After seeing that all were fed, Raphaëlle said: “Come, we must depart. Jehanette, help me.” With Jehanette’s assistance, she was once again astride on Zephyr.
Suddenly there was a shout. Two of the men-at-arms fell, struck by arrows before they could raise their shields. Margot stumbled to the ground. Raphaëlle caught a glimpse of men on dark horses coming down onto the trail. “Everyone take shelter!” she cried to the pilgrims, as she sought to hasten to Margot.
Sir Gérard was there, grabbing her bridle and pulling her horse along. It took her a moment to realize what was happening. Instead of defending the people, the knights had jumped on their horses and were running away – and taking her with them. “No, no!” she protested.
“All men follow me!” he shouted. She saw that Sir Alain had put Jehanette back on her mule and was pulling her along behind him. The pilgrims were in disarray as the bandits surged around them.
“No!” Raphaëlle cried. “We must go back – defend…!”
But no one was listening to her, or even pretending to do so. Making her choice, she jerked the bridle quickly out of Sir Gérard’s grip and reined in her horse. Before he could recover, she made an acute turn; the mare’s hooves slid on the broken rocks of the path on the edge of the cliff, but she righted herself on the stirrups. Ignoring Zephyr's wild neighs, Raphaëlle galloped back to the fray. The pilgrims were huddled together, weeping and wailing. Margot was still lying on the ground.
Raphaëlle's sudden return seemed to have frightened the bandits, who pulled their horses back as the cursing Sirs Gérard and Alain galloped down upon them. Within moments, the men-at-arms had returned and the two bands faced one another, swords and spears drawn. Raphaëlle leapt down and rushed over to Margot, who lay motionless on the ground. The pilgrims, sensing that Raphaëlle was their protector, massed behind her, holding either crude weapons or their sacred symbols of pilgrimage, hoping that these would protect them.
“Mademoiselle, you have forced us to this,” Sir Gérard grumbled to her.
“I said you and your men could take on these brigands,” Raphaëlle affirmed in an undertone. “And keep a civil tongue in your head.”
Sir Gérard said nothing, but nodded to her left. Suddenly another group of brigands poured down into the valley, blocking their retreat. Within moments Raphaëlle realized that they were surrounded by a thorny hedge of spears and arrows, borne by about two dozen men with black masks.
“This was an ambush,” Sir Gérard said. “And you, Mademoiselle, have landed us nicely within their net.” There elapsed a slice of infinity, when nothing could be heard but the moaning of the wind and the oblivious chirping of the birds.
Then Sir Alain spoke. “Come, now, Raoul de Cambasque!” he called into the throng. “I know you are there. Come now, I am your kinsman. We mean you no harm. Let us depart in peace!” Without altering their aim, the crowd of bow and spear men parted, and a burly, black-haired man stepped from their midst. A tangled, sooty beard trailed down the front of his leather jerkin. He removed his mask, revealing eyes as cold as they were relentless.
“You are no kinsman of mine, Alain de Bartayrès!” retorted the rogue. “You serve the Whore of Babylon! I will not treat with you, but neither will I kill you, for you fought with us against the Franks. I will let you go free if you surrender to me the papist maiden!”
There was a murmur of horror from their group, and the brigand leader spoke louder. "I know she is here: it is rumored far and wide that you come to bring more popery upon us through the marriage!"
Sir Alain tried to hide Raphaëlle with the body of his war-horse. “Begone!” he replied. “The lady is the ward of the Baron de Marcadeau. Do you seek a quarrel with him?”
Raoul brandished his sword and took a step forward, as did all his men, closing the circle upon the travelers. “Surrender the maiden to me at once!” His harsh voice became more menacing. “We will have no popery here!”
“Slay me if you will,” said Sir Alain. “If you do so, there will be many in your company who will taste death this day.”
Raphaëlle stood up to face the brigand. “I am the Vicomtesse de Miramande. You, Monsieur, are showing yourself a coward. Let us pass!”
Raoul laughed bitterly. “So you are to be the bride! And young Raymond is to do the honors! Ha!” His eyes fell upon her white cheeks and a grin spread on his face. “So the rumor was true," he said. "But the rumors did not say how lovely the lady was." He grinned. "Have you a heart, lady? I see you are kind enough to bestow your patronage on pilgrims. What about me? The Franks slew my family, burned my home, set me into the wilderness!” His voice became wheedling. “Will you not come with me? You need a man, not a pale sop for a husband. And you will enjoy it, I promise you.” He stretched out an arm and snatched at her cloak, dragging her towards him.
Raphaëlle tried to jerk away. “Let me go! You have no right!”
Raoul grasped her tightly. “I see you have spirit! Give her to me, Alain, so I can at least hold her for ransom! Have pity on your poor kinsman! I have to make my living some way!” Jehanette, uttering a shriek, threw her arms around Raphaëlle.
“Raoul, you are a fool! You will bring war upon us again!” cried Sir Gérard. “Every knight in Auvergne will descend upon our country if you kidnap her. Go home!"
“Go home!” commanded another voice. Every head turned to look back upon the high mountain path which they had just traversed. There, on a dappled destrier sat a tall knight, black mantle and surcoat over his gleaming mail, bearing the emblem of a single eight-pointed white cross. Behind him was another knight in similar garb, riding on bay stallion. “Begone, Raoul de Cambasque, or you will have to contend with us!” exclaimed the first knight, and he charged forward wielding a mace.
A shout came up from the brigands. “It is Revel-Saissac! And Gaston de Béarn!” Seeing their alarm, Sir Alain seized the opportunity and lunged at his cousin Raoul who parried the blow with his own sword. Arrows flew; several men-at-arms fell, as others leaped into the fray. Sir Gérard darted in front of Raphaëlle and her friends, blocking the attempts of several of the rogues to lay violent hands upon her.
“Quickly!” she cried to Jehanette, as they each grabbed an arm and dragged Margot out of the skirmish to the shelter of an oak tree, sliding on leaves and acorns, where they huddled against its trunk. Before she was able to get her wits about her, Raphaëlle felt powerful arms going around her waist, and smelled rotten breath, hot against her cheek and neck. It was none other than Raoul himself. Like lightning, she drew a bejeweled dagger from its sheath at her belt and slashed at the villain’s hand. He yelled and flung her to the ground. Near her pounded the hooves of a warhorse. There was a clang and the mace of Revel-Saissac buried itself in Raoul’s shoulder as he screamed in agony.
Revel-Saissac leaned towards Raphaëlle, who dizzily got to her feet. She looked up into the face of her rescuer. A pointed helm covered his head and neck, the visor uplifted. His aquiline nose and lofty brow belied a boldness of character, while dark eyebrows and thick lashes heightened the reckless blue flash of his eyes. His tanned complexion was clean-shaven except for the black moustache and short, trimmed beard on his chin. She supposed him to be about twenty-five years old. Instinctively she drew back, wielding the dagger, but seeing the emblem of the white cross upon his mantle, she lowered her weapon. He was a Knight Hospitaller, of the Order of St. John, the holy order sworn to protect all travelers. Mutual recognition flashed between them, although Raphaëlle swore that she had never before seen him.
“Come,” he said, in a voice thick with tenderness. “Ride with me.” She barely realized what was happening as he lifted her into the saddle before him.
Chapter 2: The Knight Hospitaller
“Wait!” exclaimed Raphaëlle, as they rode down the trail and into the forest. “I cannot leave my attendants!”
“It is you the bandits want, not your servants. My comrade, Sir Gaston, will see that your people are protected,” replied
the knight. “Besides, I felled the bandits’ leader. The rest shall surely flee.”
It occurred to Raphaëlle that she was allowing herself to be carried off by a stranger, and she began to struggle. “Put me down,” she demanded. She felt his left arm tighten around her.
“Steady there!” he ordered. “No, Mademoiselle, I am taking you to safety.’’
“Who are you?” “I am Martin de Revel-Saissac, a Knight Hospitaller of Saint John. Our Order guards the pilgrimage routes to the sacred shrine of Santiago de Compostela. We were journeying there when I came upon you. There were others traveling with us, but they were delayed by sickness. It is fortunate that we did not tarry with them, or we would have been too late.”
“Where are you taking me?” “To the Château de Mirambel, which the peasants call ‘The Castle of Light.’ It is your destination, is it not, Lady Raphaëlle?”
“How do you know my name?”
“We make it our business to know who travels on the roads and for what purpose. My best wishes to you on your betrothal … and forthcoming marriage.”
Perched rather precariously as she was on the front of his saddle, her legs over the one side, her back cradled against his arm, she tried nevertheless not to lean against him any more than she could help. His breath upon her face reminded her of spiced wine, and notwithstanding the sweat of battle and of horse, there emanated from his garments the mingled scents of clove and calamus from Jerusalem. “Thank you for coming to our aid,” she said, as she jostled along. He only smiled in reply, a smile warm and infectious. “So am I to understand that you are a monk, a monk who fights?” she asked, as Sir Martin’s steed cantered along.
“No, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir Martin. “Rather, I am a soldier with vows. It is a very different thing.”
“I do not see any difference. After all, a vow of chastity is a vow of chastity. My aunt is a nun and so I know all about it.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Believe me, there is a difference. But lo, there is your uncle’s castle.” They had come to where the forest opened again onto the mountain road. She found that she was looking across meadows and fields, to a large hill in the midst of a valley, upon which presided a stone fortress. The sun, sinking behind the mountains, sent forth its farewell beams upon the edifice, causing the castle to glow, radiant against the backdrop of dusky hills.
“You see that it is well nick-named ‘Castle of Light,’” commented Sir Martin. “Mirambel, surrounded by six mountains and seven valleys, was long ago a Moorish stronghold. Charlemagne and his army once besieged the castle which was occupied at the time by Mirat the Saracen. Not even Charlemagne could penetrate the fortress. Suddenly an eagle appeared in the sky. It dropped an enormous fish at Mirat's feet. The clever Moor grabbed the fish and waved it at Charlemagne to make him believe they had food in plenty. Charlemagne was preparing to depart when Turpin, his friend and Bishop of Puy-en-Velay, became inspired and was granted permission to go and talk to Mirat. The bishop proposed that Mirat surrender, not to Charlemagne but to the Queen of Heaven. The Moorish leader was pleased by the suggestion and was baptized. He laid down his weapons before the Virgin of Puy.”
“Puy-en-Velay is where I am from,” said Raphaëlle. “What a strange coincidence.”
“Indeed,” continued Martin. “The lords of the castle have long held fealty to the Comtes de Bigorre and yet, due to the remoteness of the location, they have wielded great power in the region and an almost independent authority.” He peered upward. The clouds were breaking up and swirling away in the wind, which swept in the stars. There would be no storm after all. The horse had slowed to a walk.
“I hope I am not inconveniencing you, Monsieur,” said Raphaëlle. “Not at all. I had already planned to stay the night at the Château de Mirambel.” “Then you are acquainted with my uncle. He must be a very powerful man. Are you his friend?” asked Raphaëlle. Sir Martin hesitated a moment.
“Well, we fought together against the Franks.” Raphaëlle gasped. “You fought against the Franks! Against King Louis the Lion! What kind of a Catholic are you?!”
“I am one who defends the weak and the innocent from invaders. Have you not heard of the dread massacre at Béziers nearly twenty years ago, when Simon de Montfort had every man, woman, and child put to the sword, both Cathar and Catholic alike?! Why, even those who took sanctuary in the cathedral were slain, including monks and nuns! Or eight years ago at Marmande, when Louis the Lion had all the citizens slaughtered! What began as a holy crusade against the Cathars ended in a pitiless war of conquest! My family is from Languedoc! Should I have stood by and allowed them to be killed? I think not!”
She was awed rather than frightened by the fierceness of his tone. “Do not speak to me of death, Monsieur. Both my father and my betrothed were killed by the heretics while fighting on the side of the King. I am sorry your people have suffered, but you are not the only ones.”
“Forgive me, I did not know,” he replied. “But there are things you must understand, Mademoiselle. Many, many of our people were disinherited and driven into destitution or brigandage. Take Raoul de Cambasque, for example. He was once a great baron. He is now a faydit, a landless robber. True, he was raised a Cathar, but his wife was a devout Catholic, a great and noble lady, to whom he was devoted. She was brutally murdered by some of De Montfort’s men, as were his four daughters. No wonder Raoul is a bit mad. I pity him, which is why I did not take his life just now.”
Raphaëlle said nothing. Her revulsion for Raoul was too great for her to have compassion for him. Nothing could justify what he would have done to her, had she fallen into his hands.
“I fought beside your uncle against the Franks,” continued Sir Martin. “Together we defended the Château de Mirambel, which has been twice besieged, but never overcome. There exists now a tenuous truce and no strife since the death of Louis the Lion, except between individual barons, and with the bands of robbers, of course. Yet I fear it will not last long. Since the death of Simon de Montfort in 1218, Comte Raymond de Toulouse, always an ally of the Cathars, has been able to rule again. However, the Franks have a strong foothold in the south. They hold many towns and fortresses. If Raymond VII rebels against them, the fighting will be widespread. Indeed, Mademoiselle, I fear you come to us at the brink of war.”
“I do not see why there should be war,” said Raphaëlle. “I thought the Cathars had surrendered or been dispersed … and some, of course, killed.”
“Burned at the stake, you mean,” said Sir Martin. “Yes, hundreds of the sect have met death by fire in the last twenty years at the hands of the secular powers. But there are still many Cathars.”
“Well, I passed through Albi and Toulouse within the last fortnight, and I saw no evidence of there being any,” commented Raphaëlle. Martin laughed, mirthlessly. “Of course you did not see them. They have gone into hiding. Besides, I wonder how much does Mademoiselle actually know about the Cathars?”
“I know that they are called Cathari because they see themselves as the ‘pure ones.’ They think that there are two gods, one good and one bad. They believe that the evil god created the entire material world, and therefore to them all flesh is evil. The Good God, Whom they do not hold to be omnipotent, created only the spiritual world. They deny most of the major tenets of the Creed, including the Incarnation, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection. They shun the sign of the cross, and reject the Old Testament. They reject baptism by water and only believe in a so-called ‘baptism of light.’ They deny the Eucharist and the Real Presence. Do they not also reject Holy Matrimony?”
Martin nodded. “They believe that a man and a woman coming together is the ultimate sin… which is why I never wanted anything to do with them. They generally despise marriage, for it regularizes the act of love, and procreates new material life. Therefore, many of the Cathars do not marry, but live in concubinage. Some do marry for appearance’s sake and in order to overcome legal complications.”
R
aphaëlle sighed. “It is all so strange to me. And yet, they were willing to die for their beliefs. One must admire the sincerity of their convictions.” She drank in the beauty of the created world around her, from the tumultuous skies and autumnal leaves, to the play of emotions on Martin’s face. They were passing several scattered peasant huts. In the distance twinkled what appeared to be the lights of a small village. “But…I am glad my uncle is a Catholic and that you are his friend.”
“No, Mademoiselle, I am no boon companion of your uncle, for reasons that are my own. I fought beside him, that is all.” He was obviously reluctant to speak further on the subject, so Raphaëlle did not press him. Instead she inquired: “Surely, you are familiar with my betrothed, Monsieur Raymond. What is he like?”
Martin was silent. Then in a guarded manner, he replied. “Very soon, Mademoiselle, you will know more about Monsieur Raymond than I could ever begin to tell you.”
They had reached the steep hill upon which the castle stood. A few cottages clung to its sides, with the terraced garden plots typical of the Pyrenees. A narrow, circuitous trail ascended through the two lower walls of defense, amid the maze of boulders and cliffs, matted with shadows in the twilight. As they ascended, Raphaëlle gazed up towards the walls of the fortress, which was to be her new home. A full moon rose in the east; its glow bathed a solitary female form, which watched them from the battlements. She appeared to be a maiden, slightly younger than Raphaëlle. Her trailing sleeves and unbound hair whipped in the wind, yet she remained as transfixed as a statue, or like some faery creature presiding over the elements. Raphaëlle glanced at Martin. He, too, was looking up at the girl, with an expression of discomfiture, and hastily lowered his eyes. When Raphaëlle peered up towards the battlements again, the maiden had disappeared. She became aware of her own state of disarray, for they were about to enter the castle gates. Her barbette had fallen off; her hair was tousled; her miniver-trimmed mantle was rent and stained with dirt and blood. She quickly covered her head with her deep hood, as Martin made a gesture to the sentries, who raised the portcullis, and they entered the Castle of Mirambel.
The Night's Dark Shade Page 2