The Crusaders succeeded in getting a gata, a siege engine, up to the walls of the suburb. Sheltered beneath the cover, drenched with water, the sappers began to pull rocks out of the walls and dig a cavity to weaken the fortifications.
Trencavel shouted at the archers to destroy the structure. Another storm of missiles and flaming arrows hurtled through the air on the wooden structure. The sky fizzed with pitch and black smoke until finally it caught alight, sending men, their clothes burning, fleeing from the burning cage, only to be cut down by the arrows.
It was too late. The defenders could only watch as the mine the Crusaders had been preparing for days was fired. Alaïs threw up her hands to protect her face as the explosion threw a violent shower of stone, dust and flame up into the air.
The Crusaders charged through the breach. The roar of the fire drowned out even the screaming of the women and children fleeing the inferno.
The heavy gate between the Cite and Sant-Miquel was dragged open and the chevaliers of Carcassonne launched their first attack. Keep him safe, she found herself murmuring to herself, as if words could repel arrows.
Now the Crusaders were catapulting the heads of the dead, severed from their bodies, over the walls to engender panic and fear. The shouting and shrieking grew louder as Viscount Trencavel led his men into the fray. He was one of the first to draw blood, driving his sword clean through the neck of a Crusader and kicking the body free of his blade with his boot.
Guilhem was not far behind him in the charge, driving his warhorse through the mass of attackers, trampling all those in his path.
Alaïs caught sight of Alzeu de Preixan at his side. She watched in horror as Alzeu’s horse slipped and went down. Straight away, Guilhem pulled his horse round and went to aid his friend. Frenzied by the smell of blood and the clashing steel, Guilhem’s mighty horse reared up on its hind legs, crushing a Crusader underfoot, buying Alzeu enough time to scramble back on to his feet and out of danger.
They were heavily outnumbered. Hordes of terrified and injured men, women and children fleeing into the Cite got in their way. The Host advanced relentlessly. Street by street fell under French control.
At last, Alaïs heard the cry go up.
‘Repli! Repli!’ Pull back.
Under cover of night a handful of defenders stole back into the devastated suburb. They slaughtered the few Crusaders left on guard, set fire to the remaining houses, at least depriving the French of cover from which to resume their bombardment of the Cite.
But the truth was stark.
Both Sant-Vicens and Sant-Miquel had fallen. Carcassonne stood alone.
CHAPTER 58
On Viscount Trencavel’s wishes, tables had been set up in the Great Hall. Viscount Trencavel and Dame Agnès were moving between them, thanking the men for the service they had done and yet would do.
Pelletier was feeling increasingly unwell. The room was filled with the smells of burned wax, sweat, cold food and warm ale. He wasn’t sure he could stand it much longer. The pains in his stomach were getting worse and more frequent.
He tried to pull himself upright, but without warning, his legs went from under him. Clutching at the table for support, Pelletier pitched forward, sending plates and cups and meat bones flying. He felt as if there was a wild animal gnawing at his belly.
Viscount Trencavel spun round. Someone started shouting. He was aware of servants rushing to help him and someone calling for Alaïs.
He felt hands holding him up and moving him towards the door. François’s face swam into focus, then out again. He thought he could hear Alaïs issuing orders, although her voice was coming from a long way away and she seemed to be speaking a language he didn’t understand.
‘Alaïs,’ he called out, reaching for her hand in the darkness.
‘I’m here. We’ll get you to your chamber.’
He felt strong arms lift him, the night air on his face as he was carried through the Cour d’Honneur, then up the stairs.
They made slow progress. The spasms in his stomach were getting worse, each more violent than the last. He could feel the pestilence working in him, poisoning his blood and his breath.
‘Alaïs . . .’ he whispered, this time in fear.
As soon as they reached her father’s chamber, Alaïs sent Rixende to find François and collect the medicines she needed from her room. She dispatched two other servants to the kitchens for precious water.
She had her father laid on his bed. She stripped his stained outer robes and put them in a pile to be burned. Pestilence seemed to seep from the pores of his skin. The attacks of diarrhoea were getting more frequent and more severe, blood and pus now making up the greater part. Alaïs ordered herbs and flowers to be burned to try to disguise the smell, but no amount of lavender or rosemary could mask the truth of his condition.
Rixende arrived quickly with the ingredients and helped Alaïs to mix the dried red whortleberries with hot water to form a thin paste. Having stripped his stained robes from him and covered him with a clean, thin sheet, Alaïs spooned the liquid between his pallid lips.
The first mouthful he swallowed, then immediately vomited up. She tried again. This time, he managed to swallow, although it cost him much to do so, sending his body into spasms.
Time became meaningless, moving neither fast nor slow, as Alaïs tried to slow the progress of the sickness. At midnight, Viscount Trencavel came to the chamber.
‘What news, Dame?’
‘He is very sick, Messire.’
‘Is there anything you need? Physicians, medicines?’
‘A little more water, if it can be spared? I sent Rixende to find Francois, some time ago, but he has not returned.’
‘It shall be done.’
Trencavel glanced over her shoulder to the bed. ‘How has the affliction taken hold so quickly?’
‘It is hard to say why such a disease strikes one so hard and yet passes another by, Messire. My father’s constitution was much weakened by his time in the Holy Land. He is particularly susceptible to ailments of the stomach.’ She hesitated. ‘God willing, it will not spread.’
‘There is no doubt it is siege sickness?’ he said grimly. Alaïs shook her head. ‘I am sorry to hear it. Send for me if there is any change in his condition.’
As the hours slid slowly one into the next, her father’s grip on life got weaker. He had moments of lucidity, when he seemed to be aware of what was happening to him. At other times, it seemed he no longer knew where or who he was.
Shortly before dawn, Pelletier’s breathing became shallow. Dozing by his side, Alaïs heard the change and was immediately alert.
‘Filha . . .’
She felt his hands and his brow and knew there was not long to go. The fever had left him, leaving his skin cold.
His soul struggles to be set free.
‘Help me . . .’ he managed to say, ‘. . . to sit.’
With Rixende’s help, Alaïs managed to prop him up. The sickness had aged him in the course of the one night.
‘Don’t speak,’ she whispered. ‘Guard your strength.’
‘Alaïs,’ he admonished her softly. ‘You know my time has come.’ His chest was full of splashing, rattling sounds as he struggled for breath. His eyes were hollow and ringed in yellow and pale brown blotches were forming on his hands and neck. ‘Will you send for a parfait?’ He forced his sunken eyes open. ‘I wish to make a good end.’
‘You wish to be consoled, Paire?’ she said carefully.
Pelletier managed a thin smile and, for an instant, the man he had been in his life, shone through.
‘I have listened well to the words of the Bons Chrétiens. I have learned the words of the melhorer and the consolament . . .’ He broke off. ‘I was born a Christian and I will die one, but not in the corrupt embrace of those who wage war in God’s name at our gates. With God’s grace, if I have lived well enough, I will join the glorious company of spirits in Heaven.’
A fit of coughing overtoo
k him. Alaïs cast her eyes around the room in desperation. She sent a servant to inform Viscount Trencavel her father’s condition had worsened. As soon as he had gone, she summoned Rixende.
‘I need you to fetch the parfaits. They were about the courtyard earlier. Tell them there is one who wishes to receive the consolament.’
Rixende looked terrified.
‘No blame will attach itself to you for carrying a message,’ she said, trying to reassure the girl. ‘You do not have to return with them.’
A movement from her father drew her attention back to the bed.
‘Quick, Rixende. Make haste.’
Alaïs bent down. What is it, Paire? I’m here with you.
He was trying to speak, but the words seemed to shrivel in his throat before he could utter them. She tipped a little wine into his mouth and wiped his desiccated lips with a wet cloth.
‘The Grail is the word of God, Alaïs. This is what Harif tried to teach me, although I did not understand.’ His voice stuttered. ‘But without the merel . . . the truth of the labyrinth, it is a false path.’
‘What about the merel?’ she whispered urgently, not understanding.
‘You were right, Alaïs. I was too stubborn. I should have let you go when there was still a chance.’
Alaïs was struggling to make sense of his meandering words. What path?’
‘I have not seen it,’ he was murmuring, ‘nor will I now. The cave . . . few have seen it.’
Alaïs spun round to the door in despair.
Where is Rixende?
In the corridor outside was the sound of running feet. Rixende appeared, followed by two parfaits. Alaïs recognised the elder, a dark-featured man with a thick beard and a gentle expression who she’d met once at Esclarmonde’s house. Both were wearing dark blue robes and twisted rope belts with metal buckles in the shape of a fish.
He bowed. ‘Dame Alaïs.’ He looked past her to the bed. ‘It is your father, Intendant Pelletier, who has need of consolation?’
She nodded.
‘He has the breath to speak?’
‘He will find strength to do so.’
There was another disturbance in the corridor as Viscount Trencavel appeared on the threshold.
‘Messire — ’ she said in alarm. ‘He requested the parfaits . . . my father wishes to make a good end, Messire.’
Surprise flickered in his eyes, but he ordered the door to be closed.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said. ‘I will stay.’
Alaïs stared at him for a moment, then turned back to her father as the officiating parfait summoned her.
‘Intendant Pelletier is in great pain, but his wits are strong still and his courage holds.’ Alaïs nodded. ‘He has done nothing to harm our church nor owes us a debt?’
‘He is a protector of all friends of God.’
Alaïs and Raymond-Roger stood back as the parfait walked over to the bed and leaned over the dying man. Bertrand’s eyes flickered as he whispered the melhorer, the blessing.
‘Do you vow to follow the rule of justice and truth and to give yourself to God and to the Church of the Bons Chrétiens?’
Pelletier forced the words from his lips. ‘I – do.’
The parfait placed the parchment copy of the New Testament on his head. ‘May God bless you, make a Good Christian of you and lead you to a good end.’ He recited the benedicté, then the adoremus three times.
Alaïs was moved by the simplicity of the service. Viscount Trencavel looked straight ahead. He seemed to be keeping himself under control with an enormous effort of will.
‘Bertrand Pelletier, are you ready to receive the gift of the Lord’s Prayer?’
Her father murmured his assent.
In a clear, true voice, the parfait spoke the paternoster seven times over, pausing only to allow Pelletier to make his responses.
‘This is the prayer that Jesus Christ brought into the world and taught to the Bons Homes. Never eat or drink again without repeating this prayer first; and if you fail of this duty, you must need do penance again.’
Pelletier tried to nod. The hollow whistling in his chest was louder now, like the wind in autumn trees.
The parfait began to read from the Gospel of John.
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God.’ Pelletier’s hand jerked above the covers as the parfait continued to read. ‘. . . And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’
His eyes suddenly flew open. ‘Vertat,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, the truth.’
Alaïs grabbed his hand in alarm, but he was slipping away. The light had gone from his eyes. She was aware the parfait was speaking faster now, as if he feared there was not enough time to complete the ritual.
‘He must speak the final words,’ he urged Alaïs. ‘Help him.’
‘Paire,you must . . .’ Grief took her voice from her.
‘For every sin . . . I have committed . . . by word or deed,’ he rasped, ‘I . . . I ask pardon of God and the Church . . . and all here present.’
With evident relief, the parfait placed his hands on Pelletier’s head and gave him the kiss of peace. Alaïs caught her breath. A look of release had transformed her father’s face as the grace of the consolament descended to him. It was a moment of transcendence, of understanding. His spirit was ready, now, to leave his sick body and the earth that held him.
‘His soul is prepared,’ said the parfait.
Alaïs nodded. She sat on the bed, holding her father’s hand. Viscount Trencavel stood on the other side of the bed. Pelletier was barely conscious, although he seemed to feel their presence.
‘Messire?’
‘I’m here, Bertrand.’
‘Carcassona must not fall.’
‘I give you my word, in honour of the love and obligation that has been between us these many years, I will do all I can.’
Pelletier tried to lift his hand from the blanket. ‘It has been an honour to serve you.’
Alaïs saw the Viscount’s eyes were filled with tears. ‘It is I who should thank you, my old friend.’
Pelletier tried to raise his head. ‘Alaïs?’
‘I’m here, Father,’ she said quickly. The colour had gone from Pelletier’s face now. His skin hung in grey folds under his eyes. ‘No man ever had such a daughter.’
He seemed to sigh as the life left his body. Then, silence.
For a moment, Alaïs did not move, breathe, react in any way. Then she felt a wild grief building within her, taking her over, possessing her, until she broke down in an agony of weeping.
CHAPTER 59
A soldier appeared in the doorway. ‘Lord Trencavel?’
He turned his head. What is it?’
‘A thief, Messire. Stealing water from the Place du Plô.’
He signalled he would come. ‘Dame, I must leave you.’
Alaïs nodded. She had worn herself out with weeping.
‘I will see him buried with the honour and ceremony that befits his status. He was a valiant man, both a loyal counsellor and trusted friend.’
‘His church does not require it, Messire. His flesh is nothing. His spirit is already gone. He would wish you to think only of the living.’
‘Then, see it as an act of selfishness on my part, that I wish to pay my last respects in accordance with the great affection and esteem in which I held your father. I will have his body moved to the capèla Santa-Maria.’
‘He would be honoured by such evidence of your love.’
‘Can I send anyone to sit with you? I cannot spare your husband, but your sister? Women to help you with the laying out?’
Her head darted up, realising only now that she had not thought of Oriane once. She had even forgotten to inform her their father had been taken sick.
She did not love him.
Alaïs silenced the voice in her head. She had failed in her duty, both to her father and to her sister. She got to her
feet.
‘I will go to my sister, Messire.’
She bowed as he left the chamber, then turned back. She could not bring herself to leave her father. She began the process of laying out the body herself. She ordered the bed to be stripped and freshly made, sending the contaminated covers away for burning. Then with Rixende’s help, Alaïs prepared the winding sheets and burial oils. She cleaned his body herself and smoothed the hair from his brow so that, in death, he looked like the man he had been in life.
She lingered a while, looking down at the empty face. You cannot delay any longer.
‘Inform the Viscount his body is ready to be taken to the capèla, Rixende. I must inform my sister.’
Guirande was asleep on the floor outside Oriane’s chamber.
Alaïs stepped over her and tried the door. This time, it was unlocked. Oriane lay alone in her bed with the curtains pulled back. Her tousled black curls were spread over the pillow and her skin was milky white in the early morning light. Alaïs marvelled that she could sleep at all.
‘Sister!’
Oriane opened her green cat-like eyes with a jolt, her face registering alarm, then surprise, before taking on its customary expression of disdain.
‘I have ill news,’ she said. Her voice was dead, cold.
‘Could it not wait? The bell for Prime cannot yet have rung.’
‘It could not. Our father — ’ she stopped.
How can such words be true?
Alaïs took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Our father is dead.’
The shock registered on Oriane’s face, before her habitual expression returned. What did you say?’ she said, her eyes narrowing.
‘Our father passed away this morning. Just before dawn.’
‘How? How did he die?’
‘Is that all you can say?’ she cried.
Oriane flew out of bed. ‘Tell me what he died of?’
‘A sickness. It came on very quickly.’
‘Were you with him at the hour of his passing?’
Alaïs nodded.
‘Yet you did not see fit to inform me?’ she said furiously.