Siege Perilous Read online

  Bishop Marti and old Raimon de Perelha, the two official representatives of the fortress’s inhabitants, sat beside each other on one side of the table. Gathered around and behind them were all the other lords, spilling over to the two ends of the table. Raphael and Vera sat among the cluster of men to one side of the Bishop, Percival to the other side. Ocyrhoe began to move toward Percival, then thought better of it and planted herself between Vera and Raphael. She could claim to be Vera’s squire if anybody questioned her.

  As she settled onto the bench, the door of the keep opened and the solemn procession entered. Besides Peire-Roger and a dozen armed guards, there was the knight, Dietrich von Grüningen, who had come before as a messenger, with a few young men who seemed to be acting as his squires; there was also a large man with leathery skin who was clearly an army general. He bore a facial scar that matched the blow she’d struck against Peire-Roger’s attacker at the first battle of the barbican. Had she slashed the face of Hugue de Arcis? Finally, there was a tall, old man in archbishop’s raiment. These last two had with them several of their own men; the archbishop had a priest in tow.

  With very little introduction, these men all sat across from Raimon and Marti. Peire-Roger remained standing on the one side of the table where nobody was sitting. He looked tired and somewhat astonished.

  “We have surrendered,” he said to both sides of the table. “The crusaders have accepted our surrender and given us terms, and I have accepted them. It is now my burden to inform you what they are, that you may share this knowledge with the rest of the fortress.”

  “Give us the worst of it,” said Marti quietly.

  Peire-Roger looked pained. “The worst, of course, is that any Good Ones who refuse to renounce their oaths will be burned as heretics once the fortress has been emptied.”

  “They have the option of renouncing their oaths?” Raimon said in amazement.

  “Yes,” said Peire-Roger, glancing at the archbishop as if he still needed affirmation of this startling detail. “Up until the very last moment, any one of the Good Ones may renounce their faith—”

  “Heresy,” corrected the archbishop with a sniff.

  “May renounce their heresy and with a small penance return to the arms of the mother church, with no further harm.”

  Marti’s eyes opened wide. “This is a trick,” he said. “The Church has never once taken such a position on our faith.”

  “We are tired of the decades of blood and iron,” said His Eminence of Narbonne. “We wish only to welcome back repentant children into our bosom.”

  “Furthermore,” said Peire-Roger quickly, as if anxious to get all the news out so that he could leave and grieve in the dark, “the Credents, all those here who have not taken the consolamentum oath, are to be released without penalty at all.”

  “What?” said every Montségur resident at the table.

  “No punishment at all,” Peire-Roger said. “They must report to the Inquisitors what they know of the heresy and promise their faith to the archbishop, and they will be allowed to leave here entirely unharmed, with all their property and family intact.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “That is extraordinary,” said Raimon de Perelha.

  “As His Eminence said,” said Hugue de Arcis, “we want to end this. We realize that continued bloodshed will never do it. We want to beat swords into ploughshares before the Occitan is permanently destroyed. These are our lands too, now, and we do not seek a Pyrrhic victory.”

  “But many of us are soldiers,” said one of the lords. “We have killed your soldiers. We have injured your people and taken up arms against the French king.”

  “And we forgive you for it,” said Hugue. His tone implied this was not something he was pleased to offer; somebody higher up than he had insisted upon it, and he was being dutiful.

  “And finally,” Peire-Roger pushed on, “the other…oddity of this surrender is a fortnight’s truce to precede the turnover. For two weeks, nobody is to leave the fortress, under any circumstances. We will not be attacked. We will be left in perfect peace.”

  “Why?” demanded Marti. “Why not just finish this, as you claim you wish to do?”

  “We wish to give you Perfect Heretics the chance to see the error of your ways,” said the archbishop coldly. “It is our dearest hope that given time to reflect you will realize how foolish it is to throw your lives away. We want to give our fallen children every possible chance to rise up and carry on. In the heat of this moment, it is easy for you to remain defiant. With days to rest and contemplate and see the hope of salvation in your Credents’ eyes, perhaps you will choose to render up your heresy and join us again.”

  “They don’t want martyrs,” Raphael said quietly. “In the long view, for them, it’s sensible.”

  A long pause.

  “And that is it?” said Marti, disbelievingly. “That is the whole cause for a two-week truce?”

  “It is,” said the archbishop. “During the truce, Lord Hugue of Carcassonne will take political hostages to ensure your good behavior in the fortress.”

  “That is the least peculiar thing yet said about these arrangements,” said Raimon. “I assume the hostages have been determined.”

  “Yes,” said Peire-Roger grimly. “Father, you are to go with Hugue.”

  “No surprise,” said old Raimon with contented resignation. “I am surprised only not to be slaughtered instantly.”

  “No slaughter, no slaughter,” Hugue insisted, as Peire-Roger continued to name the hostages: “Your son Jordan, my kinsman Arnaud-Roger, the bishop Marti’s brother Raimon…” He asked Hugue, “Was there anybody else?”

  “We discussed the knight.”

  “He is a stranger here,” said Peire-Roger in a tone suggesting an earlier argument. “He has no value as a hostage, as his presence among you will vouchsafe the good behavior of none of us.”

  “We name the terms,” said Hugue gruffly. “And we want him. His name—”

  There was a sharp cough, and Hugue stopped suddenly. He glanced over toward the archbishop. The hooded priest sitting beside the archbishop leaned slightly forward and whispered in the archbishop’s ear. His Eminence’s eyes scanned the cluster of Montségurians as the priest settled back into the shadows, away from the table. Ocyrhoe could barely see the man, but something about him was unsettlingly familiar. The shape of the nose, which she could just make out under his hood, reminded her of Cardinal Fieschi from Rome. Also the way he held himself, and how he leaned forward. Of course it couldn’t be Fieschi, but even a reminder of him caused a flutter of anxiety in her stomach. Which was instantly worsened when she realized the archbishop was staring straight at her.

  “That one,” he said, pointing at her. “She’s the final hostage we want.”

  Ocryhoe’s eyes snapped back to the priest. He was looking at her from the protection of his hood, leaning slightly back as her gaze hit him, as if to make sure she could not see him well. It was Cardinal Fieschi. He had tracked her to Montségur!

  Because he wanted the cup.

  “Why do you want Ocyrhoe?” Raphael asked, putting a protective hand on her shoulder. “She is hardly more than a girl, and she is not even a Credent. Taking a female hostage is most unorthodox.”

  “We determine the terms,” Hugue reminded smugly. “The girl will come with us. She will not be hurt, and at the end of two weeks she will be released with all the others.”

  Raphael squeezed her shoulder and released it. As he lowered his hand, she grabbed it and pulled it down between the two of them on the bench.

  Raphael was a traveler and knew many unexpected things. Perhaps he’d know the Binders’ sign-language? Vera, after all, had recognized the knots in her hair. The lords began to discuss the logistics of bringing the hostages down to the village. As they spoke, she began to tap out the letters of Fieschi’s
name against the inside of Raphael’s wrist. After a moment he glanced subtly at her and then away, with a very focused expression, as listening to something. Did he understand? He obviously guessed the danger, and clearly that the priest had some involvement—but did Raphael recognize him?

  He shook his head very slightly, once, and closed his free hand around her signing fingers. Wait, he mouthed, without looking at her. She put her other hand over his and squeezed it hard, pressing her nails into his flesh, to make him understand that this was urgent.

  Around them, everyone began to stand; the conference was over. The hostages in the room were being moved toward the door. Peire-Roger went out to find his wife and deliver the dread news to her.

  As one of Hugue’s bodyguards moved toward Ocyrhoe, Raphael took her firmly by the arm and pulled her away.

  “She’s to come with us,” said the man gruffly.

  “Am I not allowed a private farewell to my own daughter?” Raphael said fiercely. “If this is intended to be a civilized process, allow me that at least.”

  The man held both hands up in concession and took a step back.

  Raphael turned to face Ocyrhoe directly, forearms aligned, grasping her behind the elbows. He brought his face so close to hers, her eyes could hardly focus to meet his. “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “The priest,” she said. “He told the archbishop to ask for me. He’s not a priest. He’s a cardinal. In disguise. He’s from Rome, and his name is Cardinal Fieschi. He wants the—” She stopped because his grip on her elbows tightened so intensely that it hurt her. He had suddenly gone rigid.

  He drew his face back slightly so she could see his expression. The color had drained from his face. “Are you absolutely certain of that?” he asked, in a slow, intense voice.

  She nodded. “He’s why I fled from Rome. He wants the cup.”

  “Mother of God in Heaven,” said Raphael. She had never seen him look so spooked. Out of her peripheral vision she saw Fieschi scolding the guard who was supposed to bring her along. Of course, Fieschi knew she was an orphan and therefore realized this was no father–daughter farewell. As the guard crossed back to them with an irritated expression, Raphael whispered to her hurriedly, “Fieschi’s not a cardinal anymore.”

  “They defrocked him?” she asked hopefully.

  “No,” said Raphael, “they made him Pope.”

  CHAPTER 36:

  THE CONSEQUENCES

  When the hostages had gone, and French guards were stationed outside the fortress wall, Bishop Marti summoned all the Good Ones to the chapel to tell them the terms, while Peire-Roger summoned the Credents into the hall below, likewise to explain to them.

  The only three people in the fortress not at one of these gatherings were the three visitors, who were on the battlements staring down toward the village.

  “So,” said Raphael. And then there was a long pause.

  “If the Pope wants the grail, there must be something to it,” said Percival.

  “If this pope wants the grail, there must be something suspicious to it,” said Raphael.

  “Frederick wanted Percival…” Vera began

  “No, Léna wanted Percival,” Raphael corrected her. “Ferenc was always very clear that Léna was the driving force behind our coming to collect him. And she knew Ocyrhoe was here, with the cup.”

  “All of which reveals a struggle between church and emperor for the grail,” said Percival. “Even if it is the woman behind the throne and not the emperor. The grail is significant, and I have been led to it by something greater than any of us.”

  He looked expectantly at Raphael, as did Vera. After a moment the Levantine said grudgingly, “It is possible you are not mistaken about that.”

  Percival allowed himself a satisfied smile.

  “So now what?” demanded Vera.

  “Either,” said Raphael, “we take the cup from Rixenda and get the hell out of here before Fieschi can get his hands on it, or we wait two weeks until Ocyrhoe’s released, and take her with us.”

  “We should rescue her from him,” said Percival.

  “No, we shouldn’t,” Vera scolded him. “Releasing a hostage breaks the terms of the truce and endangers everyone in Montségur.”

  “Leaving breaks the truce,” said Percival. “So I suppose that means we’re staying.”

  Vera ground her teeth. “Sitting here and stewing for a fortnight. That could be the final straw that sends us round the bend.”

  “It’s an opportunity to practice a new and subtler kind of fortitude,” said Raphael grimly. “I think that is the course we must take. Fieschi can’t get the cup from Ocyrhoe because she doesn’t have it. We have to wait to see what Fieschi does when he realizes that.”

  “If we could find the cup now, I might be able to help these people somehow,” said Percival.

  “That’s a terrible idea,” said Raphael. “Assuming it does indeed have some kind of mystical power that somehow requires your proximity to it. We don’t know what that is. We have no way to control it. It is not necessarily benign. It is some wild energy of unknown provenance, trapped in a material object. This is not the time, especially with His Holiness lurking about in secret trying to get his hands on it. Frankly, Percival,” Raphael continued, “your obsession with getting your hands on it smacks somewhat of a thirst for power.”

  Percival looked stung. “No, it’s nothing like that. Quite the contrary. I want to be of service. I want to be used by the cup.”

  “Not here. Not yet,” said Raphael with finality.

  The door to the keep opened. The civilian population of the fortress began to emerge into the cool, clean air, many of them openly sobbing. A few moments later the Good Ones began to file out as well, looking solemn but calm. As the trio watched, the Credents and the Good Ones sought each other out and embraced, the Good Ones comforting the Credents. After a few moments, the Perfecti, in a group, moved toward the eastern gate and exited.

  “Going back to their village to collect their possessions,” guessed Vera. “What few they have.”

  “Let us just speak to Rixenda about the cup,” said Raphael. “Now that we know it’s wanted by His Holiness, we cannot allow what I’d originally hoped, that it would conveniently get lost in the shuffle of life here.”

  The sun had not moved discernibly in the sky when the Good Ones returned. As Vera predicted, they carried with them handfuls of ordinary objects wrapped in blankets and cloaks.

  But all three of them were unprepared for what happened next: the Good Ones stopped in the middle of the courtyard, each claiming a small area. They spread their blankets and coats on the grimy ground and laid their personal possessions on them as if they were displaying wares at a primitive market. There were very few things: mostly metal crosses, or images of doves; clay statues, paintings on vellum. There were jars of oil, packets of pepper and others of salt, a few bolts of cloth, a few cakes of beeswax. Raphael saw a few pairs of boots, a couple of purses, a felt hat. Once the Good Ones had settled themselves with these objects, the Credents—who had until then clustered around the edges of the yard—moved in toward them. They circulated among them, settling on the blanket or wrap of a relative or someone to whom they had been especially close. Gentle conversation, a murmuring like lazy bees, filled the courtyard.

  “There’s Rixenda,” said Raphael.

  He climbed down the ladder, the other two behind him. Rixenda, on the edge of the “market,” glanced up as if expecting them.

  “Greetings, dear ones,” she said. “Sit with me.”

  They did. On Rixenda’s blanket were very few items. A cup was not among them. There was a wooden mug, however, which she offered to Raphael. “In here, I mixed tinctures and infusions,” she said. “They brought health and comfort to many. You, I have learned in your time here, are likewise a sometime healer. I would be very pleased if
you would take this cup and allow it to continue its useful purpose in the years to come.”

  Raphael received it from her. “I am honored by the gift,” he said. “But why do you not keep it yourself?” Even as he asked, he knew and dreaded the answer.

  “For I am bound to heaven in two weeks,” she said comfortably. “As are we all. We know our loved ones will grieve for us, and to diminish their heart-heaviness we are divesting ourselves of our very final material goods now, so that our kin need not determine how to dispose of them when we are gone.”

  “You’re giving up without a fight,” Vera said, the disapproval not quite hidden.

  “There has been fighting enough,” said Rixenda. “It has not solved anything.” She smiled at Raphael. “You want to know about the cup.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s safe. Do you require it?”

  Percival and Raphael exchanged looks. Raphael shifted his weight back on his heels, leaving Percival to answer.

  “Soon,” said the taller knight with some difficulty. “Very soon. But not yet.”

  “That shows some discipline, brother Percival,” Rixenda said approvingly.

  “But lady, will you really do this?” Raphael asked. “If you will just forswear it, you may continue to live.”

  She shrugged. “There is no better way to die than in defense of your beliefs,” she said. “We die defiant, every one of us. We need not have a weapon in our hands to do so.”

  “But you are throwing away your life,” said Percival, dismayed.

  “To renounce my faith, when I have invested so much in it? That would be throwing away my life,” Rixenda said. “And to die someday pretending to be Catholic, losing the opportunity to find my way to the true heaven—that would be throwing away my life and my death.”

  Her hands were loosely bound with hemp rope, and the guard who had pulled her away from Raphael held the stray end of the rope. Sinibaldo Fieschi walked right behind her. The priest said nothing to the urchin for the entire, miserable trip down the mountainside.