Free Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) by Mark Butler Page A

the only serviceable roads in southern France were patrolled by units of the royal French Army, always eager to kill men who they thought were dodging their duty. The Seventh Crusade was already bringing out the worst in people. The cowardly were vilified and expelled from society. The powerful became cruel, fervent in their perceived duty to God and hasty to punish nonsupporters. Of course, Francois, Raul, and Artois fell into neither of those groups, they were merely traveling, seeking a way to meet Christof, and perhaps, survive the inevitable war.
    Because they slept during the day, hiding was easy. The land was hilly and crowded with woods. A whole army of Muslims could be hiding right here in southern France, and none would be the wiser, Francois thought. There were a few close calls. Once, as the sun was rising and they sought a hiding place, Raul whistled loudly, commanding his dogs to heel. There was an awkward moment, and Francois and Artois looked at each other sadly. Angry voices were the next thing they heard, and the Coquets were forced to cross a small river to avoid detection by a landowner and three of his slaves. If that man had found them, they would have been reported to the nearest army commander.
    The spring was in full bloom. Each night brought the possibility of warm rain, which Raul pretended to hate, though Francois suspected the rain refreshed his father, made him feel alive and free. The wildflowers were beautiful and fragrant to the people who could see them by day, and Francois developed a habit of collecting what he found at night, to be inspected when they finally halted after an entire night of walking.
    "Why do you collect flowers?" Artois asked Francois one morning, as they were getting ready for a few hours of rest.
    "There are beautiful things in this world, and we should enjoy them, cling to them, and most important, remember them, when we are surrounded by ugliness," Francois said, holding a delicate rose in his hands.
    "The bad things outweigh the good things greatly. Do not dwell on good and evil, my sons, dwell on the present moment, which is all we can lay claim to," Raul advised, joining the conversation.
    "Father, are we much nearer to your brother's home?"
    "We will be there in two days. We are in the most dangerous region in the world right now, and the Inquisitors are out in full force, destroying the last vestiges of the Cathars."
    Raul's words struck home that evening. As the Coquets packed their meager belongings and limbered up, preparing for an evening of skulking along the road and diving behind bushes at any given moment, they heard screams. Screams and an odd smell, one that Raul was able to identify immediately. "They're burning a man alive," he said calmly.
    They crested the next hill and could see that they had reached a basin, a watery, empty tract of land surrounded by cliffs on three sides. In the middle of the basin was a cross with a crucified man. The base of the cross was stacked with kindling, and the logs were alight, the flames licking at the man's ankles, slowly ascending.
    "We must save him," Artois said, hefting his battle axe.
    "Don't move, Artois, that man is already dead," Raul said, pointing to a dark procession that was watching the man's death. Neither Francois nor Artois had noticed the group, ten or twelve people, behind the cross. They were so still and black, like an incarnation of a shadow, the living flesh of dark power.
    "Who are they?" Francois asked.
    "Inquisitors. They are priests of the church, men who have been tasked with rooting out the Cathars, although the war is essentially over. They can't let the teachings of the Cathars spread to younger generations that might take up the mantle of rebellion. Do not overly concern yourself with the man on the cross; his execution is only one of many. Know this, if we are caught and our identities discovered, we will meet a similar fate," Raul said.
    "Not me, I'd rather die in combat," Artois