He paused. A shadow fell across his face. Now, there was no light left in his voice.

“This was not the first time the independence and sovereignty of our lands had been threatened by invaders from the north. I did not think anything would come of it. I could not believe that Christian blood would be spilled on Christian soil with the blessing of the Catholic Church.

“My uncle Toulouse did not share my optimism. From the start, he believed the threat of invasion was real. To protect his lands and sovereignty, he offered us an alliance. What I said to him, you will remember: that we, the people of the Pays d’Oc, live in peace with our neighbors, be they Bons Homes, Jews, even Saracens. If they uphold our laws, if they respect our ways and our traditions, then they are of our people. That was my answer then.” He paused. “And it would be my answer still.”

Pelletier nodded his approval at these words, watching as a wave of agreement spread through the Great Hall, sweeping up even the bishops and the priests. Only the same solitary monk, a Dominican from the color of his habit, was unmoved. “We have a different interpretation of tolerance,” he muttered in his strong, Spanish accent.

From farther back, another voice rang out.

“Messire, forgive me, but all this we know. This is old news. What of now? Why are we called to Council?”

Pelletier recognized the arrogant, lazy tones of the most troublesome of Berenger de Massabracs five sons, and would have intervened had he not felt the viscount’s hand on his arm.

“Thierry de Massabrac,” said Trencavel, his voice deceptively benign, “we are grateful for your question. However, some of us here are less familiar with the complicated path of diplomacy than you.”

Several men laughed and Thierry flushed.

“But you are right to ask. I have called you here today because the situation has changed.”

Although nobody spoke, the atmosphere within the hall shifted. If the viscount was aware of the tightening of tension, he gave no indication of it, Pelletier was pleased to note, but continued to speak with the same easy confidence and authority.

“This morning we received news that the threat from the northern army is both more significant-and more immediate-than we previously thought. The Host-as this unholy army is calling itself-mustered in Lyon on the feast day of John the Baptist. Our estimate is that as many as twenty thousand chevaliers swamped the city, accompanied by who knows how many thousand more sappers, priests, osders, carpenters, clerics, farriers. The Host departed Lyon with that white wolf, Arnald-Amalric, the Abbot of Citeaux, at its head.” He paused and looked around the hall. “I know it is a name that will strike like iron in the hearts of many of you.” Pelletier saw older statesmen nodding. “With him are the Catholic Archbishops of Reims, Sens and Rouen, as well as the Bishops of Autun, Clermont, Nevers, Bayeux, Chartres and Lisieux. As for the temporal leadership, although King Philip of France has not heeded the call to arms, nor allowed his son to go in his stead, many of the most powerful barons and principalities of the north have done so. Congost, if you please.”

At the sound of his name, the escrivan ostentatiously put down his quill. His lank hair fell across his face. His skin, white and spongy, was almost translucent from a lifetime spent inside. Congost made great play of reaching down into his large leather bag and pulling out a roll of parchment. It seemed to have a life of its own in his sweaty hands.

“Get on with it, man,” Pelletier muttered under his breath.

Congost puffed out his chest and cleared his throat several times, before finally beginning to read.

“Eudes, Duke of Burgundy; Herve, Count of Nevers; the Count of Saint-Pol; the Count of Auvergne; Pierre d’Auxerre; Herve de Geneve; Guy d’Evreux; Gaucher de Chatillon; Simon de Montfort…”

Congost’s voice was shrill and expressionless, yet each name seemed to fall like a stone into a dry well, reverberating through the hall. These were powerful enemies, influential barons of the north and east with resources, money and men at their disposal. They were opponents to be feared, not dismissed.

Little by little, the size and nature of the army massing against the south took shape. Even Pelletier, who had read the list for himself, felt dread shiver down his spine.

There was a low, steady rumble in the hall now: surprise, disbelief and anger. Pelletier picked out the Cathar bishop of Carcassonne. He was listening intently, his face expressionless, with several leading Cathar priests-parfaits-by his side. Next, his sharp eyes found the pinched, hooded features of Berenger de Rochefort, the Catholic bishop of Carcassonne, standing on the opposite side of the Great Hall with his arms folded, flanked by priests from the cathedral church of Sant-Nasari and others from Sant-Cernin.

Pelletier was confident that, for the time being at least, de Rochefort would maintain allegiance to Viscount Trencavel rather than to the Pope. But how long would that last? A man with divided loyalties was not to be trusted. He would change sides as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in the west. Not for the first time, Pelletier wondered if it would be wise to dismiss the churchmen now, so that they could hear nothing they might feel obliged to report to their masters.

“We can stand against them, however many,” came a shout from the back. “Carcassona is impregnable!” Others started to call out too. “So is Lastours!” Soon there were voices coming from every corner of the Great Hall, echoing off every surface like thunder caught in the gulleys and valleys of the Montagne Noire. “Let them come to the hills,” shouted another. “We’ll show them what it means to fight.”

Raising his hand, Raymond-Roger acknowledged the display of support with a smile.

“My lords, my friends,” he said, almost shouting to make himself heard. “Thanks for your courage, for your steadfast loyalty.” He paused, waiting for the noise level to fall back. “These men of the north owe no allegiance to us, nor do we owe allegiance to them, except for that which binds all men on this earth under God. However, I did not expect betrayal by one who is bound by all ties of obligation, family and duty to protect our lands and people. I speak of my uncle and liege lord, Raymond, Count of Toulouse.”

A hushed silence descended over the assembled company.

“Some weeks ago, I received reports that my uncle had submitted himself to a ritual of such humiliation that it shames me to speak of it. I sought verification of these rumors. They were true. At the great cathedral church of Sant-Gilles, in the presence of the papal legate, the count of Toulouse was received back into the arms of the Catholic Church. He was stripped to the waist and, wearing the cord of a penitent around his neck, he was scourged by the priests as he crawled on his knees to beg forgiveness.”

Trencavel paused a moment, to allow his words to sink in.

“Through this vile abasement, he was received back into the arms of the Holy Mother Church.” A murmur of contempt spread through the Council. “Yet there is more, my friends. I have no doubt that his ignominious display was intended to prove the strength of his faith and his opposition to the heresy. However, it seems even this was not enough to avert the danger he knew was coming. He has surrendered control of his dominions to the legates of His Holiness the Pope. What I learned today-” He paused. “Today I learned that Raymond, Count of Toulouse, is in Valence, less than a week’s march away, with several hundred of his men. He waits only for word to lead the northern invaders across the river at Beaucaire and into our lands.” He paused. “He has taken the Crusaders’ cross. My lords, he intends to march against us.”