Siege Perilous Read online

  “This fellow knows the way up the eastern side,” Dietrich explained briskly to the Gascons. “The cloud cover should make it possible to get up past where they would normally see you. And then what, fellow?”

  The shepherd swallowed and looked at all of them. He had been glad enough to take the gold, but now that it was safely removed toward his farmstead, he seemed to be having second thoughts. “We will move sideways along the southern flank and then up around the eastern end of the pog, which is narrow and steep,” he said. “The watchtower will have no reason to expect us from that direction. At night there are only five men posted. If you can surprise the watch, it should be easy to take the tower.”

  Dietrich opened his mouth to issue orders to the climbers, but was stopped by a gesture from the leader of the army, who wanted to do it himself.

  “And once we have taken the tower,” said Hugue de Arcis, “we will set up a siege-machine and destroy the fortress walls.” This had been Dietrich’s idea, and he was irritated to be upstaged by this commanding lout. “You, my sons,” continued Hugue expansively, “are about to shift the tide of this battle. God shall watch over you all. May dawn bring us good news.”

  CHAPTER 20:

  ECCO-LA

  His Holiness the Pope was up late after celebrating the feast of St. Alexander of Jerusalem. Normally he would have retired for the night and renewed his work in the morning, but he was agitated by several missives that had arrived before supper, from the eastern borders of Frederick’s realm. These were political diamonds—written proof that the citizenry, having lost faith in their emperor, was turning to the Church for assistance. These notes he could wave in front of Frederick’s squint-eyed face when they finally met in person, as evidence that the Emperor must put himself on better footing with the Church lest the Church allow the Empire to give itself, spontaneously and wholeheartedly, to the Church.

  On the other hand, these notes were direct requests for assistance, and if he did not give any, then he was just as bad as Frederick. He told the cleric to summon his captain-at-arms for an audience the next morning just after mass. Then he made a mental calculation of how many papal troops he could afford to send east, as he needed so many of them in Lombardy to keep Frederick in check.

  The situation was agitating enough that despite a bellyful of good food and even better wine he could not relax. He kept the oil-lamps burning in his office and announced to his steward, Aelius, who looked as if he would rather be asleep, that if any messengers arrived with late-night dispatches, he would receive them.

  “There is one message just arrived, from the Pyrenees,” Aelius said, almost reluctantly, and handed him the scroll. Innocent broke off the seal and unrolled it. He summoned the chandler to hold the candelabrum closer.

  “Greetings to Your Holiness from Dietrich von Grüningen at Montségur, on this cold day of memorial to St. Gemellus.” Innocent was not much concerned with the situation in the Occitan. It was a relatively minor land-grab by the King of France, which he would eventually have to rein in. “Your Holiness, a startling story has been circling the army camp, which I believe is worthy of note, although His Eminence the Archbishop of Narbonne is trying to suppress it. According to this story, one of the most stalwart local soldiers has defected to the Cathar cause after a supposed angel appeared to him in a nearby farmhouse and ordered him to protect the heretics. This remarkable story has been taken very seriously by many of the men, to the point that Hugue de Arcis is concerned about further desertions. I cannot but wonder if it is a coincidence that it has happened so immediately after the covert arrival in camp of a knight of the heretical Shield-Brethren. I will keep my eyes and ears open, my step light, and my mouth shut, but I wished to alert you to this development as soon as possible as I do not believe the archbishop will choose to tell you of it. I believe it deserves scrutiny. It might occur again. Please advise me on a further path of action.” He yawned and decided to set the letter aside for the morning; Dietrich took himself and all his activities very seriously, but Innocent had the Mongol horde to deal with. And the Emperor. And other matters. However, he continued to read.

  “Let me add something peculiar about this story. Vidal of Foix’s pageboy was outside the building in which the angel appeared and chose to remain silent regarding all that he saw until I used some of your gold—usefully, I hope—for details. While the boy cannot account for the appearance or disappearance of the so-called angel, he told me that he saw her with his own eyes and that she appeared to be a young woman, small in stature, dressed in very simple homespun and a local style of boot that is good for climbing these mountains. Her hair was long, dark, and uncovered, and in her left hand she carried a fine metal cup that seemed somehow to reflect more light than was being shone upon it.”

  Innocent looked up abruptly from the note. “It’s her!” he barked at Aelius, who gave him the look of a devoted, confused lapdog. Innocent wished someone else present understood the significance of this. He almost wished Frederick was in the room just so he could wave the message at him and gloat, “I’ve found her! Before you could!”

  Instead, he forced a mask of calm across his face. “I require my spymaster,” he said to Aelius, who in turn relayed the message to an ostiarius, who left the room through the half-hidden door behind the silk tapestry. “The rest of you are dismissed,” he said, trying to sound indulgent and not overeager. “You may sleep through morning mass to account for this unusually late night. I will see you at morning Council. Thank you.”

  In a moment he was alone in the small marble room, his heart racing. He had found the cup, and better yet, it had been revealed to him by one of his own men, who—best of all—had no inkling of its significance, and therefore would not try to meddle with it.

  As he sat completely alone—such a rare gift—in the room, waiting for Rufus, the heavy truth of the matter hit him like a missile: There was nobody in all the Vatican he could trust to go and get it. He dare not even send a message to Dietrich lest the message itself fall into the wrong hands.

  I must go myself. I will have to take the cup from her with my own hands. And nobody can know that I have done so.

  Which meant nobody here at the Lateran Palace, or indeed all of Rome, could know that he was going to Montségur. And nobody in Montségur—except Dietrich—could know he had arrived.

  The girl with the cup was at Montségur.

  Did Frederick know? Had Frederick, for some perverse reason, sent her there?

  “Aelius,” he called out to his steward, who had almost disappeared down the hall that would lead eventually to the dormitories. Aelius turned around and rushed back to him. He was devoted, was Aelius, even if he was not particularly bright.

  “I must make a clandestine trip to Salerno on urgent business. Nobody can know that I am going. People must believe that I am going to Apulia instead. Arrange transport. I will travel with a brace of bodyguards and one servant, but nobody is to know where I am. Report that I am in Apulia, and write to Apulia to tell them to pretend I am there.”

  Aelius blinked in confusion.

  “If you cannot do this, I will find somebody else worthy of the office,” Innocent said sharply. “This is very urgent. The future and security of the Church depend upon swift action and absolute secrecy. There are forces abroad, with dangerous powers. I must bring them to heel.”

  Now Aelius’s eyes opened wide. “If people ask why you are in Apulia, what should they hear?”

  Innocent did not hesitate—nor, to his own mind, did he lie. “I must get away from the bustle of the Vatican so that I may determine the nature of the next crusade.” He gave Aelius a confiding look. “It is a crusade that will change the world forever.”

  CHAPTER 21:

  AT THE ROC DE LA TOR

  Even the watchtower was lit by beeswax candles. Ferenc, leaning against the wall (the stools all being taken), pulled the wool cloak
tighter around his shoulders and rubbed the cold tip of his nose with his cold fingers. He watched the three men-at-arms playing cards by candlelight. He had nothing to bet with, but Frederick had taught him this game, and he guessed he could beat any of them. “I am surprised your sect allows gambling,” he said.

  “The Perfecti do not gamble, of course,” said chubby, leather-clad Milos, who was captain of the night watch. Ferenc envied him his gloves. “Luckily for us, we are far from perfect. Well, maybe not lucky for you, Otz, eh? Not your night.” He laid down his four cards, chuckled smugly, and took a coin from Otz’s side of the table. Otz, naturally long-faced, sighed as if he had expected nothing else. He reminded Ferenc of a poet Frederick had sent away from court for excessive melancholia.

  The third man, Savis, was handsome and well dressed, his dark hair dramatic above pale skin and dark eyes. Ferenc wondered—in passing—if he was a troubadour. “You’re new, boy, so perhaps nobody has explained this to you,” he said. “Most of us aren’t even Cathars. Everyone is pretending this is some kind of religious war. It isn’t. My land was taken by the French—I should be lording it over a manse, not crammed into a freezing, bizarre little hellhole, standing guard over the empty, dull blackness of night. Why they need six of us in here tonight is beyond me.”

  “Full moon, isn’t it?” said Otz. “Easier for the enemy to get around.”

  “Who is going to attempt to climb an unclimbable cliff in the middle of the night?”

  As the other two grunted agreement, Ferenc said, “Myself, I am happy to help as asked. My master and I want to prove we’re worthy of—”

  “What brought you here?” Otz asked. “Given you’re not Credents?”

  “I heard it was to take away that eccentric, Percival,” said jowly Milos.

  “I am squire to Raphael of Acre,” said Ferenc diplomatically. “It isn’t fit that I speak on my master’s behalf.”

  “I saw you with Ocyrhoe today,” said Savis in a leering tone. “Never seen that girl light up so, and you seemed pretty buoyant yourself. Whyever you came, seems to me that’s what might keep you here.”

  “Ocyrhoe?” chortled Milos. “That little bean? With all the lovely women here to fawn over—”

  “As long as the Bishop doesn’t notice,” laughed Savis. To Ferenc, confidingly: “Otz here got himself into hot water last month, writing love letters to sickly little Esclarmonde de Perelha.”

  Otz reddened. “They were intended as expressions of courtly regard,” he said, fussing with the pin that fastened his cloak.

  “Bullshit. You wanted to get up her skirt,” said Savis gaily. “Myself, I’m not impervious to the charms of her buxom sister.”

  “Meaning Peire-Roger’s wife,” said Savis, a scandalized aside to Ferenc.

  “It’s Amelie for me,” declared Milos. “And let me tell you, it’s not unreciprocated.”

  The other two men chortled. “Careful the Bishop or Rixenda don’t find out!” Otz cried. “Let me tell you: the humiliation!”

  “I thought they would throw you out of the fortress for that, my friend,” Savis said in an admiring yet vicious tone.

  Ferenc frowned uncomfortably. “This is supposed to be a religious sanctuary. Everyone is chaste.”

  All three made dismissive faces, chuckling.

  “Ocyrhoe, eh?” said Milos. Ferenc immediately blushed so hard his whole head felt warmer, making the rest of him shiver.

  “She’s a friend,” he said, staring at the deck of cards in the center of the table.

  Savis rolled his eyes. “I hope that’s all she is, or we need to teach you something about appreciation of the feminine form.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her form,” Ferenc shot back hotly.

  “She’s got no meat on her, boy,” said Milos. “You should only put your meat where you’re going to get some meat in return.”

  Ferenc pushed himself away from the wall so abruptly he almost stumbled forward. “That is no way to speak of any woman and especially no way to talk about a friend of mine.” A sound caught his attention, and he turned his head instinctively toward the window.

  The other three were hooting with laughter. “Now don’t get defensive, fellow,” Milos began. Ferenc silenced him with a sharp gesture.

  “Somebody is here,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Just outside the window.”

  Milos made a dismissive face. “We’re a whole floor up! There’s nothing but air outside the window,” he said.

  Ferenc shook his head worriedly and pointed toward the nearest of the four small windows. Downstairs, Nicholas rested alone beside the barred door; above, on the roof, Pons peered into the darkness of the mountaintop in search of lights moving toward them from the army camp. Otz, with a curious grimace, put down his cards, got to his feet, and started toward the window where Ferenc was pointing. As he approached, there was abrupt confusion in the candlelit room.

  A small man in dark tunic and leggings erupted through the window straight at Otz, as if he had been shoved by a giant. He entered with knife held out before him, and sank his blade deep into Otz’s shoulder before his feet touched the ground. Otz shrieked in pain and surprise and shoved the stranger off him with his good arm, but the man fell to the floor and bounced back up again, the edge of the knife blade making a flashing arc toward Otz’s neck. In the dim light, Ferenc saw Otz’s terror as the blade landed; Otz made a thick, strangling sound as he watched his own blood spray into the face of his attacker. The man threw him disdainfully to the wooden floor without bothering to watch him die.

  Two other men sprang into the room from two other windows, one with a dagger between his teeth, the other with his knife in stabbing position. They set themselves on Milos and Savis; Ferenc, standing closer to the wall, avoided immediate attention. But he knew what Otz’s killer was up to now: Ferenc scrambled to follow him down the ladder before he could unbolt the door. Three men through three upper windows. Each must have been at the top of a human ladder at least three men high. That meant there were six marauders out in the dark, waiting to be let in once the door was unbarred.

  “Nicholas!” Ferenc screamed down the hatch, and threw himself onto the man scrambling down the stairs. His weight shoved the man off the steep rises. They landed in a loud heap on the raised wooden floor, the invader losing his knife and reaching frantically for purchase somewhere, which gave Ferenc the advantage of grabbing at his limbs.

  Nicholas, a lanky fellow with bad skin, was startled out of an illicit nap. He shouted with disoriented alarm, leapt away from the flailing men, and looked in astonishment up the stairway. Ferenc landed on top of the invader. “Up there,” Ferenc shouted, trying to use the weight of his own elbows to keep the intruder’s elbows pinned to the ground. “He killed Otz. Help Milos and Savis!”

  “Killed Otz?” Nicholas echoed haplessly.

  “Or help me,” Ferenc suggested with a grunt.

  The man brought his forearms up, grabbed hold of Ferenc’s woolen tunic at the collar, and with a growl of effort flipped Ferenc so that they now lay on their sides, still face to face. Ferenc’s arm was trapped under his own body, freeing the invader’s arm. The other man grabbed Ferenc by the hair and pulled the young hunter’s head back, then reached for a second blade at his belt. Ferenc couldn’t see this move directly, but understood what was about to happen. He brought his knee up and kicked the man’s hand hard to keep it from reaching his belt, and then, lightning-fast, reached for the same spot himself, snatching away the dagger and shoving the point of it straight into the man’s lower jaw and throat. The man’s eyes rolled and he made a tormented noise, his jaw pinned shut by the hilt of the dagger. Ferenc felt a rush of adrenaline and dread, and pushed himself away from the dying man, rolling away over the floor then scrambling to his feet, gasping for breath. He ignored the man squirming like an unearthed worm near him and looked for Nicholas. Ferenc wa
s alone in this room, which meant Nicholas had gone upstairs to join the fight. Above he heard scuffling but no shouting, no sound of metal against metal. The absolute surprise of the attack had succeeded. He wondered if Pons was still up on the roof, or if they had already found him. There was no way for him to get down.

  As Ferenc stood wondering what to do there was a loud, communal grunt at the three downstairs windows, and suddenly three more men appeared. These did not spring into the room as the previous ones had; they were hoisting themselves up from the ground. It cost them. Ferenc was holding the enemy’s dagger, but in his own belt he had a long knife; he dropped the stabbing weapon in favor of the slicing one, rushed toward the closest window, and with one sharp horizontal move, slit the throat of one man who was pulling himself through the window.

  Shaking violently, Ferenc leapt toward the next window; the attacker in that one, seeing what had happened to his comrade, dropped out of sight back outside with a curse; the third, directly across from the first one, shouted at whoever was outside supporting him, scrambled into the room and rolled as he landed on the floor, coming up quickly with dagger in one hand and knife in the other, both held curled in close to him, ready to strike as soon as Ferenc moved in.

  Ferenc saw this in time, wheeled back, and held his knife out defensively before him, wishing he had not dropped the dagger, even though his knife was longer than the stranger’s. The stranger’s urgent goal was not to kill Ferenc, however; it was to unbolt the door. As Ferenc realized this and tried to get between him and the entrance, the man slashed out in Ferenc’s direction and the youth jumped back; the attacker had a clear route to the door.

  Ferenc tried to hear if there were still sounds of struggle above, but his own breath and pounding pulse, and the pounding on the door from outside, made it hard for him to hear anything upstairs. The man reached the door, stuck his dagger in his belt, and began to open the bolt one-handed, his knife-arm still held warningly in Ferenc’s direction. Ferenc ran at him with a shout, aiming his long knife for the man’s outstretched bicep, but as he came in close, the man released the door briefly, and walloped Ferenc on the side of the head with a round-house punch that toppled the Hungarian to his knees just before his knife would have hit home. Dazed and gasping, he somersaulted backward to relative safety.