Labyrinth by Kate Mosse Page A

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.”
    Finally, the hall erupted in howls of outrage. “Silenci” Pelletier bellowed until his throat was hoarse, vainly trying to restore order to chaos. “Silence. Pray, silence!”
    It was an unequal battle, one voice against so many.
    The viscount stepped forward to the edge of the dais, positioning himself directly beneath the Trencavel coat of arms. His cheeks were flushed, but the battle light shone in his eyes and defiance and courage radiated from his face. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the chamber and all those within it. The gesture hushed all.
    “So I stand here before you now, my friends and allies, in the ancient spirit of honor and allegiance that binds each of us to