The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Can you tell me anything about them?’ I asked. ‘Aside from their station in life?’

  ‘One was tall and one was short. Both were thin. The tall one was quite old.’ Martin pondered for a moment. ‘I think he might have been a master from the cathedral school.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because of the way he spoke to me, and looked at me.’ A reluctant grin stole across the boy’s face. ‘As if he suspected that I would squirt ink on him the moment his back was turned.’

  I had to laugh.

  ‘But did he box your ears when you could not sell him his parchment?’ I queried, and Martin shook his head.

  ‘It was an order. For St-Just.’

  ‘Then it was probably the Subtreasurer, or the Master of the Common Funds. Only a very few canons are permitted to make purchases for the chapter—especially costly purchases like this.’ Seeing Martin’s face fall, I tried to reassure him. ‘Which is not to deny that a Treasurer might once have been a Grammar Master. Nothing is more probable. Always remember that past experience can inform the present. It is something I often forget myself.’

  Martin nodded eagerly. I almost wish that he were not so keen; it unnerves me. He is even beginning to copy the way I crack my neck after a long day’s work at the frames.

  ‘What about the other canon?’ I inquired. ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  At this Martin frowned.

  ‘He was covered in ink. There were even smudges on his face. When I said that you were not here, he became angry. He became even angrier when I would not sell him the parchment.’

  ‘Did he place an order?’

  ‘Yes. For the Archbishop’s palace.’

  ‘Indeed?’ This was important news. ‘Did he give a name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you packed the order?’ I demanded, and Martin gave a nod. He could provide me with very little more that was of any use. The Archbishop’s representative had been short and thin, with large ears and a close-cropped, strangely shaped head. The ink all over his face, hands and clothes had served to distract Martin from the man’s more permanent features.

  ‘There is a lesson for you,’ I said. ‘Sometimes a stink, or a stain, can serve as a shield. Your memory will fasten on this one characteristic, and discard all others.’

  ‘It is good that the Archbishop wants your parchment,’ was Martin’s response. ‘For he must use a very great deal of it. Perhaps he will ask for more!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, though I was not so sanguine.

  I fully expect to receive the parchment back soon after it is delivered—with a complaint attached, and a report on unidentified corpses tucked between the folios.

  XII.

  Palm Sunday

  What fools these Beguins are. Do they know nothing? If they were wise, they would not gather together in such large groups. Under Roman canon law it is very, very difficult to convict a man on the evidence of one witness. Even two witnesses are easily discredited. But with three or four or five, there is little hope of extenuation.

  I felt tempted to say as much, today at Na Berengaria’s house. In the end, however, I held my tongue. For my master taught me that ‘whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles’. And I have taken the lesson to heart.

  I was a little late in arriving because Martin detained me. Not in the shop, mind you; Sunday is meant to be a day of worship, not a day of toil. I did not expect to see Martin at all, and was startled when I caught a glimpse of him ducking behind a pillar on the Rue Droite as I made my way towards the Inn of the Star.

  He was following me.

  For an instant my head swam, and my heart pounded against my ribs. I thought: who has sent him to spy on me? After a brief period of reflection, however, I realised that there was a far less ominous explanation. Martin, I decided, wanted to know more about me for his own sake. I had trained him to be curious, and he was curious about his master.

  Moreover, since my quarters were today closed to him, he was undoubtedly looking for amusement far away from his own quarrelsome family.

  Though I write this now in a tranquil spirit, at the time I was not amused. On the contrary, my irritation was so profound that it verged on anger. Quickly I accomplished a very simple ruse that I call the Foursquare, ducking down an alley and pelting at top speed around the next three right-hand corners. This brought me back almost to the point at which I had begun, having circled an entire building. I therefore came up behind Martin, who was hesitating at the alley’s first junction, not knowing whether to turn left or right.

  Such a ploy will only succeed if you know the terrain, of course.

  ‘Martin Moresi,’ I said, and he jumped. His face, when he saw me, was a picture of consternation.

  ‘M-master . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘You will have to do better than this, my friend. I never lose sight of the road behind me.’

  He had the grace to look ashamed. Moreover, he did not attempt to deny that he had been in pursuit. Many would have, but he did not; rather he hung his head, and mumbled an apology.

  ‘What were you hoping to achieve?’ I asked, for I was curious. ‘Today is God’s day, Martin. Did you think I would be devoting it to any purpose other than His praise and glorification?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy.

  ‘Or perhaps you were hoping to find out whether I would spot you?’

  This, I think, was the truth. Martin had been practising certain skills that I may have mentioned to him, carelessly, during our time together—though in doing so I’d had no intention of encouraging him to acquire them.

  I said: ‘You should be with your family. You should not be wandering the streets like a beggar’s child. Your mother will be worried.’

  ‘No, she will not,’ Martin replied, glumly and with resignation. ‘She has too many other concerns.’

  ‘Then you must take care not to add to them,’ I advised. ‘You are a good boy, Martin. Go back home. It will set my own mind at rest, as well as your mother’s.’

  I spoke with more kindness than he perhaps merited, but it worked. I have found that, with Martin, a soft voice and a warm smile will exact instant obedience (derived from an odd mixture of guilt and gratitude), whereas sharp words will only paralyse his will, and muddle his thinking. In this instance, I did not even warn him that I would surely detect his presence if he continued to defy me. He knew it well enough. So I was not required to accompany him back to my house.

  I only stood and watched until he was out of sight. Then I resumed my journey to Na Berengaria’s residence.

  There were five Beguins waiting in her kitchen when I arrived. Berengaria was there, of course. Blaise Bouer the tailor was also in attendance, as was the goose-necked Guillelma, and the fat weaver with the red face—who was introduced as Guillaume Ademar. With him was a young man who has almost the look of a monk: his pale, refined features, dreamy gaze and attenuated frame give him the appearance of someone who has been raised in dark cloisters and kept up all night singing psalms as a child. His name is Pierre Espere-en-Dius, but he is known to his friends as Perrin.

  It did not entirely surprise me to learn that, like Guillaume, he is a weaver. For I have already commented on the heretical tendencies of weavers.

  Though I had taken care to dress as simply and dully as possible, I saw at once that I had underestimated the asceticism of certain devout Beguins. Perrin and Guillelma, in particular, wore clothes made of stuff that I would hesitate even to call sacking: it looked almost as if it had been woven out of chaff and nettles, and I did wonder, for an instant, if this was indeed the case. Since Perrin is a weaver, a tunic made with thorns or willow-canes would presumably not be beyond him.

  Na Berengaria was dressed in garments of a somewhat finer weave, though still very plain. She herself answered my knock; the downstairs shutters were closed, and her husband’s shop was in almost total darkness. ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ,’ she
said, as she ushered me through the shop to the kitchen. Here her associates echoed her in chorus, and their faces showed not one hint of suspicion or anger.

  Naturally, I had brought a knife in my boot. But by this time I was convinced that I was in no immediate peril. Not from Berengaria, at any rate.

  No food or drink were offered me, once I had been welcomed. Instead the whole group immediately began to pray, at which point I was almost caught out. For Beguins, I discovered, do not pray like other men and women. Rather than falling to their knees with clasped hands, they cover their heads and sit bending over, turning their faces towards the ground or an opposite wall. In this position they recite the Salve regina and Gloria in excelsis Deo.

  It was fortunate that I was wearing my hood. It was also fortunate that my companions shrouded their own heads before praying; if they had not, they would have seen me commencing to kneel, and then stopping halfway to the floor as I observed that no one else was imitating my actions.

  I quickly sat down again, copying Berengaria. She led the prayers, as well as the discussion afterwards, which was chiefly concerned with identifying specific people who merited our prayers. One of the names suggested was that of Pons, whom I had met in the Archbishop’s prison. We prayed for his immortal soul, and for the souls of his sixteen fellow Beguins, burned in front of St-Just not long ago. We also prayed for the souls of those friars burned at Marseilles, and for every true martyr who had died on the stake since.

  Then Berengaria proposed that we pray for ‘our fugitive brethren Pierre Dominici, Pierre Trencavel and Jacques Bonet’. I pricked up my ears at this, and was hoping that more might be said on the subject. But Berengaria moved on, soliciting more names from the rest of us. She turned to me with a maternal smile, and asked if there was no one I might choose to nominate.

  I replied that I should like to pray for my tenant’s sick mother. As well, I submitted the name of Brother Bernard Delicieux, who had perished in Jean de Beaune’s prison at Carcassonne.

  This suggestion was well received. There followed a few more prayers, and no further mention of Jacques Bonet. I should have liked to ask after him, but knew that it would be unwise to exhibit too much curiosity. Instead I sat humbly and silently through the subsequent debate on charitable works, which greatly increased my understanding of Blaise and Guillelma.

  The purpose of the debate was simple. Having collected from each of us a denier or two as alms for the poor, Na Berengaria wanted to know which institution should receive these alms. Obviously she was not about to place them in the hands of a priest, who like as not would spend them on the satisfaction of his own appetites.

  ‘For they are most of them heretics, drunk with the blood of martyrs, and they accumulate grain and wine in abundance,’ she remarked, at which Blaise nodded vigorously.

  ‘Yes, indeed!’ he exclaimed. ‘Give money to a priest, and he will not succour the poor. He will buy superfluous clothing, or rich viands, or costly books full of wicked lies.’

  There was a murmur of agreement. Guillelma even went so far as to throw her hands in the air. ‘They are servants of the great Whore of Babylon,’ she said, ‘who persecutes the poor and the ministers of Christ, and they will be condemned and rejected as was the synagogue of the Jews.’

  Another ‘Amen’ to that. Blaise went on to rail bitterly against bishops, and cardinals, and the Pope, and the Dominicans, and all those Franciscans who had betrayed the rule of St Francis. He accused the Cistercians of Fontfroide of avarice, because these monks had acquired more than a quarter of the right of measuring and weighing all the grain brought into Narbonne. ‘They care for nothing but their own bellies!’ he ranted, and it became clear to me that he belonged to a certain category of heretic that is quite common in every part of the world.

  You will find such people embracing many different kinds of error, simply because they stand in opposition to men who are wealthier or more powerful than they are. The Church, being both wealthy and powerful, is a natural target for their resentment. They feel perpetually ill used, and their anger is never far from the surface. If at any time they decide that their heretical associates have treated them unjustly, or are insufficiently grateful to them, there is every chance that they will change allegiance. My master, Bernard Gui, was fully aware of this. He sought out such people diligently, asking me always to keep alert for them.

  And here, I saw, was another example.

  Guillelma was of a different ilk. Though she, too, was passionate in her condemnation of the Carnal Church, it was not on account of her own wounded vanity. She was genuinely outraged at the injustices of the world—as the young so often are—and, being young, she found it hard to be patient, or to control her anger. She seemed to feel that wrongs must be righted at once; to refrain from doing so was to demonstrate an utter disdain for Christ’s commandments, which disdain must be punished at all costs. Her inclination was to act, rather than to reflect.

  She will, I am quite sure, end up on a stake before she grows much older.

  I need hardly add that Blaise and Guillelma were very difficult to please when it came to the distribution of alms. The hospital of St-Just was an unacceptable recipient, in their eyes, because it was run by the cathedral chapter. The leper hospices were equally suspect, because so many of the rich merchants associated with their management were less interested in helping the poor than they were in promoting their own high repute. Even the Franciscans were frowned upon, now that their Narbonnaise establishment had been practically emptied of Spiritual brethren.

  At last, after much bickering, it was agreed that the money should be given to the House of the Repentants, near the Royal Gate. This would enable more prostitutes to escape sinful pursuits, and devote themselves to acts of piety. Even the men conceded that many females of this description were driven by poverty to abase themselves like the Magdalene.

  ‘And now,’ said Na Berengaria, at the conclusion of all business relating to alms for the poor, ‘let us venerate our holy relics. Master Helié, have you brought your own with you today?’

  I had, as it happened. And I produced it to the accompaniment of many sighs and groans—for it was, indeed, a pitiful remnant. Guillelma shed tears of sorrow over it, before passing it along to Perrin, who kissed it fervently. After each Beguin had venerated the finger in his or her own fashion, and the relic had been returned to me, Berengaria extracted a familiar, silk-wrapped bundle from the concealed chest in her cellar.

  Once again, I was obliged to press my lips to a half-cooked human shin bone.

  ‘You do great honour to these holy martyrs,’ I observed carefully, upon completing my act of homage, ‘by wrapping their relics in such fine and beautiful silk. My humble linen cloth is put to shame.’

  ‘Not at all!’ Berengaria responded. ‘Wealthy trappings are of no account, Master Helié. I happened to have this scrap of silk, and could think of no more fitting a use for it. It is wonderfully figured, is it not?’

  ‘Wonderfully,’ I agreed.

  ‘All of our silk comes from a devout and honest trader called Imbert Rubei,’ the matron continued. ‘He has an eye for good damask, in particular. But he would as soon wear garments of human skin as don silken clothes.’ As I absorbed this unexpected announcement, Berengaria placed a hand on my arm. ‘Your own relic is deserving of a more glorious shroud,’ she conceded. ‘If you wish, I can ask my husband for a silk offcut. He would not begrudge it, I feel sure.’

  More fool he, I thought. But I simply smiled and expressed my gratitude, wondering at the same time if Berengar Blanchi, or his friend Imbert Rubei, had ever graced Na Berengaria’s Sunday gathering with their presence. Jacques Bonet probably did, so why not they?

  ‘Now let us reflect on our blessed teacher, Brother Pierre Jean Olivi,’ said Berengaria, once her relics had been restored to their proper place in the empty cask. It soon became clear to me that she herself enjoys sole custody of the Beguins’ holy books; only two were circulated among us, to be
reverently kissed, before the matron began to read from one, very slowly, as if intoning a psalm. This book was none other than The Passing of the Holy Father and concluded with a description of Pierre Olivi’s deathbed.

  There followed a general ‘Amen’, whereupon I was asked to read from my copy of the postilla. This I did until told to stop. Then there was another prayer (recited at the floor or wall), after which the gathering broke up. It was the master of the house, Berengaria’s husband, who dispersed our company. He appeared suddenly at the door with his son, looking irritated but resigned; his son, in contrast, seemed very much put out to find so many unwelcome guests on the premises. While the father merely sighed, the son glowered. Perhaps the difference could be attributed to their age, since Na Berengaria’s husband was much older than I had expected. Though solidly built, he had the gnarled appearance of an old tree root, and had lost most of his hair.

  He watched his wife’s friends glumly as, one by one, we made our escape.

  It was upon leaving the house that I first became properly aware of the man in the dirty clothes. He had been squatting in the alley beside the house when I first arrived—apparently relieving his bowels in a very public manner. And because this is not an unusual sight in Narbonne, I had paid him little attention.

  Surely, however, no dose of the flux is so serious as to keep a man voiding his bowels from late morning until mid afternoon?

  My suspicions were instantly aroused. And they deepened when, having yanked up his drawers as I passed, he set off for the Rue Droite just a few paces behind me. There was no mistaking his intention—for his pursuit was clumsy. He followed me all the way home, and once I arrived, he did not linger. Instead he took to his heels before I could reach the upstairs window. I do not know where he went.

  But I do know, in detail, what he looked like. Thanks to a few well-tested tricks, I was able to study him quite closely. He was a gangly fellow with stringy brown hair and a nose like a tuber. His eyes were almost triangular, like arrowheads, but were not in the least flinty or sharp; instead they were of a soft and smoky grey. His teeth were poor. He had two burns on his hands, probably from lamp oil or candle wax. And he smelled strongly of urine.