When they reached the Chateau Comtal, Pelletier ordered the musician to be taken to the kitchens to have his wounds dressed, while he went immediately to inform Viscount Trencavel. Some little time later, fortified by sweet wine and honey, the musician was brought to the donjon.
He was pale but in command of himself. Fearing the man’s legs would not hold him, Pelletier ordered a stool to be fetched so he could give his testimony sitting down.
“Tell us your name, amic,” he said.
“Pierre de Murviel, Messire.”
Viscount Trencavel sat in the middle, his allies around him in a semicircle.
“Benvenguda, Pierre de Murviel,” he said. “You have news for us.”
Sitting bolt upright with his hands on his knees, his face as white as milk, he cleared his throat and began to talk. He had been born in Beziers, although he had spent the past few years in the courts of Navarre and Aragon. He was a musician, having learned his trade from Raimon de Mirval himself, the finest troubadour of the Midi. It was on the strength of this that he’d received an invitation from the Suzerain of Beziers. Seeing an opportunity to visit his family again, he’d accepted and returned home.
His voice was so quiet that the listeners had to strain to hear what he was saying. “Tell us of Besiers,” said Trencavel. “Leave no detail unspoken.”
“The French army arrived at the walls the day before the Feast Day of Santa Maria Magdalena and pitched camp along the left bank of the River Orb. Closest to the river were the pilgrims and mercenaries, beggars and unfortunates, a tattered rabble of men, bare-footed and wearing only breeches and shirts. Further away, the colours of the barons and the churchmen flew above their pavilions in a mass of green and gold and red. They built flagpoles and felled trees for enclosures for their animals.”
“Who was sent to parley?”
“The Bishop of Besiers, Renaud de Montpeyroux.”
“It is said he is a traitor, Messire,” said Pelletier, leaning over and whispering in his ear, “that he has already taken the Cross.”
“Bishop Montpeyroux returned with a list of supposed heretics drawn up by the Papal Legates. I don’t know how many were set down on the parchment, Messire, but hundreds certainly. The names of some of the most influential, most wealthy, most noble citizens of Besiers were written there, as well as followers of the new church and those who were accused of being Bons Chretiens. If the Consuls would hand over the heretics, then Besiers would be spared. If not…” He left the words hanging.
“What answer gave the consuls?” said Pelletier. It was the first indication of whether or not the alliance would hold against the French.
“That they would rather be drowned in the salt sea’s brine than surrender or betray their fellow citizens.”
Trencavel gave the slightest sigh.
“The Bishop withdrew from the city, taking with him a small number of Catholic priests. The commander of our garrison, Bernard de Servian,: began to organise the defences.”
He stopped and swallowed hard. Even Congost, bent over his parchment, stopped and looked up.
“The morning of July the twenty-second dawned quietly enough. It was hot, even at first light. A handful of Crusaders, camp followers, not even soldiers, went to the river, immediately below the fortifications to the south of the city. They were observed from the walls. Insults were traded. One of the routiers walked on to the bridge, swaggering, swearing. It so inflamed our young men on the walls, they armed themselves with spears, clubs, even a makeshift drum and banner. Determined to teach the French a lesson, they threw open the gate and charged down the slope before anyone knew what was happening, shouting at the tops of their voices and attacked the man. It was over in moments. They threw the routier’s dead body off the bridge into the river.”
Pelletier glanced at Viscount Trencavel. His face was white.
“From the walls, the townspeople screamed at the boys to come back, they were too dizzied with confidence to listen. The noise of the brawl drew the attention of the captain of the mercenaries, the roi as his men call him. Seeing the gate standing open, he gave the order to attack. At last the youths realised the danger, but it was too late. The routiers slaughtered them where they stood. The few that made it back tried to secure the gate, but the routiers were too quick, too well armed. They forced their way through and held it open.
“Within moments, French soldiers were hammering at the walls, armed with picks and mattocks and scaling ladders. Bernard de Servian did his best to defend the ramparts and hold the keep, but everything happened too quickly. The mercenaries held the gate.
“Once the Crusaders were inside, the massacre began. There were bodies everywhere, dead and mutilated; we were in blood knee-deep. Children were cut from their mothers’ arms and skewered on the points of pikes and swords. Heads were severed from limbs and mounted on the walls for the crows to pick clean, so it seemed that a line of bloody gargoyles, fashioned from flesh and bone, not stone, gaped down on our defeat. They butchered all who they came upon, without regard to age or sex.”
Viscount Trencavel could remain silent no longer. “But how came it that the Legates or the French barons did not stop this carnage? Did they not know of it?”
Du Murviel raised his head. They knew, Messire.“
“But a massacre of innocent people goes against all honour, all convention in war,” said Pierre-Roger de Cabaret. “I cannot believe that the Abbot of Citeaux, for all his zeal and hatred of heresy, would sanction the slaughter of Christian women and children, in a state of sin?”
“It is said that the Abbot was asked how he should tell the good Catholics from the heretics: ”Tuez-les tous. Dieu reconnaitra les siens“,” said du Murviel in a hollow voice. “ ”Kill them all. God will recognise his own.“ Or so it is rumoured that he spoke.”
Trencavel and de Cabaret exchanged glances.
“Go on,” ordered Pelletier grimly. “Finish your story.”
The great bells of Besiers were ringing the alarum. Women and children crowded into the Church of Sant-Jude and the Church of Santa Maria Magdalena in the upper town, thousands of people crammed inside like animals in a pen. The Catholic priests vested themselves and sang the Requiem, but the Crusaders broke down the door and slaughtered them all.“
His voice faltered. “In the space of a few brief hours, our entire city had been turned into a charnel house. The looting started. All our fine houses were stripped bare by greed and barbarity. Only now did the French barons, through greed not conscience, seek to control the routiers. They, in turn, were furious to be deprived of the spoils they had earned, so set the town alight so none could benefit. The wooden dwellings of the slums went up like a tinderbox. The roof timbers of the Cathedral caught light and collapsed, trapping all those sheltering inside. So fierce were the flames, the Cathedral cracked down the middle.”
Tell me this, amic. How many survive?“ said the Viscount.
The musician dropped his head. “None, Messire. Save those few of us who escaped the city. Otherwise, all are dead.”
“Twenty thousand slaughtered in the space of a single morning,” Raymond-Roger muttered in horror. “How can this be?”
Nobody answered. There were no words equal to the task.
Trencavel raised his head and looked down at the musicians.