“Bishop Montpeyroux returned with a list of supposed heretics drawn up by the Papal Legates. I don’t know how many were set down on the parchment, Messire, but hundreds certainly. The names of some of the most influential, most wealthy, most noble citizens of Besiers were written there, as well as followers of the new church and those who were accused of being Bons Chretiens. If the Consuls would hand over the heretics, then Besiers would be spared. If not…” He left the words hanging.

“What answer gave the consuls?” said Pelletier. It was the first indication of whether or not the alliance would hold against the French.

“That they would rather be drowned in the salt sea’s brine than surrender or betray their fellow citizens.”

Trencavel gave the slightest sigh.

“The Bishop withdrew from the city, taking with him a small number of Catholic priests. The commander of our garrison, Bernard de Servian,: began to organise the defences.”

He stopped and swallowed hard. Even Congost, bent over his parchment, stopped and looked up.

“The morning of July the twenty-second dawned quietly enough. It was hot, even at first light. A handful of Crusaders, camp followers, not even soldiers, went to the river, immediately below the fortifications to the south of the city. They were observed from the walls. Insults were traded. One of the routiers walked on to the bridge, swaggering, swearing. It so inflamed our young men on the walls, they armed themselves with spears, clubs, even a makeshift drum and banner. Determined to teach the French a lesson, they threw open the gate and charged down the slope before anyone knew what was happening, shouting at the tops of their voices and attacked the man. It was over in moments. They threw the routier’s dead body off the bridge into the river.”

Pelletier glanced at Viscount Trencavel. His face was white.

“From the walls, the townspeople screamed at the boys to come back, they were too dizzied with confidence to listen. The noise of the brawl drew the attention of the captain of the mercenaries, the roi as his men call him. Seeing the gate standing open, he gave the order to attack. At last the youths realised the danger, but it was too late. The routiers slaughtered them where they stood. The few that made it back tried to secure the gate, but the routiers were too quick, too well armed. They forced their way through and held it open.

“Within moments, French soldiers were hammering at the walls, armed with picks and mattocks and scaling ladders. Bernard de Servian did his best to defend the ramparts and hold the keep, but everything happened too quickly. The mercenaries held the gate.

“Once the Crusaders were inside, the massacre began. There were bodies everywhere, dead and mutilated; we were in blood knee-deep. Children were cut from their mothers’ arms and skewered on the points of pikes and swords. Heads were severed from limbs and mounted on the walls for the crows to pick clean, so it seemed that a line of bloody gargoyles, fashioned from flesh and bone, not stone, gaped down on our defeat. They butchered all who they came upon, without regard to age or sex.”

Viscount Trencavel could remain silent no longer. “But how came it that the Legates or the French barons did not stop this carnage? Did they not know of it?”

Du Murviel raised his head. They knew, Messire.“

“But a massacre of innocent people goes against all honour, all convention in war,” said Pierre-Roger de Cabaret. “I cannot believe that the Abbot of Citeaux, for all his zeal and hatred of heresy, would sanction the slaughter of Christian women and children, in a state of sin?”

“It is said that the Abbot was asked how he should tell the good Catholics from the heretics: ”Tuez-les tous. Dieu reconnaitra les siens“,” said du Murviel in a hollow voice. “ ”Kill them all. God will recognise his own.“ Or so it is rumoured that he spoke.”

Trencavel and de Cabaret exchanged glances.

“Go on,” ordered Pelletier grimly. “Finish your story.”

The great bells of Besiers were ringing the alarum. Women and children crowded into the Church of Sant-Jude and the Church of Santa Maria Magdalena in the upper town, thousands of people crammed inside like animals in a pen. The Catholic priests vested themselves and sang the Requiem, but the Crusaders broke down the door and slaughtered them all.“

His voice faltered. “In the space of a few brief hours, our entire city had been turned into a charnel house. The looting started. All our fine houses were stripped bare by greed and barbarity. Only now did the French barons, through greed not conscience, seek to control the routiers. They, in turn, were furious to be deprived of the spoils they had earned, so set the town alight so none could benefit. The wooden dwellings of the slums went up like a tinderbox. The roof timbers of the Cathedral caught light and collapsed, trapping all those sheltering inside. So fierce were the flames, the Cathedral cracked down the middle.”

Tell me this, amic. How many survive?“ said the Viscount.

The musician dropped his head. “None, Messire. Save those few of us who escaped the city. Otherwise, all are dead.”

“Twenty thousand slaughtered in the space of a single morning,” Raymond-Roger muttered in horror. “How can this be?”

Nobody answered. There were no words equal to the task.

Trencavel raised his head and looked down at the musicians.

“You have seen sights that no man should see, Pierre du Murviel. You have shown great bravery and courage in bringing this news to us. Carcassona is in your debt and I will see you are well rewarded.” He paused. “Before you take your leave, I would ask you one further question. Did my uncle, Raymond, Count of Toulouse, take part in the sack of the city?”

“I do not believe so, Messire. It was rumoured he remained in the French camp.”

Trencavel glanced at Pelletier. “That, at least, is something.”

“And as you travelled to Carcassona, did you pass anyone on the road?” Pelletier asked. “Has the news of this massacre spread?”

I know not, Messire. I stayed away from the main routes, following the passes through the gorges of Lagrasse. But I saw no soldiers.“

Viscount Trencavel looked to his consuls in case they had questions to ask, but no one spoke.

“Very well,” he said, turning back to the musician. “You may take your leave. Once more, our thanks.”

As soon as du Murviel had been led away, Trencavel turned to Pelletier. “Why have we received no word? It beggars belief we should not have whisperings at least. Four days have passed since the massacre.”

“If du Murviel’s tale is true, then who is left to carry the news?” said de Cabaret grimly.

“Even so,” said Trencavel, dismissing the comment with a wave of his hand,. “Send out fresh riders immediately, as many as we can spare. We must know if the Host remains yet at Besiers or already marches east. Their victory will give speed to their progress.”

Everyone bowed as he stood up.

“Command the consuls to publish this ill news throughout the Ciutat.” I go to the capela Sant-Maria. Send my wife to me there.“

Pelletier felt as if his legs were encased in armour as he climbed the stairs to the living quarters. There seemed to be something around his chest, a band or a ligature, stopping him from breathing freely.

Alais was waiting for him at the door.

“You have brought the book?” she said eagerly. The look on his face stopped her in her tracks. What is it? Has something happened?“

“I have not been to Sant-Nasari, Filha. There has been news.” Pelletier sat heavily down in a chair.

“What manner of news?” He heard the dread in her voice.

“Besiers has fallen,” he said. “Three, four days ago. None survive.”