Labyrinth by Kate Mosse

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