The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  “Then come back next week, and I will have one for you.”

  “Give me back the pearl,” Jeanne said. “I will pay you when I have the potion, and no sooner.”

  “I have it now,” the witch answered with a haughty smile, and indeed she had secreted the precious jewel; it had vanished in her breast. Jeanne’s heart flip-flopped. The woman must have seen the look.

  “Don’t worry.” She laughed with a flash of white teeth. “Don’t worry, little girl. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Stay here, and I will come back with your potion. You can drink it now. It will take a little while to make.”

  “But don’t I give it to him too?” Jeanne asked, confused, for in the stories the magic potion must be drunk by both.

  “Why?” The curtains tinkled behind her laughter as she sauntered out.

  She was gone. Jeanne sat a long time in the dank hut, frightened, playing with her fingers. She wondered what she was doing there and what her people would do if they found she’d come to the witch, alone and unprotected. Twice she started to her feet to leave, and twice sat down again, not knowing whether to go or stay…except the gypsy had her pearl….

  Jeanne swiveled at the clicking of the curtain beads and the rustle of the witch’s skirt.

  “Here.” Smiling, she tossed back her loose black hair. “Drink this.”

  “Now?”

  “Why wait?”

  Jeanne held the cup uncertainly, because she had expected a magic potion such as Tristan took with Iseult, when both together drank the magic draught that Iseult’s mother had prepared for her daughter and King Mark. Everyone knew that ancient story. In that tale no one was at fault—not King Mark of Cornwall, who sent his beloved nephew Tristan to Ireland to bring the golden-haired Iseult as his bride; and not Iseult’s mother, who prepared a magic love potion for Iseult and who had told her daughter to drink it only when she and King Mark were alone on their wedding night. No one was at fault when the bride kissed her grieving mother farewell and stepped into the royal boat that would carry her to her husband in Cornwall. But out at sea the wind died. The boat lay rocking on a lake of glass. Then the pure knight Tristan, who loved King Mark like a son, called for a glass of wine. The serving girl, all unknowing, found the queen’s lovely lapis beaker in the princess’s tent, and all unknowing poured the secret wine into two fine cups; and no one was at fault when, looking in each other’s eyes, Tristan and Iseult drank the magic draught—and in that moment fell in love. In the story they drank it together, bewitched by gazing in each other’s eyes.

  The witch was staring at Jeanne, lips curled in pitying disdain. “Don’t you want it?”

  Jeanne drank. It tasted like wine, perhaps doctored with a bitter herb.

  She set down the cup. “Is that all?”

  “That’s enough. Now you are bound to him for all his days,” she said, then began to shout. “Now get out of here!” She turned on the young girl. “Go on! Get out!”

  Jeanne pushed through the door and fled.

  She ran back to the castle, panting, breathless. She was even more frightened in hindsight at what she’d done than when engaged in the daring act; so when she saw Marie she scolded her—and slapped her face as well—for having gotten lost in town. Then she burst into tears. She felt sick to her stomach. What was in the potion—poison? She had downed it without a thought. She refused Baiona’s concerned looks, her offers of help.

  “Go away,” she said plaintively. “I want to be alone.”

  Then she sat at a table and wrote to William that she’d been affianced, and to come save her from the impending marriage, to come please, carry her away, to be there, help! She sealed the letter with wax and went herself to the stables to find a messenger—a gardener—someone. By luck a tinker had arrived. His pack at his feet. A cup of ale in his hand.

  “Will you take this for me to Montségur?”

  “If you pay me enough. I’ll be moving on in two more days.”

  “No, sooner,” she said. “Leave now.”

  “I’ll leave at my own time. If it’s that important, find someone else.”

  “But you will take it to Montségur?”

  “I can go that direction as well as another,” he said, laughing.

  So it went by the hand of a tinker, urgently, to Montségur—but despite the potion, Jeanne heard nothing back.

  At Christmas she stood in the Great Hall whispering her dutiful vows to the gray-haired, elderly knight Gobert, whom she had met only the day before. His face was a geography of folds, furrows, grooves, and drooping eye-pockets. His skin had a faintly bluish cast. He seemed well pleased with his bride, though, and he laughed behind his moustache and tendered her dainty foods from his own plate at the wedding feast.

  Still, the ceremony was curiously muted, even pious. Jeanne went through it numb as a puppet on a string, and every now and again she would look up—or across the table at the concerned Baiona—her eyes filling with tears, while the sounds of the gaiety went unheard. Gobert took her to bed that night accompanied as was the custom by the jubilant clang of cymbals and squalling trumpets, by raucous, festive drunkenness and the noisy appreciation of the applauding guests, who walked them to their marriage bed and who, after she’d undressed and been tucked in, still crowded round to yell encouragement and watch. Gobert laughed and ordered them away.

  Outside, the snow fell in deep, white, silent drifts as chilly as her downcast eyes, as silent as William, who had not received her letter—did not receive it until the spring: too late. By then she was already five months wed, and pregnant. By the time he arrived in Pamiers and asked after her, she was already living in another palace leagues away, now mistress (at least in name) of her husband’s house, though the true ruler was his cool and rigid sister, Irene.

  Jeanne was married, and no one in the world knew of her love for William, unless it was the beautiful wolfhound, Loup-Baiard, to whom she whispered all her secrets. No one knew—not Esclarmonde, nor Baiona, nor Gobert, nor her darling old lady, Marquésia de Forli, whom she had served for one full summer and who had noticed nothing; not even the good bishop Guilhabert de Castres, who gave all credit to God that the tomboy maid, his favorite student, Jeanne Béziers, had become so fine and sober a married dame.

  SEVENTEEN

  I wake up next morning to a cold, white rain that slants in sheets against the little house, rattling the wooden window shutters. It seeps through one hole in the thatch to click on the wet floor. The dirt floor has been mixed with ox blood, I think, and beaten down until it’s hard as rock. Outdoors the rain splatters in the stableyard, lifting gobs of mud.

  Jerome is nowhere to be seen.

  I move out into the muck and find a sheltered place to relieve myself, then come back in, scraping mud off my ancient leather shoes but leaving wet tracks anyway. It is a snug little house, despite its leak, and that can be repaired. My spirits lift. I build up the fire, pulling back the leather smoke-hole flap only a little way, lest the rain find that hole too. The gray-striped mouser comes pattering over on little white paws and mews at me.

  “Watching me build the fire, are you?”

  She settles neatly to one side, tail curled around her front paws. She licks one paw and cleans behind her ears, and I am filled with sweet sensations that I can’t even name. Then I make a pot of porridge, enough for both of us, though I have no idea where he’s gone. After that I sweep the house, rummage around and explore the sturdy, rough shelves and what jars and bags of medicines and tools he keeps around. A farmer’s house. Not wealthy, but no peasant either. Jerome did well on his two hectares. I am looking for a hidey-hole for my treasure wrapped in its green oilskin. At present it lies under the straw in the storeroom, but I’ll need a safer place before the day is out.

  I look for flour to bake bread and when I find it, then I find no oven for the baking. I’ll have to bake in the fire coals, an unsatisfactory method that scorches the outside crust and sometimes leaves the inside raw.

  B
y the time I’m finished, Jerome comes in, bangs the door behind him against the slashing rain. He drips moisture on the floor.

  “Don’t come any farther,” I call out. “Take off your filthy boots; I’ve swept the floor.”

  “Woman, don’t nag.” But he sits on the bench by the door and obediently removes his wet boots. Comes to the fire, rubbing his chapped hands before the flame. “Raw out there today.”

  “Here,” I say. “Have you eaten?”

  “Thanks.” He takes the porridge in two red hands, then reaches into his pocket.

  “I brought you something.”

  “Me?”

  “I went down to the neighbors,” he says. “Bottom of the hill and two miles off. The Domergues. Man and his wife, three children—one married and two helping on the farm. A couple of grandchildren. I told them I’d met you in town yesterday. You’re my cousin, come looking for me from over by Montaillou.” He cocks an eye at me. “Think you can remember that?”

  “Montaillou.”

  “I figured it’s far enough away, up in the mountains. You can cross right over into Aragon.”

  “I’m not familiar with it. I wish you’d said the plains of Foix instead.”

  “Well, maybe you came from Foix before that. Anyway, your husband’s dead, and your children and most kin.”

  “What did they die of?”

  “You haven’t told me yet. I thought the pox.” He shrugs and shyly grins, but I’m startled. Had I told him of my lovely Guillamette? No, because he runs on without a thought. I listen sharply, because our very lives depend on my attention. “I said you’re my mother’s first cousin. My mother’s name was Anne.”

  “Anne.”

  “Who married my father, Arnaud Ahrade. We’ve never met before. So the women will want to come visit later and see what you’re made of. I told them you were mad with grief, talking a little off, so if your story’s confused, it won’t be thought odd.”

  “Did you say why I’d searched you out?” And I feel the tears prick my eyes again, against my will. I grit my teeth. I refuse to cry, though pain is falling drop by drop upon my heart.

  “No.” His voice softens. “I said I didn’t know. I said you were not unpleasant to look at, though, and you looked strong enough to work.” He’s jollying me. “Here, I brought you a present from Alazaïs Domergue. I said you’d only one headdress, torn and dirty, and we hadn’t had time to buy a new one in town.”

  On my lap he spreads the clean white cloth for a headdress, and my stomach twists. I put down my bowl and smooth the cloth with both hands, hardly daring to look up, so precious does it feel. My headdress. He went out in the rain for me.

  “Thank you.” The linen is fresh and cool to my touch. I whisper, “Thank you.” And then I rise that very instant and dress my wild long hair. Exactly what I’d been wishing for the day before! A wimple, white as Mistress Flavia’s. Oh, my most gracious, most beloved God, Who will cover you with His pinions and His faithfulness is a shield and buckler.

  “Well, I’ll stay a day or two.” I’m laughing with pleasure. “Your mother’s cousin’s got some business elsewhere, but she’ll stay for a time, and clean the house and cook for you and mend your clothes a bit. Put her cousin to rights. He’s got no sense: you’d think he could repair a leaking thatch!” I laugh again, putting on my country airs.

  The fact is I like this amiable man. I feel comfortable here, and if the friars leave us alone, I’m happy to give him a hand, in return for shelter. Perhaps in time my hands will stop shaking. I smooth my skirt. It’s been a while since I’ve met company. Real friends. I want to bolt—I’m scared—but at the same time I look forward shyly to the Domergues’ visit.

  Later, Jerome takes the sheep out to pasture and comes back in to sit by the fire, repairing leather for the afternoon. I sew the rip on my skirt. The rain pours down, a furious, hard, autumn drenching. It’s snug and dark in the little house, despite the drip, drip, and after I finish the sewing, I start supper for us, and as it cooks in a pot on the hearth, we tell our stories timidly. He was married, as he’d said before, and his girls have both wed and moved away with their husbands. One girl has two sons. The other keeps miscarrying or losing the babes that are born. That’s the woman’s lot, ever since Adam and Eve were cast out of Eden, and there’s no greater grief.

  “You love them beyond anything,” I murmur. “You never remember the pain of childbirth, but you never forget the pain of losing them.”

  There’s something about the sound of rain, the safety of the shadows, that draws out confidences. “I’ve never stopped grieving for my little girl,” I tell him. “I named her Guillamette after a great friend, and you were right: she died of pox. I thought I’d die myself from sorrowing.” She wasn’t for this world, poor little thing, but maybe she’s richer than us. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “And your husband?”

  “I married twice. My first was when I’d hardly reached full height.”

  “What happened? He died?”

  “I found him in bed one day with his sister. I came home unexpectedly.”

  He laughs out loud. I make a face and shrug, and then I burst out laughing too.

  “Well, I didn’t find it funny at the time. I felt betrayed, and my pride was hurt. I divorced him, though he’d spent my dowry on his wars.”

  “You had a dowry?” His eyes widen.

  “A little one.” Suddenly I’m ashamed, for his daughters certainly went penniless to their husbands. I didn’t know how rich I’d been.

  “Nonetheless.” He nods, thinking the matter out. Then after a moment: “That’s a sad tale too.”

  “Yes. But I didn’t love him. And it happened long ago. It feels as if it happened to someone else.”

  True. The raw hurt lies elsewhere, but I’m not going to tell him about William, after whom I named our little girl—William, the husband of my heart.

  “Are you all right?—What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  I was four months pregnant when Baiona’s letter came. Clutching it, and followed by Loup-Baiard, I ran up to my private chamber in the tower, feeling fortunate that I had so wealthy a knight for a husband that I had a chamber of my own, where I could hug a letter to my heart. My room had a high, well-oiled carved chair and a chest in the same dark wood, a table for my own, and clean rushes on the floor. The table was covered with a tapestry sewn by Baiona’s hand.

  “I’m getting married,” she wrote. “I want you to meet the man I love, and I know you will love each other too. I won’t say another word. Come soon. We are still at Pamiers. I want you to stand as witness at my wedding.” And then news of the castle there, and of one or two friends, and of the wedding date.

  I was happy to leave Gobert and his gloomy sister, with her severe, stern face and sour smell; and as I mounted my horse, she smiled on me—perhaps for the first time with her eyes smiling. She wished me a pleasant journey (patting my thigh in the saddle) and told me to stay as long as ever I liked. And I, poor child, found myself opening to her kindness, starved for affection and grateful to be sent kindly on my way, not knowing yet the reason why. Escorted by two men-at-arms, I rode back to Pamiers, and with each league I grew happier, for I was going home to stand as witness to the wedding of my friend. I laughed with the men and kicked my horse into a gallop, racing with the wind and air.

  When I arrived, I leapt into Baiona’s arms and we kissed like sisters, laughing in our joy.

  “Baiona, you didn’t even describe him,” I chided teasingly. “Who is this man?”

  “You know him.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s William!”

  I was stunned. “William?”

  “Your friend.”

  “Ah! No.”

  “What is it, Jeanne? What’s wrong?”

  “From Montségur?” I asked, certain that I was mistaken.

  “Yes. He said that you were friends.”


  “He told you.” My head was reeling.

  “Don’t turn away. What have I done? Jeanne, don’t look like that!”

  “He’s—”

  “He’s what?”

  “He’s mine! I met him first! He lives”—I struck my breast with my fist—“here! He loves me, not you. We’re bonded for our lives!” I cried, remembering the potion.

  “What are you saying?”

  “He’s mine, not yours; he’s mine!”

  Baiona fell back a step, holding herself with one hand on the wall. “I’m marrying the man you—?”

  “Yes, love! I love him, yes.”

  “No,” Baiona whispered.

  “He only wants you for your money.” I spat out the words. “He has to marry a rich woman. He told me so.” Would I have said it had Baiona not stolen Rogert earlier? I saw her face go white, her eyes flatten, and a thrill of pleasure shot through me that I’d stung her as she was hurting me.

  “Is this some joke?”

  “We coupled there,” I lied. “He pledged his love to me. He wanted to marry me.”

  “Why did you never tell me? He said he knew you, that was all; that you’d met at Montségur. Are you making this up? You never said a word about William when you came back—not a word to me, your closest friend.” She grabbed my hand, searching my angry face. “But you’re married to Gobert.”

  I said nothing.

  “You’re carrying your husband’s child.” She was struggling with the news. “Gobert’s.”

  I smiled wickedly. “Am I? Are you sure it’s his?”

  “Get out!” she cried. “Get out of my sight! How dare you—”

  “My spirit will lie between you on your wedding night,” I cursed her. “I will be present in every embrace.”

  “You lie; you lie!”

  It was then that William entered. He found us separated by the height of a tall man and facing each other off. I don’t know what Baiona was feeling, but I was torn between despair and outrage, both at this woman standing there, shoulders slumped and tears pouring down her face, and at William, who heedless of what was going on pulled us to him, hugging us one on either side and pumping us like bellows because we didn’t properly respond.