As quickly as it had struck, like a lumbering beast, the storm passed on. The air became fresh and pleasant. The Crusaders heard the bells in the nearby monastery start to ring out in thanks for their safe deliverance. Taking it as a sign the worst was over, they emerged from the trees and set to work. The squires searched for safe grazing for the horses. Servants began to unpack their masters’ belongings and went in search of dry kindling to lay the fires.

Gradually, the camp took shape.

Dusk fell. The sky was a patchwork of pinks and purples. As the final wisps of trailing white cloud drifted away, the northerners got their first glimpse of the towers and turrets of Carcassonne, revealed suddenly on the horizon.

The Cite seemed to rise out of the land itself, a stone fortress in the sky looking down in grandeur upon the world of men. Nothing they had heard had prepared the Crusaders for this first sight of the place they had come to conquer. Words did not begin to do justice to its splendour.

It was magnificent, dominant. Impregnable.

When he came to his senses, Simeon was no longer in the wood, but in some sort of byre. He had a memory of travelling, a long way. His ribs were sore from the motion of the horse.

The smell was terrible, a mixture of sweat, goat, damp straw and something he could not quite identify: a sickliness, like decaying flowers. There were several harnesses hanging from the wall and a pitchfork propped up in the corner closest to the door, which came no higher than a man’s shoulder. On the wall opposite the door were five or six metal rings for “tethering animals.

Simeon glanced down. The hood they’d put over his head was lying next to him on the ground. His hands were still tied, as were his feet.

Coughing and trying to spit the coarse threads of the material out of mouth, he levered himself up into a sitting position. Feeling bruised stiff, Simeon slowly shuffled backwards on the ground until he tied the door. It took some time, but the relief of feeling something against his shoulders and back was immense. Patiently, he pushed himself to his feet, his head nearly hitting the roof. He banged against the door. The wood groaned and strained, but it was barred from the outside and would not open.

Simeon had no idea where he was, still close to Carcassonne or further afield. He had half memories of being carried on horseback through the woods then over flat land. From the little he knew of the terrain, he guessed that meant they were somewhere around Trebes.

He could see a slither of light under the small gap at the bottom of the a dark blue, but not yet the pitch black of night. When he pressed ear to the ground, he could hear the murmur of his captors close by.

They were waiting for someone to arrive. The thought chilled him; evidence, although he barely needed it, that this was no random ambush.

Simeon shuffled his way back to the far side of the byre. Over time, he dozed, slumping sideways and jerking awake, then sliding into sleep again.

The sound of someone shouting brought him to his senses. Immediately, every nerve in his body was alert. He heard the sound of men scrambling to their feet, then a thud as the heavy wooden bar securing the door was removed.

Three shadowy figures appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright sunlight beyond. Simeon blinked, unable to see much.

“Ou est-il”?Where is he?

It was an educated northern voice, cold and peremptory. There was a pause. The torch was held higher, picking out Simeon where he stood blinking in the shadows. “Bring him to me.”

Simeon barely had time to recognise the leader of the ambush, when he was grabbed by the arms and thrown on his knees in front of the Frenchman.

Slowly, Simeon raised his eyes. The man had a cruel, thin face and expressionless eyes the colour of flint. His tunic and trousers were of good quality, cut in the northern style, although they gave no indication of his status or position.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

Simeon raised his head. “I don’t understand,” he replied in Yiddish.

The kick took him by surprise. He felt a rib snap and he fell backwards, his legs buckling under him. Simeon felt rough hands beneath his armpits propping him back in position.

“I know who you are, Jew,” he said. “There is no sense in playing this game with me. I will ask you once again. Where is the book?”

Simeon raised his head once more and said nothing.

This time, the man went for his face. Pain exploded inside his head as his mouth split open and teeth cracked in his jaw. Simeon could taste blood and saliva, stinging, on his tongue and throat.

“I have pursued you like an animal, Jew,” he said, “all the way from Chartres, to Beziers, to here. Tracked you down, like an animal. You have wasted a great deal of my time. My patience is growing thin.”

He took a step closer so that Simeon could see the hate in his grey, dead eyes. “Once more: where is the book? Did you give it to Pelletier? C’est ca?”

Two thoughts came simultaneously into Simeon’s mind. First, that he could not save himself. Second, that he must protect his friends. He still had that power. His eyes were swollen shut and blood pooled in the torn hollows of his lids.

“I have the right to know the name of my accuser,” he said through a mouth too broken for speech. “I would pray for you.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Make no mistake, you will tell me where you have hidden the book.”

He jerked his head.

Simeon was hauled to his feet. They ripped the clothes from him and threw him flat over a cart, one man holding his hands, the other his legs to expose his back. Simeon heard the sharp crack of the leather in the air just before the buckle connected with his bare skin. His body jerked in agony. “Where is it?” Simeon closed his eyes as the belt whipped down again through the air. “Is it in Carcassonne already? Or do you still have it with you, Jew?” He was shouting in time with the stroke. “You will tell me. You. Or them.”

Blood was flowing from the lacerations on his back. Simeon began to pray in the custom of his fathers, ancient, holy words thrown out into the darkness, keeping his mind from the pain.

“Ou – est – le – livre? the man insisted, another strike for every word.

It was the last thing Simeon heard before the darkness reached out and took him.

The Crusade’s advance guard arrived within sight of Carcassonne on the Feast Day of Sant-Nasari, following the road from Trebes. The guards at the Tour Pinte lit the fires. The alarum bells were rung.

By the evening of the first of August, the French camp on the far side of the river had grown until there was a rival city of tents and pavilions, banners and golden crosses glittering in the sun. Barons from the north, Gascon mercenaries, soldiers from Chartres and Burgundy and Paris, sappers, longbowmen archers, priests, camp followers.

At Vespers, Viscount Trencavel ascended the ramparts, accompanied by Pierre-Roger de Cabaret, Bertrand Pelletier and one or two others. In the distance, trails of smoke spiralled up into the air. The river was a ribbon of silver.

“There are so very many.”

“No more than we expected, Messire,” replied Pelletier.

“How long, think you, before the main army arrives?”

“It’s hard to be sure,” he replied. “So large a fighting force will travel slowly. The heat will hinder them too.”

“Hinder them, yes,” said Trencavel. “Stop them, no.”

We’re ready for them, Messire. The Ciutat is well stocked. The hourds are completed to protect the walls from their sappers; all broken sections or points of weakness have been repaired and blocked; all the towers are manned.“ Pelletier waved his hand. ”The hawsers holding the mills in place in the river have been cut and the crops burned. The French will find little to sustain them here.“