The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  “Of course. Where else would you stay?”

  “I’ll see you later then!” They clapped each other on the back, two boyhood friends, openly glad to see one another.

  “Can you sup with me?” invited Bernard.

  “Gladly. Until later, then.”

  At the end of the afternoon, having sold or traded most of his goods, including the two cocks, Jerome hitched the pony to his almost-empty cart and screeched over the cobblestones to Bernard’s establishment—the house of a wealthy merchant. He led the horse under the arch into the courtyard and called for a servant, who ran out to welcome him, take the horse’s bridle, and unlock the wooden stablegate. Jerome was as familiar with the household as the servants were with him. By the time he had stabled his horse and pulled the cart to one side out of the way, Bernard had closed up his shop at the front of the house and walked to meet him at the back.

  “Bravo, Jerome. We never know when you’ll decide to blow into town. Come in, come in. Ready for a drink and supper now?”

  It was not until supper was over and they sat at the table with cups of wine that Jerome brought up the disturbing words he’d had with the priest. Bernard stared into the fire, nodding solemnly. “Keep your voice down. It’s true; it’s true.”

  “But Alzeu. What had he ever done?” asked Jerome.

  “He knew some Good Men.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He had the misfortune,” whispered Bernard, rubbing his hands together—rubbing them until Jerome realized that he too, like the old priest, was wringing his hands—“he had the misfortune to be well off. These are dangerous times. Yes, he’d met some of the Good Men. Who knows how often?”

  “Everyone has met a Good Christian sometime in his life.”

  “Yes, and we’re all afraid, I tell you, Jerome. Did you hear about Jean Tisseyre?”

  Jerome shook his head.

  “In Toulouse. A workingman. I don’t know what set him off. Someone must have made an accusation against him. He lived on the outskirts of town, and one day he got mad and took a stool and started walking through the city. Every few streets he’d step up on his stool and shout to the crowds, ‘Citizens! Listen to me, citizens. I’m no heretic! I have a wife. I sleep with her. I swear oaths, I tell lies, and I’m a good Catholic. I eat meat.’”

  “What was he thinking of?” Jerome said, laughing.

  Bernard could hardly keep his seat; he jumped up and down, whispering and gasping out his story. “As I say, he must have felt himself accused. ‘Don’t believe their lies,’ he yelled. Crowds gathering around him. ‘We must join against them. They’ll accuse you too—and you, and you, and you—as they have me. These bastards are trying to stamp us down.’”

  “What happened then?”

  Bernard shrugged. “The bailiffs picked him up. They threw him in prison together with some Pure Ones, and guess what? The perfecti converted him. He took the robe as a Good Christian and went off happily to be burnt at the stake.”

  “So the Dominicans got what they wanted: a heretic.”

  The two men sat in silence for a time.

  “Are you safe, Bernard?” asked Jerome.

  “Who knows? I was in town when Alzeu was arrested. It was the middle of the night. Two men in masks came beating on his door. One of the servants answered it and was met by the leaping shadows cast by their torches, and the terror of their masks. Scared the Devil out of the man: he can’t stop talking of it, even now. Go to the alehouse; you’ll hear him—how they pushed past him and up the stairs, lighting themselves up the passageway.”

  “Friars?” asked Jerome.

  “No. Bailiffs, probably, but in the service of the Inquisition. But who knows? They wore masks.

  “They dragged the poor man from his bed, still in his nightcap and gown. He had no idea what he’d done. They grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him ahead of them down the stairs and out the door. His wife was shrieking and following them down the stairs, still in nightgown and cap. They took him to the Wall.”

  “The Wall.” Jerome shuddered. Even the mere name of that dread prison inspired fear. It held every torture machine. Few prisoners ever left the Wall, and never whole. “And then?”

  “He confessed…whatever he confessed.” Bernard’s round eyes popped even wider. He ran both hands over his bald head, as if to smooth down nonexistent hair. “Who wouldn’t confess? You’d only have to show me the instruments and I’d confess—anything they asked.

  “Alzeu was arrested on a Tuesday and burnt the next Saturday—this Saturday last. We all went down to see. The whole town turned out. Actually, we were ordered to go watch as a lesson to us all, but a lot of people went for fun. Jerome, I knew the man. Imagine seeing him in his nightshirt—he was burnt in his nightshirt, they took his very clothes—no reason to waste good shoes and shirt—and he stood on the pyre, hands tied at the stake behind his back, eyes wild, hair flying round his face.

  “He searched the crowd with his eyes as if looking for someone, something, turning his head this way, that; and he was so scared you could see the stream of piss running down his leg, turning his gown yellow in the front, but it couldn’t put out the fire that leapt up around his feet. When the flames reached him, he let out a howl to curdle milk.

  “His wife was there, his widow now, skulking along the edge of the crowd, watching her husband burn, weeping and wringing her hands and not knowing if she would be picked up too, since she had consorted with the man who had consorted with a heretic.”

  “Don’t.” Jerome waved one hand and turned away.

  “And the stench. Have you ever smelled burnt flesh? There’s a sticky black smoke everywhere. The wind picks up the ash and lays it on your skin and you think it’s Alzeu climbing onto you.

  “It’s all about money.” Bernard leaned forward to whisper in Jerome’s ear. “Of course they’ve taken his house, his land. He was a free artisan. He’d acquired a little place, some gold. Now they’ve taken everything. You’re safe if you can buy your freedom again. He didn’t have enough.”

  “What’s happened to his wife?”

  “She’s gone back to her family in Navarre. She came from there.”

  “The thing is—”

  “The thing is, no one is safe, Jerome.” He leaned in again, voice lowered. “Everyone knows a Good Christian, or has known one in the past, or knows someone who knows one. The Inquisitors can come after any of us. They’re closing their net because of the treasure.”

  “What treasure?”

  “What treasure! Why, the treasure of Montségur, man. Where have you been?”

  “I don’t know about the treasure.” Jerome threw out his hands with an amiable smile.

  Bernard leaned back in his chair, laughing. “You must be the last man on the face of the earth to hear about the treasure, then. It all happened months ago. Shall I tell you about it? I think the loss of the treasure is what’s made them so mad. They’re like hornets that come out buzzing when you’ve hit their nest with a stick. They’re flying round and round, and none of us is safe: the loss of the treasure first and then three perfecti.”

  He stepped to the door and peeped outside, then closed it quietly again. He checked each shuttered window, then reseated himself at the table, hunching his chair close to Jerome’s. Behind him, the dying fire flickered in the low-ceilinged room, casting a reddish glow on the grim faces of the men.

  “Speak softly now,” said Bernard. “The very night has ears. You know about the siege of Montségur?”

  Jerome nodded, but Bernard’s voice rolled on. “How the fortress had been a monastery at first, a holy place for the heretics, and when the French laid siege to it, two hundred perfecti were living there, both men and women, the cream of the Church of Love, including the Cathar bishop, and in addition there were two hundred archers, soldiers, mercenaries, and knights who had come to defend them. And their women too, of course. But you know about the siege, at least?”

  “Go on, though.
I like to hear.”

  “Last, the whole treasury of the Cathars lay up there in Montségur, and they say the real reason for the siege was not to burn the two hundred perfected heretics so much as to gain the treasure. I won’t say. The siege began a year ago last May, and it lasted all the way through February. Longer than any place has ever withstood, longer than anyone imagined it could. Here they had a whole army surrounding the foot of the mountain, and four hundred starving defenders trapped up top.

  “Finally, in dead winter—this is what we’ve pieced together—when it was clear that the fortress couldn’t hold out much longer, the heretics smuggled their treasure down the mountain and hid it somewhere. The area is riddled with caves. That was in January. The fortress held out another month, then capitulated.”

  “Wasn’t there something about a traitor? I heard talk of that,” said Jerome.

  “Yes, a Basque who showed the French a pathway to climb up the cliff face. Once the French took the barbican, they were only a few hundred feet from the fortress itself. After that it was all over. The heretics surrendered.”

  “And burnt.”

  “Yes. Everyone was wounded or sick or starving. They couldn’t have held out. You know the laws of war. If the French had taken the fortress, every man, woman, child, civilian or soldier, would have been slaughtered. But if they surrendered, everyone except the heretics would go free. I’m told that the perfected heretics were the ones who insisted on surrender. They agreed to die rather than have the soldiers hurt. They surrendered at Easter.”

  “And the treasure?”

  “That’s the joke. When the French marched in, they found no treasure. Gone. But they didn’t discover that until they’d already burnt all the perfecti who might have known its whereabouts.”

  Jerome gave a laugh.

  Bernard nodded. “You know, of course, the Pure Ones can never tell a lie. When asked if they’re heretics, they have to admit it. So it was easy to corral the perfecti and burn them. But here’s the thing that’s just recently come out: the night before the French entered, apparently three of them escaped.” Bernard looked at Jerome expectantly.

  “Three of whom?”

  “Perfecti,” he whispered at Jerome’s blank look. “Well, don’t you understand? They burnt two hundred perfected heretics. But three of them are missing. That means the heresy can still go on. Those three will baptize others and make new heretics. The Church was not stamped out.”

  Jerome gave a grunt of appreciation.

  “I heard today that they’re looking for the guide,” said Bernard.

  “The Basque guide?”

  “Not the one who led the French up the cliff. No, the one who led away the heretics. They say there’s a woman involved too, who was either the guide or knows who he is, and now the friars are out in force to find her. Maybe you saw the crowds in town. They want the treasure of course.”

  “And who is this guide?”

  “Ah, that we don’t know. They’re looking for an old woman; I know no more than that. They’ve asked everyone to look out for her.”

  “And that should get a lot of women killed,” said Jerome with a bitter laugh. “If I came across her, I’d have her tell me where the treasure is!”

  Bernard shuddered. “Don’t even joke about it. Not when they’re sending artisans and merchants to the Wall.” He stirred the ashes, banking the fire for the night. “No, it’s bad times now. Inflation. Prices are too high. You can’t buy anything. Look at the kind of produce you get in the market now. It’s a disgrace, and if they caught me talking like this, I’d be arrested too. So I’ve not said a word tonight. I see nothing wrong with our good Catholic Church or the Dominicans cleansing us of heretics. I’d be the first to rise up publicly and say so. This war’s gone on too long. It’s time to get rid of heresy, go on with our lives. The sooner the heretics are disposed of, the better all round. I’m not against the cleansing. But Alzeu—”

  “Poor soul,” said Jerome, standing to stretch.

  “And masked men breaking into our houses.”

  “And I’d not like to be in the shoes of an old woman now—not unless she has a family to protect her.”

  “And even family won’t protect anyone anymore.”

  “Troubled times, the good priest said.”

  “Troubled times,” repeated Bernard, handing Jerome a flare. “Good night, now. You know your room. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  It was late afternoon of the next day when Jerome had climbed the mountain track for home, step by slow step, one hand on his pony’s mane. When he’d seen the woman by the side of the road, his thoughts, far from Bernard’s troubled tales, had been roaming the peaceful, light-struck hills, lambent in the angled sun, and the rise and fall of the pony’s withers under his hand, and the work that waited him at home. He’d been watching his feet, the grass, the sky, in the slow, observant way of countrymen; so that when he saw the woman sitting on the bank he thought nothing of it. The words had risen to his mouth unbidden, spoken to the poor old creature as naturally as to a wounded dog.

  “Do you wish a lift, Mother?”

  It was only when she was seated in the cart that he’d taken note of her worn shoes, her dirty, untamed hair—and he’d turned his face away. A woman should not be seen with her hair unkempt. It was as bad as walking naked. He’d felt a twinge of irritation that she’d let herself go wild. At the same time he’d wanted to place a comforting hand on her, soothe her as he would the pony, with voice and hand, tell her things would be all right. “Whoa, there,” he would croon, if she were a horse, and he’d stroke her withers and curry her a bit.

  At that moment she had lifted both hands and smoothed her hair, then tied it with her kerchief, and in that practiced gesture, so smooth, efficient, and even elegant, he’d felt a shock. He’d looked up at the woman sitting on the cart, back straight and head high as she gazed across the hills, and for a second the light striking through the trees hit her fine cheekbones. She was lovely. Jerome tore his eyes away and set them firmly on the path in front of him. Who was this woman? A witch? Witches had such power over men. Yet even as he’d stepped along the dappled path beside the creaking cart he’d felt his heart lift and a smile quiver at his lips. The air seemed brighter, the colors stronger; the light flashed silver off the undersides of the wind-tossed leaves. He hadn’t noticed before how good he felt.

  When he’d dared to flick a look at her again, he’d seen nothing distinctive—just a nice-looking woman sitting in his cart. She had the ability to sit quietly, though, which he liked. In fact, he liked her presence there.

  “How far are you going?”

  “To Montségur,” she had answered. He’d whistled softly and lifted his eyebrows, remembering Bernard’s story of the treasure and the friars who were hunting for a woman. They’d talked idly, he and the woman, but his thoughts were sniffing the thickets of this situation, like a hunting dog that works birds in cover: if she were a witch or heretic, he should tip her out of the cart right then—except he wanted her to turn her fine eyes on him once again. No sooner thought than she’d shifted on the cart, tilted her head, and looked down into his eyes.

  She was bewitching him, and he was only a simple and defenseless farmer, while she was an aristocrat—anyone could see. He’d stared, mouth open. At that moment he’d heard the hoofbeats cantering behind, and once more words had tumbled unbidden from his mouth.

  “Listen carefully. My name is Jerome Ahrade. I have this pony….”

  And yet the words didn’t surprise him. At the sound of the hooves, Jerome had felt a stubbornness fall over him like a mantle, the sullen rebelliousness of a countryman who will not be pushed aside or forced out of his slow and plodding rut. Why should the Preaching Friars get the treasure? Alzeu—Bernard—the old priest—troubled times. Well, yes; but that was in town, and here Jerome was on his own ground. He could help a defenseless old woman if he wished.

  Afterward, the monks had mounted their horses and
plunged down the hillside, pell-mell, hurrying after one poor peasant whom they would burn; and Jerome had taken the pony’s bridle and walked steadily up the path. The woman—Jeanne—had sat quietly, and he’d been glad of that. The encounter with the friars had unnerved him badly. He needed time to think out what to do.

  THIRTEEN

  He hollows out a loaf of bread and pours the stew in it, handing me my loaf. Roots and grain with a lentil base.

  “Good.”

  “Hmf,” he answers. It is nearly dark. We eat outside, at the door. The first star glows in the globe of night.

  “Are there wolves in these mountains?” I ask. Still afraid of wolves, after all these years, though I’ve never seen a wolf. Gobert’s wolfhound, my husband’s dog, was as big as a wolf or larger, with his coarse gray shaggy fur and long running legs. Loup-Baiard, he was called. My husband’s dog. He protected me that whole first year of my lonely marriage, lost in a foreign chateau. Alone with my beloved Loup-Baiard, who would thrust his rough gray muzzle under my hand and nudge me for attention. Before one summer passed, Loup-Baiard belonged to me, my dog, my wolf-protecting dog. The shift of loyalty annoyed Gobert.

  “They come down in the winter sometimes,” says Jerome. “When the winter’s hard and the snow’s deep and they can’t find food.”

  He chews his food slowly. “Stay indoors and you’ll be safe.”

  I laugh. “Once I heard of a friar who tamed a wolf. Do you want to hear? His name was Francis; I hear he’s been declared a saint. He lived in Italy. He was so holy that the birds would come eat out of his hands. One time a wolf came right into the town near where he lived—the town of Gubbio—looking for a child or chicken to eat. He’d eaten others—children, I mean. The townsfolk wanted to kill the wolf, but the saintly man said we are not allowed by God to kill, not even a wolf.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “No, no, this is a true story,” I say. “Listen. He said he’d tame the wolf, and the next time the wolf came trotting into town, all the women ran screaming indoors and locked their children behind the wooden window shutters, and the wolf strolled through the village, turning his head this way and that.”