She was exhausted, but thoughts of the night before, lying once more in Guilhem’s arms, sustained her. Her bones ached and her back was stiff from bending and crouching, but it no longer seemed to matter.
Taking advantage of the frenzy of activity in the rest of the Chateau Comtal, Oriane slipped away to her chamber to wait for her informer.
“About time,” she snapped. “Tell me what you have discovered.”
“The Jew died before we learned much, although my lord believes that he had already given his book into your father’s safekeeping.”
Oriane gave a half smile, but said nothing. She had confided in no one what she had discovered sewn into Alais’ cloak.
“What of Esclarmonde de Servian?”
“She was brave, but in the end she told him where the book would be found.”
Oriane’s green eyes flashed. “And you have it?”
“Not yet.”
“But it is within the Ciutat? Lord Evreux knows this?”
“He is relying on you, Dame, to provide him with that information.”
Oriane thought a moment. The old woman is dead? The boy too? She cannot interfere in our plans? She cannot get word to my father.“
He gave a tight smile. The woman is dead. The brat eludes us, although I do not believe he can do any damage. When I find him, we will kill him.“
Oriane nodded. “And you told Lord Evreux of my… interest.”
“I did, Dame. He was honoured that you should consider being of service in such a way.”
“And my terms? He will arrange safe passage out of the Ciutat?”
“Provided you deliver the books to him, Dame, he will.”
She stood up and started to pace. “Good, this is all good. And you can deal with my husband?”
“If you tell me when and where he will be at the given hour, Dame, easily.” He paused. “It will, however, be more costly than before. The risks are considerably higher, even in such times of unrest. Viscount Trencavel’s escrivan. He is a man of status.”
“I’m well aware of that,” she snapped in a cold voice. “How much?”
“Three times what was paid for Raoul,” he replied.
“That’s impossible!” she said immediately. “I cannot possibly lay my hands on that amount of gold.”
“Nevertheless, Dame, that is my price.”
“And the book?”
This time, he smiled properly. “That is a matter for separate negotiation, Dame,” he said.
CHAPTER 57
The bombardment resumed and continued into the night, a steady thud of missiles, rock and stone, which sent clouds of dust into the air when a strike was made.
From her window, Alais could see that the dwellings on the plains had been reduced to smoking rubble. A noxious cloud was hovering above the tops of the trees like a black mist, as if caught in the branches. Some of the inhabitants had made it across the open ground to the rubble of Sant-Vicens and, from there, had sought refuge in the Cite. But most had been cut down as they fled.
In the chapel the candles burned on the altar.
At dawn on Tuesday the fourth of August, Viscount Trencavel and Bertrand Pelletier mounted the ramparts once more.
The French camp was shrouded in the early-morning river mist. Tents, stables, animals, pavilions, an entire city seemed to have taken root, Pelletier looked up. It would be another fiercely hot day. The loss of the river so early in the siege was devastating. Without water, they could not out for long. Drought would defeat them, even if the French did not.
Yesterday, Alais told him there was rumour of the first case of siege sickness reported in the quartier around the Porte de Rodez, which had most of the refugees from Sant-Vicens. He had gone to see for himself and although the Consul of the quartier had denied it, he feared I was right.
“You are deep in thought, my friend.”
Bertrand turned to face him. “Forgive me, Messire.”
Trencavel waved away his apology. “Look at them, Bertrand! They are to many for us to defeat… and without water.”
Pedro II of Aragon is said to be only a day’s ride away,“ Pelletier said. ”You are his vassal, Messire. He is bound to come to your aid.“
Pellitier knew an appeal would be difficult – Pedro was a staunch Catholic and also brother-in-law to Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse, even though there was no love lost between the two men. Still the historic bond between the House of Trencavel and the House of Aragon was strong.
“The King’s diplomatic ambitions are closely tied up with the fate of Carcassona, Messire. He has no wish to see the Pays d’Oc controlled by the French.” He paused. “Pierre-Roger de Cabaret and your allies support this course of action.”
Trencavel placed his hands on the wall in front of him.
“They have said so, yes.”
“So you will send word?”
Pedro heeded the call and arrived late in the afternoon of Wednesday the fifth of August.
“Open the gates! Open the gates for lo Rei!”
The gates of the Chateau Comtal were thrown open. Alais was drawn to her window by the noise and ran down to see what was happening. At first, she intended only to ask for news. But when she looked up at the windows of the Great Hall high above her, her curiosity at what was taking place inside got the better of her. Too often she heard news third or fourth-hand.
There was a small alcove behind the curtains that separated the Great Hall from the entrance to Viscount Trencavel’s private quarters. Alais had not tried to get inside the space since she was a girl and would creep down to eavesdrop on her father as he worked. She wasn’t sure if she’d even be able to slip into the narrow gap.
Alais climbed up on the stone bench and reached for the lowest window of the Tour Pinte that gave on to the Cour du Midi. She hauled herself up, wriggled over the stone ledge and threaded herself in through the narrow gap.
She was in luck. The room was empty. Alais jumped down to the ground, taking care to make as little noise as possible, then slowly opened the door and slipped into the space behind the curtain. She shuffled along until she was as close to the gap as she dared be. She was so close to where Viscount Trencavel stood, his hands clasped behind his back, that she could have reached out and touched him.
She was only just in time. At the far end of the Great Hall, the doors were thrown open. She saw her father stride in, followed by the King of Aragon and several of Carcassonne’s allies, including the seigneurs of Lavaur and Cabaret.
Viscount Trencavel fell to his knees before his liege lord.
“No need for that,” said Pedro, bidding him rise.
Physically the two men were strikingly different. The King was Trencavel’s senior by many years, of an age with her father. Tall and broad, a bull of a man, his face bore the marks of many military campaigns.
His features were heavy, brooding, made more so by his thick, black moustache against his dark skin. His hair, although still black, like her father’s was going grey at the temples.
“Bid your men withdraw,” he said curtly. “I would talk privately with you, Trencavel.”
“With your leave, Sire King, I would ask permission for my steward to remain. I value his counsel.”
The King hesitated, and then nodded.
“There are no words that can give adequate expression to our gratitude…”
Pedro interrupted. “I’ve not come to support you, but to help you to see the error of your ways. You have brought this situation upon yourself by your wilful refusal to deal with heretics in your dominions. You have had four years – four years – to address the matter, but yet you have done nothing. You allow Cathar bishops to preach openly in your towns and cities. Your vassals openly support the Bons Homes-”
“No vassal…”
“Do you deny that attacks on holy men and priests have gone unpunished? The humiliation of the men of the church? In your lands, heretics worship openly. Your allies give them protection. It is common know: the Count of Foix insults the Holy Relics by refusing to bow before them and his sister has slipped so far from grace as to take her vows as a parfaite, a ceremony the count saw fit to attend.”