The ancient Bishop Marti shook his head. “Our diet contains no animal flesh. We do not require those services.”
“If he can get up and down the mountain so invisibly, he should help with messages and transport,” said Raimon.
“I would be happy to help in any way I can,” Ferenc said, adding to himself, as long as we have to stay here. There was something surreal and unsettling about this place. He did not want to be here any longer than required. Percival was a little strange, but so were all the rest of them.
“I should orient you all to the fortress before anyone does anything,” said Peire-Roger, stepping in over his father-in-law’s conversation. “And then I’ll send the lad to Matheus. Matheus is headed off the pog today but he can introduce him to some of the other fellows in scouting and supply.”
The sky was bright, dazzling blue as Ocyrhoe made her way from the watchtower up the crest to the barbican and the northern entrance. She grinned, remembering how terrified she’d been of these heights a little more than two years ago. Now she felt as much at home as a bird would, even in this whipping breeze. She loved the panoramic view; she loved her own agility scrambling up and down the mountain, her ability to disappear and reappear almost at will. She suspected she was redirecting some of her Binder abilities into non-Binderlike activities. But did that matter? She lived in a world where nobody knew or cared about the Binders—certainly nobody had called her out as one, and she openly wore the knots in her hair as a reminder of her lost sisters in Rome.
She was beginning to feel truly at home here. The younger children were fond of her and wanted to learn to climb the mountain like she did. She was used to the meatless diet and the strictness of the Good Ones. They did not forbid the troubadour faidits from performing in the evening, and they did not prevent her from studying the stars, which were impossibly brilliant and clear. She wished she knew more about the stars. She wished she knew more about a lot of things.
She hardly noticed the thrill of danger as she crossed past the barbican and took those several dozen strides along the thinnest strip of mountain crest—three paces across, and the pog’s north and south limestone faces fell sheer away to either side. And then, the sanctuary of the fortress itself. She signaled up to the wall guards; one of them called out to the porter below, and she was immediately admitted. She wanted only to see if there was any breakfast left, and to stop by the chandlery to greet Rixenda; the rest of the day was hers to rest and recover from her travel, and despite her hearty enjoyment of the morning’s briskness, her entire body sagged with exhaustion. She could hardly wait to slip between the covers of her hard, little bed in Rixenda’s hut, and sleep.
The courtyard looked like it did most chilly mornings: emptier than in the warmer months, people wrapped in mantles or blankets hurrying from one needful place to another. Artal and Ferrer, who had joined the fortress company shortly after Vidal had, nodded to Ocyrhoe. Artal’s hat blew off in the wind. A wan young noblewoman en route to the spinning shed caught it and handed it back as their paths crossed. Artal nodded thanks as if they were peers; she took no offense at his lack of deference. Ocyrhoe loved that about these people.
She was about to take herself to the kitchens below the keep when she noticed Peire-Roger leading several strangers around the courtyard as if giving them a tour. The knight named Percival was with them—Percival, whom she had continued to avoid, for no reason she could really name.
He had donned the black robe of a Goodman the day after Vidal had shown up to convert to Catharism, and so he had been easy to avoid; he’d spent most of his time in prayer and fasting, as he had absolutely no practical nonviolent skills like the other Good Ones did. This morning, however, he was back in his regular clothes. The newcomers must have arrived while she was away to the east these past few days, and perhaps they knew Percival—why else would he be tagging along with them? One of them, a dark-haired man who looked like a Saracen, was dressed like Percival.
The shortest of the newcomers reminded her a little of her friend, Ferenc, whom she had not seen since the day she and the cup took possession of each other. Ferenc, with whom she had spent less than a week and shared no language, but who had become one of the dearest, closest people in her life. Ferenc, who had sacrificed someone he loved to save Ocyrhoe’s life.
Ferenc, who was standing right there in the courtyard, not twenty paces from her, staring at her open-mouthed.
No, it could not be Ferenc. This fellow was taller, broader, well-dressed, and well-groomed. Ferenc had been practically feral. This was not Ferenc.
But he was staring at her as if he thought he knew her. Then he must have decided—mistakenly, of course—that he did know her, for he suddenly grinned widely and held out his arms in greeting. Ignoring whatever Peire-Roger was telling them about the armory, he shouted out “Ocyrhoe!”
He shouted so loudly that even in the brisk breeze, his voice filled the courtyard enough to echo. For a moment, everyone paused in their speech and their action to see who had shouted. He was running toward her now, the sky making his eyes bright. “Ocyrhoe!” he repeated, slightly quieter. “You are here! There is nobody in the world I could be happier to see at this moment. What are you doing here?”
Ocyrhoe froze by the gate, overwhelmed with confusion. She sensed the general courtyard hush. Then she sensed things return to normal, but still she was rooted to the spot. How could that possibly be Ferenc? That man was speaking to her using words she understood—he had a strong accent, but it was not Ferenc’s gibberish.
He was directly in front of her now. If it was Ferenc, he had grown by a head. He had a beard. His voice was low.
“Ferenc?” she said, guardedly.
He smiled. “You know me!”
“How…how can you speak to me?”
He grinned. “The emperor taught me new languages. And other things. I know a lot of things I want to tell you.” He was beaming. She could hardly think. Here was Ferenc.
Abruptly she threw her arms around him and squeezed herself against him as hard as she could. He made a surprised sound and then hugged her too. For a long moment, Ocyrhoe was happier than she had ever been in her life. Even the scent of his skin—which she did not realize she remembered or had ever noticed—was familiar.
Ferenc released her and took her forearm. He began to tap it, and then caught himself, and laughed. “Ha, just like that, I forgot that I can speak to you, all my memories are of the difficulties! Look!” He patted his wrist, to show her the bracelet of her own hair. “You are in my thoughts all the time.”
“Oh…” she breathed, and ran her fingers over the bracelet. A wash of emotion left her breathless, and she felt her eyes well up.
She glanced up at Ferenc. He pursed his lips—such a mature, almost fatherly expression—and nodded with understanding. Protectively, he wrapped his arms around her again, and held her against himself. “You are never forgotten, not for one moment,” he whispered in her ear.
“Or blamed? Or hated?” She was embarrassed by how fragile, how girlish, she sounded.
Now one large hand pressed the back of her head closer in to his shoulder. “Of course not,” he whispered. “I thought you must hate me for not going with you into the world.”
“You had to take Father Rodrigo to be buried!” And then suddenly she was sobbing.
Ferenc squeezed her tighter, rocking slightly side to side in a comforting gesture. She was appalled at her show of emotion, especially in the middle of the courtyard, but it took a moment to control herself.
“All is well,” Ferenc whispered to her. “All is well.”
“What is this?” Peire-Roger demanded sharply. Startled, Ocyrhoe pulled away from Ferenc, and fiercely began to wipe her face dry on her sleeve. Ferenc was blinking rapidly. Peire-Roger’s face, fashioned by nature to always look somewhat suspicious, looked very suspicious now. She knew him well enough to under
stand his pique: This disruption, any disruption, interfered with the efficiency of the day. “Explain this. Whatever it is.”
Ocyrhoe, being the resident offender, took a breath to collect herself, but Ferenc spoke first. “Excuse me, milord. Ocyhroe is a very dear friend. When we were last together, a friend of ours died horribly and then, moments later, we were severed. Seeing each other is very joyful but also reminds us of our fallen friend and the horror of that day.”
Peire-Roger looked searchingly at Ocyrhoe. She lowered her eyes. “That is true, milord,” she said.
He softened slightly. “Is this related to why you fled Rome?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wanted desperately to be alone with Ferenc so they could talk freely, but there was no privacy in Montségur, nowhere at all. And even if they could find a way to talk, the first thing he would ask about would be the cup. She was suddenly relieved she had not brought it with her on this last trip; the queerness of keeping it about her would disquiet him if he realized.
Peire-Roger looked back and forth between them. “May I presume, young man, that you are also not in the good graces of the Church of Rome?”
Ferenc’s barely checked emotions spilled over into bitter humor. “Yes, milord,” he said, with a tenor laugh. “That is a very safe presumption.” He sobered. “The friend I spoke of was a priest, and he died because I killed him.” Ocyrhoe could see how close he was to tears himself. It was disorienting to hear him speak a language she could actually understand. Disorienting and yet enthralling.
Peire-Roger blinked in surprise. He took a step back and Ocyrhoe saw that Percival and the other two newcomers—a man and a woman—were clustered nearby. They looked equally taken aback by Ferenc’s declaration.
“Why did you kill a priest?” asked Percival into the growing silence around them.
“Because the priest was about to kill my friend Ocyrhoe,” said Ferenc, looking at her.
“That is a forgivable reason,” decided Percival comfortingly. “Even a noble reason.”
“Why was he about to kill her?” asked the Saracen.
Ferenc paused, then looked up meaningfully at the man, nodding, and said, “Because a vision had driven him mad and he had lost his reason.”
The dark-haired man made a gesture toward Percival that was noncommittal and yet immediately told Ocyrhoe volumes. She already knew Percival had visions; now she knew what this man thought about them.
“I do not know you, sir,” she said to the dark-complexioned man, “But if you it is who brought Ferenc here, I thank you. I am very glad to see him.”
The man offered his hand to her as if they were peers. “My name is Raphael of Acre,” he said. “And I thank you in turn. I did not know what this young man was made of until he saw you.” He gestured for the other figure to come closer. It was a woman, who held herself like a man and dressed almost like a man—in a more martial version of how she herself often dressed, especially when she was on a mission. “This is Vera of Kiev,” he said. “We are comrades in arms.”
“A friend of Ferenc’s is a friend of mine,” said Vera. Ferenc looked surprised by the declaration. So did Raphael.
“There will be time enough for talk later,” said Peire-Roger roughly. “The morning has started and you all promised to contribute to our labors, so begin. Ocyrhoe, take your friend to Matheus. He will be on scouting and transport.”
Ocyhroe cheered. “With me,” she said to him. “I’ll show you all the secret ways up and down the mountain. It will be like running around Rome, only with no Rome.”
“And no evil cardinals,” added Ferenc.
CHAPTER 19:
HAPPY DAY
Matheus, like so many men in this region, was tall and thin, with a grave, intelligent face. He was perhaps five and twenty. By costume and physical demeanor, Ferenc could not determine what his rank was in this strange little world-away-from-the-world. He was most likely the younger son of some lord, but he could as easily have been a cocky tradesman in hand-me-down woolens. He displayed not the slightest interest in Ferenc’s identity. This suggested to Ferenc that he was close enough to Peire-Roger to trust his judgment. Not everyone in this compound, he suspected, would share that trust.
They met with Matheus inside the great hall of the donjon, in a quiet corner away from the door. On a small stone shelf were several codices, quills, parchment scraps, and a jar of ink. “These are where we keep track of what is coming and going, and who is coming and going,” he said, brushing his fingers over the books without offering to show them. “I don’t know if you read or write, but these aren’t for you. You talk directly to me or my brother, Peire. We’ll tell you where you are going, or who you are finding, or what you are bringing. Do you know the area?”
“I’ll be showing him around,” said Ocyrhoe cheerfully.
Matheus looked at her critically a moment, chewing on his inner cheek. “I suppose you are the person to train him,” he said, almost grudgingly. “You are the only one with no assignment today.” He turned his attention to Ferenc. “We move people, messages, and supplies up and down the mountain daily. There is a team working all the time. She’ll introduce you to the men you need to know and show you what to do. But you look pretty strong, and if you can use a bow, you’ll be called to garrison duty as well. So do not get too attached to scouting and transport.”
Ferenc shrugged. “I will go wherever I am most useful.”
“That’s right, you will,” Matheus said. Again, his brown eyes strayed to Ocyrhoe and then back to Ferenc. “And once she has trained you, you will only be working with the men. Women and men should not be working with each other. It is distracting and causes impure thoughts.”
“It does?” Ferenc said, startled. He felt himself blush, for no good reason, as if he’d been accused of something. He was glad the light was dim.
“This is not the place for that,” Matheus said, as much to Ocyrhoe as to Ferenc.
Ocyrhoe appeared genuinely not to have heard him. Ferenc found her obliviousness reassuring. She grinned at him. “Let’s go,” she said, and walked briskly through the din and dim of the donjon back to the door.
Outside, Ferenc squinted into the bright sun and wrapped his mantle tighter around himself against the breeze. Ocyrhoe trotted down the steps that led into the courtyard; he followed. Up on the western parapets, archers were on duty, arrows nocked, occasionally shooting down the western slope. Around them in the courtyard, other soldiers in pairs were lugging large pails filled with something heavy—fist-sized stones, he saw when they passed by a pair. These were being trundled to the ladders leading up the wall-walks. All of this was done with watchfulness, but just the slightest air of urgency.
“After six months, it’s become routine,” Ocyrhoe said, noticing his gaze. “For our work, there is only so much we can do by daylight outside the walls, but you can meet everyone and I can explain things. And so can you—like how came you to be here?”
They were at the northern gate. A man Ocyrhoe called by name released the bolt to let them out. Ferenc stopped abruptly on the outside of the wall, staring into the air. “Boldogasszony,” he whispered without thinking, reverting to his native tongue. He put his hand over his heart.
“Magnificent, yes?” said Ocyrhoe. “It used to terrify me.”
Slowly Ferenc gazed north to south. His eyes widened at the path directly ahead of them—three or four strides wide, if that, and dozens of paces long—that went to the outer defensive tower. Beyond that, a long bowshot down a gentle incline, was a watchtower that overlooked the entire eastern half of the pog. The slope between barbican and watchtower was mottled with pairs of men, some with pails, collecting rocks to throw down from the battlement, others harvesting scraggly branches from the wind-stunted vegetation to use for firewood.
Ocyrhoe tugged his sleeve, and pointed down the slope to their left
, where a path led to a stoned-in enclosure. “That is where the Good Ones live,” said Ocyrhoe. She had to raise her voice to carry on a conversation, the wind was so brisk. “Me, too. I stay in Rixenda’s hut.”
“That is also where the ropes are hoisted from,” said Ferenc. “I saw that from the ground.”
Ocyrhoe gaped. “You did?” She frowned. “That means others can see it too!”
He shook his head reassuringly. “I do not think so.” He smiled and pointed to his face. “Very sharp eyes.”
“We go there first. I’ll show you how we arrange it,” said Ocyrhoe. “And you must tell me why you’re here!” As back in Rome, she grabbed his hand unselfconsciously, and began to lead him down the path to the Good Ones’ settlement.
His hand had grown over the past two years; hers hardly had, and it felt so pleasantly familiar to him. She squeezed tighter a moment, then relaxed her grip. After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder as they went, her brows raised questioningly: Why didn’t you squeeze back? Ferenc smiled awkwardly and pointed beyond her with his free hand. They were entering the settlement.
They were on the upper of two rocky, terraced shelves in the face of the northern slope. Each terrace was filled with very small buildings, shacks really, made of limestone with some kind of mud-plaster over them. They had no windows, but a rude opening in the top of each released woodsmoke; their doors were wood. They faced directly out over a huge gulf of empty air, from which they were protected only by a stone wall. It was hard to imagine a bleaker place, despite the soaring view: being below the north side of the peak, this natural shelf received little direct winter sunlight, while wide open to the icy, northern winds.
“This is where the Goodwomen live,” explained Ocyrhoe. Still gripping his hand, she pointed to one building that was indistinguishable from any of the others. “That is Rixenda’s, where I have lived the past two years. I’d invite you to visit but only females are allowed inside.” She grinned at him, to reassure him she did not abide too fervently by the rules of conduct here. Ferenc nodded, dazed.
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