Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  And so, for seven long years, delegations, coin, jewels and gifts have been sent in endless caravans to the Cardinals, from Metz, from Hagenburg, from Lüttich and the castles of the Habsburgs and Zähringen, all to help their Graces in their understanding of the legal niceties of the case. I have personally authorised hundreds of marks to migrate in the direction of their avaricious purses; a haemorrhage of wealth that I shall most bitterly regret if they do not find in Hagenburg’s favour.

  The raid on the heretical Abbey of Mohrmünster has to be seen in the context of this ongoing legal bickering. It may be seen as an aggressive act against the Bishop of Metz, but this is not how it will be viewed in Rome, if we have gambled well. That Hagenburg should have discovered heresy and fornication on Metz land before Metz himself, and delivered the heretics over to the Dominicans (the Pope’s current favourites) for trial, bespeaks well our Christian vigilance. And so we have, to use jousting terminology, delivered a nice, sharp atteint to the Metzian cause, and dented the shield of Lorraine.

  One can only be certain that the Bishop of Metz will somehow try and turn about and take a tilt at the arms of Hagenburg. Our colours are winning now, but we must be wary of a revenge attack. And if not in the wide marches of Alsace and Lorraine, then in the dusty shelves of ledgers and the murky workings of Rome.

  Yet, Metz may not be the most fearful opponent in the tournament. There is, as is traditional in the silly romances beloved of literate youth, an Unknown Knight, carapaced in black, who enters his anonymous pledge at the closing of the lists.

  That Pope Gregory hates the Emperor Friedrich is common knowledge. Of necessity, Our Holy Father has rescinded the ginger-haired Emperor’s excommunication; after all, he has triumphantly returned Jerusalem to Christian hands. This public, forced rescission must have done nothing but increased the virulence of Our Holy Father’s hate.

  And it seems it is true that King Heinrich is plotting the overthrow of his own father, the Emperor. Would Heinrich dare such a thing, without the nod and say-so of the Pope? Certainly not.

  And if the likes of the Count of Schonach are lining up behind King Heinrich, what exactly has persuaded them to back the son, and abandon the father?

  Maybe, over the years, I have become overly obsessed with the Dagsburg case, but I do tend to connect almost everything that occurs within our lands with the files and ledgers gathering dust in Rome. The tentative manoeuvrings of the Count of Schonach fall into this category. He is related, via his wife, to the Habsburgs of the Aargau; a clan that is energetically expanding its territories through strategic marriages to other local noble families, and who have a strong claim in the Dagsburg inheritance case.

  Could it just be possible that one Papal reward for the usurpation of Friedrich is a favourable outcome for the Habsburgs in the Dagsburg case?

  Is Albert of Habsburg the Unnamed Knight at the bottom of the lists, the mysterious stranger who will snatch from us the laurels of victory?

  But my metaphor is all awry. After all, I am a mathematician, and no Master of Rhetoric. For my jousting metaphor to work the field would have to be open, the Players known, and the Prize named, and clearly in reach.

  But in this game, the players are whisperers slinking through the maze of the courts of Rome. They are clerks and lawyers, they are bankers, cardinals, princes and kings. And I, in my small way, sending my promissory notes from Hagenburg to the mouth of the Tiber, my gold, wine and wool, am a player in this shadowy but fatal tournament.

  Mohrmünster was a Hagenburg victory. But to win the prize, we still have a long way to go.

  † † †

  The poison of Heresy, we know not whence, has spread itself through the German Lands and has bred and multiplied so that now there is hardly a town or village that can be found which is free thereof. Therefore we ask our Bishops, in the name of Jesus Christ, to work zealously so that this disgusting weed be annihilated and removed from the field of the Lord, so that it be entirely rooted out, and shall never arise again.

  In the Bishop’s Palace, mere hours after the arrival of the Pope’s letter, His Grace orders me to convene an emergency meeting of the Chapter elders. Such is his alarm, he also invites the Town Mayor to attend. Himself, he thunders through the Vogesentor with the bare minimum of retainers and armoured escort, galloping in from his Haldenheim stronghold.

  I am at the Palace gate, awaiting him. I help beat the dust from his cloak. I have warned the domestics, and there is warm food and wine awaiting His Grace as he storms inside with his hounds.

  “We must act immediately,” he fumes as he tears a piece of bread in two, maybe wishing it was someone’s neck. “Lamps! Candles! We need light here! At the reading table!”

  Servants rush to fulfil his order as the Bishop limps to his favourite chair, and sinks back into it, stiffly. I note his apparent ill health, but do not comment on it. From his riding satchel, he pulls out the Papal encyclical. “Roll it out on the reading table for all to see.”

  It is a long, long letter, and needs four paperweights to secure it. As I read by lamplight, outside the Angelus bell sounds, and the overcast, lukewarm spring day fades into night. The sounds of the street recede as the citizens of Hagenburg head for home, firmly closing window and door against a gathering, humid, rain-bearing wind.

  The newly-admitted novice is met by a Toad, sometimes in its natural size, sometimes the size of a Duck or Goose, usually the size of an Oven. The novice kisses the Toad, letting its tongue lick around in the inside spittle of his mouth.

  If the novice proceeds in the sect, then he is blessed enough to meet the Pale Man with coal-black eyes and desiccated and withered flesh, who kisses the young initiate, chilling him to the bone. Once kissed by the Pale Man, he forgets everything he has learned about the Catholic Faith.

  Then the sect sit down to eat in their terrible Meeting Place. At the end of their cursed feast, a Black Cat appears, the size of a Dog, with its tail raised into the air. The Cat makes its rounds of the congregation, who take turns to kiss its foul anus. Then they sing songs of praise to the Black Cat, and chant a terrible catechism in adulation of their ultimate master, Lucifer.

  Then the candles are snuffed out, and in the darkness, they all fall upon each other in lust. No care is given as to the sex or the identity of the partners, man ravishes man, sister copulates with brother, and all manner of lewd and disgusting acts are committed.

  The Holy Father follows his detailed description of the heretics’ rites with a series of threats. Should any of the Bishops fail in their duties, they will be replaced. Any Prince who fails to root out heresy may lawfully be deposed by his subjects. All worldly authorities, mayors, Town Councils or magistrates, are to fall under the same baleful ban. Destroy heresy in your dominions, or yourself be destroyed.

  Heavy rain is now battering the streets outside. I look up from the letter to the dining table where His Grace is dolefully eating his soup. The room is now full of light, and I can see more clearly the pallor of his skin, his swollen neck, reddish eyes.

  “Your Grace looks unwell,” I venture.

  He waves his hand dismissively, closing the subject. “The others will be here shortly. Use the time we have to think.”

  His Grace is, as usual, right. I take my habitual seat by the empty fireplace, and close my eyes. The Pope does not suddenly come up with ideas like this overnight. His Holiness does not wake of a morning and toss fulminating fires at Germany on a whim. A letter like this has been some days in the writing, and many weeks in the preparation. Someone has been whispering in the ears of the Holy Father, lisping tales of heresy, of sin rife as hayseed in the German Lands, of the Black Cat’s anus, of the Oven-Sized Toad, the Pale Man cold as Ice.

  A knocking at the door. My Chapter colleagues have arrived, dragged at my orders from their Vespers prayers. The Bishop’s hounds, maybe disturbed by the storm, start to bay and howl.


  † † †

  Candles glint in every corner of the room. I, Varenus the Vitztum, His Grace, the Dean, Mayor Müllenheim, the Chapter Chancellor, two Archdeacons, have now all read the letter, and we now sit in silence and brood in candlelight.

  Bishop Berthold folds his hands, and turns to his old friend Varenus, his adviser in worldly affairs, and, in my view, an ineffectual fool. “Varenus, what is the political background to this extraordinary encyclical? Illuminate us. What was the last political despatch we received from Rome?”

  Varenus clears his throat. “The Holy Father told us, in confidence and orally via his envoy and not in writing, that he was looking favourably on Heinrich to depose his father Friedrich.”

  A slight exhalation of breath in the room, the sound of surprise, the loudest coming from the Mayor, who is not usually party to the internal politics of the Church.

  “Meaning?” asks the Bishop.

  I clear my throat, loudly, and offer a theory before Varenus can offer his: “If King Heinrich is seen vigorously to deracinate and destroy heresy in our lands, if he is seen as a crusader like once de Montfort in the Land of Oc, then his position is immediately more powerful. He has polished his temporal crown with the radiance of the Faithful Son of the Church. And he can point at his father Friedrich and blame him for allowing heresy to blossom in their ancestral lands whilst he, the Emperor, is more concerned with his temporal problems with the Lombard cities.”

  The Bishop nods. I am gratified to see it. Varenus visibly winces.

  His Grace folds his hands. “Eugenius’ analysis is probably sound, but it does not change our course of action. We must act, and act immediately. We must do His Holiness’ bidding. The positive impression we gave at Mohrmünster must be continued. We must be vigorous against the heretics, and be seen to be so.”

  He turns to Stettmeister Müllenheim. “Mayor? Are there heretics here in Hagenburg?”

  Müllenheim lowers his eyes. “I have heard it said, Your Grace.”

  “You have heard it said?”

  “That there are those who do not attend mass, do not eat meat, that there are those with strange ideas.”

  “Do we know who they are?”

  “There are names.”

  “And in the villages?”

  I, alas, from my annual tours of the Bishop’s lands, am the village expert in this company. All turn in my direction. “Yes, Your Grace, I have seen traces of heresy in some villages.”

  But it is not the Black Cat’s anus and the Pale Man that I have seen and heard of in the damp, sad villages of the forests. I do not believe that the peasants meet, worship Satan, and then blow out the candles and fall upon each other in lust. I do not believe that they worship a Toad that comes and kisses them upon the mouth. It is something else. They believe in the things they have always believed in: in wood spirits and fairies, in water sprites and in elves. And there are things they do not believe in. They do not believe in their corrupt and adulterous village priest when he changes the wine into the Blood of Christ. They do not believe that the payment of taxes to the Bishop is for the good of their immortal soul. And some do not believe that ten shillings will buy them one hundred fewer years in Purgatory.

  This is the heresy I have seen in the villages. The superstitious and the ignorant, led by poor, verminous priests installed on the cheap by the local lords. The villagers fart at communion and place their trust in kobolds and wood spirits, not in the Mother Church. In truth, it should be our task to save their immortal souls, to cleanse their sins and assuage their suffering. But the only Canon that comes from the Bishop’s Church to visit them is I the Treasurer, come to take away their taxes and the hard-won tithes of sheep, grain and wax. This is the sad truth of the situation.

  The Dean now stands, dramatically, to command attention. God save us, I was waiting for that old windbag to speak. “I am shocked, Mayor, Treasurer,” he says, “that you both state, in cold blood, the existence of heretics in our diocese! As if it were a natural state of affairs. As if it were to be expected.”

  “If you ever left the Chapter House and cloister, you might see many things that surprise you, Dean.”

  “Yes, Treasurer? Like what?”

  “Well there are these creatures called women, for example.”

  The Dean shudders visibly. Did he emerge like this from his mother’s womb? Or did we, the Church, make him like this? Now he blinks at me like a lizard who finds himself in sudden daylight when his rock is rolled away.

  “Is it the Bulgarian Heresy? Cathars?”

  “I have heard rumours of Cathars amongst the weavers,” says the Mayor.

  “God forgive us!” The Dean groans, crosses himself, closes his eyes in horror.

  The Mayor, a garrulous but capable man, now having been given the word, continues: “In his letter, the Holy Father is clear. It is the Church’s responsibility to locate and identify heretics through ecclesiastical hearings. Those who are found guilty will be handed over to us, the secular authorities, for punishment. The accepted punishment is death at the stake. I am ready to set aside an area within our city where the guilty will be immolated without risk to other persons or property. I can also offer certain buildings in our possession as holding cells for the accused and the guilty. All of this will cost money of course. Did Our Holy Father maybe send a promissory note attached to his letter?”

  “He did not,” says the Bishop, with a grim smile. He is happier now that we are discussing concrete practicalities. The nebulous shadows of politics frustrate him, the refinements of theology confuse him. He is a true Warrior of the Church, believing unquestioningly in her Right and in her destiny to conquer.

  “It means we must pay for it ourselves,” says the Mayor, and turns pointedly in my direction.

  Financial matters. My turn to speak: “We should deduct the costs of the imprisonment and immolation from the distrained goods of those found guilty.”

  “Ah!” Mayor Müllenheim feigns surprise. “The accused will pay for their own execution?”

  “Why should Good Christians pay for the execution of heretics?”

  “And if they are well-to-do heretics, and after costs of prison bread-and-water and firewood for the pyre are deducted, there is still a lot left, what should happen to the remainder of their property?”

  “It falls to the Church.”

  “You sit there and say that without even the tiniest blemish of shame on your face?”

  “I do.”

  “The Town wants half. Or I will withdraw my previous offer of help.”

  “If you fail to help,” says the Bishop, who, it seems has enjoyed this exchange, “then, under the Pope’s edict, I may replace you with someone who will.”

  “I am no heretic, Your Grace, I took communion from your very hands last Easter.”

  “I remember the occasion. The Town will take half and we will deduct prison and execution costs from that half. From our half we will deduct the costs of the Inquisitors. Is it fair?”

  “It is fair.”

  My Lord has spoken and I can say nothing. I would have bargained harder, of course. God forgive me, but there could be good revenue in this heresy hunt.

  † † †

  So, this was the beginning. Elders and potentates in candlelight, making arrangements, discussing finances and principles.

  The next morning we appointed Inquisitors, hired militia, prepared prisons, found suppliers of firewood, chains, shackles, and bargained prices with them. We collected the names whispered from neighbour to neighbour, the names of the Suspects.

  The day after, we made the first arrests.

  A PROFITABLE BUSINESS

  (ANNO 1232. MANFRED GERBER III)

  They disembark at Honau, seventeen mounted men. Manfred’s new horse is a flea-ridden nag hired from the ostlers at the Fish Market; he’s brushed her up as
best he could, covered her in a fine blanket, but she still looks ready for the knacker’s blade. His sorrel gelding is long gone, sold for the down-payment on Gregor’s boat, and the nag is all he could afford.

  Treasure-Fucker has got together the same company that he used for Mohrmünster Abbey. At Honau, the Inn-Keeper brings them all a cup of cool watered wine and they drink in the saddle whilst von Zabern hammer-haggles the price of two hired carts. Fuck, is the Pope going to go hungry if a Honau carter makes an extra ha’penny on a half-day hire?

  They ride inland and downriver, into the reedbeds. They’re heading for a weavers’ village where it’s said every man, woman and child is a heretic.

  The wind flays the reeds and grasses, in the sky, clouds race, unravel, reform. As they come closer, they let the carts trundle and fall behind. They canter down the raised, soft earth road. Up ahead, the weavers’ hamlet. Getting closer, they slow down again, quietening the horses’ hooves. Von Zabern stands in his stirrups, looks around—he wants them to fan out and surround the village, but the ground is riddled with streams and marshes. Little raised pathways run through the swamps, wide enough for one man to run along, but never a horse. They look like escape routes, spreading through the marsh.

  The heretics are ready for them. The village bell rings a warning, and before they know it, some younger men and girls are already scattering like rabbits along the raised marsh-pathways, heading for boats and coracles hidden in the rushes. Bertle, on his young stallion, leaps into the reed beds and gives chase, followed by two of the noblemen. Manfred’s nag is no use for marsh riding, so he stays with the main corps as they charge into the village proper.

  The hairs raise up on the back of his neck. About thirty of the villagers have chosen not to run . . . men, women, old folk, children. They’re just waiting, unarmed. Most of them are dressed in white, some in pale blue. A bonfire burns in the village clearing, and they stand around it, holding hands and praying.