It was too late. The defenders could only watch as the mine the Crusaders had been preparing for days was fired. Alais 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.
Alais 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, Alais 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 Agnes 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 Alais.
He felt hands holding him up and moving him towards the door.
Francois’ face swam into focus, then out again. He thought he could hear Alais issuing orders, although her voice was coming from a long way away and she seemed to be speaking a language he didn’t understand.
“Alais,” 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.
“Alais…” he whispered, this time in fear.
As soon as they reached her father’s chamber, Alais sent Rixende to find Francois 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 diarrhea were getting more frequent and more severe, blood and pus now making up the greater part. Alais 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 Alais 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, Alais 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 Alais 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. Alais 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, Alais 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, Alais 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.”
“Alais,” 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 fora 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 Chretiens. 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 overtook him. Alais 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.