The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  If I had my Book and if my eyes could read the tiny words, I could spell out the love of God; or merely hold the treasure in my hands and meditate on Christ, who came to bring us life, vitality, and joy, and bring it most abundantly. Well, here I am lifting up mine eyes, and the hills are beautiful right here. I am in the hands of my Beloved, who leadeth me beside still waters, so that I do not need to leave this farm or worry about the valley of the shadow of death—and neither will Jerome—though (laughing) if I don’t gather kindling we’ll be in want of fire soon enough; I throw on my shawl then and go outside to gather wood. Because I’m going to stay with Jerome; the decision’s made.

  I am bent under the load when I hear the creak of the wooden cart. I do not stop. I want to drag out the sweet, exquisite agony before I turn and see his face. I keep on, but my mouth is smiling, and then I cannot stand it any longer and I throw down the load and turn, my face alight. He is walking by the cart, and my eyes are rewarded for their long wait, because he lifts his hat to me gaily.

  When he comes even with me, I heave the faggots in the cart and walk along beside him.

  “Good day?” I ask.

  “Not bad.” He is whistling under his breath. It must have been a happy day.

  He winds the reins around his bad left hand and puts his other round my shoulder, and so we walk up to the house together, and somehow a decision has been made, and I shall stay till spring.

  That night we eat black maslin bread. I hollow out a shallow hole and pour into each a spoonful of the stockpot stew. We each have a hunk of sheep cheese, and are happy as two turtledoves. He tells me the market news and shows me what he’s bought: salt, a block of sugar, almonds, and mixed spices for the winter. I’m so delighted that I clap my hands. He’s also bought the promised new headdress for Alazaïs—and another one for me, so that I have an extra for a feast day too.

  Tomorrow, he tells me, he will go hunting up the mountain for rabbits, grouse, or other small game.

  “No, don’t. What if you’re caught? Only the nobles have the right to hunt.”

  “I’ve snared small game before. I’m experienced.”

  “We don’t need it,” I plead. “We have a half a pig.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

  But now I have another fear—that something will happen to Jerome. I used to hawk on horseback with the nobility, and hunt deer and elk with the hounds, and whip the peasants off the land; they’d be hanged if the bailiffs caught them poaching.

  “Apparently you used to live another life,” he says.

  “It’s true.” Then I tell him of my memory of the white-hoofed horse.

  “A good-luck memory,” he claims.

  I laugh. “What in the world would make one memory good luck and not another?”

  “Don’t you know the old rhyme?” he asks. Then he chants it for me, all sing-song:

  One white sock, buy him;

  Two white socks, try him;

  Three white socks, nobody knows;

  Four white socks, feed him to the crows.

  I cover my ears in mock agony at his rendition.

  “That’s how you buy a horse,” he explains. “But you saw one white hoof, so it’s luck. I think the horse is me; you should buy it.”

  Laughing, I shake my head at him. We’re laughing. It is dark in the cabin now, with only the feeble red glow of the smoky fire. Jerome is stroking the cat that purrs in his lap.

  “Tell me about the siege of Montségur.” He’s caught me off-guard.

  “There’s nothing to tell.” My voice is hard.

  He says nothing, but tilts the cat off his lap and reaches for my hand. “Come over here. I know you were there.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Tell me.”

  “It was boring, dirty, crowded. We were hungry.” I don’t even try to deny it.

  “I want to know what happened to you. I want to know how you got there. And how you left. I want to know everything.”

  The cat settles by the fire and licks her paw, purring, and cleans behind her dainty ears, and it seems so dark I shake my head, because the darkness lurks behind my eyes, and even the red firecoals do not dispel it. My lips are moving: My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

  “Jeanne?”

  I won’t answer.

  “Jeanne. The siege.”

  “It’s disease, dysentery, dirt, that’s all. Lice and fleas and cold. Did I mention hunger? We were hungry all the time.” Suddenly tears spurt from my eyes and I strike out. “No, no, no!”

  He grabs my flailing hands. “Hush, hush. Whoosh, shh, sh, sh.” And in another moment I am caught against his chest and he is stroking my hair with his quiet hand. “Shhoosh, shh,” he says, and he is kissing my brow. “Shhoosh, there,” until I calm down.

  “It’s good sometimes to talk,” he says.

  I lean against him, one hand stroking the soft, worn leather of his jerkin.

  “There were four hundred people trapped on the mountaintop,” he begins for me. “Two hundred were perfecti.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the other two hundred were—?”

  “Soldiers—either volunteers or mercenaries, who had signed on to support the Good Christians. Their women, camp followers.”

  “And you were one of these?”

  I start to pull away; it’s dangerous to talk of Montségur.

  He strokes my cheek and then he takes my hands between his and blows on them with his breath and then holds them to his lips and kisses them, and that gesture is so gentle that suddenly the words are pouring from my mouth, a flood. I cannot stop: I’ve been so lonely. I’ve been so alone. Yet all I’ve ever wanted is to be loved.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It began on May 13.

  For seven months, until Christmas, we withstood the siege well, all of us crammed into one small fortress. We maintained a discipline: the knights and their ladies and servants had their quarters, and the common soldiers had lesser ones; and everyone had tasks: the bakers, the cooks, the barbers, the steward, the two astrologers, each working so that food could be properly rationed and prepared and a schedule maintained for feeding everyone and keeping order.

  There was a space near the fires for those who were sick or aged, and another area was blocked off for the wounded. The women kept to their own quarters, with their servants—all but the soldiers’ paramours, and the prostitutes that follow any army. The Friends of God kept separate, many in the huts that leaned against the outer walls, but we were all crowded and dirty, and after a time tempers grew short and sometimes snapped.

  At first it was easy, during the spring and summer months, when we still expected reinforcements; Count Raymond would not leave us there, we knew, but autumn came and the nights grew chill; and then the freezing rains began, and later the winter, the worst winter in memory, the stones slippery with ice. It was horrible to be outdoors in the courtyard (full of tents and wooden shacks), and sometimes the sleet turned to snow, with the wind whipping in our faces, in our eyes.

  The French encircled the foot of the mountain, six to ten thousand of them, but we were safe on top: the enemy could not climb the sheer cliffs, while the one well-trodden pathway is so twisting and narrow that we could easily defend it. Any force attempting that climb would have been picked off one by one before they could have grouped to attack. We owned the mountain, and at first, in the early months, we laughed at the siege. I was one of those who roamed the mountain, or slipped through the enemy lines to carry messages. We could still walk down the mountain then, and we knew some of the sentries posted as guards. They came from our area, sympathizers, even though in the pay of the French; and I’ll say that friendship and kinship go a long way, further than coins.

  I carried messages in my head from the besieged soldiers to outlying resistance groups, and sometimes, just as a prank, I dresse
d as an old woman and hobbled through the enemy camp to hear what news I could pick up, or else I organized the young girls to saunter through the French lines and bring us back reports. Sometimes I walked to market to buy supplies—eggs, chickens, root vegetables. It takes a lot to feed four hundred men. But my service wasn’t special. I was only one of many couriers who organized the paths by which the wagons would proceed or sweet-talked a sentry to let us pass. I was strong and tough. By night whole groups of us helped carry basketloads up the steep face of the pog, walking in excited silence lest we be discovered. Our spirits were still high.

  All autumn the men could still go hunting, for though the French had chased away the game with their noise and hounds, our men were able to snare rabbits in their lures and down an occasional deer. But as the days passed, the game grew scarce. By full winter we were starving, eating roots and grains as if we were perfected ones ourselves.

  The boredom was the worst. Confinement led to fights amongst ourselves: a game of dice or chess would suddenly erupt in shouts and fisticuffs, and even swordplay, and then the others would rush to break it up, because we couldn’t afford to fight ourselves. Or else two women would start screaming at each other, competing for a man, or two men would come to blows over a woman or an insult to a wife. After a time we fought discouragement too, for our Count had not come, despite all our messages. He sent word that a great army was being raised to lift the siege and that we should wait till Michaelmas, and then till Advent, and then till after Christmas.

  I had been there since the beginning, since May, and William had joined us only a few weeks later, in June. All during my marriage, I’d stayed apart from William faithfully, but after Roland-Pierre died, we had come bumpily together again, William and I, because I was drawn back to the work. For months at a time we wouldn’t see each other, and then for weeks we’d be thrown together again by work or geography, and our love affair would burst back into flames, always dying down again when we parted.

  Now it happened that we were both in Montségur that summer, once more defending our noble parage and the Pure Ones whom we loved. I was fiercely glad. He was mine at last, to sleep with openly. I belonged to him, and he to me; there was no secret to our relationship. After all, we were trapped up there, isolated from the outside world, and Baiona was far away. This made my time at Montségur pleasant all that spring and summer, when we were under siege and sure we’d win in the end.

  One day late in August, when we could still easily cross the lines, I saw a party filing up the hill carrying provisions. A crowd gathered as usual at the gate, and some walked partway down the mountain to meet the new arrivals, so dull was life. I too had gone outside to welcome the travelers, when to my dismay I recognized one figure amongst those struggling up the path. My heart lurched. How did I know her instantly? Her head was down and her body covered with a heavy woolen mantle that would be needed come winter. She carried a pack on her back. She plodded slowly upward. Perhaps she gave an upward glance as she paused to catch her breath and gauge the distance still to climb. Perhaps she lifted her hand to shield her eyes or smooth her headdress. I don’t know how people recognize each other, when a face cannot be seen. But we do. It’s as if each person sends out a signal or is surrounded by an invisible coloration that cries out, “It is I.” I knew her immediately, from that simple glimpse between the pines.

  I faded back, peering between the heads of others in the crowd. I watched William trot halfway down the hillside to greet his wife with a kiss and take her pack. I crept along the fortress wall, slipped behind the joyous crowd and back into the fort and across the spacious courtyard to the far door on the opposite wall. I plunged outside again, and partway down the western hillside, scrambling down the incline until I was alone. I sat down on a rock.

  I didn’t want her there, the wife. William and I formed a couple there at Montségur, bonded by war and love and memories, and by our baby who’d died, and by that magic drink the witch had made for me. I had not seen Baiona in twenty years.

  When I finally went inside again, I found that William had moved my things to another room. The gesture lit a cold fire in my gut, but I said nothing, did nothing.

  For two days I managed to avoid her, slipping through the crowded rooms. Baiona no more wanted to meet me than I did her, but there we were, hundreds of people crawling like termites over one another, brushing shoulders, touching hands. We each had space only as wide as our shoulders for sleeping and possessions, and some slept several to a bed, toe to head, and these private areas were so carefully mapped out, according to rank, that though we might have to slide over one another to reach our own bed, no one stole another’s possessions: honor bound.

  Separated by the length of a room sometimes were Baiona and I, and yet our eyes never met, though I marked her every movement, as aware as a cat is of a cricket on the floor: alert to her every twitch. Did I feel guilty? Yes. And jealous too. It pleased me to see that she had aged. Her skin was lined now, her hair gray. Her eyes were puffy and sunken into dark pockets. Yet from the moment William saw her coming up the path that day, he changed. He no longer brushed up against me in a doorway teasingly, but kept pious company with the men. He waited on his wife, the considerate husband, bringing her a shawl or her embroidery, settling her on a pillow to make sure she was comfortable. He avoided me, or, if that wasn’t possible, gave me no more than a smile or a nod in promise of things to come.

  Old lovers know each other’s ways. I knew to stay apart. I hoped for his return to me, though, and one day I felt an arm encircle my waist from behind. I turned to him with a flashing smile—it vanished on seeing Baiona.

  “Jeanne.”

  My quick recovery: “Baiona! When did you get—?”

  “Don’t.” Her finger almost touched my lips. “Don’t do that. Come. I need to talk to you.”

  Perhaps so, but did I need to talk to her? Reluctantly I followed her outdoors and then out through the back gate. We wound our way to a pile of rocks and each chose one to sit on, side by side, but not too close. It was an overcast gray day with a soft wind ruffling the mountainside. The smell of a summer lightning storm, and in the distance the growl of thunder stalking us.

  It was not chilly, but I wrapped my shawl tight, my hands inside, arms crossed on my chest, crossed against her. She leaned forward, peering nearsightedly into my face.

  “How are you, Jeanne? How have you been?”

  “All right.”

  We circled each other like two dogs, stiff-legged, sniffing, wary, tails stiff and hackles bristling, not quite growling, but nervous and testing each other.

  “And you?” I asked finally.

  “I’m older. You look just the same, though—so trim.”

  “Your hair’s gone gray,” I said ruthlessly.

  “Yes. And yours not so much. Silver streaked. You look…” She searched my face. “Beautiful.”

  Again she took me by surprise. “It’s not easy seeing you,” I confessed.

  “No. Nor for me. But I have to talk to you. I thought about just pretending that we never see each other as we pass, but actually I miss you. And I’m curious.”

  Missed me? Me?

  “I’ve heard reports of you over the years. I heard about your husband’s death, and that of your little girl. I’m sorry. I lost four children too, unborn or stillborn, so I know…. And then every so often I hear about some daring adventure you’ve had. You’re famous. At least William thinks you are.”

  I said nothing. Lost four children. He’d never said a word.

  “He thinks the world of you,” she went on rapidly, the words tumbling out too quickly. “He brings me news, how he’s seen you here or there, always working for the Cause.”

  I watched her hands twisting in her lap. Her gray eyes roamed the heaving, stormy clouds and ranged across the green plain stretched out below and dotted with its white and brown tents and the grazing horses and people like tiny ants. The greens of field and forest changed hue unde
r the darkening sky.

  “Don’t think it’s been easy for me,” she rattled on, running her words together. “I’m not complaining; I’m just telling you. You know that Esclarmonde didn’t want me to marry William, and many times I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d listened to her. Or if we hadn’t had the wars. Always struggling for money—that’s been hard. And then the children—my being unable to bear children and that’s been a weight on my heart. When William wanted them so much.” (I freeze: William wanted them?) “And then his women, so many women, and always coming to me for money for his next plan or for a new charger or another wild plan to make a fortune—”

  She’d said “many women.” But I’d known that, hadn’t I? Why did it come as a surprise?

  She must have seen my face. “He loves women. Women love him. We used to quarrel over that. Sometimes he’d be seeing two women at the same time. Sometimes three. I’ve learned he’ll never be faithful to me. I’ve accepted that. And his excuses: ‘I couldn’t help myself,’ he’d explain. ‘I felt this mysterious something, it’s unreasonable. I didn’t want to be attracted.’ And then he’d swear he loved only me. He’d hold my skirts as he knelt before me, his head in my lap, clinging to me, and say that he was wicked, no good, nothing, that he didn’t deserve a wife like me, that I should kill him right there, run a sword through him; that it wasn’t worth being involved with him.” Her voice was rising hysterically. “He had these sudden dark black moods. But you know that. You were one of his women, weren’t you?” She laughed, a single bark. “Yes, I see it in your eyes.

  “‘I’ve deceived you,’ he told me once, ‘but I’ve never betrayed you.’

  “And then he’d come galloping back to me with some new scheme for making money. He’s a dreamer, always hatching some harebrained plot, but they rarely come to ought.”

  “Baiona,” I said, but couldn’t manage more.