Birthday Present

It wasn’t a bad dream that woke you up so early in the morning and made you quickly scan your chamber for any threat. Half sitting, supporting yourself on your elbows, you are cautiously looking around trying to find somebody who would be brave or stupid enough to jump from behind the delicate curtains of your canopy bed and attack you. You made sure, your dagger is always within reach. Now, as you slowly scan the room, your left-hand wonders to the pommel and soft leather grip of your Spanish dagger, standing to attention just next to your bed.

In the distance you hear the birds singing joyfully beautiful sonnet, welcoming sun again defeating shadows of the night and waking the planet to life.  

Through the tall arched double windows, early morning sun is already joyfully brightening your big bedroom you share with your loved wife, still calmly sleeping just centimetres away from you. Long mahogany hair scattered around her white angelic face hugged by the soft pillow, made you realized for thousandth time how much you love her.

Beautiful distraction. Ran through your mind as you reverse to looking around the room. Slowly examining every furniture big enough to cover an assassin and every fold in delicate silk hanging from the canopy.

No. Nobody was hiding here. You finally decide and you are slowly putting your head on the pillow trying to get some more sleep again. Remaining hours are filled with constant feel that something is just not right.

Strange way to start my birthday. You think, getting up two hours later, quietly putting your trousers on and leaving the chamber without any sound.

‘Happy birthday, my Lord!’ comes the sound of a deep voice of Pierre Roger, your late dad best friend. Your dad, Roger II Trencavel, died when you were not even ten years old and Pierre Roger, Lord of the Cabaret Castle, has been your guide in his stead, teaching you all aspects of being Lord of the castle and most powerful viscount of the South of Languedoc.

You smile in response.

‘Thank you, Pierre,’ you say, and you share a man hug with your dear friend. He is now about fifty years old, but the strength of his arms still amazes you. Even now, so many years later, it is good to have a solid rock next to your side.

‘Twenty-five years! I wish I was so young!’ he says, following your steps to the adjoining chamber.

‘Maybe my age is great, but I don’t suppose, you would like to be in my shoes those days, would you my friend?’ you ask him, turning to look closely into his face. Dark brown hair was cut short. His prominent nose started between hazel eyes and dropped a perfect line down to his thin white lips.

‘No, not my Lord. I wouldn’t,’ he says, and a sad smile appears on his face. ‘Everything will be good. It is your birthday, nonetheless. Let’s think of something nice, ok?’ He friendly pats your shoulder with his heavy hand and leads you through the corridor.

As you are walking down the flight of stony stairs you stop for a moment to look through one of the windows of Carcassonne’s Chateau Comtal. This part of the castle looks towards the West and long shadows of the tall defensive walls are reaching far towards the banks of Aude river. Behind it, colorful mosaic of grassy pastures, fields of yellow sunflowers lazily rising their heads up towards the sun and endless fields of golden wheat stretches towards the far horizon. But not many people are mending them those days and you can see that they are overgrowing. 

‘This is our weakest point Pierre,’ you say out loud, without thinking and turning back.

Pierre Roger stands just behind you. You hear him shuffle his feet uncomfortable on the stony floor, his quilted leather jacket rustling with his every move. You can almost feel his emotions. Without looking at him, you know perfectly well that he shares your thought and worries.

‘Yes, that is right. We cannot let them cut us from the water,’ he eventually admits and after a long moment he adds: ‘My Lord?’ 

‘Yes?’ you answer half minded, brought back from your thoughts.

‘Let’s go. We need to check the guards,’ he is urging you. ‘I walked the chateau’s ramparts; we need to go and visit the four gates.’

‘You are right. As always.’ You smile at Pierre Roger and follow him down the stairs and across the courtyard. All people smile at you and bow with reverence.

Suddenly, with a corner of your eye, you notice sudden movement and you turn to the right.

Hand on the sword. You are ready.

But it is only a young girl who is running towards you with mum following her closely behind. You know the women, she serves at the castle, so you calm down. She bumps at you like a floppy dog, who cannot stop but hit in your legs. She hugs you around the waist and loudly calls with her so girly voice: ‘Happy birthday my Lord!’ people around stops for a fraction of a second, smiles at the scene and move back to their duties.

‘Thank you,’ you say, kneeling and looking into her bright blue eyes full of joy.

‘What is your name?’ You ask, taking her soft and delicate hand in yours.

‘Camille, my Lord,’ she answers proudly without a hint of intimidation.

‘Beautiful name: Camille. Thank you again. I can see your mum is waiting for you. You need to go. Ok?’ You nod at a slim, dark haired woman standing not further than five metres away, smiling shyly. The girl turns and run back as fast as she ran earlier and after a second, she hides in folds of her mum’s long dress.

‘Let’s go. It is getting late. My wife will get up soon.’ You decide and walk briskly towards the chateau’s main gate and a long wooden bridge, stretching above the dry fake moat. Walking the bridge, you manage to ask a question you have been afraid to ask since you woke up.

‘Any news from Beziers?’

As you walk the wooden planks hanging two metres above the ground, every step sound like somebody is hammering it into the wood. Waiting for the answer, you start looking under your feet and wonder why the steps sound so unnaturally laud today.

‘No, my Lord. Nothing today.’

‘I am thinking how long they will stand?’

It was no longer than yesterday in the afternoon, that an envoy came from the wealthiest and most impressive of your cities, Beziers. For a young squire a five-hour long non-stop ride was really exhausting. Tired, eager and thirsty delivered two words message: ‘They arrived.’

For last few weeks a horrible thought has been shadowing your mind like a bad plague. So far, for all those days and endless hours, you were able to push it back to the corners of your mind, leave it there and ignore, but yesterday when the squire came, the news took you by surprise. Despite getting ready for this, you were shocked that it happened so quickly.

‘They arrived.’ Two words that brought horror to yesterday, the eve of your birthday.

You have heard stories about the mighty army coming to devour you lands and kill your people. Army sent by the King of France and mighty pope, Innocent III. Biggest army Europe have seen in more than a century, united with the only desire: wipe you of the map and take your reaches back home, wherever they home might be. In the eve of your birthday, this murderous army arrived and camped by the gates of your wealthy seaside city. You know Beziers is ready for a long siege. You prepared them, gathered resources, prepared the knights and talked to the people.

As you walk, deeply in your thought, you can hear Pierre Roger’s voice talking to you about the amount of supplies you have provided and the soldiers you have gathered to defend Beziers. ‘They will last for weeks, my Lord,’ he finishes his though just at the moment you have reached the other side of the fifteen meters long suspended bridge.

You don’t feel well with this. You know deep down in your heart, that you should have stayed in Beziers. You should have stay and defend the city. But your wife lives in Carcassonne and you decided to come back home. Here, here you WILL make a stand. Despite this excuse, your heart is with your people defending their walls, just five hours ride away, probably fighting for their lives.

Suddenly you are brought back. Some people nearby are shouting:

‘Lord is coming! Hurray!’

You look up and smile. Men at arms are shouting and shaking their armor, seeing you are coming their way. You lift your hand up and wave to them, looking around at the faces of other people. What do you think? Are you afraid? Will you stand by my side? Questions rushed through your head in an instant. How long will we be able to fend them? Will we be victorious? Do we at least stand a chance?

Some merchants from nearby shops stopped for a moment but quickly decided to carry on with their own preparation for another busy day. The town has been getting more and more crowded with refugees coming every day. People from nearby villages and small towns are coming to hide behind the mighty walls of Carcassonne and merchants want to sell them as much of their products as they can. Some people never change. You smile to your thought and turn to follow Pierre Roger, but the smell of fresh bread suddenly grabs your attention as you see your mentor coming out of a bakery with fresh slides of bread.

‘Birthday gift from Maurice, my Lordship,’ says Pierre handing you a big slice of warm bread with some bits of cheese on it. Short man in a doorway waves your way. You nod back, smiles and follow Pierre towards the mighty Narbonnaise gate, just twenty metres away.

‘I love fresh bread. And you Pierre?’

‘You know, I am twice as old as you but the taste of freshly baked bread with some cheese is still something I love as much as I did when I was a teenager. This is one of the things that have never changed.’ He smiles at you, taking another big bite of his piece and saying: ‘Maurice is preparing a big cake for your birthday. You must try it.’

‘I most definitely will,’ you answer, chewing still warm bread and enjoying the sour taste of cheese in your mouth. Delicious.

After another few moments both of you are climbing the narrow, steep wooden stairs of the imposing gate. It takes you a while to climb the stairs to the highest level of the five-storey formidable Narbonnaise gate. The sun shines directly into your face. The small settlements just below the mighty walls of cite de Carcassonne are already bustling with activity. Some people are walking out to dig the trap holes in front of the walls, others are strengthening the walls and preparing the lower city for defense.

Your thoughts fly to Beziers again.

How are they managing? Is the crusaders army as strong as they say? Maybe there is a hope? It is impossible that pope really wants to kill us, is it?

You look at the far horizon. On the right and left small hills and a plateau in center. The road going from the gates of Carcassonne leads directly to Narbonne and Beziers. When they breach walls of Beziers, they will come here next. That was the reason you fortified Beziers. You look around, outside the castle walls. It is so calm and peaceful there. You hear birds are joyfully chirping and hustling nearby building the nest. A sparrow has just whizzed in front of your face. That was close. You smile to yourself, looking how it cut the sky. Is it a good sign?

You look down at the roofs of the houses of the lower town. In the early midday warming sun they look like smeared in golden syrup. They are so beautiful… And then again, the shadowy thought rises from the corners of your conscience. Will we be able to survive? Will I be able to save you? How can I do save you as there is only a few knights here with me and our way is coming the whole monstrous army of mercenaries?

‘Happy birthday!’ You hear a young voice just by your side and you look around.

Jean Roger, Pierre Roger's son is now standing next to you. He is few years younger than you, but despite his age, his father brought him here, to defend the cite de Carcassonne.

You look at him, he is so young. Too young to die. Flashed in your head.

‘I heard you came!’ you welcomed him. ‘How is your mum?’

‘She sends her deepest regards and warmest birthday wishes, my Lord,’ answers Jean bowing his head ever so slightly.

‘Thank you,’ you smile again. 

‘My Lord!’ Came a distant shout from the bottom of the gate, and then another one: ‘Your Lordship!’

‘My Lord!’ This time the commotion is on the inside of the gate now. Somebody is pounding the stairs two levels below. ‘A messenger from Beziers!’ male voice comes through the nervous hassle below.

Few long moments later a squire of the knight you have left in charge of Beziers has been put in front of you. You look at him for a moment. Terrified face, shaky hands and scared eyesight tells you more than the boy is able at this moment.

‘Talk!’ Pierre Roger’s voice cuts through the nervous silence. Everybody is tensely looking at the boy’s exhausted face as he quietly whispers something unintelligible.

‘What did you say?’ Pierre Roger asks him again and gives an instruction: ‘Calm down and say it slowly.’

‘Beziers fell…’ he mutters, trying to avoid your eyesight, like he was feeling guilty.

The weight of those two words almost break your knees. You almost drop on the floor and need to reach for the wall. Shock, Dread and Fear like bloodthirsty apocalyptic horsemen attack you from all sides in an instant. From behind the cloud that suddenly forms in your head, you can hear Pierre asking nervously:

‘It is not possible! How? What happened?’

Shaky boy with shaggy hair and dirty clothes cannot answer all those questions.

‘They are killing everyone on their way!’ In his panic he say: ‘I heard them say: Caedite eos! Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius!’

You cannot believe what you are hearing.

You turn your eyes from the boy, and you look towards the horizon you admired just few moments ago. Your eyes look towards Beziers and you noticed a dark pillar of smoke slowly rising behind the golden-green fields of your Languedoc.

Seeing this dark monster waking up and wolfing down the blue-sky an awful thought comes to your head.

Beziers is no more...

You look at the smoke slowly rising taller and taller, like it wants to cover the bright sun in everlasting darkness and cast long lasting shadow on the Languedoc and beyond. It is hypnotic. You cannot move, you cannot take your eyes of this terrifying message that crusaders are sending your way: ‘Beziers fell. You are next.’

Now I know what woke me up in the morning. It must have been the time when they breached the walls of my city and started to massacre my people. Thank you Innocent III, for your birthday present. I will never forget it, and tears starts rolling down your cheeks as you watch the dark pillar announcing the beginning of the decline of your mighty Trencavel family in Languedoc. Looking in the distant monumental ghastly smoke, with ashen face and shaky hands the only thing you manage to say was:

‘The weather forecast for my birthday had been really good…’