The Treasure of Montsegur

by Sophy Burnham

  “So?”

  “So the nobles could have peace if they wished. They have enough to eat. Fighting is part of human nature. They’ll kill in that Future-time as well.”

  I stir the stew, mumbling to myself, as Jerome works his tooled design on the workhorse rein.

  “What are you saying?” I ask finally.

  “Nothing you want to hear.”

  After a time, he stands and stretches to ease his back. “I thought I’d go,” he says.

  “I don’t know,” I respond after a moment. “Maybe…I don’t know. Who is it?”

  “I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman, perfected or not. Just a heretic is all I heard.”

  I drop the spoon at my sudden thought: What if it’s one of my three? My stomach twists, and suddenly my mind is squirreling round its trees, over the branches, up and down the trunks, searching for a way to meet the heretic alone and ask for a blessing. Or for information about what happened to Hugon, Amiel, and Poitevin, the last and holy treasures of Montségur.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the Wall.”

  I shudder. The heretics lie deep in the stone prison, far underground.

  We eat in silence, each lost in personal thoughts.

  “Aren’t you afraid?” I ask.

  He looks at me hard. “Yes,” he says. “I am.” And looks away. Then back in my eyes, direct, but his brow is furrowed with concentration, speaking slowly: “That’s why I take you to church every week, why I want us married in the church, why you should come stand with me in the crowd and watch him burnt.”

  It takes the breath out of me.

  I’m a coward, I think, because I don’t want to see another person burn. A pause. My mind whirling. Then, wiping my hands on my apron, I say, “Well, I’ll go to market with you Saturday. We’ll watch it together.” I’ll go to see if this is one of mine, found and lost again.

  But by the next day, it’s too late.

  TWENTY-NINE

  They rode up the hill at a gallop. They thundered into the farmyard, all hooves and spurs and chain-mail, scattering the chickens, which fled squawking to all sides, and making the goat lunge, bleating, on his rope—as I wanted to do as well. The two armed escorts in their chain-mail jumped from their horses and took the reins of the two friars in their black and white robes. The Preaching Friars, the Inquisitors.

  My mind flew to the Bible Gospels, hidden amongst its secret roots. I wanted to run, wings waving like the chickens. Instead, I stood frozen in the yard, hands hid under my apron, while they pulled up their frothing horses; and so queer is my mind that I found myself marveling at these friars astride their mounts like chevaliers, when they could walk.

  “Are you the woman they call Jeanne Béziers?”

  I nodded numbly. Jerome was running in from the near field, still holding his wooden hoe, limping as fast as possible on his game leg. At the gate, he slowed. Moving on reluctantly. Wiping his hands on his shirt.

  “Can I help?” he asked staunchly.

  Help! I wanted to cry aloud. Help the Inquisitors, was he crazy? Or perhaps he already had—I didn’t know whom he’d been talking to in town.

  “How long have you had this woman living here?” one friar asked him.

  “How long, Jeanne?” he asked, managing to sound all innocent and unsuspecting. “Six months? ’Twas autumn.”

  “What is your name?” asked the second friar.

  “Jerome,” he answered. “Son of Arnaud.”

  “You come too.” And before you could say Jerome Ahrade, the soldiers have us both in leather cuffs and collars, a rope hanging from our necks, like two donkeys.

  “What about my animals?” cried Jerome. “I can’t leave my animals.”

  “A neighbor will take care of them, whichever one you name. We’ll stop and tell them on the way to town.” He smiled, his glittering little piggy eyes disappearing in a fleshy, well-fed friar’s face.

  Jerome turned wildly in place, pulling on the halter at his neck, for suddenly he understood: anyone he named as a friend would be arrested too. The Preaching Friars need no charges to make an arrest.

  “What’s this about?” Jerome demanded. “What am I accused of? Who’s fed you lies?”

  “Come along.” The soldier pulled on us.

  “There are legal proceedings. I’m a good citizen. I’m a Catholic. I live here with my woman. We’re not heretics. Look, I have Christ in my house on the cross. Go look. Over the door. I go to church. I take Communion. Ask the priest. You need a charge, a trial.”

  “Come on. If you’re not lying, you won’t be away for long.”

  “Jeanne?!” He cast another desperate look at me, then turned back to the soldiers. “Let me lock the door,” he said.

  They laughed, but they let him draw the rope through the hole and tie the latch. Anyone with a sharp knife can still get inside, of course. The animals were simply left in the farmyard, with our hopes that we’d be back by night to feed and care for them.

  We were pulled behind the horses, jerked out of our farmyard, and the rusty gate swung squealing closed behind us. The goat bleated and the chickens squawked in outrage, flapping up in the air, but they’ll settle into a soft contented buk-buk once the horses have left. I didn’t have time to relieve myself, and now, with my bladder full and my fear high, I find myself spilling down my legs as we are hurried along too fast.

  “I need to piss,” I cry. “Stop!” And when they walk on, I add, “We’re not criminals. Christ have pity on you, you haven’t even questioned us.”

  One of the friars must have heard, because he stops his mule and motions me to squat right there in the road. Which I do, pulling my skirts around me modestly and loosing a hot stream of nervous urine in the path. It runs downhill to the horse, and I watch it pool around an indifferent hind hoof, but to me the angry piss is flowing on the man himself.

  Jerome likewise takes the opportunity to relieve himself on the verge. And then we are hurried on again, down the rocky hillside road toward town. A thousand thoughts clatter through my mind—about Jerome and the animals, and how Saturday will be the auto-da-fé, the act of the faith, as they call it, in which a heretic will be burnt, man, woman, friend or stranger, who maybe named me before he was condemned to death. Named the crazy hobo-woman in an attempt to save his life. Mistress Flavia, perhaps, turned in by the stableboy? She knew my name. One of the women I met at market in the last six months? The Domergues? The egg woman whom I beat at bargaining a month ago?

  Named me for what?

  “What are we accused of?” I call. They do not answer, but trudge along, lost in their prayers and praise to God.

  Jerome, walking beside me, looks lost.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “You’re here because of me. I should have run away. Jerome, forgive me. It’s my fault.” And at the same time the violent thought assaults me: Was it Jerome who turned me in?

  “Why?” he says stubbornly. “There’s a mistake, that’s all; and when we explain, they’ll let us go. We’ll be home again tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. You’re my wife. No one knows anything more.”

  “Not married.” I correct him.

  “Maybe that’s it. They want us to be married in the church.”

  I glance at him in surprise. Does he believe his own stories now? More likely we’ll both be burnt on market-day with the other heretic; but even as I’m thinking this, I think, I’m already married to this man.

  “I have married you,” I say, and kiss him with my eyes. We walk along in silence then, terrified of the friars and their guards.

  What’s strange: down here in the valley springtime is bursting out in glorious pinks and whites, yellows and greens—green leaves, grass, bush, brush, the earth abloom with joy, and the scent of white apple blossoms and pear and quince warming in the air; while we are led to town like animals, with leather ropes around our necks and the leadlines trailing over the bay rump of the horse afore.

  We come into town
like criminals. Our hands are pinned behind our backs, our necks in leather collars. A hush falls over the afternoon crowd as we approach the market-square. People gather together in pools, shift away to give us room, move back under the protective arches of the shadowed gallery that runs around the plaza, providing shelter from sun and rain. Wherever we pass, a stillness falls, followed by a nervous buzz.

  Some people suddenly find important business at the outdoor stalls or in the doorways of interior stores, and some just stand and stare, turning full-body to watch our progress. Three young boys dash excitedly down the gallery, calling to one another and twisting in and out of the well-clad burghers. One boy throws a rock our way and shouts, “Heretics!” before sprinting straight across the marketplace, dodging around the fruit and vegetable stalls. Followed by his two companions, he plunges down the street by the cathedral, to come out farther down the plaza and throw another stone.

  Jerome and I, in shame, struggle behind the two black-frocked Inquisitors and their chain-mailed guards. Jerome is worried too about the animals. I know him well. His forehead is puckered with thought beneath his old felt hat. I’m concerned for him, because I have seen the Inquisitors. They give no quarter, no merciful shades of gray or blue. And I am worried for myself too, but more for Jerome, who has publicly called me his wife. He’s not a young man anymore, and they’ve been pulling him along without regard for his game leg. He licks his lips, dry as hay, reminding me how parched my own throat is.

  But what if it’s Jerome who turned me in? If it was, it won’t save him. They’ll burn him too. Didn’t he think of that?

  We stop at the Wall. The black gate.

  My fear is so great that I let go my bowels, and then my shame is greater still. A moan escapes my lips.

  Jerome looks over at me. “Are you all right?” he whispers.

  I am praying my Lord’s Prayer, and trying to remember Baiona and Corba and Arpaïs all walking hand in hand into the fire, high of heart, singing and certain of their faith; while I…I glance over at Jerome in desperation.

  I am praying, though, and pleading with God for my life. Then I think about the farm animals. Who will keep a fox or dog from killing the chickens, or one of the neighbors from thieving, taking anything they please out of our yard, our house, picking through my cooking pots or the seedlings on the windowsill? I could imagine old Annie doing that, who lives down in the dell and never nods a greeting to anyone. Or the Inquisitors themselves; I don’t put it past the friars to send the monks from their monastery back up to lead away our livestock.

  “Move!” One of the soldiers pushes me across the courtyard toward another gate.

  “Jerome!” I look back over my shoulder.

  He is white. Even his beard looks spiky and pale, and we are now so far apart from each other that we cannot even say good-bye. The soldier thrusts me ahead of him down the steps.

  “Jerome!” I call out. Oh, I want to say so much: “Don’t lose heart. You’re a good Catholic; they’ll let you go.” I want to shout, “I love you. Yes!” Words never spoken. I want to say, “Trust God.” But doubt catches in my throat and then it’s too late, for I am pushed down the narrow stone corridor so hard that I fall to my knees. The soldier jerks me up and hurries me on, down the women’s corridor, with its darkness and the stench of urine and feces, blood and human sweat, and the muffled calls of two women from behind the wooden doors. The sound of dripping water too. I am terrified. The soldier stops at a narrow wooden door and jangles the lock with his keys. The door creaks open. He pushes me into the cell, slamming the door with a bang.

  It is black. No window. I cannot breathe. It is so dark it wouldn’t matter if my eyes were open or closed, for I couldn’t see either way, and my hands are still shackled behind my back. I am trembling with fear. I stand utterly still, shaking, not daring to move.

  I can see…nothing. Darkness. I can hear…nothing; and then, what’s worse, the heavy sound of silence, a high whine in my ears, and the voices of memory and reproof running wild inside me, like rampant children loose in the castle without a nurse. How long did I stand like that?

  “O Lady,” I prayed. “O Lord Christ, O my angels, I need You now. Most desperately. Help me, I belong to You,” I prayed, though I could not manage devotion and gratitude at that moment, but only fearful, angry, hopeless cries for help. “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy; do not forsake me,” I pleaded. “I have not served You as I should, but I need You. Please forgive me my trespasses as I forgive—”

  And then I stop, for of course I don’t forgive my persecutors as our Master asks. How, therefore, can I be forgiven? I have failed the perfecti. I failed Baiona and failed the hopes of my true mother, Esclarmonde, the one who reared me and tried to teach me the Way, failed her with my sins and with William and now with Jerome, and failed Jerome. And now I am failing the teachings of our Lord. “And there is no health in me, but You, dear God, are most gracious. Look with mercy on Your daughter….”

  I know what I have to do: pray for the Inquisitors. But my heart is cold with hate. I sink to the stone floor praying for the willingness to pray for them. “Lord, help me.” I want to burn them. I want to blind them with hot tongs. Strangle them barehanded, my hands locked on their throats, nails in the wattles of their soft skin. I imagine the white necks that rise beneath those threatening robes. I want to mutilate them for their righteousness, tear off their balls, and force them down their throats—rip their ancestors from their graves and scatter the bones.

  I am panting. Suddenly I realize I have become not more forgiving but less! I am as bad as Inquisitors, consumed by righteousness and hate. Isn’t that what Esclarmonde used to teach me? That the only one I’m hurting is myself.

  “Help me, Lord God, for I hate them with most passionate fury, and only You can remove my anger and help me to forgive them, as You demand. Open my heart, O Lord!”

  The Friends of God would repeat only the Lord’s Prayer, the prayer that was given to Jesus’ disciples by His own mouth. Our Father, who art in heaven… My lips repeat the words now, but my heart is whispering another prayer: “Save Jerome, please God; save my husband, Jerome.” And the farm and animals. And me, Lord God! I’m so afraid. Sometimes I remember to put the prayer into the present tense: “Thank You, God, for saving me. And Jerome. And the animals.”

  I make a bargain: my life for his, although I know God does not bargain, and would not recognize the trade.

  I pray as well for light, because I hate the darkness; I’m afraid of the dark. “Make them move me to a cell with light.”

  And, “Give me light!”

  Wild, terrified, and passionate pleas.

  THIRTY

  I sit on the cold stone with my knees curled to my chest, shivering in the darkness. I have no idea how long I have been here. I am cold. Exhausted. Quivering. I have stopped praying, but now the memories roar unbidden to my mind.

  Courage is not the absence of fear, but going on despite it. I’d happily place myself in any moment of the past, even wandering alone on the mountain after the massacre of Montségur, any moment rather than this one here in the blind dark, my hands tied painfully behind my back. My shoulders ache. It suddenly comes to me how much of my life I’ve spent bewailing my fate; and it occurs to me that if it was wrong to do so in years past, when I had my youth and freedom, surely it must still be wrong, locked in my prison cell. The Lady Esclarmonde used to say that happiness is a state of mind, a habit to be cultivated.

  I set myself again to prayer, struggling for gratitude against the cold. He giveth power to the faint, says Isaiah: They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary, walk and not faint.

  It takes a long time, but eventually the soothing words begin to spin their hypnotic effect. Our Father, who art in heaven—in the heaven of my heart; and slowly I feel myself relax, feel the fear seep out, feel the loving Presence softly running to my heart. My head on my knees, I’m rocking, eyes shut, blind against the dark. Our
Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name—and as I finally (after what seems hours) reach these lines for the hundredth time, I am aware that I’ve grown calm.

  Thy Kingdom come…

  The light…?

  Thy will be done. The room is filled with Light. It is a being of light. I stare at her with awe and joy. “Come,” she speaks in my mind, by thoughts moving from her mind to mine. She holds out her lovely hand and I am ravished. “Come with me.” My Father, my Mother, the Kingdom in my heart. She is white, so blinding white, yet it does not hurt my eyes. My lady of the meadow.

  Give us this day our daily bread—and this is the rapturous bread I wanted, I am awash with Light. I feel my very bones might crack with joy. I swoon into the Light, so filled with love that at that very moment I am only Love. I hold no rancor for Inquisitors, Domergues, for William, Jerome, Baiona, stableboys, or any other frightened traitors. This is what Christ was teaching, when he said to love your enemies, when he said, Feed my Sheep. I am overflowing, my cup running over. My soul is lifted up, the eagle that flies high, so high, into a sky of love…. The Light is pouring through me, enraptured by the Light.

  She has gone. I’m in darkness again. Yet my soul is throbbing, full, and I am no longer afraid.

  The guard comes in with water in a pitcher. I squint against the torch. It throws great shadows round the cell, but I blink against the torchlight, seeing my surroundings for the first time. The walls are damp, though I had known that by the feel and smell. A little dirty straw covers the stone floor.

  The guard pushes me aside. “Get over there,” he says, and “Here!”—pulling at the thongs that bind my hands. They fall. My hands are free. I want to speak, but my tongue stumbles on the words. I feel dizzy. I see in one corner a drain in the floor, and think, fuzzily, Good: that is the privy, if I can grope to it again. He tosses a piece of bread into my lap. The jug of water is on the floor.