, raised vat was for melting wax; below it was a brazier, and above it several paned frames hung from the ceiling by ropes wi
th pulleys.

  Peire-Roger gruffly ushered them outside to the bright courtyard. It was very breezy. Now that he could really see the space they were in, Ferenc was astonished. He could not have guessed the night before how populated this place was. The lozenge-shaped courtyard was a rugged mish-mash of wooden buildings and uncut limestone swells. It was full of people bundled up against the cold—many of them dressed as Percival had been the night before, but many others dressed in finery that rivaled the Emperor’s courtiers. There were servants, children, merchants, and soldiers, all working and living tightly together in a buzz of activity. There was a smithy next to the chandlery, and already charcoal was being fired up there. From the pervasive scent of lanolin, Ferenc judged there was also plenty of spinning and weaving happening in these workshops. He caught the smell of chickens, but saw no farmyard scat.

  Percival was waiting for them just outside the chandlery. He was now dressed similarly to Raphael, including the rose-emblazoned surcoat. He introduced them to stern old Bishop Marti, whom Ferenc distrusted on sight mostly because he was a bishop, even if heretical. The young Hungarian felt better-disposed toward Percival’s other elderly companion, Raimon de Perelha. He was Peire-Roger’s father-in-law, and the actual lord of Montségur, although his son-in-law was ruling in his name.

  Raphael volunteered for and was immediately put on garrison duty. Vera was assigned, once again, to the kitchen by Peire-Roger, but Raphael requested her presence with him, and Raimon indulgently granted that. Ferenc watched an entire, tense conversation pass between Vera and Raphael without either saying a word out loud.

  “And you, lad?” said Raimon. “We can put you on garrison as well, but I hear you were pretty clever getting up the mountain without our lookouts hearing you. Perhaps you have some skills we can make use of.”

  “I am best at hunting and trapping,” Ferenc said.