At home with the Lady Esclarmonde in Foix or Pamiers, her afternoons had been spent in the woman’s duties of preparing herbs or else in learning embroidery and all the fine points of stitchery, practiced often while someone read aloud from scripture (and then her body would twist and squirm, longing to run outdoors) or French romances (to which she listened raptly); but at Montségur her afternoons were free, for the Lady Marquésia wanted to nap or spend her hours in prayer.
In the evenings Jeanne cooked her charge a gruel for supper, then helped her eat and afterward prepare for sleep. She was a good old lady, and Jeanne grew fond of her. But it was de Castres whom she came to love. Everything that Esclarmonde and Ealaine had said about him was true.
Each night she met with the bishop in the little stone cave that he shared with his socius, Bertrand Marty. Sometimes Marty was present, sometimes not. Jeanne would sit at the old man’s feet, and he would give the young girl his total attention, leaning forward in his seat and watching her with approving eyes. He was in his forties then, in powerful mid-life, a tiny balding man, and no topic seemed forbidden her (though she didn’t always get an answer to questions she raised).
“Is it true that you never eat?” she asked one day.
“I eat all the time,” he responded. “I eat the air and the spiritual food of Christ.”
“No, but they say no food—no real food—has passed your lips for eight years now.”
“Ah, do they? And who might they be?” He laughed deep in his throat, his tiny body shaking with amusement.
“The Lady Esclarmonde and her socia, Ealaine.”
“Well, well, what people will think to gossip about.”
Nevertheless, Jeanne never saw him put so much as a berry on his tongue, and yet he was strong and wiry and hard and tough. He could walk for days, she knew, and could outstrip younger men at many physical tasks.
He knew everything. If she caught a butterfly in the field, he could tell its life history. He knew the cures that different plants could bring. He knew his Bible. He could sing and make people laugh.
He knew about boys as well, and the heart of girls, so that one day Jeanne found herself pouring out her shame and rage at Rogert, and her confused feelings about Baiona. He listened, nodding occasionally but saying only, “Yes.”
The next day he told her that she was to speak at the weekly public confession, the aparelhamentum.
“I will not!” she cried. “I’ve confessed to you and to Esclarmonde both. I won’t do it publicly.”
“It’s the only way to wipe away the shame,” he said.
“Well, that’s your way. I don’t want to be perfected. I don’t have to.”
“In that case, for two straight weeks you must spend one quarter-hour every day in prayer for Baiona.”
“No!”
“Here is how you do it,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. “You draw Baiona’s image up before your eyes—”
“I hate her.”
“No matter,” he said, laughing affectionately. “It has nothing to do with how you feel about her. In your imagination you are to lay at her feet everything you’ve ever wanted for yourself—goods, clothes, jewels and baubles, anything, your missing mother and father, Rogert and all the other boys, the victory wreath. You give her a happy marriage, love, children, wealth. You give her qualities and virtues too. Bestow upon her beauty, insight, honesty, tolerance, patience, sweetness of nature, courage, love and happiness, an understanding heart. Whatever you would like for yourself, offer it to her.
“Then give Baiona whatever you know she wants. She has artistic talent, you say; so give her lapis and crushed gold for paints, a paintboy to grind the colors for her or prepare her brushes. That’s what forgiveness means—to ‘give for.’
“‘Give what?’ you ask. Give everything.”
“I can’t do that.” Jeanne pulled back her long black hair with both hands and plaited it into a stubborn braid. She would not do this thing he asked.
“Yes, you can,” he answered gravely. “It’s the only way to set yourself free.”
“I hate her.” She leaned forward passionately.
“Exactly. And if you won’t confess it publicly—”
“I’ll say that publicly,” she said. “I’ll stand up and tell everyone what she did. That I hate her.”
“No, Jeanne. It’s your own failings that you must confess, and if you’re not ready for that, then try this other way. I promise you you’ll like the result.”
The first day Jeanne beat and battered Baiona’s image instead of praying for her. She told the bishop what she’d done. She could not do his exercise.
“Ah. You are very angry with her?”
“Yes.”
“And with what else?” he prompted.
“With everything. I’m angry at Rogert. At Esclarmonde for leaving me here. At myself. I’m angry at being a girl!” she shouted; and he did not even blink, but nodded, sweetly watching. “I’m angry at this ugly place. And you. I’m really angry at you!”
“And God?” he asked gently. “Are you not also angry at God?”
“Yes. I’m angry at God.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”
Instantly her anger was gone.
“What?” She was startled. All he’d said was “good,” and all her passion had vanished.
She searched his face. “What did you just do?”
But he only smiled and told her to run along.
It was not easy to forgive Baiona. Her anger and shame did not instantly disappear.
“God doesn’t ask it all to be done at once, but only that we be willing,” the bishop said. “It’s enough to try. If the intention is there, then all the forces of a spiritual universe will help you reach your goal. I’m proud of you. You’re doing very well.”
Such sweet words. Jeanne felt herself expand under his approval, the ice melting in her heart.
I will sprinkle clean water upon you, she copied in her careful hand. A new heart I will give you. And a new spirit I will put within you; I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone….
From that day on, to her surprise, she no longer wanted to hurt Baiona, and within a few days it even pleased her to bestow on Baiona all the things she liked herself; and later still she felt as happy as if she were receiving the blessings and gifts herself, so that she was the one to gain.
“Is that true?” she asked de Castres one night.
“Good for you.” He smiled into her eyes. “You’ve found the art of happiness. Love your neighbor, not because it’s a rule or right, but because it’s the law of the spiritual universe. It’s what Jesus was teaching us. Many people don’t understand why they should follow the Way. They think it’s in order to become holy in some way, or to get to heaven; when in fact it’s only in order to be happy now, at this moment—free of hatred, anger, indecision, fear.”
“Free.”
“Now you are to pray for yourself,” he ordered.
“Myself?”
“Pray to forgive yourself.” Which she did until one day to her surprise she voluntarily found herself rising to confess at the public aparelhamentum. She spoke not of her lust for Rogert, or precisely what she’d done with him, but of her willfulness, her refusal to listen to her betters, which had led to her jealousy and the hatred she had harbored in her heart and that she now saw prevented happiness; the confession ended with her decision to try in the future to self-correct.
Such were the teachings of the Cathar bishop Guilhabert de Castres, who also told her to wander if she wished, explore the area.
“Anywhere? To the village down the mountain?”
“I think so. Everyone knows that you’re under my protection. Just don’t get lost.”
“You mean I can go alone on the mountain?” In all her life Jeanne had rarely been alone, and certainly not to walk on wooded paths. “Aren’t there bears?” she asked uncertainly. “Wild animals?”
He laughed. “I�
�d be more worried about the wild animals meeting you!” he teased. “Stay close to the fortress until you feel comfortable. Or take someone with you if you wish.”
“But who? Wouldn’t it be against the rules for one of the perfecti to accompany me?”
“Take the English soldier, William. I’ll speak to him. Then you won’t have to worry about bears and wolves.”
It was the bishop who told Jeanne the story of the wolf of Gubbio. The friar in the tale wasn’t Cathar, but he was a true lover of Christ nonetheless—perhaps the finest example of the holy Mother Church. Like the perfecti, he too had taken a vow of poverty, wore a rough brown habit and donned sandals on bare feet. And when he held out his hand, cupped with love, the wolf had knelt down in a bow.
Jeanne held her breath, imagining such a thing. “Is that true?”
“Absolutely true. And the townsfolk fed him as if he were a gentle dog.”
Jeanne thought for a moment. “I don’t think I could do that if I met a wolf,” she concluded.
“No,” he agreed, laughing. “But you shan’t meet a wolf. I guarantee it.”
“How can you guarantee it? Do you have power over the wild animals on the mountain too?”
“It’s not the season for hungry wolves,” he said. “All you have to do is to be careful. Carry a stick. If you see a bear, back away slowly. Be contained in your own love, and do not disturb it.”
“Will I be able to tame a wolf someday?”
“If you learn what I am teaching you. If you so turn your attention to the love of God that you become the vessel of pure love. For love is God, as God is love. That is what we’re all learning to do here, Jeanne: to love. The wolf of Gubbio felt that holy spirit’s love. That’s the first lesson I’m trying to teach you, Jeanne—how to love—in order that you don’t need someone else’s power to make you whole.”
“Was that what Francis did? Became like God?”
“Yes, he is so loving, has so much love pouring through him, that there is no distinction between the man and God.”
With one finger she traced the pattern in a stone. “Are you that way?” she asked boldly. “Like Francis, with no distinction from God?”
He rocked back with a laugh. “Me! Oh, no! I’m only this far on the Way.” He held up his thumb and finger, almost touching. “I’m the least of the sons of God. But I know that my business is to give thanks and praise for every moment of this life. It’s to love as fully as I can. It’s to be happy. It’s to practice being kind.”
“Even to the French? The Pope? The enemy? Do you pray for them?”
“Yes, I pray for my so-called enemies. I pray that they too may be happy. Now go away and think about these things.”
Jeanne wondered what he would do if he knew what she actually thought about—matters far less godly. But at the door he called her back.
“Jeanne.”
“Yes?”
His face was in shadow, his voice a disembodied hollow sound. “As you explore, mark every path and shrub and rock and stone. There will come a time—” He stopped abruptly.
“What?”
“No, nothing. Go on now, child.” Jeanne blinked. His voice was his own again, and to her surprise she could once more see him seated in his cave. What had happened? She slipped away, trailing her fingers over the rocks and laughing to herself, shaking her head in wonderment at a bishop who could disappear at will. And at what the Lady Esclarmonde would say if she knew how her orphan was passing her days, roaming the open fields, or that she’d fallen in love again, this time with an Englishman fifteen years older than she.
FIFTEEN
Who can tell the tortuous ways of God? Or even if there is a God? Occasionally on a cloudless night Jeanne would stand on the highest parapet at Montségur, marveling at the myriad stars that filled the dome of night. What is it all about? she wondered, and sometimes, Who am I? Why am I here?
That was the summer that they found the cave, the same summer that she was banished from her home after a boy took her into the boxwood maze, itself a kind of cave, the same summer that she fell in love; and later a treasure would be hidden in the cave (but she didn’t know this yet) and people would be hunted, killed—and all because of the lust of an olive-skinned boy with lazy, hooded eyes and a girl who in passion drowned her best friend’s dress. Are You there, God? Show Yourself! she’d think, staring upward at the stars. Was everything already preordained?
Then there was William, blue-eyed and light complected.
As a lad, William had ridden with a party of English knights to Jerusalem and fought the Saracens on the hot, white desert sands. He had seen Paris and Rome on the way to the Holy Land, and on his return he had landed by ship at the water-city of Venice, where he’d watched as dockworkers had lifted his kicking warhorse out of the ship with a sling under its belly, himself a rich man then, he told her, with armor and weapons and money from the war, before he was set on by brigands in the countryside, who stripped him of everything, including his expensive horse, and left him as destitute as the hermits whom he ended up with here at Montségur. Helping with the fortifications, he’d learned to speak Occitan. Jeanne listened to his tales, enthralled.
They scrambled down the slippery hills on paths so steep that at times they had to hang on to the branches of the trees to keep from falling, and more than once William grabbed for Jeanne when she fell. They fished with their hands in the icy, gushing rivers and set small snares for the animals that William cooked and ate (being no believer himself, and scorning the ascetic vegetarian diet). They clambered over mossy rocks, and when the thickets grew too tangled to pass, Jeanne took off her shoes and stockings, belted her skirts, and, laughing, ducked under the hanging brush, wading up the bubbling streams, the laughing water-paths.
Never had she been so happy, so tomboy free.
“Why don’t you come to the morning prayers?” she asked William one day.
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Don’t believe!” She was taken aback.
“I don’t believe in heaven, or in hell either,” said William seriously, “unless it’s here on earth. I think heaven rests in our happiness, and hell lies also in our hearts. I’ve seen hell on earth. I saw it in the Holy Land when we were fighting. No, not for me the ascetic ways of the Friends of God.”
“Oh, William, you are wrong. How can you dare? But I will pray for your eternal soul. I’ll pray that you turn to God, because otherwise you will rot in damnation forever and ever. Of course there’s God, for didn’t Christ tell us so? How could you not believe?”
They argued for hours. Jeanne found their discussions frightening, but also thrilling. Never had she met anyone who cared so little for his soul, his future life. And yet he was a man of principle.
“I lost my faith in the Holy Land,” he explained, “fighting for the one True Church. I think it’s only mumbo-jumbo priesthood now.”
“Don’t say that, William; don’t. You must listen to Guilhabert de Castres when he preaches. He’ll tell you what is true. He’s a holy man, an incarnation of the Christ.”
“And so, little Jeanne, you believe?”
“Of course I believe. I want to be good. I wish I were good. I’m not good. They say we are spiritual beings living in bodies of decaying physical matter. Well, if I’m a fallen angel, I’ve brought nothing but disappointment. Still, I’d like to be good. Baiona is good. But, William, you must try to believe. Promise me that you’ll believe.”
Had it not been for a rainstorm that day, they never would have found the cave. A summer squall sent them running to the shelter of an overhanging crag that jutted from the grassy hill. They were miles from Montségur, in an area of spurs and cliffs. Jeanne crouched against the cold stone, her skin tingling at the warmth of William’s arm pressing against her own. Beyond the fine, thin slashing rain the black storm-clouds surged and rolled across a uniform gray sky, but Jeanne trembled, more alive than she had ever felt. She wondered if he touched her on purpose—
was he aware of her? Or did the cramped space force him to press against her breast? She didn’t dare to move. The rain slashed down, then gradually stopped; the last big, scattered drops sprayed across them, catching the light and glancing off the thrashed and beaten thick wet grass. Above them the cloud-scudding sky opened into patches of blue.
Suddenly William said, “Wait.”
“What?”
“Do you feel that wind?” he asked.
“No. Where?”
“Here, from the rocks behind us.” He turned slightly and surveyed the slope behind them. “Look, there’s a hole, and a wind blowing right out of it.” Two tall boulders leaned like sentinels against each other, and between them a crevice opened into the earth. William moved a bit farther down-slope into the long grass and dug at the base of the rocks with his bare hands (blue eyes flashing up at her in his excitement) until he’d increased the crack into a sizable hole.
He stood up slowly, marveling. “It’s a cave,” he exclaimed. “Look how deep it goes.”
Jeanne peered at the mouth of the earth—a slit, a yawn of darkness. “Is it an animal den?” she asked.
He laughed with delight. “No. I’m going in.”
Crouching, he twisted sideways and squeezed into the hole. “Come on.”
“William!” She protested, but she followed timidly, tugging at her dress when it caught her knees.
The floor pitched steeply downward almost at once. She groped forward after him, step by step into the dark, bent double, almost crawling into this, the maw of the earth.
“Look, it gets bigger and bigger. It’s large enough to stand. By Saint Martin! It’s huge.”
“It’s the pit to hell, William. William, let’s leave it alone.”
But William left nothing alone. “It goes back so far.”
Groping, one hand against the rock wall, he disappeared into the dark. “It’s getting larger. It’s enormous,” he reported, his voice sounding distant.
“It’s late. Come away, William.” Enter the caves of the rocks and the holes of the ground, said the prophet Isaiah. Hide from the terror of the Lord, when he rises to terrify the earth. She was terrified.
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