They stopped to listen to one of the jongleurs. He had taken out his hurdy-gurdy from a sheath on his back and started to play.
Look on this rose, O Rose, and looking laugh on me,
And in thy laughter’s ring the nightingale shall sing.
Take thou this rose, O Rose, since Love’s own flower it is,
And by that rose, thy lover captive is.
The way the minstrel played it, with such a look of comical suffering on his face, he soon drew a small crowd around him, laughing and shouting. He started to play again, not a song this time but a monologue that he accompanied with dramatic stanzas on his hurdy-gurdy.
I shall teach gallants the true way to love.
If they follow my lessons they shall soon make numerous conquests.
If you want a woman who will be a credit to your name,
then at the first hint of rebellion, adopt a threatening tone.
If she dares answer back, then your reply should be a punch in the nose.
If she should be nasty to you, be even nastier back,
and soon she will obey you implicitly.
There was laughter from the audience all through this, and wild applause at the end. When he had finished he sent around a monkey holding a small cap and into this the crowd tossed their deniers to show their appreciation, Pèire as well.
‘So, do you believe all that?’ she asked him as they walked away.
‘Of course not.’
‘So when you have a wife, you don’t intend to box her nose if she answers you back?’
‘As if I would dare!’ he laughed. ‘Your father says you used to beat every boy from miles around if there was a rough and tumble in the street!’
‘The boys were smaller then. Besides, how do you know that I shall be your wife?’
He looked at her, as if the question puzzled him. ‘Your father has promised me,’ he said.
A smudge of black cloud appeared on the northern sky, the promise of yet another storm later that afternoon. Pèire talks of marriage as if everything is settled. She tried to imagine a whole lifetime in his company and could not. But what else might she do? She could not stay under her father’s roof for ever. She heard the distant rumble of thunder. Perhaps it would not come to that; perhaps the fates had other plans. She realized they had stopped by the fountain where the lightning had struck her. There were fresh burn marks on the stone. Except for that, everything was as it always was. ‘Three years now I have worked without a wage for your father so I could learn my craft,’ he was saying to her. ‘Next year will be my last as journeyman and the guild will make me a mason and I shall have my own mark. I shall go out on my own own building houses for rich burghers. You shall not regret making your marriage with me.’ When she did not answer, he said: ‘I have watched you right from the moment I saw you. It has never been anyone but you.’
This confession caught her off guard. She did not know what to say to him.
‘You never knew?’
She shook her head.
‘I near died too when I saw what had happened to you. I come out of the church and there was your father holding you in his arms like you were a babe, and you were white as plaster and your head and limbs all hanging down like you were dead.’
‘I don’t remember anything about it.’
‘Did it not leave a mark? My mother says she once saw a man who was struck down in such a manner. There was a sort of bruise where it went in and another where it went out. But he was dead, mind.’
She knew about the man; just the previous summer another pilgrim from Gascony had been similarly chosen for God’s attentions during a tempest and all that was left of that unfortunate were his sandals and a small pile of ashes.
‘No, there was no mark.’
‘Perhaps it struck next to you, then. I have heard that happens.’ She saw by his expression that though he liked her well enough, he was also a little frightened of her. No doubt he had heard the stories. Some people thought her strange, always had. She even wondered that a straightforward lad like this would want her at all. ‘He said you rambled, that you talked to fairies and phantoms.’
‘If he says so, then I must have. I don’t remember anything until the next morning.’
‘Well I am glad you are well again for I don’t know what I should have done if something had happened to you.’ Well, she thought, he had made his declaration and now he waits for me to show that I am pleased by it. And why should I not be? He is a big strong boy and like my own father in many ways, hard-working and good-natured. What more should I hope for?
A preaching friar was about his business outside the church of Saint-Étienne, haranguing the good people of Toulouse for their infidelity to Rome, and describing for them the torments of hell. He wore the white gown of the Piedmont overlaid by the black cloak of the Augustinian canons. It marked him out as one of the disciples of Dominic Guzmán, the Spanish monk whose name her mother could not even mention without spitting in the fire. One of the town burghers halted his morning’s errands to take issue with him, encouraged by cheers and the ribald comments of the small crowd gathered on the steps.
Pèire bent down and hurled a handful of mud in his direction. The crowd laughed.
‘Pèire, what are you doing? The Lord will punish you for abusing a man of God!’
‘He’s the Pope’s man, not God’s,’ he said. ‘Why don’t they leave us alone?’
Fabricia also wanted to be alone. All this talk of marriage had unsettled her. But she did not want to hurt him, so she told him she wanted to go inside the church and thank the Madonna for her deliverance. It was not quite a lie; how else might she have survived, if it were not a miracle?
‘I shall come in with you,’ he said.
‘No, wait for me out here,’ she told him. ‘I shall not be long.’
*
The church was already crowded with pilgrims, the hawkers doing brisk business with their beef and raisin pies. It was like this every summer, the city crowded with pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela, and there was not a priest or an innkeeper in the city who did not profit from them. She was accustomed to their raucous piety, parading through the streets singing hymns, the more enthusiastic of them barefoot, whipping themselves with chains as they went. Every day there were crowds of them, on their way to Notre-Dame de la Daurade to gape at the golden mosaics of Christ and the Virgin before coming here to pray over the bones of the saints.
She pushed through the mob crowded into the nave, wrinkling her nose at the stench. Most of the pilgrims carried long staves, like shepherd’s crooks, and several wore lead badges sewed on to their robes to represent the holy places they had visited: a pair of crossed keys for Rome, a scallop shell for St James. These worthies were no doubt pilgrims by trade, paid in coin by some wealthy burgher to do his penance for him.
She knelt among the wreaths of flowers, face to face with the Virgin. She kissed the saint’s feet, placing her forehead against the pedestal.
She lit a taper. ‘Mother Mary, thank you for my deliverance, for taking pity on me, a poor sinner.’
The sun broke through the mist. It was already high enough in the sky so that it angled through the high clerestory windows, reaching into the cathedral vault like one of God’s golden fingers. She was gladdened to see that His divine touch was gentler than the last occasion He had pointed towards her.
Suddenly there was a buzzing in her head like a swarm of bees descending and in that moment the lady in blue stepped from her pedestal and held a marble hand towards her. Fabricia gasped and blinked.
‘You are chosen,’ she said.
Fabricia rose halfway to her feet and looked around, thinking that others must have seen this miracle also, but no one stared, shouted, or pointed. It was as if the Virgin was still there, in her niche high up the wall. For a moment she was tempted to call out, so that she might have witnesses, but then she realized a more terrible truth: Papa was right. I have lost my reason.
Be calm, Fabricia. When she looked up again, Our Lady was returned to her imperious vigil above her and the saint’s eyes were sightless once more, mere artifice carved and polished from stone. She must tell no one about this, she decided. It was a moment’s madness; she would pretend it had never happened. Miracles and visions were for saints; not for the daughters of stonemasons. She stayed on her knees there a long time; not from piety, but because her knees were shaking so badly she could not stand. All that was real was slipping from her. The world and everything in it was as solid as mist.
When Pèire finally came in to look for her, she was still there on his knees, trembling, and as he told her father, ‘she looked like she had seen a ghost’.
IV
‘THERE WAS TROUBLE today, just down the street,’ Elionor said. ‘Old Reynard and his wife. Some of the Bishop’s toughs brok down his door and went through his house tipping over kettles and threw everything the poor man has into the mud. All because he let two bons òmes stay at his house this last St John’s Day.’
‘Well, they should not harbour heretic priests!’ Anselm said, but then added: ‘They didn’t hurt him, did they?’
‘By grace of God, no. Rabble!’ Elionor brought the pot of beans and mutton to the table. ‘Here, eat.’
‘There was almost a brawl today in the square, right outside the cathedral. Some of the people were mocking a friar.’
‘These clerics deserve all they get. All they ever talk about is hell and saints’ days and that we should all pay our tithes on time.’
‘They threw muck at the poor man for preaching God’s holy word! If Jesus himself came to Toulouse I swear they would jostle him and turn him out of the gates.’
‘The good Lord would not come here if he saw how his priests behave! Fornicators and thieves, the lot of them.’
Fabricia saw the colour rise in her father’s cheeks. What made her mother bait him like this? These days they argued over religion all the time. ‘There are some who do not bring shame upon their calling.’
‘Name two!’ Elionor said, through a mouthful of food.
‘The good preacher who was so badly used by the crowd in the market today. By all reports all he lives a chaste life and all he has are the clothes on his back.’
‘That’s only one.’
‘Well then, the monk who is coming to see me tomorrow. Father Simon. His reputation is blameless. A good man and a faithful servant of the Church.’
Elionor smiled and her tone became gentler. ‘Well, that’s two, sure enough, husband. But two in one of Christendom’s greatest cities is not overmuch. What business do you have with this priest?’
‘He is the prior’s secretary. He has commissioned me to make certain repairs to the cloister at Saint-Sernin. He has offered most generous payment for our services.’
‘As he should.’
‘The Church has many benefactors.’
‘Indeed. The whole of Christendom, plus a percentage!’
Anselm ignored the jibe. ‘Enough work for another two summers at least. By then perhaps Pèire will be ready to take over from me.’
They both looked at Fabricia, who felt her cheeks blush hot. She looked down at her bowl and tried to concentrate on her food. ‘Did you tell her what you decided?’ Elionor asked him.
‘What we both decided.’
‘I said only that I would not object. The bons òmes say that all procreation is a sin and that therefore marriage will lead to sinning. If marry she must then I will not stand in the way of it.’
‘You would not welcome a stout son-in-law with skilful hands who can give us grandchildren and look after us when we are old? A man who will take good care of our daughter when we are gone?’
‘I know you want only what is best for us all,’ Elionor said, more gently. ‘But as I get older, I worry more for my soul than this worn-out body.’
Fabricia thought her father would burst. ‘These heretic priests have turned your head!’ he said. He turned to Fabricia, looking for her to support him in his case. She knew he wanted only to do the best thing by her. How could she tell him she did not wish to marry Pèire when she had no good reason?
‘Perhaps you do not see the stares you attract in the market,’ he said to her. ‘I will sleep easier knowing that you are wedded and churched, so that every young buck in Toulouse does not watch you like a wolf after his dinner.’
‘Anselm!’
‘It is true. She is comely and she needs a husband like Pèire to protect her from such insolence.’ He reached across the table and took her wrist. ‘He’s a good man, as good as any in Toulouse. He’ll look after you and though he’s big, he’s gentle. Won’t even swat at a fly that lands on his cheese at lunch.’
When she did not answer he added: ‘I am making you a fine match, Fabricia. You will be churched in the proper way.’
It was true she was old enough to be wed, but she wondered why her father was suddenly so fervent about it. Perhaps it was seeing her struck down during the storm. Bad enough for him that he had no son; without a daughter he would have not even grandchildren to comfort him in his old age.
‘Pèire will carry on the work one day, when I can no longer hold a hammer or climb so high. It is God’s work and he is well suited to it. He has a carter’s brawn and an angel’s temperament. I should rest easy knowing that one day a grandson of mine would leave his mark on the cathedrals of Toulouse, and take my seat in the guild.’
Still she said nothing.
‘What is it? Don’t you like Pèire? Has he offended you in some way?’
‘I want to take orders,’ she said, but her throat closed and the words came out as barely a whisper. He did not say anything for a long time and she wondered if he had heard her.
When she looked up, he was staring at her, aghast. ‘A pretty girl like you? You want to spend the rest of your life in a convent? Why would you wish such a thing?’ When Fabricia did not answer, he turned to Elionor. ‘Did you hear what she said?’
‘I had no knowledge of this.’
‘This is not your doing then?’
‘Why would I wish more of Rome on her?’
Fabricia had expected his anger; this look of pain and profound disappointment was much worse. ‘Those places are for widows and shamed women,’ he said.
What could she tell him? I have never felt I am a part of this world, Papa. All my life I have been afflicted with strange dreams and premonitions. Now I see statues move and talk like living people. I think I have a kind of madness. I don’t want to infect anyone else. ‘I want to give my life to God,’ she mumbled.
Anselm pushed his food away and slammed his hands on to the table. ‘This is madness,’ he said, and although it was not his exact meaning, the words still jarred with her.
‘I cannot marry Pèire. He will die soon.’
‘Pèire? But he’s perfectly healthy. I have never known such a robust young man. He has never been a day sick in his life.’
‘What your father says is true. What do you mean? Why do you think he will die?’ Now Elionor was staring at her too, her face betraying bewilderment as well as fear.
‘Forget this nonsense,’ Anselm said softly. ‘You will do as I say.’ He got up and went to sit by the hearth, grumbling to himself. He stared into the embers of the cook fire until they grew cold and he was still there when his wife and his daughter took themselves to bed.
*
Fabricia could not sleep.
What was the matter with her? She thought about what had happened to her that day in the Saint-Étienne cathedral, when the statue of Our Lady had moved from her pedestal. She could see her in her memory as clearly as she could picture her own mother and father at dinner. That did not mean it was real. Did she really believe the Madonna had spoken to her?
Ever since she was a child she had seen things that no one else could see, heard sounds no one
else could hear: half-glimpsed wraiths; the sudden beat of a crow’s wings in a darkened chamber; the rustle of a cloak in an empty room; the sound of voices whispering from the shades when she was quite alone.
She was barely able to walk when she first laughed at the fairies in the garden and pointed; her animated conversations with the invisible at first made her father smile, then frown, then scold. By the time she was old enough to walk unaccompanied to the market she had learned to pretend she did not hear the wails from the deserted cottage by the eastern wall, or the dark spirits of the hanged under the walls of the Garonne.
It felt to her as if she had not slithered completely from the womb. A part of her still sensed the world from which she had come and longed to return to it.
To hide her secret, she clung desperately to what was hard and real; to the stone of her father’s church, the hearth of her mother’s kitchen. With practice, she might pass months when the only people she saw were those who were really there; no stars twinkled in the hearth light, no spectres moved in the corners. The world was solid and smelled of earth and damp and stone.
She decided she would forget about what happened today in the church and do what her father said. Marriage to Pèire would not be so bad. He was a good, strong boy and he would put bread on the table. So why did she see him sprawled on the floor of the church with his brains sprayed across the flagstones?
*
The next morning she asked Elionor about Pèire. Did she think he was the right choice for her?
‘He’s strong and he works hard and and you’ll never go hungry.’
It was the answer she should have expected. What more should a woman want from a marriage, after all? ‘What is it like to . . . lie with a man?’
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