The Secret Familiar

by Catherine Jinks

  Looking at the forgery, I realised that the man responsible for it had used as his model a Latin document written in Bernard Gui’s hand. And he had copied the Latin contractions wherever the vernacular gave identical or similar words, not being fully acquainted with my master’s habits.

  Had he been better informed, he would not have used contractions in my letter. Indeed, he would not have used the alphabet at all. The most suspicious aspect of the entire text was the fact that it had not been encoded. Not once, during my long association with Bernard Gui, has he ever sent me an unencoded, written message.

  Instead, he resorts to numbers.

  Down in the cellar, under the loose flagstone, there lies a long scroll of parchment on which are recorded column upon column of numeric codes and ciphers. Bernard Gui possesses an identical scroll. By consulting it, my master is able to communicate with me entirely in numbers, each of which corresponds to a different word, letter, or group of letters. It has therefore been his custom in the past to send me messages that look rather like this: XXIV-VII-CCX, LXIV-XIX . . .

  Not that he often writes to me. In my whole life, I doubt that I have received more than five encoded messages from Bernard Gui. He knows how anxious I am to protect my false name and identity; he understands that even an encoded letter can imperil my very life. So he refrains from intruding on my daily rounds unless driven by the direst necessity. And he would never, ever put me at risk by sending an unencoded letter.

  That is why I did not for one moment believe that the summons was from him, though it purported to be. In full, the letter reads:

  To Helié Seguier, Parchment-maker of Narbonne.

  From Bernard Gui, Inquisitor of Heretical Depravity, deputed by the Apostolic See to the Kingdom of France.

  You are summoned to the Priory of St Dominic, in La Moyale, on the day following Easter Sunday, directly after compline. Report to the gate facing the Pont de Las Naus and await further instructions.

  In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

  After recovering from the first shock of this peremptory order, I began to study it with close attention. And I drew certain conclusions from it, some of which I have already listed.

  Firstly, the forger must have consulted a Latin document written in Bernard Gui’s hand.

  Secondly, he must have custody of a Dominican seal.

  Thirdly, he is ignorant of my real name.

  Most insulting of all, he has used a piece of my own split-skin vellum. And unless I am grossly in error, this folio lay among the quires that made up my last delivery to the Dominican priory at La Moyale.

  It therefore seems evident that someone from the priory wrote my forged letter. It cannot have been Jean de Beaune, for Jean de Beaune knows my real name, and left Narbonne some time before I made that delivery of parchment. Nor can it have been Sejan Alegre. A regular canon like Sejan would not be given free access to a Dominican seal and, in any case, I would have recognised his script.

  I think it unlikely that the forger is either a city priest or a highly educated monk. Someone of that description would know better than to use Latin contractions when writing in the vernacular; such ignorance suggests that the forger cannot read Latin at all. And this again rules out Sejan Alegre, just as the seal, the parchment and the use of Bernard Gui’s real script as a model rule out every single one of the Beguins whose acquaintance I have made since Christmas.

  So who wrote this letter?

  A nameless Dominican, evidently. A Dominican who employed Loup to deliver his correspondence and follow me around. But why would a Dominican want to lure me to the priory at La Moyale by pretending to be Bernard Gui? Why not simply order more parchment? Why this elaborate trick?

  I was pacing up and down, wringing my hands, when Martin returned from the kitchen. And I was short with him, I must confess. I told him to go home—that I would summon him back when he was required. His glance strayed immediately to the letter, which he had identified as the source of my change of mood. (He is no fool, that boy.) He said: ‘Master, how can I help?’ Whereupon I replied: ‘By going away. Now.’

  Reluctantly, he went. And I gave myself entirely to the task of thinking through my dilemma.

  I first saw Loup when he was waiting outside Na Berengaria’s house, on Palm Sunday. He did not follow me there; I would have noticed him if he had. I therefore asked myself: what brought him to that particular place, at that particular time? Could he have known that I was expected? Or had he been told to watch the house, and see who was welcomed into it?

  He had followed me home from the meeting. Why? Why choose me? Why not Guillaume or Perrin or Blaise? Because I was a new face, perhaps.

  It is quite possible that someone else has been keeping an eye on Na Berengaria’s friends. Someone who employs Loup as a spy. Someone who also, very probably, uses him to deliver forged letters.

  Not Jean de Beaune, I decided. Not Bernard Gui, either.

  But who?

  Clearly, I had to find out. I also had to find out whether Sejan Alegre had mentioned me to his cousin Berengar Blanchi. Perhaps not. If he had, why would Berengar keep the news from Na Berengaria? Yet still I was uneasy. I dislike coincidences. I disliked the fact that Berengar Blanchi had gone to consult with Sejan straight after visiting the Donas shop. To my mind, it smacked of conspiracy.

  Round and round I paced, cursing my own ignorance. I could see no way of interrogating my suspects without revealing too much about myself. Bribery is always a terrible risk. If I were to approach Loup, and pay for his information, what was to stop him from reporting back to his master? Nothing—unless I used blackmail as well. And as far as I knew, he was as virtuous as St Catherine.

  Then it hit me. The jovial porter! Immediately I rushed to this journal, and flicked back through several past entries, until I reached my description of the fat and cheery porter who had admitted me into the hospital of St-Just.

  In a moment of carelessness, he had used the term ‘crooked stick’. His exact words, as recorded here previously, were: ‘Come in, come in. Sit yourself down and be at ease. You will find no crooked stick among our brethren, for we are happy to welcome all who seek admittance.’

  Now it happens that, in this context, a ‘crooked stick’ means a threatening person. It is not a common turn of phrase—not hereabouts. Yet I have heard it uttered before, among the Cathars of my country. When a believer enters a Cathar house, his first remark will often be, ‘Is there a crooked stick here?’ (By which he means to ask: Is it safe to speak freely?) Whereupon, if it is safe, the response will be, ‘Do as you wish.’ Or, if it is not safe, ‘Be seated.’

  It was therefore evident that the porter at the hospital of St-Just had either been a Cathar or had mixed with Cathars at some time in his life. I realised that he might have borrowed the term ‘crooked stick’ unknowingly. Yet I thought it sensible to challenge him. For if he was ignorant, then I would risk nothing. And if I could bend him to my will, then he would be the perfect source of information about Loup’s visitors.

  To protect myself, I retrieved Bernard Gui’s letter of recommendation from the cellar. But I did not head off immediately towards Caularia Square. My previous visit had occurred somewhat later in the day; I did not want to reach St-Just only to find that my porter was not at his post for some liturgical reason. So I occupied myself by writing up this journal, until the bells of St-Sebastien told me that I could approach the hospital with every expectation of finding my quarry guarding its door.

  On my way to the hospital I kept alert for anyone who might be in pursuit, doubling back several times and circling the entire canonical quarter before returning to the site of the hospital. I even ducked into St Bethleem, and surreptitiously turned my cloak inside out. Though I saw no one of a suspect demeanour, I was very, very careful. For I had decided to conduct myself as if I were in the heart of the mountains, with heretics and assassins lurking behind every rock.

  When I knocked at the door of the hospital,
it was opened by the man whose cooperation I was seeking. He recognised me, and grinned widely. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Our benefactor!’

  To which I replied: ‘Can we do something for our betterment?’

  It was a test, and he failed it. I have mentioned that this greeting is a kind of code, by which Cathar believers and perfecti recognise each other. The porter certainly knew it. Taken by surprise, he was unable to conceal his horror. His expression changed. His dimples were expunged. Instinctively, he tried to slam the door.

  But I prevented him, throwing myself against its oaken panels.

  ‘Let me in,’ I murmured, wedging myself into the gap that he was endeavouring to close, ‘and you will come to no harm.’

  One should always attack without warning, especially if one is small of stature; it confounds one’s opponent, and gives him very little time to collect his wits. Confused and frightened, the porter had no choice but to admit me. He stepped back, and I entered.

  Then I closed the door.

  ‘What is this foolishness?’ he spluttered, in a feeble attempt to regain lost ground. His round, red face was already damp with sweat. ‘What harm could I possibly come to, little man?’

  ‘You know,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘You do,’ I insisted. ‘Where are you from?’ (Because I could detect the trace of an accent.) ‘Albi? You are far from home. As am I. Are you in hiding?’

  ‘Get out of here—’

  ‘I shall. If you answer one question.’

  ‘You—you are making no sense.’ He glanced around, fearful that we might be overheard. By this action he exposed himself as a timorous man, easily overborne (despite his weight). ‘Begone, or I’ll throw you out!’

  ‘If you throw me out, I shall wait for someone else to emerge. Bongratia, perhaps. And I shall tell him everything that I know.’

  ‘You know nothing!’ the porter squeaked.

  ‘I know enough to interest Germain d’Alanh. Anyone who talks of crooked sticks must naturally interest him.’

  The porter flapped his jaw, but no sound emerged. He looked stricken. Aware that we might be interrupted at any moment, I allowed him no more room to manoeuvre.

  ‘If I had wished to harm you, I would have harmed you already. You must realise that. And be assured that I could destroy you. For I paid my dues long ago. I can show you the scars, if you wish.’

  The porter groaned. He put his plump hands over his face as I continued, remorselessly.

  ‘I was punished, and I repented. Just as you have repented. You have repented, have you not?’

  ‘Yes! Oh yes!’ he croaked.

  ‘I thought as much. No practising Cathar would go undetected for long on the very doorstep of the Archbishop’s palace.’

  ‘Please!’ He uncovered his face to reveal wet and frantic eyes. ‘I have repented! I am a good son of the Church now! It was so many years ago—it happened when I was a boy—’

  ‘Inquisitors have long memories.’

  ‘What do you want?’ His voice rose uncontrollably; he grimaced before continuing, in a hoarse whisper. ‘I have nothing of my own! You must see that!’

  ‘All I want is an answer to my question.’ I spoke calmly, yet with all the force that I could muster. ‘If you give it to me, I will go away and leave you alone.’

  ‘What question? About what?’

  ‘About Loup.’

  ‘Loup?’

  ‘You know him. He lives here.’

  The porter stared at me in complete bewilderment.

  ‘He has grey eyes,’ I went on, ‘and burns on his hands, and hair about this long—’

  ‘Yes, yes! I know Loup! What of him?’

  I steadied myself with a deep breath. For in revealing what I wanted, I was entrusting the porter with a precious fact about myself.

  Had he only known it (and known what to do with it), he might have used this to his advantage.

  ‘Tell me who comes here and asks for Loup,’ I said. ‘Tell me about his visitors.’

  ‘Loup’s visitors?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The porter seemed taken aback. Worse than that: he hesitated. For one awful moment, I expected to hear that Loup never did receive visitors.

  Happily, the moment passed.

  ‘His friend Leonet comes,’ he said, his jowls wobbling. ‘Leonet is a mercenary. A bad lot, that one.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Loup has no family. You realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘The priests use him sometimes. When they need something carried or moved, they come here.’

  ‘Which priests?’ I swallowed my excitement. ‘Describe them.’

  ‘Describe them?’ It was as if he had been asked to kill them; despair mingled with disbelief on his face. ‘All priests look alike to me,’ he protested. ‘They live across the road, in the cloister.’

  ‘Have you any names?’

  ‘Father Sejan Alegre. Father Etiennet Cuissard. Father Etiennet died, though,’ the porter added. ‘That was a great loss to St-Just.’

  ‘When? When did he die?’

  ‘Oh . . . last year. A long time ago. Ascension Day.’

  ‘Any other priests? And monks? Friars?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did Father Sejan last come here?’

  The porter blinked.

  ‘This morning,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘And Leonet the mercenary?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Last week?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I had my answer. ‘Be assured, your secret will be safe with me,’ I advised him, and turned to go. His astonishment was manifest.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you swear that you will tell no one?’

  I paused on the threshold, my hand hovering over the latch. ‘In the name of the Holy Virgin, I swear that nothing I say will ever convict you of heresy,’ was my promise.

  It was safely made, since no heretic can be convicted on the sworn statement of one witness alone. But in any event, my task is to hunt down active Beguins. Bernard Gui expressed no great interest in repentant Cathars.

  If he should ask, I will not lie. Until then, however, I intend to forget about the porter’s past sins. Sejan Alegre’s present transgressions are far more important.

  That priest is ubiquitous. He has been talking to Berengar Blanchi. He knows about my interest in Jacques Bonet. He gave Loup the forged letter, though he did not—I am quite certain—forge it himself.

  He may even have instructed Loup to follow me home on Palm Sunday. And now that I think of it, Palm Sunday fell just two days after Sejan Alegre first came to my shop, with an order for parchment. If the parchment was ordered then, it must have been because the Archbishop’s report was ready to dispatch to me.

  So by that time Sejan would have had grounds for suspicion.

  Without doubt, Sejan Alegre knows someone from the Dominican priory. Because only someone from the Dominican priory could have forged that letter. And only someone from the Dominican priory would be aware of my meeting with Bernard Gui. Sejan Alegre, therefore, must realise that I am my master’s familiar.

  Does this explain the mysterious summons? Perhaps Father Sejan is a secret Beguin. Perhaps he intends to lure me away from the crowded streets of Narbonne so that I may be killed (with the help of a friendly Dominican). But if he does fear me, then why not inform the other Beguins? For he has not, I am sure. Had he done so, Na Berengaria would have been horrified at my suggestion that I bring four hefty blacksmiths to her house on Good Friday.

  Conceivably, there is another explanation. It may be that Germain d’Alanh has uncovered information vital to my quest, and has asked his scribe, Sejan Alegre, to convey this to me in a surreptitious manner. Very possibly, Father Sejan has been commanded to watch over me by the archiepiscopal inquisitor. Or even by Jean de Beaune.

  I have until Monday to decide. Three day
s. By then, I must have a strategy in place.

  XVIII.

  Good Friday

  God help me. What shall I do?

  I had everything so carefully planned. Yet now—now I am at a complete loss. Events have moved too quickly. My heart has betrayed me. I am such a fool!

  This morning I was in control. I had made certain decisions. It had occurred to me that the forged letter might be a test—that Sejan Alegre might be in league with all the other Beguins, and might be seeking to discover the extent of my loyalty. What if he was uneasy, but still unsure? I thought: If I go secretly to the rendezvous on Monday, then I will prove beyond doubt that I am Bernard Gui’s agent.

  So I determined that I would call Father Sejan’s bluff. By a fortunate chance, the letter was ambiguously worded. While it could have been a command issued by a master to his servant, it could with equal justification have been read as an official summons. And it gave me the perfect means of proving my innocence.

  I concluded that the most natural response of any true Beguin who had received such a letter of citation would be fear, dismay and a fervent desire to flee. In the circumstances, he would almost certainly consult his Beguin friends. And what better time to do it than at the Good Friday gathering? My plan was as follows: I would take the letter to Na Berengaria’s house, I would show it to her—with every manifestation of acute panic—and, at the same time, I would use it as an excuse for coming alone. ‘My blacksmith friends,’ I would say, ‘might not be inclined to join us upon learning of this summons.’

  Naturally, I understood the risks inherent in my plan. If Germain d’Alanh was behind this fraudulent communication, he would be left wondering whether I was still faithfully Catholic. If Na Berengaria knew nothing of it, she might herself become frightened, and flee Narbonne. In pursuing my chosen course, I would be releasing the proverbial wild beast into the proverbial market square: there was no way of foretelling the outcome, save that it would probably involve a great deal of upheaval.