The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  “Catch it,” cries her mother, still holding the now-swaddled babe. “We’ll cook it for her. It’s good for keeping up a mother’s strength.”

  “Come on, darling, don’t give up now,” I say to Bernadette, pulling down her shift. But her heart isn’t working properly, the heartbeat irregular and weak.

  “She’s dying,” I whisper to Alazaïs. “Put the baby in her arms to suck.” Sometimes that gives a mother courage to go on. But Bernadette’s eyes fall back inside her head and her breathing is too shallow. Alazaïs has to hold the baby to the nipple. It makes small sucking sounds, snuggling, searching, unable to take the breast.

  “It’s black,” I whisper, as Alazaïs had done. “Its face is black. What does that mean?”

  “It means it had a hard time coming out,” says the grandmam starchly. “I’ve seen it before. The poor babe couldn’t breathe. If he lives, the color will go away in a week or so.”

  My hands are on fire now. I cannot keep them from descending on the poor girl’s head. I close my eyes, fainting from the light.

  “We need a priest,” weeps Alazaïs, “to confess her quickly.”

  My hands are stuck on Bernadette’s head. On her heart. On her poor battered belly, and at the bleeding tears between her legs.

  “What are you doing?”

  I feel her drinking in the Light. I rock back, eyes closed, entranced, and let the fire flow into her. I can see it best with my closed eyes: the Light is flowing down from the crown of her head and into her body wherever my hands rest—into her shoulders, around her heart, into her head. It expands out, filling her whole body, seeping, sifting through her soft insides, and down her arms and off the palms of her hands, and down into her poor hurt belly and pouring into her torn vagina, pouring in golden clouds. I see it flooding off the soles of her feet. She is filled with light, enveloped by light. She lies still, moaning softly in her throat.

  The light curls off her feet, coiling back and up to my hands, until she is cocooned in light. She is composed of light.

  I don’t know how long my hands rest on her.

  When I come out of the trance and look around me, Bernadette has fallen asleep. I remove my burning hands, feeling dizzy and not a little sheepish.

  Alazaïs is looking at me sharply. “What is it? Are you a Good Christian?”

  I shake my head.

  “We have to wake her,” says Alazaïs. “She has to pee and get rid of the waste of birth.”

  “And then to bed,” I say, “and let her rest. She needs some soup when she wakes up. Something soothing.”

  Full night has fallen by now. The birth has taken all the day. I am exhausted. Bernadette is moaning in her sleep, and feverish, but every now and again she wakes to nuzzle the baby sleeping in her arms.

  We stir up the fire in the kitchen. Boil up a lentil soup, and soon the men trail sheepishly in with silly grins, carrying the sleeping children in their arms or over their shoulders like sacks of meal, and they are stamping embarrassed, helpless feet. They have heard the cries, the curse of Eve that resulted from wanting knowledge in the Garden. In pain shall you bring forth children.

  Bernadette’s husband approaches the bed. He rubs his palms together shyly, taking it all in.

  “Are you all right?” he whispers, but she cannot hear, her mouth slightly open as she sleeps, her pillow wet with tears and sweat.

  We clean up the birthing chair and set pots of water to boil, to wash the filthy rags. We eat lentil soup with onions and carrots, but there is a quiet, restrained air in the little house. Raymond stirs the fire, breaks into laughter—and then we’re suddenly laughing, all of us, and slapping each other on the back, happy that the birth is done. We have a baby born, a mother still alive. Everyone is laughing and talking loudly, then shushing one another to choking whispers so as not to wake the sleepers, and Alazaïs is elaborating on what happened, so that with each telling it becomes more fanciful.

  “It wasn’t like that!” I protest, laughing. “Not at all!”

  Jerome arrives. From outside, standing on the dunghill, he lifts one corner of the roof. “Is it safe to come in?”

  “Jerome is here!” cries one of the children.

  “Come in,” shouts Domergue.

  “What are you doing, spying on us?” cries Alazaïs, laughing, and then he enters, carrying the blowing wind that makes the fire flare up red and orange like the flame of my heart, and it’s so beautiful! I wonder if God loves those colors best.

  When Jerome seats himself beside me, I put one hand on his thigh in shy greeting. He slyly covers it.

  Bernadette has awakened. “Your wife has delivered the babe.”

  I look up in surprise at what she’s called me, then lean into Jerome.

  Bernadette’s husband, Raymond, stamps proudly around the dark, cozy room, as if he had something to do with all of this, and wipes his moustache, while his brother, Martin, grins and pokes him proudly on the arm.

  “A boy!” He is very proud. “We’ll get the birth registered at the church.” Strutting. If it were a girl, no one would bother with a birth record.

  Jerome gets up to look at the baby, fast asleep on its mother’s breast. I see him start: its skin so dark and bluish-black, but he collects himself.

  “A fine, good child,” he says approvingly.

  “But you should have seen your wife,” says Alazaïs. It is the second time that word is said that night, and neither Jerome nor I denies it. He puts his arm around me proudly.

  “Good woman, isn’t she?”

  “And handsome too,” says Domergue. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve got yourself a good woman. You’ve never looked better these many years than now that she’s come to take care of you.”

  Jerome just smiles a silly grin.

  “I too,” I murmur quietly. “He’s done a lot for me.”

  Domergue pulls out a bottle of wine from the rafters. “This is a time for celebration,” he says, and swaying on his big farmer’s feet, ruddy-faced and weathered in the firelight, he pours us each a tiny drink. “To the babe! What shall we name him?”

  “We shall name him Jean,” whispers Bernadette, “in honor of his midwife, Jeanne.”

  We have a party, sitting at the Domergue hearth. The young boy, Gaillard, climbs as usual in my lap. He likes to lie on my lap, sucking his thumb.

  “Jeanne did it,” says Alazaïs. She takes my hand and holds it to her cheek. “What is this power in you?”

  “Not mine,” I say. “It’s God’s. Praise God.”

  “Look at her,” says Domergue. “She’s shining. You’re shining, Jeanne, with God.”

  I feel it too. I see the light quivering off the palms of my hands—and not only off me, but off everyone. Everyone is flaring with light, light filling up the little house, light pouring off the face and hands of each member of this holy family. Everyone is flaring with light, and my Jerome is too.

  I duck my head, they are so beautiful. “If you only knew. You’re all shining with God’s light.”

  It’s late when we walk home. The stars flicker down at us from a black dome. Jerome rests his arm across my shoulder, and my heart is full, for this day another soul has been born into the world, and I helped. At the door he says gruffly, “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Show off your healing.”

  I say nothing.

  “Are you perfected, then?” he asks.

  I take his hand and hold it to my cheek. “If I were, I could not sleep with you.”

  “I don’t hold with that,” says he. “That’s a custom. It may be that you haven’t taken the habit, but I think God made you one.”

  This night it is I who lead him to bed, and we do pleasurable things to each other in many different ways. I only know that with all the pain I’ve encountered in my life, my Lord—or the Blessed Virgin—has given me a new life. Never have I been so happy as now, living with Jerome, living as a peasant here.

  W
e waken early. Still dark. Lying in bed with my new love, I begin the rest of the story of Montségur, whispering lest anyone might hear.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We made one pitiful last stand to take back the barbican, a sortie on the night of March 1: a failure. We were beaten back, the French coming almost inside our doors, and our men fighting but weakened by ten months of enforced idleness and disease, our teeth loose in our mouths, and our spirits discouraged too. How could we expect to win?

  That same day, March 1, we surrendered, and the next day, March 2, the truce and terms were worked out. During an initial cease-fire our commander, Raymond de Perella, accompanied by forty knights and men-at-arms, dressed in their best (borrowed clothes and scratched and makeshift armor), descended the steep path to the French camp to negotiate the terms. The rest of us—women, civilians, soldiers, and Good Christians—waited above.

  In the afternoon the men returned, climbing the steep path single-file, de Perella walking some ways back from the lead.

  The young boy, Michel, had been climbing in my lap. When the cry went up that the men were back, I stood up with the others crowded at the gate and slung him up onto my hip, searching the faces as the men peeled off on the flat, muddy yard. William had not gone with the others, but remained above with the rest of us: walking on a crutch. I set down Michel with a pat on the rear and said, “Go find your nurse.” Then I joined the mob around the returning troops.

  “Is it all right?” I heard a woman behind me ask. And the soldier’s gruff response: “Not bad.”

  Raymond de Perella, tall and gray-haired with his long horse face, entered the fortress and ascended the steps to the keep, above the crowd. Beside him stood his son-in-law and second-in-command, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, stocky and scowling. Their wives, Corba and Philippa, mother and daughter, held hands one step below, looking up at their men (two husbands, one son), searching for a sign about the terms.

  Two or three hundred people shoving in the courtyard.

  De Perella lifted his hand. Slowly we fell quiet. A cough sounded loud, without the stone-guns thundering in our ears.

  “We have finished,” he said. He gave one wrenching sob and then was helpless to prevent the tears that gushed from his eyes. He was not the only person weeping. He slashed at the tears with his fist. As if his words broke through a wall of sorrow, a wail arose, for suddenly the meaning of surrender swept over us: the perfecti would burn, yes, and the rest of us might languish in prison for life or else be mutilated, and if we ourselves were miraculously saved, we’d see ones we loved burnt or hurt; and such a cry went up as must have rent the heart of heaven.

  A moment later de Perella regained control. Raising both arms high, he brought quiet to the crowd, except in one corner, from which rose a woman’s muffled sobs. Mirepoix called out, “Quiet! Silence!”

  “The terms,” de Perella said, “are generous. We could not wish for more. First, everyone is permitted to remain in the fortress for fifteen days, through the celebrations of Easter. During this period the French will not enter our walls. I have pledged that no one will attack them, and no one will try to escape. I ask that of you. Montségur is ours for fifteen days, to make our farewells and to celebrate the Lord’s passion.” (A murmuring, the buzz of a hive of bees.)

  “During this period,” he continued, “we shall be treated with courtesy and honor.”

  He looked around our small community. We held on to one another, embracing waists and shoulders white faces turned up in rapt attention.

  “To ensure our good intentions, and our word,” he said, “I have offered hostages from our noble families. They are my own young son, Jordan; Raymond Marty, brother of the bishop; Arnald-Roger de Mirepoix, brother of my second-in-command….”

  And so he named the hostages, one by one, who would that afternoon walk down the slope to live for a fortnight in the enemy camp. Each had significant ties to the fortress, to an important family, and to the Cathar Cause. They would be released when the French took possession of the hill.

  “In one fortnight,” he continued, “on March 14, the French shall enter Montségur. They shall destroy it, stone by stone, even to the foundations, which shall also be dug out and removed.”

  And then he came to us: “When the French take over, any civilian who is not a Good Christian may leave Montségur with full pardon for all crimes, and this includes the freedom-fighters whom the French call outlaws and who murdered the Inquisitors at Avignonet.” (A gasp of surprise that these men would not be put to death.) “All soldiers and military personnel may freely leave, together with their baggage and belongings and women.”

  Robert was standing next to me. “Amazing,” he said. “They’re taking no revenge.”

  “Shh”—this from several people.

  “Later,” he continued, “the soldiers may be required to appear before the Inquisition and make confession of their errors. I have been assured, however, that anyone who confesses his errors will receive only a light penance, in the form of prayers or a pilgrimage. No physical harm shall come to anyone.”

  Now a great sigh went up, audible, and the voices rose until our relief was hushed again with shouts of “Quiet! Listen! Silence!”

  “All those who do not re—recant—” He stumbled, the words catching in his throat, and he passed one hand across his cobwebbed eyes. “Those who do not recant,” he finished sturdily, “shall be burnt alive at the stake.”

  We fell quiet. The room grew heavy with silence. Our stunned minds groped with the information, and then another uproar: we had two weeks. I watched as Corba, who that afternoon would deliver her son, Jordan, as hostage, and therefore who might never see him again, took him from her crippled daughter, Esclarmonde, gathering him in against her knees. The little Esclarmonde had already taken the robe. She would walk to her death too. The bishop, aged old man, sat in his chair weeping openly for us, his sheep, whom he had not been able to keep, as our Lord directed. (Feed my sheep, the Christ had asked of us, and Feed my lambs.)We looked around in horror, all of us knowing that the Good Christians, the Pure Ones, men and women both, had each one taken vows. They could not recant.

  De Perella spoke again. “Noble lords, my brave soldiers, ladies, gentlemen, we have suffered together under intolerable conditions, and if there is any justice under heaven’s eye, your names shall ring forever down through the corridors of time, burnt into memory as martyrs, as the true, pure soldiers of Christ. For forty years we have fought this invasion, and for ten months have undergone a siege as hard as that of Ilium. Never has any city defended itself longer or better than Montségur, though it was built as a holy place, a hermitage, dominating nothing, and never intended for war.

  “We thank you, every one. And those who have fallen in battle and who cannot be properly buried—we thank you as well. I pledge you now that any man or woman here who ever needs help has only to come to the domains of Raymond de Perella and remind him that we fought together at Montségur. I will do my best for you.”

  His son-in-law, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, stepped forward then. His voice was likewise thick with emotion.

  “I too, at this sacred moment, thank all the men and women who have fought for our freedom. I thank those heroes who climbed up to help us. I too pledge that if ever I am able to help any who fought beside me at Montségur, man or woman, and I fail in that duty and delight—may heaven strike me dead!”

  And then it was over.

  We milled about. We worked our way through the crowd to reach our special friends. We clustered in small family groups, some talking, some simply holding on to one another silently.

  The soldiers were free to leave. Where would they go? How live? The rest of us were free, if we confessed our errors, recanted the Church of Love. And the two hundred perfecti, contemplatives, those pure ascetics? Some had lived as hermits for many years. I clung to my friend Arpaïs. I could not stop my tears. The perfecti were the best and gentlest, most loving, wisest, and most forgiving
people this world has ever known. It was unjust that they should die: it should be us sinners, soldiers, slayers of God’s word.

  Later that evening Baiona found me in the common room. She pulled me urgently aside. Her eyes were dry and bright. “Jeanne, I’m going to take the consolamentum.”

  “Baiona!”

  “Yes,” she said, smothering me with kisses. “And you will too. Jeanne—my dear, dear friend. William’s taking it as well. We’ll all of us be together. Forever.”

  “Us?”

  “Come with us, Jeanne.”

  My mind reeled. I stared at her. I didn’t want to die. But she stepped forward to take my arm again. Her eyes glittered.

  “We’ve always been together, a trio, loving one another. We form a trinity.” She laughed wildly. “Remember William saying that? And it’s true. Come with us.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Oh, Jeanne, you love William. And he loves you. And I love you and William, and you love us both. When we take the consolamentum, that’s what’s important, and then we’ll be together on the other side. Say yes. Say you love me. Say you’ll come with William and me.”

  “Let me think,” I said, taken aback. “I’ll think about it.”

  She threw her arms around me. “Oh, my darling Jeanne. We’ve been best friends since we were little girls. In a way we’re both married…”—she gave a high-pitched, strangled laugh—“to the same man and to each other. It’s only right.”

  “Let me think,” I repeated numbly.

  My mind was whirling, for here were the Pure Ones, the Cathars, believing in the worthlessness and baseness of the world, who had spent their lives in abstinence from marriage, wine, eggs, milk, meat, from godless gossip and idle thoughts, hating their bodies—“the grave that you carry around with you,” as Guilhabert had once described it—these perfected mystics who believed that only the soul, like a spark from an invisible world, is truly good, and that it is seduced by the demonic powers who created the illusory joys of the world—and these wanted to hurl themselves into the flames that would release them from the chaos and send them to the Light. I had lived all my life with the Good Christians, and yet I was a heretic among heretics; for I cringed from this passionate optimism. I wanted to live.