Taking the Cross, page 27
The masons, with expressions of horror, frozen momentarily, flew down the scaffolding and assisted the Painter and Eva in the removal of the stones.
Eva cradled the face of Claris in her hands. “I am sorry. I am so sorry. The blame for this is mine, solely mine.”
The Painter removed the last of the stones. His strong hands were trembling, his voice soft and weak. “Let us take her to the Inn of Renart.” The masons offered their assistance, but the Painter refused them, his words strengthened. “If you wish to help, search out who did this.”
The source of the voice disappeared and spoke no more. Eva had heard the voice before. The masons, angry and bewildered, began in vain a frantic search for the toppler of their stones.
Claris groaned in pain.
The Painter lifted her in his stout arms and carried her gently. The Inn was not far. Claris did not bleed heavily, but drifted in and out of consciousness. Eva was amazed she remained among the living. Many stones had fallen on her, but Claris had been far enough away that none of it had come down upon her head. Surely this extraordinary woman still possessed a chance at life. She could not perish now.
Eva was a selfish girl who had only the look of a woman. The fault was hers alone. If Claris died and the Painter lost his love, never could she forgive herself.
Eva looked around for the man as they moved through alleyways and came to the Inn of Renart. She heard not the voice again. The proprietor stood under the lintel, holding open the door, as if he already knew of what had befallen Claris. “Bring her to my chamber. She can have my bed. I will send for my physician and for a priest.”
“No! She is not dying. You shall do no such thing.” Eva was ignored. The Painter disappeared into another room.
The priest and physician both arrived within a quarter-hour. The physician said she bled on the inside and that neither bleeding her vessels to the outside nor using leaches nor poultice of pear would avail Claris. She was in the hands of God. Only He could bind up her inner wounds and restore the humors in her body and make her whole. The priest, whom Eva recognized from the cathedral, hung back, as if he sensed that Claris’s time would come shortly but had not yet come.
Both the priest and the physician would have had much exposure to death and gained recognition of its approach. Yet Eva refused to allow such belief. Claris could not be dying. Eva came to the bedside, forced herself there, and took the hand of Claris. Eva willed herself to smile. “I have complained of you poking and wounding my soul to bring healing, but now it is you who are truly wounded. I am so sorry, Claris. If I had not been so selfish, if we had just kept walking, none of this would have taken place.”
Claris spoke with eyes still shut. “Eva, you do not know that.” She groaned. “Do not torment yourself.”
Eva looked up and the priest stood on the opposing side of the bed. She was tired. Veracity flowed into her mind through many small, newly opened inlets. She turned to the priest. “It is time?”
The priest only nodded, his face sober.
The Painter entered the room, eyes red and swollen and face red as well. He did not express sorrow well in front of others. His expression transformed back and forth between rage and tenderness like a rapid changing of the guard. He did not look upon Eva. He took the hand of Claris. “My heart, how you have gladdened my soul.” Eva moved back. “You will live, do not lose hope.”
Claris’s eyes opened and her words were breathy, forced, and faint, her eyes seeing only the Painter. “Painter, you gave me hope I dared not imagine before. I dreamt of a family. It was a sweet dream. You must watch over Eva. Do not be bitter towards her. We all have a calling and mine ends here. Eva, come to me. I wish to speak a blessing over you.” Eva slowly approached Claris and the Painter, who looked upon her for the first time since they brought Claris to the Inn. His look held wariness but not anger.
“Dearest Eva, you must not blame yourself. I am truly sorry we did not tell you sooner of our plans for marriage. I had planned to tell you when the Painter was to arrive on the morrow. We did not want you to think we were abandoning you, which was the very reason why we were hesitant to let you know of us.”
The Painter took the hand of Eva. “We were wrong, I see that now, and have paid a grievous price.” Eva had never seen tears upon his face before.
“No, my Painter, Claris will yet live.”
Claris shook her head. “Eva, hearken to me. Fear not. You must have courage. Deu has given you a mighty calling, to see those in heavy shackles unbound from dark chains. May His peace ever guard your mind and heart. May you see His light shine out clear and strong, even in dark places. May you never be without a companion to lift you up when you stumble. May you never forget that I loved you. Never forget all that I have spoken to you these many years. I see now that you are the reason I became a Beguine.”
Eva leaned forward. “I shall draw upon all your words. You are a sage, a fount of wisdom. I have ever needed to you to prod my soul. I need you still. We shall meet again.”
Claris smiled. “I know. Farewell, Eva.”
Eva embraced Claris then withdrew out of deference to the Painter.
“Now come to me, my Painter. Kiss me once more.” The Painter cradled Claris’s head in his hands and tenderly brought his lips against hers. Eva felt herself an interloper but could not flee the scene. She had never before witnessed such passion between two people. It was a holy moment.
Once the Painter released the kiss, Claris’s breath began to fade. The priest sat at the bedside. He administered the sacraments, anointed Claris’s head with oil, and heard final confession. The priest was heartfelt in word and deed, and neither rote nor ignorant.
The Painter grasped one hand and Eva the other.
Like soft rain falling to earth, Claris breathed her last and died.
CHAPTER 33
AUGUST 14, 1209
Raimon Roger bid them halt some thirty yards beyond the Narbonne Gate. The cheers and shouts of “Paratge!” could be heard soaring above the walls. The company waited under the hot sun as the remainder of the cavalcade made egress from the city. Once completely outside the ramparts, the formation compacted from a single file line to twenty rows of cavaliers, each row five abreast. Raimon Roger was foremost, in the center of the first row, Andreas on his right, and Anfos his left, with the other sergeants at arms flanking them. Many in la cite had already clambered upon the ramparts to see for themselves the parley. The curtain walls between ancient Roman towers were packed with a garrison armed with their tongues, and of these they did not cease to make use. “Paratge!” The cries grew louder as more and more reached the allure on either side of the Tor Samson. “Paratge!” If no other thing, the French would know this day that the spirit of the Carcassonais, indeed of the Languedoc itself, was undimmed.
The unknown relative of Raimon Roger bore a kindly smile. His cadre of one and one-half score cavaliers had faces of stone. Their leader exercised no effort to rouse his troop to meet Raimon Roger, but remained near the base of the hill. The smile remained affixed in place as well.
Raimon Roger moved to the fore, next to Guilhem the gonfanonier, and hailed his relative as they drew close, calling him my lord and my uncle. Though he did so in such a way as one refers to either a true blood uncle or merely an intimate of the family, and Andreas could not tell which the nobleman was. Since Raimon Roger was related through blood or marriage to much of the nobility in the Languedoc, as well as Iberia, England, the Holy Roman Empire, and France, including the king in Paris, Philippe himself, it was lacking in surprise that Raimon Roger should be a relative of this particular baron before them.
The Unknown did not refer to Raimon Roger as nephew or any other term endearing, but simply called out to my lord Viscount. The man raised sword, blade thrust skyward, brought the weapon to his face, cross guard momentarily parallel with his deep green eyes. The noise of the Carcassonais dimmed. It was an odd gesture at such a time, for it was not a symbol of peace.
Raimon Roger withdrew his longsword and did likewise. Raimon Roger accepted the challenge. All upon the walls ceased utterance. Though it was hot summer, Raimon Roger spoke with an air crisp as late autumn, with very loud voice. “Do you have terms to offer, or must we ride to the meet?” Andreas could tell by the tone of the query that Raimon Roger knew already the answer. It was his way of informing his people gathered by the hundreds, perhaps thousands, atop the walls, watching in new silence, what fate awaited them all. The meet for parley would be but a singular sort of battle.
The Unknown did not move or alter his expression. Aware of his role in the unfolding drama, the baron replied with booming speech. “The meet for parley will be held in the pergola of the Count of Nevers, Herve de Donzy, in the tent of green rising in the center above all others.” The baron gestured toward the expansive pavilion. “Nevers has given the pledge of his youngest son, Philippe, as a hostage in guarantee of safe-conduct.”
The Unknown looked back and nodded his head but once. A rift appeared in the warparty and a knight rode forward with a boy clinging around his waist. Dressed in a fine tunic of green and gold, the lad, who appeared no more than four, looked around wide-eyed at the Trencavel knights before him and the people gathered atop the walls. Though seeking to appear brave, he clearly was scared. A vulnerable child among men at arms. Protected only by the promises of his father. Andreas thought such a coin not worth its weight in lead, much less in silver or gold.
Raimon Roger appraised the boy. “Are there others?”
“There are no others, only him. Nevers dotes on the boy. The Count is the most powerful lord amongst us. As Nevers goes so goes the army. He will not lay siege to the city with the lad inside. Philippe is a strong guarantor of peace.”
Raimon Roger looked over the sea of tents and focused on the pergola of the Count of Nevers. “I have heard Herve does indeed dote on his son. Very well.” Raimon Roger motioned and two knights withdrew from the ranks and moved forward. “Take the boy straightaway to the Chateau Comtal. See to it that he is well protected and well cared for, given every comfort.” The lead knight of the two took the boy from the cavalier of the Unknown, and they rode toward the Narbonne Gate.
“We go to the pergola of the Count of Nevers.” As he wheeled his horse about, a black arabit, tall and densely muscled, the Northern Baron who spoke Occitan fluently, the Unknown relative of Raimon Roger, turned his piercing, pale blue eyes and wide, noble brow toward Andreas for but a moment, giving a look that was both knowing and curious, imploring but asking nothing, pointed but falling short of giving recognition. Andreas sought to understand such. The Unknown spurred his mount toward the sea of tents and both companies followed. As the châtelain set out for the encampment of the enemy, one thought rose above all others. He need make journey to Montsegur in the lower reaches of the Pyrenees after siege, and there have solitary sojourn. That thought again. Why think on such now?
They rode across the plain of burnt grass and scorched earth at a pace beyond a trot but short of a gallop, a canter, the tempo at which one moves to attend to pressing but not urgent business. The Unknown directed his arabit this way and that through the tents of the French, as if tracing a geometric pattern, like the labyrinth etched in the floor of the cathedral of Chartres. Andreas had went there once as a boy with his father on a journey to Paris.
Only himself and his father.
It was the sole time he had felt close to his father since the commencing of the cruel dreams, and the more cruel spurning of his torment of the night. They had both walked the maze in the cathedral of Chartres as many others did, in lieu of making actual pilgrimage to the Holy Land. His father had spoken kindly to him, saying Deu looks at the heart. “If never you make journey to Outremer, to the Holy Land in the natural, Andreas, have sojourn there in your heart and that is enough for him.” It occurred to Andreas now, as they rode between tents, that it was the only time ever that he felt safe, unchallenged as a child, and lacked the need to battle any unseen thing.
His father had continued to instruct him as they journeyed to Paris and back to Chartres, but once they passed south of Orleans, he grew cold and distant once more. Whatever light and warmth his father had surprisingly exuded for several days in the North, had sprung from a place now slammed shut, never to be pried open again. His father had scorned Andreas on the final night of their return journey for crying aloud in his sleep.
A noise ripped his brain, a shriek, and the pain concentrated at the crown of his head and spread like a web round his skull. All thoughts of labyrinths and pilgrimage and Outremer seemed swept from his mind, and he saw only a barren wall of sheer rock he must climb and there remain. “You shall achieve your deliverance.”
The Unknown stopped within sighting of the expansive green pergola adorned with bright gold cord at the edges, but still some yards distant. He held out his arm, palm vertical and to the fore. The countenance of the man grew even sterner, if such a thing was possible. “Your company need halt here my Lord Viscount. You and your châtelain must come alone.” The man not only spoke Occitan, but was fluent with a strong Provençal accent, like speakers of the language Andreas had conversed with from Avignon, Arles, and Orange.
Raimon Roger looked the baron in the eye, his own eyes remaining deep wells of peace. “I bring eight men and my châtelain into the pergola, else I return to Carcassonne.” The fire flickered in the depths for but a moment. “Think not that I cannot fight my way back to my city. My châtelain is the hero of Beziers. The lone hero of an evil battle. ” Raimon Roger paused, unblinking eyes met those of the Unknown. “It is because of him, his early warning, and our preparation you are compelled to make parley. Do not think it otherwise.”
The Unknown raised an eyebrow and his look was shot through with the briefest flash of surprise, a ripple moving at speed, easily missed if Andreas had not been studying the man. Here was the scene of the pitched battle, the ground where it was to be fought. His young, naïve lord, Viscount Raimon Roger Trencavel, knew the ground upon which he trod, knew it well.
The Unknown faltered but for a moment more, in the quick but awkward way of those unaccustomed to challenge or obstacle, proving that Raimon Roger could indeed fight his way back to la cite. “Bring the eight others you choose and follow me.” With that he dismounted, turned on his heel and strode briskly toward the tent as green, gilded edge cloth gave way from the inside, revealed the opulence within.
Raimon Roger turned to Andreas. “Choose seven others to accompany us besides Anfos, and choose well I pray you for your very lives and all those within Carcassonne may hinge on the choice. We shall dismount while the rest remain on horse and at the ready. I desire you to be a witness to what is to come. Only I ask you do not deter me from the road I must walk. Will you accede to my request?”
Andreas spoke nothing, but merely looked Raimon Roger in the eye, even as his hand grasped his sword. He wanted to charge the company of thirty Frenchmen, slay them all, including the Unknown, and return to Carcassonne. He had no wish to linger among foreign tents outside the walls.
Raimon Roger laid his palm on Andreas’s chest. “My friend, you will live to fight another day. Do not deter me from my course. I know you, Andreas. I knew you before ever you practiced swordplay with a pels. I know now what thoughts fill your mind.” Raimon Roger lowered his voice and the words were terse. “But you must hold.”
Andreas dismounted without making a reply and motioned to Anfos and the other seven he wanted with him and they unhorsed themselves and fell in step behind his lord, even as Andreas shot a look to the others to remain at the ready. The walk to the pavilion seemed as a slow march into an ever darkening cave. The grassy alley between pergolas steadily seemed to shrink and the doorway to the tent grew larger and all else faded. The Unknown stopped at the entrance and welcomed in Raimon Roger. Then he allowed the flaps to fall down partway, reducing the opening to only the width of a man, as if he were merely tolerating the entry of the rest.
The lords and knights of France gathered in the tent were many. Andreas thought that nearly all the nobles of King Philippe Augustus, the sum of the rulers of the North, must be assembled in this palatial canopy. Only the king himself was not present. The floor was laid with fine carpets of many colors, some of which appeared Oriental, as if Turkish or Egyptian, with bright geometric patterns. The furniture was of dark woods and brocaded in rich-colored cottons and silks. Tapestries of crests and standards and scenes of the hunt and of battle, most of knitted wool, ringed the cavernous tent, itself over half the size of the Trencavel great hall. Below the wall hangings, all about the pergola were knights in mail with longswords held against their breasts. In the center was a long, finely carved trestle table, some twenty feet from end to end. Though it appeared as if more than a score could comfortably dine upon the heavy, dark, gilded edge spread, only three chairs were on the opposing side. Those were occupied on the left by a lord Andreas had seen before but whose name he could not recall. On the right, there was the man whose surcoat matched the regalia arrayed about the pergola, the Count of Nevers himself, Herve de Donzy. In the center, in a large chair covered in silk brocades and gilded and set with sapphire and emerald, sat the abbot of Citeaux, Armand Amaury, the living papal legate of the Languedoc, who had benefited immensely from the death the year past of his counterpart, Pierre de Castelnau. Amaury bore the barest foundation of a smile, and seemed greatly pleased at the spectacle around him. Dressed in spotless white vestments and mitre, bearing a golden scepter, and multiple bejeweled rings, he was the lord of lords of this assembly, of this crusade, and was clearly enjoying holding court with such a prize as the Viscount of Carcassonne, Albi, and Beziers before him. An intrepid hunter whose hounds had trapped a mighty stag.
