On the other hand, he couldn’t bear the sight of her lately. He felt a chill now even as he took her dish of soup. Guilt.
Were there good witches as well as bad? Certainly Jeanne had cast a spell on him. Hadn’t he saved her from the Inquisition on their very first meeting, bewitched by her beauty; and even now, when he knew how dangerous she was, what kept him from turning her in? He wouldn’t use the word love; love was for knights and barons and romance tales, not for the likes of him. But if she were to leave? His stomach twisted at the idea.
Well, take another matter: her healing properties. She said it was “the energy of love” that she conveyed; and the sickly Domergue boy, Gaillard, was getting well, no doubt in that, the way he walked more easily. Moreover, she had delivered the daughter-in-law’s baby.
Jerome’s thoughts turned to the Domergues, because right now, while he worked with his ax, Jeanne was taking Bernadette another of her healing teas. The girl was dying, never having recovered from the birth. Blood poured from her. She lay in bed, tossing and moaning with pain, one moment moist with fever sweats, the next with her tongue swollen and her dry skin hot as fire. She thrashed with hallucinations as the fever climbed. She thought her mother was a stranger; she said she was swimming down a warm river (she who didn’t know how to swim), or else a rat was chasing her. Jeanne reported these things.
They wrapped her in wet cloths, Jeanne said, to bring her fever down. They put her in a tub of cool water until her skin stopped burning, and then she began to shake with chills. Her abdomen was a rock, yet so tender to the touch she cried aloud in pain. She was too weak to take sustenance. A thin gruel dribbled out the corner of her mouth onto the dirty pillow whenever anyone tried to give her food. She had no milk; her breasts were hard as rocks, as hard as her belly, and the baby had been given to a woman far off in town who had a baby of her own still at her breast, a wet-nurse, and Bernadette was dying, so that the mood in that little house was different from the celebratory atmosphere immediately after the baby was born. Now all was dark and grim at the Domergues—one more concern for Jerome, who already had more on his mind than any man should have to suffer.
Jeanne spent much time down there these days. Alazaïs was in tears, she’d told him. They’d even called the doctor in, little as they could afford that murderer. He’d bled the girl and growled at childbirth in general and left his own black concoctions that made her vomit when forced down her throat and that threw her body into paroxysms. The doctor said he was calling her soul back into her body, calling her into life. Then the priest had come and shriven her, calling her to death. Jeanne had reported these things too.
But what was most disturbing: Jerome remembered how the baby’s face was black. He had leaned down to see the newborn lying in its mother’s arms, and just as he’d bent forward, the baby had yawned and opened its eyes. He’d seen that the whites of its eyes were black as Satan’s eyes must be. The infant had looked straight up at him with its mud-brown stain. Jerome had crossed himself. Alazaïs insisted it meant nothing, that her own son, Raymond, had been born with bruises on his face and bloodshot eyes, that the baby’s skin and eyes would clear. Nonetheless, at first the wet-nurse wouldn’t touch the boy either. In the end she could not well refuse: the baby had been christened properly, after all; Jeanne had persuaded the woman to give it suck.
Jerome swung the ax again and again, now splitting the logs he’d cut. Every muscle in his body hurt, but not so much as his insides. Are witches Christian? he wondered. Have heretics an immortal soul? If you christen a demon’s baby, and if it turns a proper color white, is it still a Devil-child?
His own behavior with Jeanne had changed these last few days. He’d grown aloof at the same time that she—having told her story—had become more affectionate. Her eyes followed him, appealingly, begging for a pat, a bone. He could not give it. He was in torment.
On the other hand, there was the treasure, tempting him. What if the story were true?
The day before, he’d caught her wrist. “Jeanne. Listen, I’ve been thinking.”
“Always a bad idea.” She’d flashed her wide white smile.
But he hadn’t laughed. “You say you’ve been looking for your perfected heretics.”
She’d nodded uneasily.
“I’m thinking we could both go look for them. We could take the pony and go to the cave where you were supposed to meet. The treasure is still there.”
“That was long ago. Maybe they never found the cave. Maybe they were captured. Maybe they went on to Lombardy without the Cathar funds.”
“Well, what if—”
“No!” she’d said sharply. “No, I won’t hear any more. I’m sorry I told you anything.” Her hands twisting and twining nervously; her mouth twitching.
“No matter,” he’d said. “It was just a thought.” Then he’d turned on her fiercely. “But don’t you whisper a word of what you’ve told me, hear? Not to anyone.”
“No.”
“Not to anyone. Or you’ll get us both burnt up. Do you understand?”
She’d nodded, large, fine eyes looking at him trustingly, and his stomach had lurched. She was like a child. He wanted to shield and protect her. And yet he also wanted to push her away. He wished he’d never seen her.
Yet why shouldn’t they go together and bring back riches beyond description? He’d like to touch the cup of Christ. He would give the Grail to the merciful holy Mother Church, and the gold as well, and maybe buy Jeanne’s pardon—if pardon needed to be bought. But no sooner did this optimism flood over him than his mind flipped to the opposite pole. Who would watch the farm while they went off? How could he suddenly appear in town with coin? He’d be questioned by the Inquisitors—and his thoughts, buzzing like black flies in his brain, stinging, brought no answers to his questions.
His ax rang out, again and again, chopping at the logs. He pushed the terror away, told himself to pay attention to the tree, that’s all. All the thinking he could do would get him nowhere. He didn’t even understand the heresy. The Cathars believed that Christ did not die on the cross but had sailed with His apostles and Mary of Magdala and Mary, His mother, to Marseilles. The Cathars believed that their teachings were descended from Christ Himself, but so did the Mother Church, except that Catholics believed that Christ had died on the cross and then come back to life. The Catholics baptized with water and the Cathars with their hands, the holy spirit; but what was the difference, since Christ himself had been baptized by John with water, and He had healed with His spiritual hands?
The Cathars believed the world was made by the Devil, and there were moments when Jerome could believe the same—when Bernadette was dying in agony, when famine wracked the land, when soldiers pillaged and plundered and plagues broke out, when babies were born crippled, maimed, or not quite right in the head, and when women came into your life, tempting you to sin because they were so useful and so beautiful that they turned your head, their logic twisting good ideas until you didn’t know what to think, or how. Jerome knew, however, that the Bible said God (not the Devil) had created the world in six days, and so that must be true.
He threw down his ax. He would walk to town right now, he decided—pass the night with Bernard, tell some of this story, find out what he should do. He didn’t even stop at the cottage to explain his absence to Jeanne.
When Jerome returned next day, he was surprised that Jeanne didn’t come to meet him halfway down the path as usual, or stand at the gate watching for him. He caught a glimpse of her moving in the doorway of the little house, but before he could lift his hand in greeting or open his mouth, she took off up the hill. He was irritated. Why had she fled?
He went inside and poked the smoky fire. The house seemed desolate and dry without her laughing there beside him. After a bit he went outside and called and called her. She did not answer. Damn the woman, where could she have gone, and why?
At sunset she appeared in the doorway, a shadow against the shadows. No greeting
.
“There you are,” he said. “Why’d you run off?” He knew enough to be the first to attack.
“Where were you?”
“I walked to town.”
“Oh, and you didn’t think to tell me? Just go off and leave the animals. Don’t ask if I want to come along. It wasn’t even market-day.”
“I had business,” he flared up, tired from the walk. Why was she so unreasonable? He didn’t have to tell her everything, did he? He clamped his mouth shut on Bernard’s advice and turned away.
“And did your business have to do with me?” she asked.
“It did.”
He met her eyes then, challenging her. She dropped hers first.
“Here,” he said grudgingly. “I brought you a ribbon.” He pulled from his pocket a length of soft rose satin. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he added.
She turned it in her hands, twisting the lovely color round her fingers. When she looked up, he saw her eyes were filled with tears.
“Bernadette has died,” she said. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
TWENTY-SIX
I wept when she died. Alazaïs and I had spent days at her side, bathing the poor girl and washing linens that got dirty as fast as I could boil them. The Domergue hut is small and darker than Jerome’s. It holds more people too, so that Bernadette lay on a palette in the main room, surrounded by the family—her husband and her brother, Martin, her three children, and then Fays, Domergue, Alazaïs, me. She died in pain and crying for her mother and her little ones.
The priest came and gave her the last sacraments, which made the Domergues glad: at least her soul, they said, would fly to heaven. They’d see her there again. I no longer know what happens to souls or believe in anything. Whatever sacrament is given may be more for the living than for the dead, for I have seen both Cathar and Catholic sacraments and they do not differ except in metaphor—taking on your tongue (in the one instance) the mystical body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, or (in the other) taking into your body the spiritual light and blessing of our Lord. At any rate, Bernadette took the transubstantiated bread, the body of Christ, and died in a state of grace, which meant she could be buried in the churchyard rather than having to lie outside the gate.
“Mother.” That was her plaintive word, whispered so softly I could barely hear her.
Alazaïs was holding her hand, crying, “I’m here. I’m right here.”
But Bernadette could not see her.
“Where are you, Mother? Hold me.”
“I’m here.”
“Where are my babies? I want to see them. Mother!”
Her father, Domergue, held one of her hands and Alazaïs the other, and her husband squeezed between the two of them, trying to say good-bye to the mother of his brood. The little knee-high girl, Raymonde, climbed onto the bed-cover, but the boy, Gaillard, sat far off in a corner, his eyes closed and his head on his knees. I stood against a wall and wept for the girl I’d grown so fond of, wept for this family and for all the loneliness and partings of this fragile life, for my own despair and hurt, for the lost perfecti and for those burnt, for myself and for all the things that I don’t understand.
Afterward, they thanked me curtly for my work. I clung to Alazaïs, but eventually I left and climbed the hillside to our farm, to find the cold house empty, the fire dead, and the cat skittering shyly away, knocking a dish off the table in her haste. Jerome was still away, having gone off without warning or explanation, who knew where. And I was hurt and annoyed and frightened to find myself alone.
When finally he made his way up the hill the following day, I was so angry at him that I ran up the hill to sit and collect myself.
“Bernadette has died,” I told him when we’d finished quarreling.
He grunted, and looked into the far distance, avoiding my eyes. I didn’t know what was eating at him, but that night I fixed cold bread and cheese for supper and took myself to bed, too tired to care. He said he’d gone to visit his friend Bernard, but he didn’t deign to tell me why.
We stand at Bernadette’s gravesite with the Domergues and the rest of our small community. The priest sprinkles her body with holy water and off she goes, wrapped in the shroud that she had sewed herself, dropped down into the black hole, while her family stand awkwardly about. The children cling to their grandmother’s skirts. Her brothers shovel in the dirt. Jerome is giving them a hand. I am no longer crying, my heart hard: I’m scared and at the same time glad—scared because it will happen to me one day, to all of us, and glad that it’s Bernadette and not me being buried in the earth. Yet I know that her soul is not down there: it’s passed into the realms of Light. I know that. Nonetheless, a shudder of fear ripples through me and I hug my shawl around my shoulders. I watch the muscles in Jerome’s back as he shovels in the dirt, and my eyes take pleasure in stroking his sturdy form, the sensitive curve at the nape of his neck, his splayed hands, his expressive eyes, the wind-whipped leather of his face. Imagine, enjoying a man’s body at such a sad moment. Surely, if anyone asked if I were a heretic, I’d have to say no; because a good heretic would never find true pleasure in such lust, much less in other pleasures of this world. But then, neither would a good Catholic; would anyone admit to lusting or to loving as I do?
Something is wrong. Jerome does not look at me. Yet since telling him my story, my eyes follow him like a dog’s. I’m aware of every turn of his head; I quiver when he stands up or sits down. I want to run errands for him, bring him gifts, make him talk to me. Only at night, in bed, does he acknowledge me. Then he turns to me in passion and wordlessly takes his rough pleasure, and rolls off; but occasionally he is gentle, as before. I don’t know what’s happened. For just when I think he does not care for me anymore, he does something special, like last night when he embraced me, breathing in my scent and holding me so tightly to him (was he crying?) that I couldn’t have escaped even had I wanted to.
“You are my treasure,” he murmured in my ear. His mouth reaching for mine.
By day he goes into brief, sullen silences, walking around me, head down, as if he does not want to see me. We spend each Sunday in church, now, and this is surprising, for did he not confess, when I first arrived, that he attended only sparingly? He had no time, he said; he didn’t like the sermonizing. Now he even walks over sometimes on a weekday night and kneels on the cold stones in prayer, as I found by following. I spied him there. Why is he praying? What is he praying about?
“Is something wrong?” I asked timidly.
“Nothing.” The answer curt.
“Why do you pray in church so much?” I asked another time.
He answered with a grunt.
It can’t be the Domergue baby: his long-lashed eyes have turned a proper black with pure, clean whites, like any Christian babe. He is as pretty and sweet a smiling cherub as anyone could want. Poor Bernadette.
Another day Jerome approached as I fed the chickens in the yard. “What’s your opinion of marriage?” he shot at me out of the blue. “A proper marriage, blessed by a priest of the holy Catholic Church?”
“Is that a proposal? Are you asking me?”
“You’d have to be baptized.” His voice hard. “You’d have to be a good member of the Church. No heresy.”
So that’s what was bothering him. “Yes.”
“Well? What’s your answer, woman?” Again the cloud of anger on his brow. “Or do you want to live in sinful lust and concubinage?”
“I said yes,” I answered testily. “I will. Isn’t that enough?” That night we hardly spoke to each other, because we’d agreed to marry and it frightened both of us. But the next day and in the days following, we start to move around each other less tentatively, each day coming a little closer, every now and again our eyes meeting and dropping shyly; and then we begin to smile at each other again. This will be my third marriage, a comedown in status and a go-up in happiness. I laugh again, as I used to. I start to lift my voice and sing as I go about my work. At nigh
t we lie together, whispering. Making plans.
Our first task is to talk with the priest, and we do this on Sunday after church. He seems pleased with us, rubbing his hands together and smiling and bobbing his head as if he’d come up with the idea all by himself. He says he’ll read the banns the following week, and as we walk home together, Jerome and I, down the glade, with the bare trees quivering under a gray winter sky, I feel a weight has lifted from Jerome. Just a few words from the priest, and he’s his old self, cheerful and easy with the land, his animals, and me.
The following week we stand together in the church, shy fingers intertwined, and listen to our names read out. The others are looking at us curiously. Jerome holds my elbow possessively as we leave the church, and my head is proud and high. Three Sundays in a row the priest will read aloud our intention to marry, as he is doing now, and on the fourth we’ll stand before him to offer our wedding vows. Would we each (in turn, by name) agree to honor and respect each other, and live together and help one another in sickness or health? I will: that’s the answer I shall make. Meanwhile, we take instruction from the priest in our marital duties.
Back at home after church I whisper the words of commitment to myself: “I will.”
“Do you promise…?” he shall ask, and I shall respond, “I do,” or “I will.” I let the syllables roll off my tongue, my lips pursed in a kiss, “I oo; I oo-ill.” I laugh to myself, because the pledge is sealed with a secret kiss blown from heart to heart.
Our marital duties, according to the priest at our first instruction, are severe: we are never to make love except for procreation of children, and then only with the man on top. This puzzles me, for I am too old to have children, unless our Lord should bless me like Sarah with an old-age babe; and as for the one church-blessed position, I don’t tell the priest all I know or have already done, and neither does Jerome, although I can see the teaching hits him hard, for Jerome is more serious than I, and if these things we’ve done are sins, then we have already lost our souls.
The Treasure of Montsegur Page 27