All Things Are Lights | Page 2

got Alain."
"Mourn him later," Roland advised. "Just try to keep yourself alive. "
Roland hesitated at the foot of the steps. The stone had knocked the
logs apart, leaving an opening at the base of the wall wide enough for a
man to step through.
"I am going out there to get a better look at them," Roland said, sliding
the two-handed sword, almost as long as his leg, out of its scabbard.
"You report to the commander."
"God go with you, Sire Orlando," the man-at-arms said to him.
Roland hurried out into the darkness, alone with his excitement and
fear.
The ground shook as a second Cathar boulder landed somewhere inside
the fort. He heard splintering wood and shrieks of pain and terror. Then
came another massive thump, this time a counterweight of the
crusaders', sending a huge stone screaming overhead to answer the
heretic missiles. Behind him rose the clamor of the French knights
struggling into hauberks, buckling on swords, shouting names of their
patron saints and their crusader war cry, "God wills it!"
A cruel God, if He wills this, Roland thought.
The Cathars had to cross a rock-strewn ridge, barely wide enough for
two men abreast, that connected their stronghold on the main peak of
Mont Segur to the lower peak, where the crusaders had their hastily
built siege fort. If any Cathars had spied Roland coming out, by the
time they got to this spot, he would be hidden among the boulders
farther down the slope. Having no intention of fighting the Cathars, he
sheathed his sword. He took his sword belt off and buckled it across his
shoulder and chest, so that sword and dagger hung down his back.
With the tips of his fingers Roland touched the red silk cross on the left
breast of his black surcoat, wishing he could tear away the symbol he

hated. But only by joining the crusaders had he been able to get here.
And this night he would bring Diane out safely, or he would die.
He stood in the darkness breathing deeply, gathering himself for the
effort. Despite his chain mail and his helmet, he felt vulnerable,
frightened.
Crouching, he slipped away to the left. Beyond the narrow rim of the
ridge, the slope fell steeply. A misstep would send him hurtling to the
rocks below. He made his way down carefully, painstakingly, over the
large boulders for long minutes until he arrived at a narrow ledge about
thirty feet below the top of the ridge. He took cover behind a row of
charred huts where Cathar hermits had dwelt before the siege began.
This whole mountain stank of burnt wood. As he began to work his
way around to the other peak, from behind him issued shouts in the
dialect of Languedoc: the Cathars, raising their war cries. They must
have reached the crusader fort. How wonderful if they managed to
drive the crusaders off the mountaintop!
The sharp rocks jabbed and bruised Roland's feet through the thin
leather of his boot soles. He wore as little mail as he dared. As it was,
the work of clambering around a peak in the Pyrenees weighed down
by his fifty-pound shirt of steel mesh was bound to exhaust him soon.
His best protection, he hoped, was the black cloak that would hide his
movements from the men of either side.
The battle cries of northern crusaders and Languedoc Cathars were now
so mingled that Roland could not tell one from the other. Swords
boomed on wooden shields and rang on steel helmets. Screams pierced
the night, some fading into the darkness below as men plunged off the
mountaintop to their deaths.
But the clamor of battle diminished as Roland on his ledge crossed to
the north side. The limestone wall of the fortress glowed faintly under
the stars, rising above Roland like the hull of a ship. Like the Ark atop
Mount Ararat, he thought. Only this ark could not save those who
sought refuge in her. Against the pale background of the wall a sloping
boulder stuck out, huge and black. Roland's father, who had visited this

place years ago, had written him saying, "The top of the great stone is
only ten feet below the top of the parapet, and an agile man can make it
over the wall there. You should be able to do it, if you have not let the
wine and women of France ruin your body ere now."
Roland could make out cracks and crevices in the century-old wall
where he might dig in with fingers and toes. Still, it would be a far
more fearsome climb than his father had made it sound. Taking a
running start, Roland scrambled up the huge rock. Atop the boulder, he
threw