She nodded, mesmerised by his voice.
“Harif, the Navigataire, was waiting for them.” Baillard bowed his head. “When he heard all that had happened, he wept for the soul of Alais’ father and for Simeon too. For the loss of the books and for Esclarmonde’s generosity in letting Alais and Sajhe travel on without her to better secure the safety of the Book of Words.”
Baillard stopped again and, for a while, was silent. Alice did not want to interrupt or hurry him. The story would tell itself. He would speak when he was ready.
His face softened. “It was a blessed time, both in the mountains and on the plains, or at first so it seemed. Despite the indescribable horror of the defeat of Besiers, many Carcassonnais believed they would soon be allowed to return home. Many trusted in the Church. They thought that if the heretics were expelled, then their lives would be returned to them.”
“But the Crusaders did not leave,” she said.
Baillard shook his head. “It was a war for land, not faith,” he said. “After the Ciutat was defeated in August 1209, Simon de Montfort was elected viscount, despite the fact that Raymond-Roger Trencavel still lived. To modern minds, it is hard to understand how unprecedented, how grave an offence this was. It went against all tradition and honour. War was financed, in part, by the ransoms paid by one noble family to another. Unless convicted of a crime, a seigneur’s lands would never be confiscated and given to another. There could have been no clearer indication of the contempt in which the northerners held the Pays d’Oc”
What happened to Viscount Trencavel?“ Alice asked. ”I see him remembered everywhere in the Cite.“
Baillard nodded. “He is worthy of remembrance. He died – was murdered – after three months of incarceration in the prisons of the Chateau Comtal, in November 1209. De Montfort published it that he had died of siege sickness, as it was known. Dysentery. No one believed it. There were sporadic uprisings and outbreaks of unrest, until de Montfort was forced to grant Raymond-Roger’s two-year-old son and heir an annual allowance of 3,000 sols in return for the legal surrender of the viscounty.”
A face suddenly flashed into Alice’s mind. A devout, serious woman, pretty, devoted to her husband and son.
“Dame Agnes,” she muttered.
Baillard held her in his gaze for a moment. “She too is remembered within the walls of the Ciutat,” he said quietly. “De Montfort was a devout Catholic. He – perhaps only he – of the Crusaders believed he was doing God’s work. He established a tax of house or hearth in favour of the Church, introduced tithes on the first fruits, northern ways.
“The Ciutat might have been defeated, but the fortresses of the Minervois, the Montagne Noire, the Pyrenees refused to surrender. The King of Aragon, Pedro, would not accept him as a vassal; Raymond VI, uncle to Viscount Trencavel, withdrew to Toulouse; the Counts of Never and Saint-Pol, others such as Guy d’Evreux, returned north. Simon de Montfort had possession of Carcassona, but he was isolated.
“Merchants, peddlers, weavers brought news of sieges and battles, good and bad. Montreal, Preixan, Saverdun, Pamiers fell, Cabaret was holding out. In the spring of April 1210, after three months of siege, de Montfort took the town of Bram. He ordered his soldiers to round up the defeated garrison and had their eyes put out. Only one man was spared, charged with leading the mutilated procession cross-country to Cabaret, a clear warning to any who resisted that they could expect no mercy.
“The savagery and reprisals escalated. In July 1210, de Montfort besieged the hill fortress of Minerve. The town is protected on two sides by deep rocky gorges cut by rivers over thousands of years. High above the village, de Montfort installed a giant trebuchet, known as La Mahoisine the bad neighbour.” He stopped and turned to Alice. “There is a replica there now. Strange to see. For six weeks, de Montfort bombarded the village. When finally Minerve fell, one hundred and forty Cathar parfaits refused to recant and were burned on a communal pyre.
“In May 1211, the invaders took Lavaur, after a siege of a month. The Catholics called it ”the very seat of Satan“. In a way, they were right. It was the See of the Cathar bishop of Toulouse and hundreds of parfaits and parfaites lived peaceably and openly there.”
Baillard lifted his glass to his lips and drank.
“Nearly four hundred credentes and parfaits were burned, including Amaury de Montreal, who had led the resistance, alongside eighty of his knights. The scaffold collapsed under their weight. The French were forced to slit their throats. Fired by bloodlust, invaders rampaged through town searching for the lady of Lavaur, Guirande, under whose protection the Bons Homes had lived. They seized her, misused her. They dragged her through the streets like a common criminal, then threw her into the well and hurled stones down upon her until she was dead. She was buried alive. Or possibly drowned.”
“Did they know how bad things were?” she said.
“Alais and Sajhe heard some news, but often many months after the event. The war was still concentrated on the plains. They lived simply, but happily, here in Los Seres with Harif. They gathered wood, salted meats for the long dark months of winter, learned how to bake bread and to thatch the roof with straw to protect it against storms.”
Baillard’s voice had softened.
“Harif taught Sajhe to read, then to write, first the langue d’Oc, then the language of the invaders, as well as a little Arabic and a little Hebrew.” He smiled. “Sajhe was an unwilling pupil, preferring activities of the body to those of the mind but, with Alais’ help, he persevered.”
“He probably wanted to prove something to her.”
Baillard slid a glance at her, but made no comment.
“Nothing changed until the Passiontide after Sajhe’s thirteenth birthday, when Harif told him he was to be apprenticed in the household of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix to begin his training as a chevalier.”
What did Alais think of that?“
“She was delighted for him. It was what he always wanted. In Carcassona, he’d watched the ecuyers polishing their masters’ boots and helmets. He had crept into the lices to watch them joust. The life of a chevalier was beyond his station, but it had not stopped him dreaming of riding out in his own colours. Now it seemed he was to have the chance to prove himself after all.”
“So he went?”
Baillard nodded. “Pierre-Roger Mirepoix was a demanding master, although fair, and had a reputation for training his boys well. It was hard work, but Sajhe was clever and quick and worked hard. He learned to tilt his lance at the quintain. He practised with sword, mace, ball-and chain, dagger, how to ride straight-backed in a high saddle.”
For a while, Alice watched him gazing out over the mountains and thought, not for the first time, how these distant people, in whose company Baillard had spent much of his life, had become flesh and blood to him.
What of Alais during this time?“
While Sajhe was in Mirepoix, Harif began to instruct Alais in the rites and rituals of the Noublesso. Already, her skills as a healer and a wise woman became well known. There were few illnesses, of spirit or body, which she could not treat. Harif taught her much about the stars, about the patterns that make up the world, drawing on the wisdom of the ancient mystics of his land. Alais was aware that Harif had a deeper purpose. She knew he was preparing her – preparing Sajhe too, that was why he had sent him away – for their task.