The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  “You’re right.” His voice echoing in the dark. He appeared then beside her, pushing her toward the sliver of light at the entryway. “We’ll come back with torches and ropes. A cave, Jeanne! Think!”

  Jeanne thought it less marvelous than he. She followed him slowly home across the wet fields, head down, silent. She was remembering with a confusion of emotions her fear of the cold dark earth, a burial grave, and the warm touch of his shoulder pressed on hers.

  William could talk only of his discovery.

  A week later they returned with flint and a torch and wiggled through the black slit in the rock. Instantly she was hit by a stale, moist smell, the horror of silent dirt, enclosed.

  “I don’t like it.” The torch cast huge flickering shadows on the walls. “William, let’s go back.”

  “Hold the torch.”

  Suddenly around them rose a black wave of twittering, squeaking, flapping, small, black forms as thick as flies—but bigger—a curl of demons, peeling chaotically off the walls. She screamed and scrambled back through the entry. Outside, she tumbled full-length to the ground, hands over her head, while the bats swept past her—hundreds, thousands of swirling black forms swooping out into the light, where they whirled and circled, madly cheeping. The sky was black with them. William threw himself on top of her, arms shielding her.

  And suddenly they were gone.

  His face brushed her cheek. Slowly he came to his knees. “Are you all right?”

  “They’re demons. From the entryway to hell.”

  He laughed, pulling her to her knees and stroking her hair. “Dear Jeanne. They’re bats. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I am.” Clinging to him. “And so should you be too.”

  “By the Virgin, they scared me as well,” he said, and then he kissed her. A spark flew off his lips—she felt it burn into her soul; but the kiss was so swift and shy that he had already pulled away—jumped to his feet—before she understood. She stood up then, looking after him dumbly as he hurried toward the cave.

  “William?”

  “No. Don’t look like that. We’re friends, aren’t we? Aren’t we friends?”

  “Friends. Yes.”

  “I promised the bishop I’d take care of you. Come on, our cave is beckoning.”

  He thinks I’m a child, she thought. She crept into the cave after him, while he felt for the dropped torch. He rekindled the flame, and again their shadows shot up before and after them, looming against the frightening walls.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “Hush. It’s just a cave.”

  Against her will they descended into a kind of groaning stillness. The floor beneath them was smooth, and the walls, where the torch shot light, were colored in various tones of ochre, gray, and green. From a distance came the plink of water falling, its echo clear in that tomblike heaviness—and then they made a turn and saw the paintings on the walls.

  “Look!”

  The paintings were black and red against the ochre walls, and the colors were burnt into the stone: images of antlered deer and long-horned oxen that fled before stick-figured hunters hurling their spears. In the flickering torchlight the legs of the animals quivered, so that they appeared to race eternally, heads lifted in perpetual flight before the lifted spears.

  “Look, a stag. A bull. But what is that animal?”

  “Who painted them?”

  “Some men or gods.” He roamed the chamber curiously.

  She shivered. “The torch is burning low.”

  “Look there. And there.”

  “Be careful, William.”

  “Jeanne, we’ve found a place no one has ever seen—not since the beginning of time, not since these ancient paintings were done. It’s our cave, Jeanne. We’ve found a place no one knows about.” He could barely contain his excitement.

  They climbed back up to the secret entry. “We mustn’t tell a soul—our secret,” and he thrust once more into the sparkling air, where Jeanne threw herself laughing with relief onto the shining, warm, sweet-scented grass and William grabbed her in his joy: “Look at you, dirt in your hair.”

  “You should see yourself,” she answered, tussling with him, until she stopped. He lay on top of her, his breath hot on her cheek, and this time it was she who leaned forward, upward, to draw him to her with a kiss that this time held and softened, their lips lingering, exploring tenderly, parting tentatively, indecisive, then returning to drink once more, until slowly they untangled. That was their second kiss. He was slower this second time to push away, and seemed almost drunken when he murmured, “No.”

  He pushed unsteadily to his feet. “No,” he repeated. “I can’t do this.”

  So now she had two kisses to dream about, and questions of why he did not desire more—though it was no mystery, Jeanne felt: she was young and undesirable. Hadn’t Rogert demonstrated that?

  One day William reached out to finger her black hair as it flowed down her back; and on another afternoon—“Wait!”—he pushed a stray curl back under her cap. She trembled under his touch, but he turned away impatiently—and this was what she noticed most, his new impatience with her, his short temper. They never returned to the cave.

  William became absorbed with the engineering of the barbican, and that day was the last that they explored together.

  Suddenly he had no time for her. Her heart hurt. It was like an animal gnawing at her from inside. It was a rag twisting in her chest. She lost her appetite. She wandered the mountaintop listlessly. Alone.

  But Jeanne decided if she had learned anything from Rogert, it was to treasure privacy, her secret honor. She would confide in no one; and no one would see her distress—not William, not her dear old lady, Marquésia de Forli, not even the wise Guilhabert de Castres.

  A week after their second trip to the cave (a week after their kiss) the bishop called her to him

  “My child.” He lifted her chin fondly. “I’m sorry to tell you that your visit is over. You will be leaving in two more days.”

  “No!”

  He smiled. “The Lady Esclarmonde has called you back to her. She’s sending a man to take you to Pamiers. Don’t look like that, dear soul—well, my goodness, tears. I’m glad you’ve liked it here so much. I didn’t think there was so much here for a young girl like you. There, there, now. You’ll come back.”

  But Jeanne did not explain her rush of tears.

  “I truly didn’t know you cared so deeply. But do not fret. I think you’ll like it back home too. Life has many surprises for us. Perhaps Esclarmonde has one in mind for you.” He smiled so sweetly that she pulled herself together.

  “Bishop,” she asked him shyly, ducking her head, not daring to look at him, “what if a man does not like a maid?” She could feel a blush rising in her throat. And quickly then, because it seemed too close to the bone, she added, “I mean, what if they choose a husband for me who does not find me pleasing? It happens, doesn’t it? That a man might not like a particular girl?”

  “Look at you blush,” he laughed. “How could any man not like you?” He smiled into her eyes. “The passionate, fierce, fiery soul of God.”

  She did not believe him, but she repeated the words to herself: passionate, fierce, fiery soul of God. And the most important part: How could any man not like you?

  That evening Jeanne brushed her hair and bound it intricately. She put on her single good dress, though it was barely more presentable than her everyday garb. She slapped her cheeks and bit her lips to make them red, and then stared at her image in the hazy steel clasps of a leather-bound Bible.

  After supper, she found William. She took him by the hand.

  “Come walk with me. I have news.”

  They climbed the parapet and leaned against a crenellated wall, and the stars shone like lanterns out of the black night, and her heart thudded so fast she could hardly breathe.

  “I go home in two days,” she said finally.

  “So that’s why you’re all dressed up.
” Teasing, as usual.

  “Did you notice?”

  “Of course I noticed. You look very pretty.”

  “Come to Pamiers.” Her imminent departure gave her courage. “Come meet the Lady Esclarmonde.” And marry me, she wanted to add, though propriety forbade the words.

  He tipped back on his heels, looking down at her. “Jeanne, Jeanne. Don’t tempt me. You need a different man.”

  “I need the man I want,” she said fiercely.

  He grew grave then. “Maybe I will come to see you in Pamiers.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child. I’m not a child.”

  “We’ve had a good time,” he said slowly. “But you have to understand: you need a rich husband, and I need a woman of property. I’m too poor…too poor for little Jeanne. You need someone who can support you properly.”

  “You don’t like me? You don’t think me pretty?” She meant desirable. She didn’t know the word.

  “I think you’re beautiful.”

  He kissed her then for the third time, and this time he held her, whispering in her ear. What was he saying? His voice was too low to catch his meaning. Except his last words, as he pushed her away, were, “We’re just friends.”

  Alone that night, she wept silently in her lonely bed.

  At Pamiers the Lady Esclarmonde welcomed Jeanne home joyfully, exclaiming at how brown she looked.

  “You’ve grown,” said Ealaine, her socia, who stood beaming to one side.

  “I knew the bishop would be good for you,” said Esclarmonde. “He says you should continue your studies. That you’re a good student. We’re all proud of you.”

  Jeanne had no time to answer, for at that moment Baiona came running across the courtyard. “Jeanne! Jeanne!” She threw her arms around her friend. “My other heart, soul of my soul, Jeanne.” Both girls were laughing and hanging on each other’s necks.

  Baiona had grown a full head taller and had fleshed out. “I love you, Jeanne,” she said. “I’ve missed you so.”

  “I love you too. Oh, Baiona, I’m so sorry.” She stroked Baiona’s hair and hugged her tight, breathing in her sweet scent.

  Then other girls spilled out to surround Jeanne and lead her into the palace, where she heard the latest gossip, including that Rogert had been banished for his promiscuity to his uncle’s estate near Lyon, and she learned who was pregnant and who was having marital or romantic difficulties, and true to her word Jeanne said not a word about William or the cave with its strange pictures of fleeing, horned beasts or about the love that burnt inside her all the time.

  A week later, Esclarmonde announced her marriage had been arranged.

  SIXTEEN

  I wake up with a start. Where am I? My heart pounding. I dreamed I was sailing in a boat with purple sails and silver lines. Suddenly the wind shifted, blowing to the back, behind the sail, which slammed over, jibing the boat, and we are no longer plowing the green seas but sinking. I am sinking.

  At first I don’t know where I am, groping blindly in the pitch dark, and then I remember the storeroom. Jerome. The house. I’m trapped. I stumble past his sleeping form, feel my way in the dark to the door and out into the night, where the violent, wavering stars are fading now, and where the demons that attack me will also flee, soon. Soon.

  My hair is loose, no headdress. Gray hair streaked with black and flying wild around my face. Sticking out every which way. I smooth it with both hands, and it springs up again like a wild animal. Hair with a will of its own.

  Once I had beautiful hair. Raven-black curls pouring down my back, and when I ran, my hair lifted and slapped against my shoulders like a horse’s mane. When I ran through the meadows. Long grass up to my knees. Now my knees hurt. Old horse.

  “Surrender everything to God,” Esclarmonde used to say, “for He will cover you with His pinions, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness is a shield and buckler. You will not fear the terror of the night nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence…nor the destruction….”

  I mouth the hopeful words, although the psalm did not keep the others safe. He will cover you with His pinions. Was He with me all the time, and I never noticed it? Was I so stubborn that I couldn’t let God do His work? For surely I was willful, yes, and determined to have my way.

  “Don’t send me away.” She clung to the Lady Esclarmonde. The full weight of the impending marriage had sunk in, the banishment yet again from this house of peace and piety. She wept uncontrollably.

  “There, there, my darling.” Esclarmonde stroked her hair.

  “I don’t want to marry him.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “How can you know?”

  “But, darling, God will always be with you. And I will too. I’ll write to you faithfully. You’ll visit often.”

  “But why? Why do I have to marry?” It came out as a wail.

  The Lady Esclarmonde pulled back to look Jeanne full in her face. “Darling, listen. Gobert of Preixan is an accomplished knight, with his own lands. You will be mistress of your own place, mother of your own children. Moreover, he is Catholic. That will also protect you. You are an impetuous, impulsive girl. I want you safe. You won’t forget our ways. If you can go under the fold of the Catholic Church, I won’t worry about you. Finally, you love to ride and hunt, walk miles outdoors, work a falcon on your wrist—and that way of life can be yours with Gobert.”

  Esclarmonde smiled mischievously. “I know how you spent your summer at Montségur,” she added.

  “You do?”

  “Exploring the countryside with some wild Englishman.”

  Jeanne felt the flush creep up her neck.

  Esclarmonde laughed. “The bishop told me.”

  “Was he disappointed in me?” She picked at her fingernail, hesitant to ask; she wanted his approval.

  “I think in his eyes you can do no wrong. It was Guilhabert who heard that Gobert was looking for a wife and helped me settle on the dowry. It’s an excellent match. And then, who knows, there may come a time when we need you in the Catholic camp.”

  But Jeanne was not consoled. Poor little girl. Defiant, angry child. First, she searched out the astrologers and paid them money to tell about her love, but since she knew neither his birthday nor his place of birth, they could not help. One day she heard two castle maids talking of the witch who lived in the lower town, and she grabbed her serving girl, Marie, and twisted the skin at the back of her arm until she squealed and told the name of the witch and where she lived and what she did.

  Was she brave or merely stupid? I look back across the years, trying to fit myself into the skin of that rebellious girl. Wanting what she wanted, determined to get her way.

  She waited, that younger me, for market-day.

  “I need ribbons, Marie,” she announced. “I must have ribbons for my wedding linens. Get your things. We’re going now. I want to trim the edges with bright ribbons, red or yellow perhaps. Hurry up. If you’re not ready, I’ll go ahead.”

  “No, miss.” She bobs a curtsey. “I’ll be right there. It’s not right for a lady affianced to go alone.” Though why not, if she could roam the fields of Montségur when not yet even betrothed. Jeanne laughed to herself, remembering; but she was a child no longer, but a woman, wearing a woman’s headdress and the betroyal rings, and she paced quietly beside Marie until—

  “Oh, Marie, I’ve lost my glove. I must have dropped it when we stopped in church. Run back and bring it to me. I’ll wait here.”

  Marie ran to do her bidding, and the moment she was out of sight Jeanne slipped away, running through the narrow street, one frightened lovesick girl hurrying toward the witch.

  Through the artisans’ quarter, where the sculptors carved ivory for the locks of books and boxes that were bought by the nobles and the Catholic Church. These were truly works of art, adorned with a tangle of vines and hounds and stags and hares. But it was not these wares she wanted, but the wizardry of the witch. She slid, her heart in her
throat, into that part of town where ladies in such finery as hers stood out, begging to be robbed—or raped and murdered, their bodies tossed (splash!) in the river, never found.

  She came to the wooden hovel, door aslant. She pushed it open. Her heart was in her throat.

  “Who are you?” spoke a voice from the dark.

  She blinked, unable to see in the gloom, and then perceived a shadowed form move out of the shadows of the dark curtains. She heard the curtain beads ring against each other like little bells; the gypsy woman came forward, hips rolling

  “Who is this fine stranger who dares to enter my exotic lair?” What a curious way to speak. Jeanne saw only shawls and beads. The woman’s earrings were so long they brushed her shoulders and caught in the black disheveled hair that curled around her face and hung disordered down her back. Her throat was covered with gold chains. Her fingers bore a dozen rings.

  She took Jeanne’s chin in one hand and turned her head to the light.

  “What does a lady want in such a place?” she said, and loosed Jeanne’s chin and stalked back to her corner, to settle reclining on the piles of cushions on the floor. Jeanne took a shy step forward, her voice a whisper in the darkness.

  “I want a potion.”

  She laughed. “Of course. A love potion, is that right? You are smitten by a man and want to bind him to you?”

  “How did you know?” Jeanne sank to a cushion opposite.

  “Can you pay for it?”

  Jeanne held out one hand. The gypsy took the single pearl Jeanne had scissored from her baby dress. She turned it thoughtfully, held it to her eye, bit it between her teeth, examined it again, and slipped it in her bodice.

  “Sit down. Tell me about him.”

  She spoke about her love for William. She described him, their friendship, her love.

  “I want a potion that will bind him to me for all his life.”

  “Think again. It’s a cup of unhappiness you’d drink.”

  “I want him. I know he loves me. I want him to love me.”