I myself prayed, of course. I grieved and I prayed. How not? At such a solemn and awful event, it is imperative that one pray for the souls of those condemned to the Eternal Flames, however one might deplore their blind arrogance. I find it hard sometimes to understand why a man like Pons, who might have been argued into a more submissive frame of mind by St Dominic, or St Francis—or even by Bernard Gui—must suffer so frightfully both before and after his death, simply because he was not exposed to the sort of enlightened teaching that would have put him on the right path. For though proud and wrong-headed, he was not vicious, I am sure. A good example might have made all the difference. What these people fail to understand is that one cannot look to the priests and friars for perfection. While many of them are indeed grievous sinners, it is unreasonable to expect anything else—here on earth, at least.
Thoughts such as this sometimes occupied me as I waited patiently in that blighted square. By God’s mercy, the smoke eventually cleared. But as the afternoon advanced, the wind picked up even more, and the embers began to fly about in a most disconcerting fashion. It was at this point that Jean de Beaune withdrew, together with his entourage. The Archbishop had long since disappeared into his palace. The Viscount had become engaged in a protracted and intense dispute with a couple of consuls; from what I could hear of it, carried on fitful gusts of wind, this dispute concerned the supervision of grain weights. Meanwhile, the crowd slowly dispersed. Those left were either grief-stricken relatives, or secret sympathisers, or old women with nothing else to do, or people of that very peculiar disposition which enjoys the dismemberment of half-consumed corpses.
I myself am not equipped with such a disposition. Few men are, in my experience. It was evident that many of the guards had made themselves scarce for that very reason: they had no wish to take part in such a disgusting ritual, however necessary it might have been. I have been informed by Bernard Gui that the true purpose of breaking up the remains, and consigning the charred pieces to a fresh pile of burning logs, is to ensure that the bodies are reduced to ashes, which can then be cast into a river in order that no blasphemers shall ever find an earthly resting place (least of all in the home of another heretic). God grant that I am never the object of such implacable resentment, however logical or reasonable it might be. Yet almost as dreadful as this fate is the fate of those who must throw water on the smoking embers, and then walk about on them, hewing at blackened joints with their axes, smashing bones with their spades, and stoking the flames of the last remaining pyre with shrivelled viscera.
The men who do this must be seasoned soldiers. They must be accustomed to severed limbs and scattered guts. Nevertheless, I pity them. The stench alone is enough to turn even the strongest stomach—as I witnessed today. Of the few men brave enough to undertake so grisly a task, several were taken ill before they could finish, and staggered away to recover.
Therefore many of the seventeen corpses were left unattended for long periods of time.
I had expected something of the sort, and was prepared for it. In my vivid scarlet cloak I hovered near one of the extinguished pyres, which was now a sodden heap of charcoal, ashes and charred bone. Though I cannot be sure, I believe that the Beguin on this particular pyre had been female; it must be admitted that I took care to avoid the site of Pons’s death, owing to a culpable weakness of the heart. For a while I seemed to pray, though I was in fact keeping a close watch on the weaver, the tailor and Berengar Blanchi from beneath my hood. Then, when I saw that they were observing me, I stepped forward to retrieve a fragment of the woman’s burned finger, holding my breath as I did so.
It was more difficult than I had expected. The sinews were not burned through, and I found myself wrenching the joints apart as if trying to suck the marrow from a knuckle of roast pork, God forgive me. I wish never to attempt such a thing in all my life henceforth, so help me God. But I remembered everything that I have learned, and stayed calm (though gravely concerned that the guards might see if I fumbled about for too long), and at last the finger came away, and I was able to wrap it up in my piece of linen cloth. Even as I tucked it into my purse, I saw Berengar approaching another pyre nearby. But I knew better than to join him there.
For I had devised a more subtle way of stalking my quarry: namely, by allowing him to stalk me.
Sure enough, it worked. I was reciting another prayer when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Turning, I found myself face to face with the swarthy tailor, who employed the informal ‘you’ when addressing me—though I had never met him before in my life.
‘Did you know this woman?’ he inquired, nodding towards the fragmentary corpse that I had plundered. His voice trembled; he seemed greatly moved.
I myself, being hoarse and red-eyed from the smoke, must have seemed just as distraught.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But I would have wished to, God rest her soul.’
I said nothing more. I certainly did not ask any questions. That is the first rule of a successful disguise: do not ask questions. Especially leading questions. For there is nothing more likely to arouse concern among those with a reason to be suspicious.
The tailor must have shared my opinion, for he too fell silent. Then he nodded, and moved away. It was at this point that an old man hailed me from a shop doorway. He had keener vision than I would have given him credit for.
‘If you are hungry, Redback,’ he cackled, ‘there is better meat to be had than the meat off those bones! For they were Beguins, and starved themselves in the name of God.’
Immediately he was instructed to hold his tongue—by as many people as heard him, I am pleased to say. I thought it a good time to withdraw, and did so. But I marked that the tailor watched me go, his dark eyes speculative under his thick black brows.
And now, alas, I have a piece of burned Beguin sitting downstairs. I hid it in my special place of concealment, under the cellar flagstone, with my beggar’s clothes and my special cloak and the little Beguin books my master gave me. Even so, I am concerned that it might start to smell—for all that I wrapped it in leather, and put it in a pot, and sealed the pot with wax. God help me if anyone sniffs that out. For they will find the books, and the gums, and Bernard Gui’s letter, and I shall be thoroughly unmasked. Perhaps I did the wrong thing. Perhaps I should conquer my revulsion, and boil up the digit, and scrub it clean, and make of it something like an ivory trinket—as harmless and inoffensive as a pair of horn dice.
But the Beguins may not desecrate their relics in such a fashion. And I should not like to cause offence if I am ever again obliged to produce the finger. It preys on my mind, though. It should not; I should be accustomed to having bits of people concealed around the house. My aunt used to keep her children’s umbilical cords—I know not why. And I have many times come across the hair and fingernails of the dead, in homes where retaining them is regarded as a sop to good fortune.
Nevertheless, it preys on my mind.
My clothes and skin and hair still smell of smoke—even, faintly, of burned flesh. Or am I imagining that stink? Is it part of the memory that I must put aside, though the picture remains so vivid: the picture of sooty skin, spotted with pink blisters, splitting over oozing, swollen fat.
I have the most terrible headache.
Martin did well today. His work on that parchment was flawless. I told him so, and he was greatly pleased. He asked me about the execution, and I put him off.
I need not have bothered, however. His father has been talking of nothing else, to judge from what I have since overheard. He was out in the courtyard earlier, describing the grisly event to his wife in great detail. According to Hugues Moresi, no man among the crowd in the square today was half as staunch as he; while others voided their bellies to his left and right, he stood firm in the face of so much suffering. He was no weakling, like those others. He was strong enough to bear witness, and saw everything that befell the unfortunate condemned—whose sins, he said, were no worse than the sins of the gluttonous prie
sts come to watch them die.
If he was so staunch, it surprises me that he did not offer to join the soldiers, and merrily assist them in the task of dismemberment. Indeed, I am astonished that he has exhibited any sympathy at all for the dead Beguins. I have always thought him rather brutal in his relations with those who are younger, weaker, and more unfortunate—like most men who pride themselves on the strength of their character.
But I doubt that he was as resolute as he claims. If he had stayed to the end, I would have seen him. The crowd had thinned so much, I would never have missed such a familiar face. I would be willing to wager money that he repaired to the nearest inn as soon as the first belly burst.
God help me. I cannot sit here any longer.
My poor head.
VIII.
Tuesday before Holy Week
At last I have hooked my fish.
It has been difficult, I must confess—largely owing to the heavy burden of my work, which has increased greatly with the approach of Easter. I do not know why. The notaries seem to be especially busy; perhaps the prospect of Holy Week has been causing people to rethink their wills. Perhaps merchants are trying to draw up contracts before Palm Sunday brings all business grinding to a halt. Whatever the reason, it has certainly complicated my life. I must try to fill many new orders, while at the same time weaving my net across the city.
But I should not complain. In the end, I made only two passes through the Bourg, and one through the Cité. I was expecting to find my Beguins in the Bourg, if only because Berengar Blanchi lives there. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I picked up my horsefly in the Cité.
It was the fat weaver. I recognised his balding pate even from the rear.
My scarlet cloak must have caught his eye. I had worn it on every trip since the sermo generalis, hoping that its vivid colour—and the distinctive black stain on its back—would jog someone’s memory. Specifically, I had hoped to jog Berengar Blanchi’s memory, because he was my chief target. His demeanour at the execution had marked him out, as had his garb, and the fervent glint in his eye. Hence the amount of time that I had lavished on the neighbourhood of his cousin’s house—despite the fact that I had already dismissed Vincent Hulart from my list of suspects. Vincent Hulart is not a Beguin, I feel sure. No Beguin would have filled his day with business on the anniversary of Pierre Olivi’s death.
But the fat weaver must live in the Cité, not the Bourg. I saw him first as I was entering the Fursteria, or carpenters’ quarter; he was carrying a wooden shuttle and arguing a price with one of the wood merchants. Since there are carpenters enough in the Bourg capable of building or repairing a weaver’s shuttle, I am convinced that he lives much closer than that.
Hoping to catch his attention, I stopped to admire a carved chest. When at last I moved on again, he moved on with me, just a few steps behind. Name of a name, but he was clumsy! At one point I had to double back—since I wanted to show him where I lived—and he lost me after only two left-hand turns. I looked around and he was gone. So I had to stay where I was, pretending to count coins in my palm, until he found me again. After that, I walked more slowly. I walked so slowly that I was almost going backwards.
But I reached my house at last.
Had I been following him, I would not have stood openly watching his house after he had entered it. Nor would I have hailed his neighbour across the street, and inquired as to his name and occupation—as the fat weaver did, in his search for my identity. I watched him from behind a half-open shutter, and I saw him pointing at this house. Not only that, but he described me to my neighbour. He measured my height against his own with his hand; then he pushed both hands together (‘thin’), drew them down on either side of his face (‘long, straight hair’), and traced rough circles in front of his eyes. (‘Green eyes’? ‘Dark lashes’? I know not.)
My neighbour nodded. His reply must have satisfied the weaver: perhaps it was my name, or my situation. Whatever it was, the weaver thanked him for it, and went away looking both pleased and anxious. Now all I have to do is wait. I must wait for the weaver and his friends to approach me as a fellow heretic, or heretical sympathiser.
Unless they are suspicious of my motives?
Surely not. I have given no cause for alarm. I have asked no questions, nor sought anyone out. I have been going about my business like a good citizen—as anyone can testify who might have been pursuing me.
Not that anyone has been pursuing me. Of that I am convinced. I have not relaxed my vigilance for a moment since I first saw Armand Sanche, and I have grave doubts that any Narbonnaise Beguin could outfox a man trained up in the mountains, among Cathars. Among the forts built long ago by Cathar lords, against the Church and the northern invaders.
Of course, following someone on a crowded city street is different from following someone over a mountain. It is both easier and more difficult. As a pursuer, it is easier to conceal oneself in a crowd—just as it is easier to lose one’s quarry among all the people. On a lonely mountain, every man is clearly visible to a trained eye. Even if he attempts to hide himself, he will leave telltale signs and tracks behind him. He will leave wisps of smoke and warm ashes; spit and ordure; footprints and broken branches. Most importantly, he will leave a clear portrait in the memories of those who see few strangers from one year to the next.
Sometimes, when following a man over a mountain, it is easy to forget that you are leaving your own traces.
I have learned this lesson well, God knows. I have learned not to forget the road behind me, even when I am watching the road ahead. When I was following Guillaume Autier (this was after his brother, Pierre, was arrested in Belpech), I asked too many questions, and left too many traces. I became an object of suspicion among Guillaume Autier’s Cathar friends. Had I not been so alert, I would have ended up dead, like all the other men murdered at around the same time, in Junac and Montaillou and Ax-les-Thermes, simply because they were regarded as potential informers.
It happened nine years ago. Nine years! I must have been heading for San Mateo, in Tarragona, where many of the most faithful Cathars had found a home. Yes, on reflection—I was. Because the shepherd’s cabane in which I found refuge was on Mount Vezian. And the men there welcomed me cheerfully, since it can be lonely work tending the pastures. Besides which, in those days I did more than mend shoes; I sold needles and thread, and collected news from the lowlands. I made myself a welcome guest. I worked hard at it.
But one of the five shepherds was a friend of Raymond Issaura de Larnat, the heretical believer. And at Larnat there is a long history of intolerance when it comes to dealing with inquisitorial agents. I have heard tell that, somewhere up in the ravines near town, there lies the body of a Franciscan lay brother who went there to arrest Guillaume Autier twenty years ago.
At any rate, I was stupid. I was lulled by the wine and the fire and the merry company. When we were eating, I saw Raymond Issaura’s friend bless his bread in the heretical manner—and asked him one too many questions as a result. He must have lain awake thinking about me all night, while I snored. (What a fool I was!) The next morning, he and his friend offered to guide me to Morella, where—they said— Guillaume Autier could be found. And I believed them. At least, I believed them until I saw one of them take up an axe. He said that he was a woodcutter, and that the axe was his own.
Though I might have been a fool, however, I was not that foolish. I had seen woodcutters before—many of them. And the one thing they all share is a massive set of shoulders.
Whereas this fellow was built like a shepherd’s staff.
To my credit, I acted at once. Claiming that I needed to empty my bladder, I went off into the rocks. I knew better than to waste a moment. Instead I abandoned my possessions and ran, before anyone understood that I had understood. Moreover, because I had left all my things, I bought myself some time. The men could not believe that I would relinquish my tools. They waited just long enough to give me an advantage.
; I needed it, too. For they were good trackers. I had thought I might outwit them by abandoning my quest and heading back towards Lérida. They split up, however, in anticipation of this very ruse. I had one of them on my trail all the way to the Vicdessos Valley, because I carried nothing but money, and had to buy or beg assistance along the way. By this means I left traces, which led my pursuer to the cave of La Vache. Where I was waiting for him.
It must be understood that when a man follows you for such a long distance, he does so with good cause. I knew what his reason must be: I knew his name, after all, and had seen him bless his bread with a heretical sign. In the circumstances, I had no choice. I saw him enter that cave with his axe raised. Had he found me at rest by the fire inside (which was still smoking), he would have knocked my head from my shoulders.
So I struck him with a rock when he emerged. It was an act of self-defence, as I will attest to this day. My master agreed with me. He said that I had no cause for shame; that I was assured of God’s forgiveness. He said that, being small and weak, I had owed my tall pursuer no chance to make his peace with God—since he would not, in all certainty, have taken it. When I persisted in doubting, my master brought me a priest, in order that I might make my confession. And the priest confirmed all that my master had said.
I feel that I cannot have been wrong. For I would have died up there in the mountains, and the crows would have eaten me. I was exhausted by that time. I was penniless. Had I stayed my hand, it would have been suicide. And suicide is a mortal sin.
The Secret Familiar Page 7