The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “Now, Bertrande,” she said, calmly, as she clattered across the courtyard to the open portcullis. A throng was milling to and fro, comprised of men-at-arms, serving wenches, varlets, and peasants with carts, hawking vegetables, cheeses, sausages, and crafts. All made way for them to pass. “Did Sir Martin really kiss you?”

  “Oh, yes! In a dream he did, really, truly in a golden dream I had while sleeping under the apple tree last May. I woke up covered with petals. The apple blossoms were real… his kiss seemed to be, too!”

  “Bertrande, it is a sin to make up stories about people,” chided Raphaëlle, gently but firmly. “You can ruin someone’s good name. It is called calumny.”

  “Oh, I would never tell stories about Sir Martin. I only tell what happened. He sang to me, we rode his horse, he put blossoms in my hair, and I dreamed of him."

  “Well, henceforth keep your dreams to yourself. Tell them to no one. Now, show me the way to the Vallée des Dracs.” They descended the trail, which wound down the castle hill. Bertrande directed her to the southwest side, where beyond a meadow lay a path into the forest. “I hope that there are no brigands in these woods, as there are on the north side,” said Raphaëlle.

  “No brigands. Only faeries,” replied Bertrande, with a mischievous twinkle. “The brigands are afraid to come anywhere near the Vallée des Dracs.” Raphaëlle shivered, and wished she had brought a flask of holy water. The autumn foliage of the trees thickened in density. The forest darkened with a yellowish luminosity until the sky was hidden, and the meadow vanished from view. There arose before them some massive grey rocks, guarded by silvery, dappled sycamores. The rocks looked as if they had once been composed of a fluid substance and poured into fantastically shaped molds. Bertrande pointed to a narrow fissure in the huge boulders.

  “There it is! The entrance to the Vallée des Dracs! I dare not go any further!” exclaimed Bertrande. Raphaëlle dismounted and took a few hesitant steps towards the entrance of the vale. Bertrande likewise slid from the horse, but stood still as a stone. Then several things happened at once. Zephyr neighed, reared frantically, and galloped away in the direction of the castle. Bertrande shrieked and plunged into the forest.

  “Wait, Bertrande! Where are you going?!” Raphaëlle called, as she began to run after her. But as she did so, she realized someone else was there, watching her. It was Raymond, her betrothed. His pale face seemed golden in the autumnal light amid his luxuriant curls, as his eyes glittered.

  “What are you doing here? Where are you going?” he asked, in a tone of righteous indignation, his eyes intent upon her. Before she could take another step, he strode forward and grabbed her arm. He slammed her up against one of the sycamore trees. “Everyone is talking!” he seethed. “You threw yourself at Sir Martin! Yesterday you were seen with him on the battlements! And what are you about now?"

  “Nothing!” she gasped. He was gripping her shoulders with almost inhuman strength.

  “Harlot!” he cried, shaking her so hard that her head cracked against the tree. Mercifully, her hood and braided bun kept her from injury. She was petrified with fear. Never had anyone spoken to her in such a manner. It all seemed to be happening to someone else. His vise-like grip held her against the tree. She began to squirm and flail about desperately, yet helplessly.

  “Oh God, help me!” she cried, as his hand landed upon her mouth, freeing both of her arms. She bit his hand. He gasped in pain and pulled back ever so slightly. Gaining control of her legs, she kicked him with all her might. He released her. After tripping over her gown, she fled through the gap in the rocks and entered the faery realm, even as a shower of gold leaves from the massive sycamores swirled around her. She was aware of a heaviness in the air, thick with the perfume of pines, as the ground sloped downward. She lost track of how far she ran. It was only when she reached the depths of the vale that she stopped to catch her breath, near a stream which trickled playfully into a wider creek. She followed the creek, looking for a place where she could sit and rest. On the opposite bank were huge grey cliffs, crowned with pines. The stream poured into a pool, deep and still as a mirror, surrounded by a green lawn. Both pool and lawn were scattered with oak leaves. Raphaëlle knew she was in the heart of the Vallée des Dracs, laden with an uncanny silence; the birds scarcely chirped, nor did the trees rustle, for the breeze had failed. Raphaëlle was seized with an exalted sense of freedom in her solitude, as if she now existed in a separate dimension, outside of time.

  She strolled around the pond. On the far side was a well-trodden path, carpeted with leaves, winding amid oaks, beeches and chestnuts, whose branches formed a roof of amber prisms. She hesitated, wondering if she should go any further. There was no sound of pursuit; soon she must make ready for dinner, yet the peace of the place fanned her reluctance to depart. The path twisted around boulders and ancient trees. It opened into a round glade, with grass of an extraordinary emerald shade. Was it a faery ring? Blending in with the trees was a barely perceptible form. The bright eyes were what she noticed first. Then she saw a slender woman emerging from the forest onto the path, as soundlessly as a dryad. Was she actually beholding a faery at last? Then Raphaëlle gasped. The faery so resembled Lady Esclarmonde that they might as well be twins.

  “Are you the Lady Esterelle?” she asked the woman, who was garbed in an undyed woolen tunic, a jerkin of goatskin, with a rough veil of linen hiding her hair and neck. How like she was to Esclarmonde, and yet totally unlike!

  “I am Esterelle,” she said, in a lilting voice, soft and gentle, as mysterious as the mingling of wood and water.

  “I am Raphaëlle de Miramande.”

  “Ah, you are the bride,” said Esterelle.

  “How did you know?” asked Raphaëlle.

  “Word of your coming has spread throughout the parish.”

  “But everyone thinks that you are dead!” exclaimed Raphaëlle.

  “I am dead to the world. I live as a penitent in imitation of the Magdalen, under the direction of Abbé Nicolau, the parish priest. He is one of the few who know that I am here. The Vallée des Dracs is an ideal place for a hermitess. No one comes here because it is said to be enchanted. They are afraid, but it is the silence that they cannot bear.”

  “Where do you live?” asked Raphaëlle.

  “Nearby. Come, I will show you.” They followed the trail, which as the forest ended, meandered through an apricot orchard, until they came upon a well-tended garden of vegetables and flax. By the side of a massive cliff was a pasture where a few goats were grazing. In the side of the rock were fantastically shaped grottoes. At the back of one of the grottoes was a cave, and there Esterelle guided her. The cave was illumined by crude oil lamps, which burned before half a dozen icons and a rough wooden cross. On shelves hewn into the rock was a veritable library, comprised of ancient tomes and scrolls. Raphaëlle detected the works of the Fathers of the Church and other saints, as well as psalters and liturgical manuals. In a corner was a spindle and loom; bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling; a few clay crocks were neatly arranged in the cooking area along with wooden utensils, near a makeshift hearth. Close by was a niche for sleeping, comprising a straw pallet laden with goatskins. A large grey cat sat by the fire. Its knowing green eyes took stock of Raphaëlle as she entered.

  “This is my hermitage. I have dwelt here for fourteen years, ever since Abbé Nicolau baptized me,” explained Esterelle. “He gave me the books, for his brother is a Benedictine monk.”

  “Are you not lonely?” asked Raphaëlle.

  Esterelle smiled. “There are times when every soul feels lonely. Sometimes, we are more alone when in the company of others. But my faith tells me that I am always in the presence of God, and therefore never alone, for he is my Bridegroom, and the delight of my heart.” And then Raphaëlle understood the difference in the face of Esterelle from that of Esclarmonde. Although both faces were pale and thin from fasting, dominated by the great grey eyes with back brows, Esterelle’s face was suffused with
joy. “How is my family? How is my sister Esclarmonde?”

  “She is well,” responded Raphaëlle. “She is a Perfecta, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Esterelle, sadly.

  “She fasts constantly,” added Raphaelle.

  “Alas, fasting is often a poor remedy for pride and self-will. Obedience would suit her better, as it would all the Cathars. But is not the refusal to obey the root of all heresy?”

  “I suppose so. I had not thought of it overmuch. But your nephew Raymond is a cruel lout. He tried to hurt me. How can I marry such a person?”

  Esterelle gently took her hand. “You cannot marry him, Raphaëlle. You must flee. I will take you to Abbé Nicolau at once.”

  “I must return to the château for my belongings, and for my servants. I could not leave without them.”

  “Very well. But listen. It would be better to leave by the hidden passage.”

  “What hidden passage?”

  “In the crypt, beneath the chapel, there is an ancient altar, if they have not removed it. Carved on the front of it are the words FIAT VOLUNTAS TUA. Press hard upon the first letter of each word, and the altar will slide aside, revealing a tunnel. It is dark and steep, so a torch or taper will be necessary. It opens out into a cave at the foot of the castle hill. No one knows of this but Esclarmonde and me, and perhaps my brother-in-law Pierre.”

  “Does Raymond?”

  “I do not know.”

  Leaving the cave, they traversed the orchard and the forest, passing the pond and the stream, up the hill to the entrance of the Vallée des Dracs. “I must leave you now,” said Esterelle. “But you will be in good company. Farewell!” She embraced Raphaëlle’s cheeks. Raphaëlle crept through the crevice in the rock, fearing to encounter Raymond, but instead she saw Bertrande, leading Zephyr, and with them was an elderly priest wearing a worn black cassock. Bertrande, upon seeing Raphaëlle, handed the bridle to the priest and dashed forward, throwing her arms around her.

  “You are safe, Deo gratias!” she cried. “As soon as I saw Raymond, I ran for help and came upon Abbé Paul Nicolau, who was making his communion calls to the sick. He came at once when I told him of your plight.”

  The priest blessed her. In his aged face were combined wisdom with humor, resignation with wit, and nobility with a certain earthiness. “So you are the one,” he said, one bushy eyebrow raised ironically.

  “Father, please hear my confession, and permit me to receive Communion, if you have any hosts left.” Bertrande went several yards away, as Raphaëlle confessed and received Communion beneath one of the hovering sycamores. Comforted and refreshed, she consulted Abbé Nicolau what course of action she should take.

  Abbé Nicolau’s eyes sparkled sympathetically.

  “You must leave at once, my child. Three days hence, some pilgrims will be departing for the shrine of Sainte-Foy at Conques. You and your servants may journey with them as far as Toulouse, where the nuns will give you shelter. From there, you can appeal to the King for justice. The pilgrims will leave at sundown, which will give you an entire night to get ahead of any pursuit. They will travel on foot, on paths through the mountains which no horseman can follow. Meet me here on the third eve and I will take you to meet the travelers. Now, return quickly.” After he blessed them both, the two girls started for the castle. They had only just quitted the wood, when they saw a horseman galloping towards them across the meadow. It was the Baron.

  Chapter 6: The Royal Official

  The baron’s face was stern. “I desire words with you, Mademoiselle,” he said to Raphaëlle, while acknowledging Bertrande with barely a glance. “Come and ride beside me.” Raphaëlle climbed upon Zephyr with the help of Bertrande and ambled towards the château, leaving the younger girl behind in the grass of the meadow. “My son Raymond has only just returned to the château in a lamentable state. He says that you quarreled with him.”

  For a moment, Raphaëlle was speechless with amazement at such a lie. “That is not so, my lord Uncle. Your son was quite rude to me.” She described Raymond’s behavior. The baron’s forehead furrowed with sorrow. News of his son’s uncouthness and cruelty was not unknown to him. He sighed.

  “I will speak to him.”

  “Speak to him!” echoed Raphaëlle, indignantly. “Why do you not discipline him, my lord?”

  “Raymond does not respect anyone who is not a Cathar,” replied her uncle, bitterly. “He despises Catholics; he despises me. Corporal punishment would make him love me less.”

  “Forgive me, my lord!” Raphaëlle burst out. “But I must speak the truth! It is because you are a weak Catholic that he despises you! If you observed the laws of God and the Church, he would at least have to respect your conviction!”

  “What I have done, I have done because I had no other choice. I had to allow my wife to follow her conscience, and embrace an ascetic life. God did not mean for me to be a monk, so I live with Simonette, and treat her well.”

  Raphaëlle shuddered. “You openly practice adultery, as well as harbor heretics.”

  “If I did not shelter the Cathars, they would be put to death. It would be more wrong and cruel for me to allow people to die on account of their beliefs.” They were drawing near to the castle mount. The Baron continued, “Perhaps what you say is true, Raphaëlle. But it is not your place to lecture me. I am the master here. I answer to God, not to you. It is for you to make ready for your wedding, which will occur in a fortnight, on the Eve of All Saints. Abbé Paul Nicolau will officiate if you desire. I beg you to be patient with my son, who is still young, and was forsaken by his mother, even as I was forsaken by her. If you wish, it can be a marriage in name only, until he learns to master his temper.”

  Raphaëlle desired to object to the very idea of any form of marriage to Raymond, but held her tongue, fearing that her uncle would suspect her plan to escape. She nodded in feigned acquiescence. They climbed the hill, passing through the gates of the lower walls of defense.

  “This place is cursed by God,” she thought, but aloud she said, “What a fine thing it must be to be mistress of such a magnificent fortress.”

  Her uncle glowed with pleasure at her remark, and suddenly she felt great pity for him. She returned to her chamber to dress for dinner, only to find Margot and Jehanette in hysterics. Jehanette had gleaned unsettling knowledge about the degenerate habits of the young master. As for Margot, it was enough for her to have discovered that Simonette was the Baron’s concubine, and that Bertrande was their daughter. “Do not fret, my friends,” said Raphaëlle in an undertone. Someone might be listening outside the door. “We are leaving this place, three days hence. It is all arranged. I have made the acquaintance of the parish priest, and he will help us. We will go over the mountains on foot with a band of pilgrims.” Even as the words fell from her lips, her heart sank. Margot would never be able to make such a hazardous journey on foot. The perceptive blue eyes of the nurse noticed Raphaëlle’s distressed countenance. She kissed her cheeks.

  “Let me stay behind, Mademoiselle. I will hold them off by telling them you are sick in bed. I will bar the door of the chamber, saying you cannot be disturbed.”

  Raphaëlle buried her face in Margot’s shoulder, as she had been wont to do as a child. “I cannot bear to be parted from you, and yet I dread what might befall you in the mountains. The plan is good, but I must ponder it. My uncle the Baron will be good to you for the sake of his sister, my mother, who loved you, dearest Margot, but as for that Raymond creature, no one seems to be able to control him, and there is no telling what he might do out of revenge. No, I do not think I can leave you.”

  “Do not fear for me, child. You must get away.” Margot’s ruddy countenance hardened, flint-like in its adamancy.

  Simonette arrived, for it was almost time for dinner, and they had to scramble to get Raphaëlle into a bright gown and surcoat of azure samite. She dined once more at her uncle’s side, sharing his cup of wine. Raymond and Esclarmonde again partook of her
bs alone. Raphaëlle could not help but glance at the bench where Sir Martin had sat, now taken by dour Sir Gérard. The meal was delectable, but her churning mind made her stomach uneasy.

  “You are not eating much, my niece,” commented the Baron, as she nibbled at the slices of capon served her by a young page. Suddenly, one of the guards entered and bowed. As he muttered in the Baron’s ear, the latter slammed his fist down impatiently upon the table. “Ah, mon Dieu! It is an officer of royal seneschal. Why now?” He sighed. “Bid him enter.”

  The guard departed from the hall, only to return momentarily with a party of strangers in his wake. A herald strode forward, arrayed in the blue and gold of France. He blew a trumpet, announcing: “Monsieur Jacques d’Orly, officer of His Majesty King Louis IX!” The royal official entered, surrounded by tall knights, all mail-clad and in blue surcoats embroidered with the fleur de lys. Monsieur d’Orly himself was of medium height and wiry build. His helm was carried by his page, revealing a tanned, lean face framed in long lank brown hair, with thin lips, an aquiline nose, and eyes that reminded Raphaëlle of a falcon’s, dark but penetrating. He scrutinized the Baron, sternly.

  “Monsieur le Baron.” Sir Jacques bowed stiffly, but his salute was more like an accusation than a greeting. “On behalf of our sovereign lord King Louis and his kinsman and seneschal Monsieur de Beaujeu, I come to investigate the rumor that you are harboring heretics in this castle.”

  The Baron appeared not to hear the question. “Monsieur, I pray you be seated and refresh yourself. Your men, too.”

  “Thank you, but first may I have an answer to my question. My men would not be pleased to dine with heretics.” Raphaëlle thought that Sir Jacques’ clipped northern accent was harsh on the ears.