Labyrinth

CHAPTER 27

Sweat dripped from his stallion’s coat as Viscount Trencavel led his men toward Beziers, thunder rolling at their heels.

Sweat foamed on the horses’ bridles and spittle flecked in the corners of their mouths. Their flanks and withers were streaked with blood where the spurs and whip drove them relentlessly on through the night. The silver moon came out from behind the torn, black clouds scudding low on the horizon, lighting up the white blaze on his horse’s nose.

Pelletier rode at the viscount’s side, his lips pursed shut. It had gone badly at Montpellier. Given the bad blood that existed between the viscount and his uncle, he had not expected the count to be easily persuaded into an alliance, despite the ties of family and seigneurial obligation that bound the two men. He had hoped, however, that the count might intercede on his nephew’s account.

In the event, he had refused even to receive him. It was a deliberate and unequivocal insult. Trencavel had been left to kick his heels outside the French camp until word came today that an audience was to be granted.

Permitted to take only Pelletier and two of his chevaliers, Viscount Trencavel had been shown to the tent of the abbot of Citeaux, where they were asked to disarm. This they had done. Once inside, rather than the Abbott, the viscount was received instead by two of the papal legates.

Raymond-Roger had barely been allowed to open his mouth while the legates castigated him for allowing heresy to spread unchecked through his dominions. They criticized his policy of appointing Jews to senior positions in his leading cities. They cited several examples of his turning a blind eye to the perfidious and pernicious behavior of Cathar bishops within his territories.

Finally, when they had finished, the legates had dismissed Viscount Trencavel as if he was some insignificant minor landowner rather than the lord of one of the most powerful dynasties of the Midi. Pelletier’s blood boiled even now when he thought of it.

The abbot’s spies had briefed the legates well. Each of the charges, while inaccurate and misrepresented in intention, was accurate in fact and supported by testimony and eyewitness account. That, even more than the calculated insult to his honor, left Pelletier in no doubt that Viscount Trencavel was to be the new enemy. The Host needed someone to fight. With the capitulation of the count of Toulouse, there was no other candidate.

They had left the Crusaders’ camp outside Montpellier immediately. Glancing up at the moon, Pelletier calculated that if they held their pace they should reach Beziers by dawn. Viscount Trencavel wished to warn the Biterois in person that the French army was no more than fifteen leagues away and intent on war. The Roman road that ran from Montpellier to Beziers lay wide open and there was no way of blocking it.

He would bid the city fathers prepare for a siege, at the same time as seeking reinforcements to support the garrison at Carcassonne. The longer the Host could be delayed in Beziers, the longer he would have to prepare the fortifications. He also intended to offer refuge in Carcassonne to those who were most at risk from the French-Jews, the few Saracen traders from Spain, as well as the Bons Homes. It was not only seigneurial duty that motivated him. Much of the administration and organization of Beziers was in the hands of Jewish diplomats and merchants. Under threat of war or no, he wasn’t prepared to be deprived of the services of so many valued and skilled servants.

Trencavel’s decision made Pelletier’s task easier. He touched his hand against Harif’s letter concealed in his pouch. Once they were in Beziers, all he had to do was excuse himself for long enough to find Simeon.

A pale sun was rising over the river Orb as the exhausted men rode across the great arched stone bridge.

Beziers stood proud and high above them, grand and seemingly impregnable behind its ancient stone walls. The spires of the cathedral and the great churches dedicated to Santa-Magdalena, Sant Jude and Santa-Maria glittered in the dawn light.

Despite his fatigue, Raymond-Roger Trencavel had lost nothing of his natural authority and bearing as he urged his horse up through the network of suburbs and steep winding streets that led to the main gates. The fall of the horses’ shoes against the cobbles roused people from their sleep in the quiet suburbs that surrounded the fortified walls.

Pelletier dismounted and called to the watch to open the gates and let them enter. They made slow progress, news having spread that Viscount Trencavel was in the city, but eventually they reached the suzerain’s residence.

Raymond-Roger greeted the suzerain with genuine affection. He was an old friend and ally, a gifted diplomat and administrator and loyal to the Trencavel dynasty. Pelletier waited while the two men greeted each other in the custom of the Midi and exchanged tokens of esteem. Having completed the formalities with unusual haste, Trencavel moved straight to business. The suzerain listened with deepening concern. As soon as the viscount had finished speaking, he sent messengers to summon the city’s consuls to council.

While they were talking, a table had been set in the center of the hall covered with bread, meats, cheese, fruit and wine.

“Messire,” said the suzerain. “I would be honored if you would avail yourself of my hospitality while we wait.”

Pelletier saw his chance. He slipped forward and spoke quietly into Viscount Trencavel’s ear.

“Messire, could you spare me? I would check on our men myself. See that they have all they need. Make sure that their tongues are still and their spirits steady.”

Trencavel looked up at him with astonishment. “Now, Bertrand?”

“If you please, Messire.”

“I have no doubt our men are being well cared for,” he said, smiling at his host. “You should eat, rest a while.”

“With my humble apologies, I would still ask to be excused.”

Raymond-Roger scanned Pelletier’s face for an explanation but found none.

“Very well,” he said in the end, still puzzled. “You have one hour.”

The streets were noisy and growing ever more crowded as rumors spread. A mass of people was gathering in the main square in front of the cathedral.

Pelletier knew Beziers well, having visited many times with Viscount Trencavel in the past, but he was going against the flow and only his size and authority stopped him from being knocked down in the crush. Holding Harif’s letter tight in his fist, as soon as he reached the Jewish quarter he asked passersby if they knew of Simeon. He felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see a pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed child.

“I know where he lives,” she said. “Follow me.”

The girl led him into the commercial quarter where the moneylenders had their businesses and through a warren of seemingly identical side streets crammed with shops and houses. She came to a halt outside an unremarkable door.

He cast his eyes around until he’d found what he was looking for. The sign of a bookbinder carved above Simeon’s initials. Pelletier smiled with relief. It was the right house. Thanking her, he pressed a coin into the girl’s hand and sent her away. Then he lifted the heavy brass knocker and struck the door three times.

It had been a long time, more than fifteen years. Would there still be the easy affection between them?

The door opened a fraction, enough to reveal a woman staring suspiciously at him. Her black eyes were hostile. She was wearing a green veil that covered her hair and the lower part of her face, and the traditional wide, pale trousers gathered at the ankle worn by Jewish women in the Holy Land. Her long, yellow jacket reached down to her knees.

“I wish to speak with Simeon,” he said.

She shook her head and tried to shut the door, but he wedged it open with his foot.

“Give him this,” he said, easing the ring from his thumb and forcing it into the woman’s hands. “Tell him Bertrand Pelletier is here.”

He heard her gasp. Straight away, she stood back to let him enter. Pelletier followed her through a heavy red curtain, decorated with golden coins stitched top and bottom.

“Attendez,” she said, gesturing he should stay where he was.

The bracelets around her wrist and ankles chinked as she scuttled down the long corridor and disappeared.

From the outside, the building looked tall and narrow, but now he was inside, Pelletier could see it was deceptive. Rooms led off the central corridor to both left and right. Despite the urgency of his mission, Pelletier gazed around with delight. The floor was laid with blue and white tiles rather than wood, and beautiful rugs hung from the walls. It reminded him of the elegant, exotic houses of Jerusalem. It had been many years, but the colors, textures and smells of that alien land still spoke to him.

“Bertrand Pelletier, by all that’s sacred in this tired old world!”

Pelletier turned toward the sound to see a small figure in a long purple surcoat rushing toward him, his arms outstretched. His heart leaped at the sight of his old friend. His black eyes twinkled as bright as ever. Pelletier was nearly knocked over by the force of Simeon’s embrace, even though he was a good head taller.

“Bertrand, Bertrand,” Simeon said affectionately, his deep voice booming through the silent corridor. “What took you so long, eh?”

“Simeon, my old friend,” he laughed, clasping Simeon’s shoulder as he got his breath back. “How it does my spirit good to see you, and so well. Look at you,” he said, tugging his friend’s long black beard, always Simeon’s greatest vanity. “A little gray here and there, but still as fine as ever! Life has treated you well?”

Simeon raised his shoulders. “Could be better, it could be worse,” he said, standing back. “And what of you, Bertrand? A few more lines on your face, maybe, but still the same fierce eyes and broad shoulders.” He patted him on the chest with the flat of his hand. “Still as strong as an ox.”

His arm around Simeon’s shoulder, Pelletier was taken to a small room at the rear of the house overlooking a small courtyard. There were two large sofas, covered with silk cushions of red, purple and blue. Several ebony tables were set around the room decorated with delicate vases and large flat bowls filled with sweet almond biscuits.

“Come, take off your boots. Esther will bring us tea.” He stood back and looked Pelletier up and down again. “Bertrand Pelletier,” he said again, shaking his head. “Can I trust these old eyes? After so many years are you really here? Or are you a ghost? A figment of an old man’s imagination?”

Pelletier smiled. “I wish I was here under more auspicious circumstances, Simeon.”

He nodded. “Of course. Come, Bertrand, come. Sit.”

“I’ve come with our Lord Trencavel, Simeon, to warn Besiers of the army approaching from the north. Listen to the bells calling the city fathers to council.”

“It’s hard to ignore your Christian bells,” Simeon replied, raising his eyebrows, “although they do not usually ring for our benefit!”

“This will affect the Jews as much-if not more-than those they call heretics, you know that.”

“As it ever does,” he said mildly. “Is the Host as large as they are saying?”

“Twenty thousand strong, maybe more. We cannot fight them in open combat, Simeon, the numbers against us are too great. If Besiers can hold the invaders here for some time, then at least it will give us the chance to raise a fighting force in the west and prepare the defenses of Carcassona. All who wish it will be offered refuge there.”

“I have been happy here. This city has treated me-us-well.”

“Besiers is no longer safe. Not for you, not for the books.”

“I know it. Still,” he sighed, “I will be sorry to go.”

“God willing, it will not be for long.” Pelletier paused, confused by his friend’s unflinching acceptance of the situation. “This is an unjust war, Simeon, preached out of lies and deceit. How can you accept it so easily?”

Simeon spread his hands wide. “Accept it, Bertrand? What would you have me do? What would you have me say? One of your Christian saints, Francis, prayed that God should grant him the strength to accept those things he could not change. What will happen will happen, whether I wish it or no. So, yes, I accept. It does not mean that I like it or wish it were not otherwise.”

Pelletier shook his head.

“Anger serves no purpose. You must have faith. To trust in a greater meaning, beyond our lives or knowledge, requires a leap of faith. The great religions each have their own stories-Holy Scripture, the Qur’an, the Torah-to make sense of these insignificant lives of ours.” He paused, his eyes sparkling in mischief. “The Bans Homes, now they do not seek to make sense of the evil men do. Their faith teaches them that this is not God’s earth, a perfect creation, but instead an imperfect and corrupt realm. They do not expect goodness and love to triumph over adversity. They know that in our temporal lives they will not.” He smiled. “And yet here you are, Bertrand, surprised when Evil meets you face to face. It is strange that, no?”

Pelletier’s head shot up as if he’d been found out. Did Simeon know? How could he?

Simeon caught his expression, although he made no further reference to it. “Conversely, my faith tells me the world was made by God, that it is perfect in every particular. But whenever men turn away from the words of the prophets, the balance between God and man is disturbed and retribution will follow as sure as night follows the day.”

Pelletier opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

“This war is not our affair, Bertrand, despite your duty to Viscount Trencavel. You and I have a wider purpose. We are joined by our vows. It is that which must now guide our steps and inform our decisions.” He reached out and clasped Pelletier’s shoulder. “So, my friend, keep your anger and your sword in readiness for those battles you can win.”

“How did you know?” he said. “Have you heard something?”

Simeon chuckled. “That you were a follower of the new church? No, no, I have heard nothing to that effect. It is a discussion we will have some time in the future, God willing, not now. Much as I would dearly love to talk theology with you, Bertrand, we have pressing matters to attend to.”

The arrival of the servant with a tray of hot mint tea and sweet biscuits stopped the conversation. She placed it on the table in front of them, before removing herself to a bench in the corner of the room.

“Do not concern yourself,” Simeon said, seeing Pelletier’s worry that their conversation was to be overheard. “Esther came with me from Chartres. She speaks Hebrew and a few words of French only. She does not understand your tongue at all.”

“Very well.” Pelletier pulled out Harif’s letter and handed it to Simeon.

“I received one such at Shauvot, a month past,” he said when he’d finished reading. “It warned me to expect you although, I confess, you have been slower than I expected.”

Pelletier folded the letter and returned it to his pouch.

“So the books are still in your possession, Simeon? Here within this house? We must take them-”

A violent hammering at the door shattered the tranquility of the room. Immediately, Esther was on her feet, her almond eyes alert. At a sign from Simeon, she hurried out into the corridor.

“You do still have the books?” repeated Pelletier, urgent now, the expression on Simeon’s face making him suddenly anxious. “They are not lost?”

“Not lost, my friend,” he started to say when they were interrupted by Esther.

“Master, there is a lady asking to be admitted.” The words in Hebrew rattled off her tongue, too fast for Pelletier’s rusty ears to follow.

“What manner of lady?”

Esther shook her head. “I know not, master. She says she must see your guest Intendant Pelletier.”

They all turned at the sound of feet in the corridor behind them.

“You left her alone?” Simeon said with concern, struggling to get up.

Pelletier also rose to his feet. He blinked, unwilling to trust the evidence of his eyes. Even thoughts of his mission disappeared from his mind as he looked at Alais, who had come to a halt in the doorway. Her face was flushed and her quick brown eyes were flashing with apology and determination.

“Forgive me for this intrusion,” she said, looking from her father to Simeon, then back, “but I did not think your servant would admit me.” In two strides, Pelletier had crossed the room and thrown his arms around her.

“Do not be angry that I disobeyed you,” she said, more timidly. “I had to come.”

“And this charming lady is…” said Simeon.

Pelletier took Alais’ hand and led her into the center of the room. “Of course. I am forgetting myself. Simeon, may I present to you my daughter Alais, although how or by what means she comes to be here in Besiers, I cannot tell you!” Alais bowed her head. “And this is my dearest, my oldest friend, Simeon of Chartres, formerly of the Holy City of Jerusalem.”

Simeon’s face was wreathed in smiles. “Bertrand’s daughter. Alais.” He took her hands. “You are most welcome.”