Someone’s shouting in the distance, but the words all run together. Another voice joins in. Could that be a sign? Has the Viscount returned? I could go and see what’s happening, but I don’t like to leave him in case – in case – I don’t know what he might do. He might hurt himself. The way he was staggering about, earlier, banging his head on the wall . . . he seems to have lost all sense of where he is.
More shouts. A shutter slams. I can hear Centule’s plaintive cry: ‘What’s happening?’ When I open the door to the kitchen, he’s already disappeared.
Must have gone to ask for news.
I’ll wait till he returns. I’ll get Father Pagan some water. There’s still some left at the bottom of the jug, but is there enough to wash Lord Roland? Probably not. Just enough to clean his blood off the Archdeacon’s hands, and his face, and his tonsure. It’s smeared all over him.
‘Father?’
No reply. He’s sobbing into Lord Roland’s ear: ‘What am I going to do? What am I going to do?’ I can’t bear it. If only I could – this is worse than – but what can I say? What can I possibly say?
Gird thee with sackcloth and wallow thyself in ashes; make thee mourning as for an only son, most bitter lamentation. For Lord Roland Roucy de Bram is dead.
‘The children! Get the children!’ Wailing from outside. People run past the window; a woman weeps piteously, moaning and beating her breast. Somehow the sound of it reaches Father Pagan, and he begins to howl again, howling until he runs out of air, until he can’t force anything through his open mouth except a tiny hiss. His face is red and contorted.
‘Father please –’ You’ve got to control yourself. Something’s wrong out there, I can feel it. Something bad has happened. I’ll have to ask – I’ll ask that man there.
‘Wait! Stop!’
He wheels around, and stares up at the window.
‘What is it?’ (My voice sounds so squeaky.) ‘What’s all the noise?’
‘Get out!’
‘What?’
‘Get out! They’re coming!’
‘What do you mean? Who –?’
But he’s gone. He’s run away. ‘What’s happened? What is it?’ What do you mean, get out? There must be some mistake. Where’s Lord Jordan? A soldier is coming across the square – a garrison soldier. There’s a cluster of people around him: one, a woman, is on her knees. She’s clinging to the skirts of his tunic, and he’s shouting and waving his arms. Finally someone pulls her off; someone else reels away from the soldier, holding his head, shaking his head, in pain or sorrow or disbelief.
I’ve got to find out. I’ve got to ask.
‘Sergeant? Sergeant!’
He hears me. He turns. And he must recognise the house, because he comes straight over.
‘Is the Archdeacon there?’ he pants.
‘Yes, but –’
‘Tell him the siege is ended. Tell him to leave. Leave, but take no property. If we leave our property, they won’t kill us.’
‘Did the Viscount –?’
‘The Viscount is taken prisoner.’
‘What?
’ There are tears in his eyes. ‘They lured him in, and took him prisoner. Him and the nine knights who went with him. Ah Christ, those faithless . . . may they rot in hell.’
No. Not Lord Jordan.
‘If you leave now, they’ll let you through. Don’t try to take any property. No property. And don’t stay, or – well, you know what happened at Béziers.’
He moves away, and the people follow him, weeping, questioning, protesting. I can’t – oh no.
No.
It can’t be true. Not Lord Jordan. How can I leave, when – but I’ve got to leave. I’ve got to think. Don’t panic. Be calm. Concentrate. Just concentrate.
‘Father?’
He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t hear me. Oh Jesus –
‘Father!’ (Listen, damn you!) ‘Father, we’ve got to go! The crusaders are coming! If we stay, they’ll kill us!’
Still nothing. He’s lying there, tracing a line down Lord Roland’s nose with the tip of his finger. Totally absorbed in the lifeless profile.
‘FATHER!’
As loudly as I can, and he doesn’t even twitch. What can I do? Should I pull his hair? Slap his face? Or –
Wait. I know.
He gasps as the water hits him; gasps and blinks and sits up.
‘Father, listen –’
‘Go away.’
‘The crusaders are coming. The Viscount is captured. We can’t stay, or they’ll kill us.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘You’re not listening! Didn’t you hear what I said? The crusaders are coming!’
‘Let them come.’
What?
I can hardly recognise his swollen face, it’s so plastered with blood and sweat and tears. I can hardly see his eyes, or hear his voice.
‘Father, what are you saying?’ (It’s me, Isidore! Don’t do this to me!) ‘We’ve got to go!’
‘Go?’ A savage look. ‘Do you think I’d leave him?’
‘But –’
‘If you want to go, then go! Get out!’
‘But he’s dead, can’t you see? He’s dead, Father.’
A terrible silence. The Archdeacon covers his mouth. He closes his eyes, and his chest heaves. At last, however, he manages to control himself ‘Roland may be dead,’ he declares hoarsely, ‘but he’s still here. I’m not leaving him. I’m not leaving him. He’s my lord. He’s my father and my mother – they won’t have him – they’ll never – I can’t – no . . .’ And he begins to cry again, like a child, rocking back and forth with his hands hanging loose and his head thrown back and it’s breaking my heart. It’s breaking my heart.
‘Please, Father, please, you’ve got to come. Please.’ What can I say? ‘If you don’t come they’ll kill you, Father.’
‘Oh God.’ He’s moaning. ‘Oh God, oh God, do you think I care?’
‘Father –’
‘Go away. Just go away, run away, I don’t care, I don’t care any more.’
‘But –’
‘Go!’ he screams. ‘Get out!’
Go. I’ve got to go. If I don’t go, they’ll kill me. Where shall I go? Through the kitchen, into the square. Everyone’s heading towards the Aude Gate: women dragging their children, monks tripping over the hems of their robes, one man carrying his aged mother or grandmother on his back. No property, no bundles, no goats or carts or horses. Just loaves and bottles and cabbages tucked under their arms.
I know that monk. That’s Brother Gervaise. I could join him, and follow him to the nearest monastery. That’s what I’ll do. That’s . . . at least . . .
No. I can’t do that. I can’t leave my Father, how can I? How can I go away and never know – never see – it’s impossible. What kind of a life would I have without him?
‘Father!’ There must be some way. ‘Father, I know what we’ll do. We’ll take him with us. Do you hear me?’
Back into the bedroom. He’s lying beside Lord Roland, his face on Lord Roland’s chest. He doesn’t move or speak. If it wasn’t for his breathing, you’d think that he was dead, too.
‘Father, we’ll make a hammock. We’ll get two sticks and tie a blanket between them. We’ll carry him like that.’
No response.
‘Father, please, we’ve got to hurry, we’ve got to go now!
’ Nothing.
‘Father!’ Look at me, damn you, listen to me! I’m Isidore, I’m here, I’m not dead, I’m alive! I’m alive, and I need you! ‘Answer me! Answer me!’ Pounding on his back, but he doesn’t make a sound, nothing, not a single word –
Wait. What’s that? A scream. Someone’s screaming, screaming in terror. They’ve come, I know they have, they’ve come and I can hear – I can smell – they’re lighting fires. No, wait, that’s not – that’s –
Help!
Chapter 30
19 August 1209
‘Isidore?’
Go away.
‘Isidore?’ Someone’s tapping my cheek. ‘Isidore, wake up. You have to wake up.’
Wake up? Is it morning? No, it’s not morning; there’s something wrong. Where am I?
‘Isidore, wake up. We’re leaving. Come on.’
It’s his face, hanging there, all wet and dirty. But if that’s his face, and that’s his chest, then my head must be on his lap.
Yes. And the rest of me is on the floor.
‘You’ve had a fit,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s all right. You’ve just had a fit.’
‘What – ?’
‘Can you get up? You can’t sleep now, we’ve got to go.’
Go. Yes.
Yes! God! ‘The crusaders!’
‘They’re not here.’
‘Quick – quick –!’
‘It’s all right. Calm down. They’re not here yet, we still have time.’ He puts a hand under my elbow, and wipes my mouth with his sleeve. ‘Take it slowly. Don’t hurt yourself.’
The crusaders. We’ve got to go. My knees are trembling. Lord Roland . . .
He’s been covered up. There’s a blanket over his face.
‘You – you –’ You’re standing. You’re talking. ‘Aren’t we going to take him with us?’
Father Pagan shakes his head. His eyes are still red and swollen, but they’re seeing things again. ‘We’re on our own now,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Father.’
‘No. I’m sorry. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’
‘It was for me! He was trying to save me –’
‘That’s because you’re worth saving.’ Suddenly he closes his eyes, and grabs my hand, and presses it to his cheek. For a moment it seems as if he’s going to cry again.
But he doesn’t.
‘Can you walk?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes. I’m not dizzy. I’ve got a headache, but I’m not dizzy.’
‘Then we’ll go.’ Dropping my hand, he puts his arm around my shoulders. ‘Come on. I’ll help you. Lean on me, and you’ll be fine.’
It seems to take for ever to cross the room. When we finally reach the threshold he turns back, looking at the shrouded body – that long, grey shape on the bed – with a look that lays bare his very soul.
And he closes the door behind us.
Epilogue
After occupying Carcassonne, the crusaders slowly moved through the rest of Languedoc. Some towns were conquered, some surrendered. Everywhere the local lords were deprived of their rights and lands, which were bestowed on knights from the north. Many Cathars were burned at the stake. The bloodshed lasted for years, surviving the death of Pope Innocent in 1216, and in 1226 King Louis VIII of France himself came south, triggering a fresh wave of violence. In 1244 the last Cathar stronghold was taken, and in 1249, when the last Count of Toulouse died (leaving no male heir), the lands traditionally held by him, and by the Viscount of Carcassonne and Béziers, became permanent possessions of the kings of France.
Lord Raymond Roger Trencavel died of dysentery soon after being taken prisoner. Lord Jordan Roucy de Bram also died a captive, and his son was killed defending Bram against the crusaders. Bram held out for three days, and when it surrendered one hundred prisoners had their eyes gouged out, and their noses, lips and ears cut off. They were then allowed to leave under the guidance of a man who had been blinded in only one eye: he led them to the fortress of Cabaret, which defied the crusaders until 1211.
Dominic Guzman remained at Prouille. Three times he refused bishoprics, preferring to devote himself to the foundation of the Order of Friars Preachers (or Dominicans). He died in 1221, and was made a saint in 1234.
Isidore Orbus escaped from Carcassonne, and followed Pagan Kidrouk to Prouille, and thence to Montpellier, where Pagan spent many years lecturing at the university. Isidore studied under him at Montpellier, and then moved on to the university of Bologna, where he became a professor of canon law. During this time, the frequency of his epileptic fits diminished greatly. At the age of thirty-nine he was appointed papal chamberlain. He wrote several books, including A History of Noble Men, Concerning the Theological Virtues and a study of papal law.
Pagan Kidrouk remained at Montpellier until 1223. That year he went on a pilgrimage to St James of Compostela, and upon returning, retired to a monastery near Marseilles. Here he devoted himself to writing a book on the life of Lord Roland Roucy de Bram, emphasising the Christian lessons that could be learnt from it. He died in 1227, at the age of fifty-six, leaving the book incomplete.
Isidore was with him when he died.
Catherine Jinks, Pagan's Scribe
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