The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  “Kill that chicken,” commanded the Inquisitors, knowing full well that killing is against the Cathar principles. They could as easily have simply asked, “Are you perfected, heretic?” and the Good Christian wouldn’t have been able to lie.

  But my Inner Judge was adamant and condemned me in louder tones and howls of rage, passing on to other sins. Often I forgot my prayers (which I could have been doing right then, after all, while spinning, instead of cowering with shame). I had sins enough on my soul that I wept when I remembered, for hadn’t I lost the treasure of Montségur—who knows where?—and no one around to give me the consolamentum now, and what would happen at my death? I could wander endlessly the great black space, looking for my friends, who would by then be gone, absorbed into the Light. And if these weren’t sins enough, what about the lechery that took me first to Rogert, then to William (not counting others on the way), or my wicked betrayal of Baiona, my closest friend? Was all that God’s doing? No, only mine—only that of sinful, prideful, unperfected me.

  I spent the whole day at the fountain, spinning and thinking. As a chill settled on me, I realized it was getting late and that I could feel hunger like a live animal gnawing and chewing inside my belly. It hurt. I crept to my hole beside the stable, lay down, and drew my cloak over me, grateful to have my torn, worn wrap and the warm animal snufflings nearby. I shivered watching the sun go down and the darkness come. For I was afraid again.

  The next day my Knowing told me to stay away from the lower town where the old woman had died. It sent my feet far off into another part of town and placed me at a foreign square, telling me to wait. All morning I waited, spinning wool. The women came to the fountain with their earthen jugs on their heads, usually in companionable twos and threes, chatting amiably, but occasionally singly. Casting suspicious glances at the stranger-woman spinning there, and hurriedly drew their water and departed, for a woman without a history is not to be trusted. The littler boys floated leaves on the water, staging boat races in the horse trough, and bigger boys, roughhousing, tried to dunk each other. Every now and again a teamster came by with his horses to drink, man and animals alike. Once it was a man coming from the fields with one strong, white ox. (The beasts drink from the lower pool, not from the basin we humans use.)

  In the afternoon a funeral procession passed, led by a devout Dominican, and sure enough the body the men carried on an open litter was the old woman’s.

  I followed the procession for a spell. Raggedy it was—two brutes carrying the litter, and the girlfriend of one of them, with her hair wild and loose as a prostitute’s, chatting him up and jiggling his arm, while the friar walked disdainfully ahead, with his mouth turned down in the grimace of a grouper, obviously not liking his spiritual duties one whit. The Dominicans are proud to preach and convert, not take bodies to the paupers’ field. I followed all the way to the camposanto, and sure enough the friar buried her with full Catholic rites, though where he was when she was alive I don’t know.

  I went home to my lean-to by the stable feeling tired and fragile and weeping a little. I was full of memories, for that old woman makes the first time I’ve given the consolamentum.

  And I’m not pure.

  EIGHT

  During Ascension Week she heard about the joust. It was scheduled for a Saturday, and though it was only a mock event, to teach the squires, it would be conducted with full pageantry, with the flags flying and a ceremonial entry parade, because the war was over now. With the French in retreat, it was a time of rejoicing. The women and important visitors would watch from raised stands, and the jousters might have a token from their ladies if they wished. Some were so young, at fourteen or fifteen, that their token might come from an auntie or their mother even, but the older ones took pleasure in proclaiming their loves openly, as did the experienced knights.

  Jeanne wanted Rogert to wear her scarf. It was a soft blue, and gossamer-thin—a whisper of silk so sheer that you could see through it. She was proud of Rogert. She thought he’d unseat every opponent easily. With romance burning in her heart, she planned how she would bring him her token on the night before the joust. “If you wish, sir knight,” she would say, or something equally fine, and he would drop to one knee and accept it with the courteous, sweet words expected of a lady’s swain.

  Man proposes, God disposes. And what a maid wants, a man may never give.

  At dinner that night Rogert served a different table. Jeanne heard his laughter in another room, and once she saw him dancing with Baiona. Her heart went hot with jealousy. But when the dance ended, he looked her way and gave a secret, quick wave and smile. It was then that she hurried into the garden to wait for him, certain of their tryst, and she walked in the quivering shadows of the starlit boxwood maze until the stars tilted and her tears told her that he wouldn’t come.

  She made excuses for him. She told herself that the young men, like true knights, had prayers and ablutions to make before the joust, preparations that women could not take part in. But she felt hurt nonetheless, and angry too. And jealous. Thinking of Baiona, she wound the scarf around her fist until the fragile fabric tore, and then she was angry at herself. She pinched the tiny tear between her fingers, trying to heal it. She would sew it up later, or ask Baiona with her fine hand to help, and then remembering her friend, and the teachings of a tender and forgiving soul, she forced herself to go inside and smile at Baiona, her other heart, who had done nothing wrong, but only danced one set with him. She told herself that. Indeed, Baiona may have danced a set with Rogert only to ask about his feelings for Jeanne.

  Nonetheless, that night she felt confused as she climbed up into the curtained four-poster bed they shared.

  “What a sigh,” said Baiona. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She wished she knew what to say. She wished she were a man, allowed to ride in combat and joust against the other knights. She wished she were the woman for whom Rogert would perform a thousand deeds. She felt jealous of her best friend, and yet she wanted Baiona’s arms around her, the way they used to sleep. She didn’t know what she wanted; she wanted reassurance from Rogert.

  That night she prayed with all her heart that he be safe, that their relationship be blessed by God.

  The next morning she shot out of bed, hopeful once again, as happens when morning dawns, and excited at the festival day. Today she would wear her new embroidered silver dress.

  “Come on, Baiona! Up!”

  By the time the two girls were clattering downstairs (Jeanne hopping as she pulled on one shoe), the palace was abuzz. Already the experienced, older men were stomping with much shouting through the castle, helping the lads and cursing broken armor; and the grooms were readying the horses and the grounds. Already, this early in the morning, the peasants had come in from the fields and the tradespeople were setting up stalls to sell ribbons and sweet tarts, braces of rabbits and meat pies, and all the foods and toys a festival-goer likes to see. A puppet show in one corner, games of bowling and clowns in another. Bright colors and tempting smells. Beggars everywhere. Shouts from the spectators as the early foot and horse races got underway.

  Several young men hunkered down on their heels on the grass, listening to last-minute counsel from the knights, or they stood together in small clumps, swinging their swords or else adjusting a buckle or leather strap or weighing various lances in their hands. Jeanne caught sight of Rogert over near the stables, leading out a horse. His back was to her, and she stood a moment willing him to turn around and send her a complicitous look. But his entire attention was on his horse and the coming fight.

  “Come on,” whispered Baiona, pulling Jeanne away. She slipped her arm through Jeanne’s as they climbed into the crowded stands. “You look so beautiful,” she said softly, and Jeanne felt her heart soaring, a dove wheeling in the empty air. Jeanne wore a silver dress with a bodice embroidered in red and gold. Her wild black hair was held in a silver net. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took her seat. She knew t
hat she was beautiful today; she felt it.

  “You too,” she answered generously, squeezing her best friend’s hand. She could not imagine why she had been angry with Baiona the night before. “You look good in blue,” she whispered. Baiona’s dress was a quiet blue, the sleeves slashed with gussets of a deeper tone. She looked more demure than Jeanne—as always, quieter and more reflective. But she too craned her neck to see the action below, smiling and waving to friends.

  For Jeanne the scene was insupportably magnificent: the noise of voices raised in exhilaration, the wind-whipped flags, the clatter of armor, and the stamping of the horses’ hooves.

  Then a trumpet sounded.

  “Oh, look!” she cried, as the forerunners of the parade took the field. Soon all the participants would ride out and tip their lances to the duke and duchess. Some would also acknowledge their mentors or their ladies in the stands. Jeanne hoped that Rogert might dip his lance to her and bow, and then she’d have the chance publicly to offer him the scarf that she wore loosely round her neck.

  As if reading her mind, Baiona turned to her. “I wonder if anyone will choose you as his lady,” she said, smiling.

  “Oh, I hope so,” Jeanne answered fervently. She hid her face in gratitude on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m so scared.”

  Baiona hugged Jeanne to her fiercely. “I love you, Jeanne. Don’t you ever forget it.”

  But Jeanne did not respond. She sat up straight, for now the young warriors were lining up for last instructions, and onto the field rode first the battle-scarred and experienced, older war-knights, who would not fight this afternoon but would watch and criticize their squires and the young men under their tutelage. They were splendid in their gleaming armor on their huge, caparisoned warhorses. The following week a real joust would take place, offering both single combat between different pairs of knights and a mêlée in which a hundred knights and horses might fight on the field at once. At that time they would ride for rich prizes of armor and horses and money from the men defeated and ransomed on the field. That joust would outdo this minor one a thousand times in color and gambling and the peril of real hurt: fifty, sixty knights could be wounded, even killed, in the mêlée, and scores of lances would be shattered and horses hurt.

  Neither the Friends of God nor the Catholic Church approved of jousts, and both had tried to ban these mock wars. In vain. Too much money lay at stake. Even the Good Christians watched. Jeanne noted two perfecti on the sidelines now, their modest black garb standing out among the brilliantly colored crowd. They were waiting to carry off the wounded, bind up injuries, set bones, and lay their healing hands on hurt or dying men. The Church of Love did not like any wars. Jeanne, however, loved a tournament, and for her, no greater battle the following week could equal this little practice joust.

  Behind the real knights in their glistening armor, who now circled the field to loud, enthusiastic applause, rode the young men in training—those who would fight this afternoon. They wore leather and chain-mail, in most cases handed down from an older brother or father or borrowed from their sponsoring knight. They carried wooden shields carved from a single block and covered with several layers of hard black leather. Some shields were decorated too: there came one handpainted with the figure of a dragon, and behind him a shield with two lions, and there to the side was a rearing stallion—all insignias of power, courage, speed. But some shields were empty of design, and these looked the more menacing in their black leather starkness. The competitors also carried true wood lances and sharp swords.

  These weapons were heavy; it took strength to handle lance and shield and sword. Slowly the aspiring knights circled the field. Each stopped at the dais and bowed to the duke and to his wife, their lady. Three of the youths wore scarves on their arms or wrapped around their necks. Rogert wore none. He rode on the inside pair of two, and as he passed Baiona and Jeanne sitting side by side, he dipped his lance. Jeanne clapped her hands in open delight.

  “I wish I’d had a chance to give him my scarf,” she exclaimed.

  But Baiona looked away.

  “Whom do you like?” Jeanne asked. Her friend’s lack of interest in Rogert did not displease her—Baiona, who could have any man she liked.

  “I’ll bet on…Gilbert de Mirepoix,” Baiona answered with a wicked laugh. “He’ll fight your Rogert, most likely. We’ll see who wins.” The two girls made a little bet on the side with their pin-money, while the workmen adjusted the wooden barrier that ran down the center of the field, marking the runway for the horses.

  Then, with another trumpet flourish, the joust began. The young men took their numbers, and two by two they thundered down the field toward one another on their armored chargers, their long lances extended. It was magnificent to see: the horsemanship alone brought the crowd to its feet in a roar, for each lance-point bobbed and wavered with the horse’s gallop, and yet the men aimed so flawlessly that they could catch their opponent’s breastplate, or hit him square on the shield, and with a single twist of the lance unhorse him. If the point of the lance were to find the place at the throat where the helmet joins and overlaps the breastplate, it could kill the jouster right there. Once one combatant was unhorsed, there might also be hand-to-hand sword combat, depending on the joust. However, in this practice meet, with knight-aspirants only, there would be little hand-to-hand work with swords.

  One pair after another met on the field, clashed, and ended up with someone unseated; and each winner took on another combatant later in the day, until finally only two men were left—the best of that day’s meet. One was Rogert, and the other was Baiona’s Gilbert de Mirepoix.

  It was late afternoon by now, and the sun lay low, tangling in the branches of the leafy trees and casting a golden glow over everything. Rogert changed horses for the final combat. He chose a large bay with one white stocking. The horse’s huge breast and head were covered with armor. Jeanne bounced in her seat, no longer a woman but only a girl, until Giulietta, two seats away in the row of women, teased her openly. But Baiona sat still and proud, lovely in her blue dress, her honey-colored hair gleaming.

  “I can’t believe your calm,” said Jeanne.

  “Yes, but I don’t care who wins,” she pointed out.

  The horses paced to the opposite ends of the field, standing sideways to each other across the distance. The two combatants held their lances upright, the stubs resting on their right stirrups. The herald blew his trumpet once, and the horses were nudged into position, facing each other down the field. Both mounts were experienced chargers; they knew what they should do. The herald blew a second time, the signal for readiness, and Rogert and Gilbert lowered their lances, bracing the hilt in the armor-notch. The horses arched their necks and pawed the earth, eager for action. Then came the third blast of the horn, and the two chargers bolted from their positions with a thunder of hooves and a creaking of leather, running toward each other so fast that Jeanne came to her feet, hands covering her mouth. There was a crash of splintering wood on shields, and then the horses had passed each other—and both jousters were still on their mounts.

  Again they ranged themselves in place, taking new lances, while the grooms checked the horses’ chests and legs for wounds and patted their necks. Again the crowd heard the three blasts of the horn. Again the horses pounded toward each other. This time Rogert unseated Gilbert smoothly, though he lost a stirrup and pitched forward. He caught the pommel of the saddle with one hand, lost his rein, and only barely managed to stay on the giant warhorse. One of the grooms at the far end of the field quickly caught the bridle, and Rogert righted himself, pulled off his helmet, and lifted his lance in victory. Gilbert limped off the field on his own feet—not badly hurt.

  Jeanne was squirming in her seat. She could hardly contain herself. “He is so splendid,” she said. “He’s magnificent!”

  Baiona shrugged.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Jeanne demanded, turning on her angrily. “Why are you so ungenerous? It was perf
ect.”

  “He did very well,” she answered. “If you like.”

  “If I like!”

  But there was no time to argue. Rogert kicked his horse over to the duke’s stand, where his lady placed the wreath gracefully upon the tip of his lance. He had won a purse as well, but that would come later.

  Then, for the second time that day—this time to wild applause—Rogert walked his horse around the perimeter of the field. He was alone this time before all eyes, and on the tip of his lance he carried the wreath he had won. His horse jiggled and nervously switched his black tail up and down against his burnished bronze rump.

  Jeanne ducked her head and blushed, for offering the wreath to one’s sweetheart was the custom. She waited, sitting on her hands.

  Rogert nudged his horse to the center, then held him in place. The big bay pawed the earth and tossed his head, tail switching, nervous in the applause. Then Rogert reined the large animal over to the general stands, toward Jeanne.

  Giulietta leaned forward to smile at her. “Give him your scarf,” she whispered—and suddenly Jeanne realized that, yes, if she hurried she could still remove her scarf and place it on his lance, a fair exchange for the wreath. She hastily unwound it from her neck as she rose.

  Except—how could this be?—he tilted the lance before Baiona, and so deftly that no one could mistake his intention. Jeanne was stunned.

  She fell back on the bench, the blood rising in her face. Baiona, sitting right beside her, froze. She too went red, and she refused to hold out her hand. Still he stood before her, skillfully controlling his fretting horse, the wreath extended on the tip of his lance.

  “Take it,” called out a chorus of girls. “Take it, Baiona.”

  Baiona glanced at Jeanne, her face wretched. Then she reached out and lifted off the wreath, while all the ladies applauded the sweet act. She held it limply in one hand. Rogert gave her a dashing smile and backed his horse away.