‘Why?’ Blaise was not about to back down. ‘What other reason would he have to follow you here secretly?’
I was about to say something about boys and their games when Martin answered for me, defying my wish that he hold his tongue. ‘Master Helié is always very careful!’ the little fool yapped. ‘He is afraid to tell anyone that he comes here, even me. I thought that he might be angry at me for prying.’ When he turned his face towards mine, I saw on it a look of such anxious devotion that I briefly lost the power of speech, and was unable to reprove him. ‘But I believe the same thing, Master,’ the boy continued. ‘I believe that—that the poor Franciscans are the true apostles of Christ, and that the priests who persecute them are heretics. I believe that. I would not betray you.’
All the while, as I listened to my apprentice condemn himself out of his own mouth, I observed his many little characteristics as if I had never noticed them before: the dusting of chalk on his clothes; the thickening, downy growth on his upper lip; the dark circles under his eyes. Martin occasionally lisps his Ts, and has a crooked canine tooth. He will be quite tall and strong one day. I can see it already in the emerging width of his shoulders, and the comparatively large size of his hands and feet.
Just now, however, he is still small and slight. Still vulnerable. A child, merely.
What am I going to do?
‘So you know of the blessed Pierre Olivi?’ Na Berengaria gently inquired of him. ‘Your master has told you about his teachings?’
‘No. I mean yes, but . . .’ Martin’s glance skipped from her face to mine, and back again. ‘I read his books. Forgive me, Master, I—I found them. In their hiding place. I found them and I read them.’
‘And thereby came to believe?’ said the matron.
‘Yes. I believe as my master believes.’ Another pleading look. ‘My master is a good, pious, clever man. He is always right. He knows what the true faith should be.’
This, I think, was the greatest blow of all. Listening to Martin’s paean of praise, I realised that Hugues had not infected his son with heretical opinions—the fault lay entirely with me. I had led my apprentice into error. First I had won his loyalty. Then I had trained him in the art of vigilance. Then I had aroused his curiosity with my secretive conduct.
Had I intended to corrupt him from the very start, I could not have done it more efficiently.
I nearly groaned aloud at the horrible irony of it all. Swallowing my emotion left me with a sore throat; my neck muscles are still aching now. At the time, I was unable to speak, though everyone was awaiting my comment.
At last, after a long pause, Na Berengaria said to Blaise, ‘Let him go. How can he talk if you choke him like that?’ The tailor promptly released Martin (though with some reluctance, I decided), and our hostess led the bewildered child to a bench. Here she proceeded to question him, in the most benevolent way, about his beliefs.
I would have intervened more quickly, had not Berengar Blanchi required an explanation. He grabbed my arm almost as if he expected me to fly away. At close quarters, I was more than ever struck by his odd demeanour. Though he and Blaise are both tall and dark, the resemblance between them is very slight. For Blaise rejoices in a solid, heavy presence, while Berengar—with his dishevelled locks, jittery movements and wild, distracted gaze—gives the impression of a man only partly tethered to the earth. It therefore surprised me very much when he said, abruptly, ‘So you are the parchment-maker?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, pretending not to know him. ‘And you are?’
‘This is Berengar Blanchi. A faithful believer,’ Blaise supplied. Beyond him, I caught a glimpse of my apprentice earnestly responding to Na Berengaria’s motherly interrogation. But I was unable to help.
Not while I was being detained by Berengar Blanchi.
‘The lady spoke of a summons,’ he said, his face so close to mine that I felt his moist breath. ‘What summons? Why did she mention Bernard Gui?’
‘Show him,’ said Blaise. Whereat I held up my forged letter for Berengar’s perusal, slipping from his grasp as his attention strayed to the parchment. He took it, and read it.
Martin, meanwhile, was being subjected to Guillelma’s questions also.
‘The Archbishop is a heretic, and so is the Inquisitor of Marseilles,’ she was saying. ‘You realise that, do you not?’
‘I—I know nothing of inquisitors . . .’
‘All inquisitors are heretics. Because they persecute the Evangelical Church.’
‘Oh.’
‘They are in error who seek to deny the rule of St Francis,’ Na Berengaria explained, in a far more genial, less hectoring tone than that employed by her young friend. ‘A man who takes a vow of absolute poverty cannot be forced to break it. Not even by the Pope.’
‘Who is the Spiritual Antichrist,’ Guillelma interjected. ‘Do not forget that.’
Seeing Martin nod, I thought it advisable to act. So I came up behind him, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
‘Come,’ I said. ‘You must leave now. You were not invited.’
Martin peered at me, opening his mouth to reply. Before he could speak, however, our hostess answered for him.
‘He may not have been invited, Master Helié,’ she said, ‘but he is welcome. Everyone is welcome here, who will bear witness to God’s truth.’
‘No one is too young for salvation,’ Guillelma added, to my intense annoyance. Then Blaise interrupted us.
‘We were talking about this letter,’ he said loudly, from across the room. ‘What does it mean? What advice can we offer? Something has to be done, Mistress, you know that.’
Na Berengaria conceded that she did, as Berengar Blanchi glanced up from my summons.
‘Bernard Gui!’ he exclaimed, stabbing the forged name with one long, bony finger. ‘Why would Bernard Gui want to see this man? Bernard Gui is the Inquisitor of Toulouse! He has no authority here! Does he?’
No one seemed to know. I could have told them that a papal inquisitor has almost limitless jurisdiction—but of course I did not. Guillelma was the one who spoke.
‘Master Helié comes from Carcassonne,’ she pointed out, with far too much self-confidence. (She is only a girl, after all, and one of lowly rank.) ‘Maybe Jean de Beaune has asked Bernard Gui to help him.’
Several reproving looks were thrown in her direction, while Martin wriggled like a puppy. Glancing down, I saw the fear in his eyes. All this coupling together of my name and Bernard Gui’s had unnerved him.
I squeezed his shoulder hard, willing him to be quiet.
‘Perhaps someone has seen me.’ I spoke with carefully judged diffidence. ‘Someone from Toulouse or Carcassonne, passing through Narbonne. In Carcassonne I was known as a supporter of the Spiritual Franciscans. Someone might have given my name to Bernard Gui, under duress.’
‘Then you must leave.’ Na Berengaria’s tone was decisive. ‘You cannot stay. You must go into hiding, before they arrest you.’
Here, at last, we came to the crux of the matter. Though not wholly unexpected, Berengaria’s decision elicited a mixed response. Martin gasped. Guillaume hissed through his teeth. Guillelma nodded enthusiastically, as Perrin gazed about him in a puzzled yet trusting way.
‘Leave Narbonne, you mean?’ I asked cautiously, conscious of Martin’s stiffening muscles beneath my fingers. Na Berengaria inclined her head. Blaise growled, ‘Not through the gates, though.’
‘No,’ our hostess agreed. ‘Not through the gates.’
She went on to explain that the gates might be watched. It had happened on other occasions; she had once been forced to conceal several ‘beloved brethren’ in her vineyard, which abutted the wall of the city. From here, at night, they had climbed the wall and made their escape into the open fields beyond.
‘But where should I go?’ It behoved me to respond with dismay, as any peaceful citizen might; I did so to the best of my abilities. ‘What will happen to my house, my—my business . . . ?’
&nbs
p; Instead of answering, our hostess appealed to Berengar Blanchi.
‘Imbert will help, surely?’ she said. ‘As he did before?’
Berengar’s thoughts must have been elsewhere; he was staring into space, reciting something under his breath. Blaise had to nudge him.
Even then, it took the distracted visionary a moment to recollect where he was.
‘Yes?’ he said, blinking.
‘Imbert will help, will he not?’ Na Berengaria reiterated. ‘I know he did before. He arranged a passage on that barge to La Franqui, remember?’
‘Oh. Yes,’ came the vague reply. At which point I took the kind of risk that I normally avoid, and asked a very precise question.
‘You smuggled someone down the river? Hidden on a barge?’
‘Imbert Rubei did,’ said Berengaria. ‘He has many friends among the bargemen and merchants.’
‘Was this one of the people who climbed the wall?’ I wanted to know, and she shook her head.
‘They went to Béziers,’ she sighed. ‘But it is no longer safe at Béziers, for those under suspicion. It is no longer safe anywhere close to Carcassonne, or Toulouse. That is why Imbert sent Jacques Bonet on the barge.’
I need hardly describe my feelings at that moment. At last! Something of my tension must have conveyed itself to Martin through my hand. For he looked up, startled.
‘And where did your friend Jacques actually go?’ I asked, quickly adding, to explain my interest, ‘Will I be going there too?’
Na Berengaria seemed unable to reply. She hesitated, and appealed once again to Berengar Blanchi. ‘I was never told where he went,’ she admitted. ‘Imbert was in charge of all that—we none of us were involved, in the Cité. Do you know, Master Berengar?’
‘No.’ Berengar suddenly thrust the forged letter at me, with such unexpected vigour that I almost jumped. Politely, I took it from him. ‘Imbert thinks it best that we know nothing,’ he intoned, as if preaching a sermon. ‘If we know nothing, we can reveal nothing.’ He seized my shoulder, and fixed me with his bright, disturbing gaze. ‘A friend of our faith, who works for the Archbishop, discovered that the archiepiscopal inquisitor was about to have Jacques Bonet arrested—and warned us just in time,’ he explained. ‘Jacques was smuggled out. Thanks to the efforts of Imbert Rubei, he was saved from the clutches of our persecutors.’
Now this, of course, was a lie. And even in my troubled state, I thought to myself: who is lying here? Berengar Blanchi? Imbert Rubei? Or Father Sejan Alegre himself? For I realised at once that Berengar’s ‘friend of the faith’ must be Sejan.
Alas, I was unable to give the matter as much attention as it deserved. Not at that time, when so many other problems were occupying me.
‘I shall speak to Imbert,’ Na Berengaria promised, before I could request further information. ‘I shall speak to him as soon as I can, and advise you what you should do, Master Helié.’
‘I tell you what he should not do,’ Blaise broke in—and everyone turned to regard him. ‘He should not come back here.’
There was a murmur of agreement. Guillaume glanced uneasily at the door. Guillelma said energetically, ‘He should not have come today. What if he was followed?’
‘He was followed,’ Blaise reminded her, fixing a stern eye on Martin. Whereupon my apprentice once again became an object of scrutiny.
I placed my free hand on his other shoulder.
‘Martin is a loyal friend,’ I insisted.
I may have allowed a hint of steel to enter my expression. Certainly every gaze fell before mine. Only Blaise dared even challenge me, for all that I am hardly taller than Guillelma, and carry less weight even than Perrin.
‘In that case, we should make the boy swear,’ said the tailor. ‘If he swears an oath on the body of Our Lord Jesus Christ that he wishes us no harm, then I shall be satisfied.’
Inwardly, I was much relieved to hear this suggestion. For Martin, I knew, would be eager to comply. And I gave thanks to God that I was not dealing with Cathars, or Waldensians, or Pseudo-Apostles, since none of these heresies permits the swearing of oaths, no matter how desperate the circumstances.
Among my Beguin companions, in contrast, there was general agreement that an oath would suffice as proof of Martin’s goodwill. So he fervently swore his oath, hand upraised, while I struggled to devise a new plan.
I found it hard to think, however. Perhaps I was still recovering from the shock of Martin’s appearance. God knows, I was eager to depart from that noisy house, and find a peaceful place where I might consider recent developments. In addition, I wanted Martin separated from the Beguins as soon as possible. But escape was not so easily accomplished. I had to stay there while we prayed together— for Martin’s soul as much as for my own safety. Then there was a reading, followed by the usual veneration of Na Berengaria’s charred relics. The sight of my apprentice kissing one of these articles made me feel sick.
Fortunately, no one seemed troubled by my sudden pallor, or the dampness of my brow. Perhaps such symptoms were unsurprising in a man confronted with the imminent threat of imprisonment.
‘Have no fear, Master Helié,’ Na Berengaria kindly remarked. ‘I shall speak to Imbert Rubei, and decide upon a course of action. You will not be arrested. We none of us want that.’
‘Our own safety depends upon your freedom,’ Blaise observed. He is, without doubt, the most pragmatic of the matron’s circle, and proved this with his next comment. ‘You should not come here again. In case your house is being watched.’
‘Then how are we to communicate?’ was my very natural question. It preceded a long silence, as those around me searched for an answer. When Na Berengaria advised, in a tentative voice, that I could perhaps seek refuge in Imbert’s house—where we could easily converse without fear of arousing anyone’s curiosity—Berengar Blanchi’s perturbation was immediate and unexpected.
‘No!’ he cried. ‘Not there!’
We all gaped. Even Blaise looked surprised. Though Berengar is of an excitable temperament, this response seemed excessive even for him.
Only Na Berengaria showed any signs of understanding. She coloured, and made haste to withdraw her proposal.
‘No, of course,’ she amended. ‘Of course not there.’
‘Why not?’ I asked. Our hostess frowned. Berengar Blanchi fixed her with a fierce, warning look. I wonder even now what he was warning her against. What does Imbert’s house conceal, that it must be protected from every incursion?
‘If he goes to the Bourg, he must pass through the gates,’ the irrepressible Guillelma suddenly remarked. ‘He might be arrested if he does.’
‘Yes.’ Na Berengaria all but pounced on this timely excuse. ‘Yes, Master Helié must not go near the gates. The Bourg is closed to him.’
‘Then how should we converse?’ Guillaume demanded, and there ensued a long, somewhat fractious discussion concerning the method by which I might receive directives in the future. Blaise supported the notion of a written message, hidden in a basket of fruit and delivered to my door by a ‘neighbourhood child’ of spotless reputation. Na Berengaria objected that this plan did not allow for the exchange of news. Berengar Blanchi was utterly opposed to the setting down of even the smallest detail in writing. (I must say, I concurred with his opinion.) Guillaume wondered aloud if it might be possible to meet in a church outside the parish, where we would be unknown, but he was instantly overruled. His friends pointed out that every church in Narbonne was currently stuffed to the roof with Easter worshippers. ‘You want a priest to hear them?’ Guillelma scoffed, before suggesting the Donas vineyard. Blaise, however, refused to countenance this.
‘If Helié is to stay there and hide until his escape, then well and good,’ the tailor said. ‘But if there is too much coming and going, someone will suspect. Na Berengaria must not be implicated.’
And the argument continued. I myself contributed nothing at first. Martin was tugging at my sleeve, his expression one of such urgent inquir
y that I could not ignore it; only after I had hushed him with a gesture did I return my attention to the debate.
It was becoming quite heated. After concluding that it would never resolve itself if allowed to proceed, I decided to put an end to the matter.
‘Leave it to me,’ I said.
Silence fell. Every eye sought my face.
‘The meeting is my problem. The escape is yours,’ I said. ‘Be satisfied that I shall seek you out tomorrow, surreptitiously. No risks will be taken with your safety or mine.’
‘But—’
‘Please allow me this, Na Berengaria.’ All at once I felt utterly drained—tired to the bone—and unable to endure another moment within those four walls. ‘You may trust my discretion. This is not the first time I have fled an inquisitor. I do have some notion of what it involves.’
If I had unsheathed a sword, I could not have been more persuasive. Perhaps the weariness in my voice had some effect. Whatever the cause, Na Berengaria yielded. They all did. Even Blaise had nothing more to say on the subject. I saw Perrin close his eyes in prayer, and Guillaume nod slowly.
‘Oh, Master Helié,’ said Berengaria, with real compassion, ‘do not let your courage fail. You will find a resting place at last. When the seventh era of the Church arrives, the Holy Spirit will be poured out in abundance on Christ’s true disciples, and God will hide His elect from all harm, and after the death of the Antichrist there will be no more malice or sin, and everything will be for use in common, and love will govern the whole of mankind for a hundred years. When that happens, your suffering will be rewarded, and your long exile will be at an end.’
‘God grant us His succour,’ I replied. In other circumstances, I would have been deeply touched by this impulse to comfort me. But knowing what I knew, it only made me feel worse. I wondered: Why has God sacrificed this woman? Is her pride so offensive that it eclipses even her generous heart?
I took my leave hurriedly, incapable of further pretence. On our way back home Martin wisely refrained from all speech; he was perhaps watching my face, and knew enough to anticipate my wishes. Only when we reached my front door did he finally remark, in a very small voice, ‘I am so sorry, Master.’
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