The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

  To this day, I regret nothing—save the skills that were lost. For the man who followed me was a hunter of unparalleled knowledge and experience. He taught me many things, even as I fled from him. He taught me that covering shit with a rock is better than burying it, since turned earth is clearly visible; but that it is impossible to disguise the smell unless you leave rotten meat nearby. He taught me to scatter ashes, so that they will cool more quickly. He taught me to avoid pasture at all cost, since you beat out your own path every time you cross it.

  And he taught me never, ever to ask questions.

  That is why, when I saw the fat weaver asking questions today, I shook my head. And I went upstairs wondering at the significance of such a clumsy pursuit. The fat weaver is either very stupid or extremely intelligent. Could he be trying to influence me as I have tried to influence him? It seems doubtful. A Cathar might have the wit for such a plan, but a Beguin?

  When I reached my workroom, Martin was there. He was standing at the window, peering down at the street. Upon hearing my step, he swung around.

  ‘Master,’ he said, through a mouthful of bread and garlic, ‘someone followed you.’

  For a moment I was speechless. I looked at him, slowly removing my scarlet cloak, as I tried to formulate a response.

  ‘I saw him,’ Martin went on eagerly. ‘He was walking behind you, and when you came into the house, he stopped outside. Then he went over to Adhemar, across the road, and spoke to him. He pointed at this house.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I said. ‘How odd.’

  ‘He wanted to know who you were. He was asking about you. I saw him show Adhemar how tall you are.’

  ‘And what were you doing staring out the window?’ I asked, recovering my composure. ‘When there is so much work to be done?’

  ‘Master, I was eating. You told me never to eat while I work, in case I stain the parchment.’

  ‘True.’ I laid my cloak carefully on the linen chest. ‘Is he still there, this man?’

  ‘No. He walked away down the street.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  I was interested—genuinely interested—in how attentive Martin had been. I wanted to know if he had drawn any conclusions.

  ‘He was fat,’ the boy declared—inevitably. (He himself, being as thin as a reed, would consider anyone fat who could not slide himself into a length of worsted hose.) ‘Fat and bald, with a red face.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He wore a blue surcoat over a brown tunic.’

  ‘Long or short?’

  ‘Knee-length.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Martin’s smooth brow puckered. He was trying very hard. ‘His belt was brown . . .’

  ‘Did he wear a cloak? A purse? A knife? Did he carry anything?’

  ‘He carried a wooden thing, like a big comb with no teeth.’

  This was hardly an adequate description. So I tried again.

  ‘What did he do?’ I queried.

  ‘Do?’

  ‘With his body. How did he stand? How did he move? Show me.’

  Martin’s imitation of a fat man waddling caused me to smile. When he grinned back, however, I refused to indulge him with a word of approval.

  For I was still not satisfied.

  ‘What else?’ I pressed. ‘Show me his hands. Show me what he did with them. Exactly what he did.’

  Martin hesitated. Tentatively, he pointed one finger.

  I waited.

  He measured a height against his own, brushing his fingertips across one cheekbone. He pushed both hands together. He drew them down on either side of his face. He traced two circles over his eyes.

  Then he rolled his shoulder, wincing, and kneaded his right elbow with his left hand.

  ‘Do that again,’ I said.

  He obeyed, watching me intently. I could read the question in his dark and solemn gaze.

  ‘Unless I am mistaken, child, your man is a weaver,’ I declared, putting the boy out of his misery. ‘If you watch a weaver for any length of time, you will see him make a movement like the one you just imitated. It is the sign of someone who spends too much time at his loom. When you are next in church, you should look for the weavers.’

  Martin’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

  ‘In the meantime, you should tell me if you happen to see him again,’ I recommended, moving over to the frame on which was strung Martin’s latest hide. ‘Now, what have I told you about pressing too hard? You are still using too much force, here. You are stretching the skin.’

  ‘Master, why would a weaver follow you home? And then go away without speaking to you?’

  ‘Perhaps he has need of a parchment-maker. Perhaps he saw the chalk on my sleeves.’

  But Martin shook his head.

  ‘Master, no one else sees such things,’ he objected. ‘Only you.’

  ‘And you,’ I said, whereat he flushed, and looked pleased. Nevertheless, he would not be distracted from his purpose.

  ‘Master, it makes no sense.’

  ‘Perhaps not to you or to me,’ I replied. ‘But there must be a reasonable explanation.’

  ‘What, though?’

  I decided that such persistence, though admirable in some ways, should not be encouraged where it related to my affairs. And I fixed upon my apprentice a cold, unwavering look.

  ‘The weaver was following me,’ I said. ‘So whatever his intentions, they can hardly be any of your business. Can they?’

  Again Martin coloured. I thought him offended, at first. When he mumbled an apology, however, it became apparent that he was merely crushed.

  It takes very little to crush that boy. After enduring so many blows, he should have developed a thicker skin. Yet it remains as thin as my best parchment, with every change of mood written clearly upon it, as if inscribed there by a thick-cut quill dipped in the most expensive black ink.

  He must learn to dissemble. He must. Or what will become of him?

  IX.

  Wednesday before Holy Week

  I have yet to start reading those Beguin books.

  Alas, I have been very remiss. In putting off such an night. For if I have not mastered their contents by tomorrow, I shall find myself in the gravest peril.

  I should have known that the Beguins would not wait.

  They came to my shop this morning: two of them, both women. I was stitching quires when they entered, and looked up to see a matron standing over me, very tall and well dressed. She had a long nose, high cheekbones and an ardent gaze. Her firm jaw enclosed a full, soft mouth, while her hair was concealed by an abundance of plainly coloured but finely woven silk.

  The girl with her could not have been older than seventeen. Though her clothing was simple—even poor—she challenged me with a gaze that was oddly proud and fierce for someone so thin and pale. She had the long neck of a goose, and the stooped shoulders that you often see on weavers and seamstresses and nuns.

  By her appearance, I did not judge her to be a relative of the matron. Nor did she impress me as being a maidservant. Her demeanour was something between that of a favoured friend and a poor dependant.

  ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ,’ the matron declared, fixing me with a bright and expectant look. For one instant I was at a loss. Then, almost before I had drawn breath, I remembered that Berengar Blanchi had used the same phrase when greeting Imbert Rubei—who had responded with an identical salutation.

  Like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, understanding dawned in my mind. I realised that the Beguins must use ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ’ much as the Cathars use ‘Can we do something for our betterment?’. Both are greetings that distinguish the heretics from all others. They are like passwords into a besieged city.

  ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ,’ I therefore replied, noticing as I did so that the women’s gowns were covered with an unusual number of stray threads from other cloth. There were drifting strands of gold silk, and thick
lengths of dull-coloured wool, and fibres that might have linen or even cotton—I could not tell. All I could tell was that these women were either weavers, drapers, or the wives of tailors (though not tailors themselves, to judge from their hands).

  When I spoke, the matron nodded. My response had evidently satisfied her.

  ‘You are Helié Seguier?’ she inquired.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I wish to buy parchment.’

  ‘Yes.’ I rose, thankful that Martin was upstairs, at work. ‘For an account book, perhaps? A register?’

  ‘For a holy book,’ the matron replied, still watching my face. ‘I wish to have a copy made of a book written by Pierre Olivi. His postilla on the Apocalypse. Have you read this work?’

  I could not have been more surprised. Her recklessness astonished me; I had been expecting a far subtler approach.

  Indeed, she was so blatant that I became cautious. No genuine Beguin, I felt, would reply frankly to such a question. Surely even the witless heretics of Narbonne would suspect a trap?

  ‘That book has been condemned,’ I said.

  ‘But did you read it before it was condemned?’ she pressed me. ‘If not, then you should read it now. For that book is a wonder. If all the heads of all the men in the world were one, they could not have written that book unless through the agency of the Holy Spirit.’

  Amazed, I glanced from the woman to the girl, and back again. Both wore eager expressions, though the girl’s eagerness had an edge to it, while the woman’s was altogether more serene.

  ‘I have read the book,’ I lied, praying that Martin was not listening at the top of the stairs (as he frequently does). ‘I shall be honoured to provide parchment for another copy.’

  The two Beguins glanced at each other. Then the matron turned back to me, smiling. Her teeth were beautiful.

  ‘If you have read the book, then you must know how long it is,’ she said. ‘Bring me as much parchment as I shall need, tomorrow, directly after the first meal of the day. Bring it to my house. It is the draper’s shop near the Inn of the Star. You know the Inn of the Star?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bring it to the shop, and I shall pay you a fair price.’

  ‘What name shall I give when I get there?’ was my next question, put to her quickly, before she could leave. ‘Your own?’

  ‘I am Berengaria, wife of Pierre Donas the draper,’ she replied. Then she glanced around the shop, wrinkling her nose a trifle as she sniffed the tainted air. ‘Make sure the parchment is good. Brother Pierre Olivi’s postilla should not be desecrated by inferior parchment.’

  ‘I do not sell inferior parchment.’ Quietly but firmly, I defended my reputation. ‘All of my stock is good.’

  ‘An honest labourer will never want for custom,’ Na Berengaria observed, in approving tones. ‘I will see you tomorrow, then. You yourself. In person. Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ.’

  With a swish of her heavy gown she departed, taking the girl with her. It was some time before I recovered from the shock. I had anticipated nothing so abrupt, and felt almost as if I had suffered a blow to the head.

  At last, however, my jumbled thoughts settled themselves into a more orderly arrangement. I began to consider the implications of Berengaria’s visit, weighing all the probabilities in my mind.

  Is she a genuine Beguin? It would seem so. Does she truly regard me as another convert? Perhaps. Is she acquainted with Jacques Bonet? Ah—now that is the most important question.

  If she does know Jacques, she must know him as a fugitive—if not as an agent of Jean de Beaune. In which case, why this open and reckless behaviour? I cannot believe that someone who has either aided or killed a fugitive tertiary would go about merrily asking complete strangers if they have read Pierre Olivi’s postilla. Not without a hidden purpose. Unless the woman is a fool?

  She could be, I suppose. On the other hand, she could be suspicious of my motives. If she knows Jacques Bonet as an inquisitor’s agent, then she might be concerned that I am one also. In which case she might be attempting to lure me into her lair. To kill me just as she killed Jacques.

  It must be confessed, I find it hard to imagine her killing anybody. That girl, now—she might kill, in a fit of passion. But not Berengaria. I have yet to meet a murderer distinguished by such an air of fulfilment. And I have met several murderers in my time.

  There are four possibilities. One is that she does not know Jacques Bonet, and is simply eager to share the teachings of Pierre Olivi despite the dangers involved. Another is that she knows Jacques as an escaped Beguin, yet persists in naïvely taking risks. A third is that she has killed Jacques, and now wants to kill me. A fourth is that Jacques revealed his deadly secret, and threw himself on her mercy. Perhaps she is the sort of woman who would be only too pleased to help someone in Jacques’s position escape the clutches of Jean de Beaune.

  I cannot decide which of these alternatives is the most likely. I am not sufficiently well acquainted with the woman to make an informed choice. Nevertheless, it would be stupid to walk, all unprotected, into a trap. So when I visit her house tomorrow, I shall take a knife with me. Concealed in my boot. And I shall avoid entering any darkened rooms— especially if there is someone directly behind me.

  This, then, is my plan. I judged it a good one earlier today. Whereupon, having decided on a course of action, I went to my shelves and gathered together a number of quires. These I wrapped in a cloth, setting them aside for Na Berengaria. But as I did so, something occurred to me.

  She had stated that she was buying parchment so as to make a copy of a heretical book.

  Could it be possible, I wondered, that other such purchases had been made from my shop in the past? Not by scribes or notaries or priests or monks, but by weavers and drapers and other people not renowned for their interest in the written word? Of course, such people might require some form of register or account book in their business. But the folios in that case are generally quite large, and their purpose clearly specified.

  A heretical codex, on the other hand, would have to be small—for ease of concealment. Moreover, if I were a heretic buying parchment for a prohibited text, I would take care to patronise a shop where I was a complete stranger. And be sure never to return there.

  After all, who knows what transactions the inquisitors might decide to investigate, in their pursuit of forbidden books?

  Moved by a sudden curiosity, I went upstairs to check my own register. This I keep from force of habit, though it is of little use for the most part; it is a record of all orders and purchases made from my shop, together with details of the individuals concerned. Sometimes I am given a name. Sometimes the name is withheld. But always, in the left-hand column, I make a special mark if the customer is unknown to me. And in these cases, I take care to describe the stranger as fully as possible. It is mere habit, I suppose— though not without purpose for a man in hiding. I have found that even a good memory needs some assistance.

  Upstairs in my workroom, Martin was busily scraping away with his chalk. He seemed quite happy to mind the shop for a while; I told him to call me if anyone came in.

  He said: ‘Who were those ladies?’

  I looked at him. ‘Were you listening?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Master.’ He shook his head. ‘I saw them enter. And leave. From the window.’

  ‘Then you should have drawn your own conclusions,’ I declared, and sent him downstairs. He could sweep out the shop, I said, and tidy the shelves. Meanwhile, I had work to do.

  My register is kept within easy reach, beside my bed. There is no need to conceal it by locking it away in the linen chest, as I do with this journal. Consequently, it was the work of a moment to retrieve the unbound volume, which— being a collection of ragged offcuts and inferior samples, stitched together—has a somewhat scrappy appearance.

  I scanned the pages hurriedly, looking for the spec
ial mark. Whenever I found it, I checked for a name. Then I read the description. (Some were quite detailed, especially where no name or profession had been supplied.) In disregarding all priests, monks and notaries, I was left with a very much reduced list of customers. This I shortened further by winnowing out various merchants who have become familiar to me since their first visit to my shop.

  Then all at once, a name seemed to leap from the surface of one yellowing folio. It had been inscribed there some three years before, beside a special mark.

  It was the name Imbert Rubei.

  I believe that I hissed as I caught sight of it. Imbert Rubei! Sure enough, it was the same man. The description matched. I had described him as elderly and slightly lame, with bushy grey eyebrows and a square jaw. I had also described him as a silk merchant. He had ordered three quires of pricked parchment, and had provided me with an address in the Bourg, as well as his name.

  Beneath this entry I had scribbled another, in different ink, using a slightly narrower quill.

  I remember this name, was the entry. It was affixed to a letter sent to the Pope by the consuls of the Bourg. They were protesting against the excommunication of Narbonne’s Spiritual friars. This must have been just after I arrived in Narbonne, when I was still living in the Bourg—for the letter was read out in the church of Notre-Dame Lamourguier. The consuls were concerned that many burghers who worshipped at the Franciscan priory would be unable to do so any longer.

  Imbert Rubei must have been a consul, once.

  I was astonished—and disgusted. How could I have forgotten such an important fact? In a flood it all came back to me: the high stone vault of the church roof, the toneless delivery of the priest, the six names of the consuls, who— it had seemed to me at the time—were running a terrible risk. I had made a mental note of their names for that very reason, wondering if I would soon see these same men recanting heresy at a sermo generalis. Already, in those days, I could sense the gathering storm that would soon engulf so many Spiritual Franciscans.