The Night's Dark Shade

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “It sounds to me, Sir Jacques, that you truly were not called to that way of life,” commented Esterelle after some reflection. “But here you are now, in the right time and place, as God has seen fit to ordain. But do not be too hard on clerics who fall through human weakness. Leave them to Heaven.” That was all that Raphaëlle heard of the conversation, for at that point she fell asleep, as the fire crackled and the crickets chirped mournfully throughout the night.

  They rose at dawn. Raphaëlle’s arm did not hurt so much. She was comforted by Sir Martin’s presence. He had decided to accompany them, since the hills were riddled with faydits. Along the road sat a beggar. On his head was a sack with holes for the nose and mouth. Raphaëlle shivered to see that where his hands would have been were stumps wrapped in dirty rags.

  “Mercy!” cried the beggar. The party halted.

  “Give him alms, and some bread and water,” ordered Sir Jacques. Raphaëlle cringed with pity as the beggar held the tin cup between his stumps and sipped the water through the hole in the sack, sputtering a great deal. “Hoist him onto the back of the baggage cart. We will take him with us, to see that he is properly cared for.” The Frankish knights gingerly lifted the beggar onto the cart; the man did not protest.

  “Is he a leper?” she asked Sir Martin, who had been riding at her side.

  “No. I have encountered this beggar many times. He was one of those Cathar knights whom the crusaders took prisoner and mutilated, chopping off their hands, their noses, and gouging out their eyes, then sent naked into the wilderness. It was some years ago, and most are now dead, except for this poor soul.”

  “Ah, but Sir Martin, you forget that there were great atrocities perpetrated by the Cathar side as well,” said Sir Jacques. “Things I would not dare mention in the presence of Lady Raphaëlle. Remember what the Cathars did to the legate Pierre de Castelnau. Their vicious murder of him was the deed which precipitated the war.”

  “Yes, Monsieur d’Orly.” Martin’s voice was firm. “However, as a Catholic I would expect my brethren in the Faith to show more compassion to helpless prisoners.”

  “War is war, Monsieur,” retorted Jacques. “To overcome the enemy, soldiers must often resort to all kinds of regrettable methods.”

  “Regrettable indeed,” replied Martin, coldly.

  Chapter 10: Bécède

  By mid-morning, they were approaching the castle of Bécède. Raphaëlle was shocked to see that the fields and village surrounding the castle, which sat high on a wooded hill, had been burned to the ground, although some rebuilding had begun. “What will the peasants eat over the winter?” she asked Sir Martin. “It looks as if their harvest was destroyed. And they have little shelter.”

  “I do not know, Mademoiselle,” said Sir Martin. “You must ask your brave Frankish knight how his great seneschal plans to feed the poor over the winter.”

  “It was a long and difficult siege,” said Sir Jacques. “This place was a hotbed and haven of heresy. Now it belongs to the King of France. If the uprooting of heresy displeases you so, Sir Martin, then I wonder that you have chosen the calling of Knight Hospitaller.”

  “My calling is to defend and protect the innocent and heal the sick, not to torture and to starve,” said Martin. Sir Jacques nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps then the Lord Imbert will have work for you to do.” They rode up the hill to the castle. It was much larger than the Chateau de Mirambel. In the courtyard, overflowing with Frankish soldiers, the royal seneschal came out to meet them. Imbert de Beaujeu was a tall man with a flowing mane of blond hair and a russet beard. His manner was not unlike that of Sir Jacques, in that his very gait seemed to command respect; his blue eyes flashed with an implacable fire. He spoke in the same tongue as Sir Jacques, which Raphaëlle could understand from her days in Paris. The Lord Imbert bowed to Raphaëlle, who still reclined on the litter, as Sir Jacques gave him an account of her escape and the journey.

  “We are glad to have you with us, Mademoiselle,” declared the seneschal. I apologize that we cannot receive you in the manner to which you are accustomed. We have only recently fought a great battle, and many of my men are wounded, and the domain is in ruins. If my wife were here, she could give you a fairer welcome. I regret that this castle is nothing but a military outpost in the midst of war.”

  “Monsieur le Seneschal, I thank you,” replied Raphaëlle. “I do not wish to inconvenience you. I ask to be escorted to a monastery so that I might take the veil.”

  A smile flickered across the hardened face of the seneschal. “I am sorry, Madame, but you are now a royal ward. In the name of the King of France, I claim those rights, and will give you to one of my knights as a bride, as soon as you are well enough.”

  “I am no royal ward, Monsieur. I am the Vicomtesse de Miramande, in my own right. And I choose to become a nun, as I should have done originally.”

  “Alas, Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse,” replied Imbert de Beaujeu. “I beg you to reconsider. I believe that you will change your mind after a time of solitude. Take Mademoiselle to her quarters.”

  Before any of the Frankish knights could touch her, Sir Martin leaned over and scooped Raphaëlle into his arms. “Lead the way,” he said to the Franks. Sir Jacques glared in annoyance, but did not follow. She was taken to a room which had once been a lady’s bower, for there was a chest full of gowns and linens, and a basket of embroidery. Raphaëlle wondered what had become of the former occupant. The bedding appeared to be clean but in need of airing. Jehannette immediately began to sweep the room, as Bertrande helped Raphaëlle to wash and to change her tunic, filthy from the long journey.

  “I will see what they have in the way of an herb garden,” said Esterelle. Raphaëlle was surprised that Esterelle did not seem to mind wandering around a strange castle full of foreign soldiers.

  Bertrande whispered to her. “I have something for you.” She slipped something that glittered into Raphaëlle’s hand. Raphaëlle was shocked to see it was the jewel from the cave.

  “Where did you find this? I thought Esterelle buried it!”

  “She did bury it. I was watching her from behind the sycamore tree. When she left, I dug it up again, in case you might have need of it.” Bertrande whisked away. Raphaëlle slipped the jewel under the mattress. It was all she had as a dowry since her Uncle had seized hers in perpetuity, it seemed.

  It was some weeks before her arm healed; Raphaëlle was glad, since it bought her time. She wished she knew if Margot was well. It was a grim castle. There was a smell of death about the place, and Jehanette said that in the village square were several blackened stakes where some Cathars had been burned alive. Meanwhile, it grew cold, as winter descended. Imbert de Beaujeu had asked Sir Martin to remain awhile and help to stabilize the region. Sir Gaston was recalled by his superiors to Fronton.

  “Have courage, Mademoiselle. We shall meet again at a happier hour.” And he rode away.

  She slowly assumed the running of the château, being asked to do so by the Lord Imbert, trying to win the inhabitants through kindness. Within days, she was better speaking the dialect of the region. She descended often to the village to care for the sick, bringing them food and listening to their woes. She was appalled that many were not married but living in concubinage, with only a few attending Mass in the parish church. Lord Imbert had already put a stop to the way some villagers mocked the Mass and other Catholic rituals.

  Meanwhile, the Queen had sent a friar who was a great help in a multitude of ways. She heard the villagers referring to him as the “dog friar” and she wondered if he was one of those domini canes whom Lady Esclarmonde had mocked. The parish church had been used by the Cathars to house pigs and chickens, and while the livestock had been removed, there was a lingering reek. It had been cleaned and reconsecrated nevertheless; Raphaëlle, Esterelle, Bertrande and Jehanette eagerly descended there in the early mornings, where the friar Père André offered Mass in the desolate structure. The Lord Imbert and his knights were also usually presen
t, as were Sir Martin and Sir Jacques. All the sacred images had been whitewashed or taken away and the windows broken, but the Presence Lamp glowed above the modest, veiled tabernacle, emanating a simple majesty. When not vested for Mass, the friar wore a black mantle over a white tunic; Raphaëlle had never seen such a religious habit before. More than anything, she was immediately drawn to his gentle and peaceful countenance.

  “Father, to which order do you belong?” she asked one day after he was locking the church after Mass. It was better to take such precautions so that the Blessed Sacrament would not be stolen and desecrated by any lingering Cathars.

  “I belong to the Order of Preachers, Mademoiselle, founded by the Holy Father Dominic de Guzman.”

  “Oh, so your order is what Lady Esclarmonde called the domini canes, the ‘dogs of the Lord.’ Alas, she meant it as a way of mockery. She said that one friar of your order was more dangerous to the Cathars than a whole battalion of Frankish soldiers.”

  The friar laughed. “Ah, my child, we call ourselves domini canes, God’s dogs, or the Hounds of the Lord. By doing so we mock ourselves and rejoice when others mock us as well, for to be mocked for the sake of Jesus Christ is the only true glory. Indeed, you may call me Friar Hound, if you like.” His eyes twinkled with a humor she had found lacking in the Cathar Perfecti. Like the Fransciscans, the Dominican’s tonsure was on the crown of his head rather than shaven across the forehead like the Perfecti. She was glad he had a black hood with which to protect his bare pate from inclement weather.

  “Very well, Father Hound,” she said, laughing in her turn. It had been long since she had laughed. “I hope to speak to you sometime soon about my situation. I want to be a nun, but no one will let me become one.”

  “We will speak soon my child,” said the Friar, as he bolted the door of the church, then wrapped his much mended mantle about himself against the morning chill. “There is plenty of work to do here, for many were wounded in the siege. The Lord Imbert has asked Lady Esterelle and Sir Martin to assist in setting up a hospital. But meet me in the garden after dinner. We will walk and talk.”

  “How will it ever be made right, Father?” asked Raphaëlle, as she looked around the burnt village and the ragged people who stayed far from the newcomers.

  “Through great prayer, great humility, and great sacrifice. First we must feed and clothe the hungry, and heal the wounds of the sick and injured, for such measures are powerful ways of introducing the Love of Christ.”

  As they entered the portcullis of the castle, the Lord Imbert’s page was awaiting them. “My Lady, the Lord Imbert has asked that Sir Jacques come to the great hall to help settle affairs of justice, and has requested that you be present as well.”

  “What? Me? Well. My handmaids must accompany me, and the Lady Esterelle, too.” It was not appropriate for her to go about a military outpost without her women.

  They entered the Hall. The Lord Imbert bowed. “Since you, Mademoiselle, have ruled your own estate, even for a short time, your presence will temper justice with mercy. As for Sir Jacques, he is soon to be in command here, and must learn about the state of the people and how best to govern them.” Raphaëlle and Sir Jacques sat on either side of the Lord Imbert as the various villagers ventured hesitantly into the hall. Esterelle stood next to Raphaëlle’s chair, while Jehanette and Bertrande stoically huddled behind. Père André quietly entered as well, and stood off to the side.

  “Bid the petitioners to enter,” called the Lord Imbert to his steward, who flung open the main doors of the hall; a rag tag group of peasants entered. The Lord’s posture was regal without being stiff, as he leaned slightly forward as if to set the villagers at ease. In this he reminded Raphaëlle of the young King Louis, the few times she had seen him receiving his people before she departed the court for the south. As for Sir Jacques, she could tell that beneath the mask of sternness was a depth of concern and compassion which he strove unsuccessfully to hide.

  There was an old woman, hunched over, with a staff and a dingy linen wimple. With her were two younger women, one about thirty, plump and slatternly, accompanied by five young girls of ages ranging from twelve to five, each with scraggly, unkempt hair. The youngest woman was in her late twenties and more demurely coifed, accompanied by a youth who resembled her so exactly that he was either her brother or her son. All were wearing the cloth yellow crosses of penitents, pinned upon the bodices, to demonstrate that they had in good faith renounced the Cathar heresy. They all bowed and curtsied most profoundly, not rising until bidden to do so.

  “What are your names?” asked Lord Imbert. “Mother, you first.” He addressed the old women in a tone firm but respectful. The old women gesticulated wildly and uttered sounds of gibberish. The plump woman stepped forward with another curtsy.

  “Monsieur, may I speak? This is my mother. Her name is Grazide Benet and alas she has no tongue.”

  “Tell me your name and why your mother has no tongue.”

  “My name is Alais Benet. My mother has no tongue because it was cut from her by the former bailiff, Bernard Belot, who was killed by Monsieur’s men when the castle was taken.”

  “Mistress Benet,” Lord Imbert asked Alais, who trembled before him, with rage rather than fear. “What had your mother done to deserve such a heinous punishment?”

  “Nothing!” spat Alais. “It was done to silence her. You see, Monsieur, Bernard Belot had a brother named Pierre Belot. Pierre was an ordained priest of the Roman Church, but he never said Mass, except sometimes at weddings, just for the pomp and festivity. He was really a Cathar and participated in all of our ceremonies, all the while mocking the Church of Rome at every opportunity.”

  “I do not understand,” interrupted Sir Jacques. “Why did he become a priest?”

  “To collect the living from the parish, Monsieur” explained Alais. “And because our former Lord of Bécède always kept a false Roman priest around for the sake of appearances, as long as the priest was a Cathar at heart, and did not interfere in our way of living.”

  “So Father Pierre Belot never interfered, I gather?” asked Lord Imbert. “I still do not see how this led to your mother’s mutilation.”

  Alais continued. “My mother is the village herb woman, and Pierre Belot owed her a great deal of money which he refused to pay. You see, Pierre made free with every woman and girl in the village, as if we were all his own concubines. Some women welcomed his attentions, others did not. If any protested, he threatened to send his brother the bailiff to do them harm. It was not above the Belot brothers to falsely accuse someone of theft or even of murder. The punishments were terrible, and everyone was afraid. Pierre also sought to corrupt some of the young lads as well, bringing them to the Lord’s banquets in the castle where they would be abused. The local Cathar Good Man knew of it and did not protest. He said such acts were shameful but not sinful since they did not bring forth life.” Alais took a deep breath before going on. “Many of the children in the town are Pierre’s bastards. He did not want to have to provide for them. So Pierre expected my mother to provide him with herbs and potions to keep more children from being born. She exhausted her supplies and still he would not pay her. She was reduced to begging her necessities while he kept demanding more potions.”

  “This is monstrous,” broke in Raphaëlle. “Why did the Lord of the castle not intervene in such a matter of injustice and moral evil?”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle,” said the woman. “Monsieur had it all worked out with the Belot brothers that they would never interfere in one another’s mischief. They each had too much dirt on the others.”

  “I see,” said Raphaëlle. She had never imagined that such things could happen. “Please continue, Alais.”

  “Well, my poor mother was vexed, and with winter coming on, she threatened to go to the papist bishop, even if she had to walk there herself, and tell him about Pierre Belot. Her mistake was that she told the Good Man of her plan, and he told the Belot brothers. They accused her of p
erjury and cut out her tongue.”Raphaëlle could not take her eyes off the bleak faces of the children, who looked so immune to horror that it no longer disturbed them. “What became of the ‘Good Man,’ and what was his name?” asked Sir Jacques.

  “His name was Arnaud Lizier. I was his concubine, and the girls here, at least most of them, are his children. I kept house for him for fifteen years, and left another man in order to do so, a man who had wanted to marry me before the priest. But Arnaud said that such ceremonies were not only worthless but sinful, since marriage regularized the act. He begged me to live with him because he needed me to keep house for him in case his niece, Ermensende, should leave him.” Alais nodded at the younger woman who stood silently by. “He said that I would live like a lady and inherit his property.”

  “Mistress Alais, I thought that the Good Men were bound to strict celibacy, and could not own property?” queried Sir Jacques.

  “In principle, yes. In practice, no.” Alais sighed again. “For Good Men such as Arnaud what really mattered was that you received the consolamentum before you died. Otherwise, you could do whatever you wanted. Although, I must say that Arnaud was strict about all of us prostrating to him every day according to the Cathar practice. And he did not believe in taking or keeping oaths, just like the other Good Men and Good Women. Every promise he ever made to me he broke.” She wiped her reddening nose with her fingers while tucking a greasy tendril of hair under her wimple.

  “So what is the property he has left to you, Mistress Alais?” inquired the Lord Imbert. “His house, stable and livestock. All that my girls and I have to live on,” replied Alais.

  “That is not so!” burst out Ermensende. “I am the niece of Arnaud, and this lad here, my son, is the only son of Arnaud, acknowledged by him as his true heir. The property is ours!”