As the light receded in the chapel, he begged the divine for redemption.
‘Look what they have done to our church!’ a familiar voice said.
‘Father Ortiz!’ In pity’s name, was there no peace to be had anywhere?
‘It is a dismal thing to see how tenaciously these lost souls cling to the darkness. If only they would embrace Our Saviour the world would be saved and they would find peace in heaven, rather than be damned to eternal pain and suffering. It is such a simple truth that I wonder why men do not grasp it more readily.’ Father Ortiz fell to his knees beside him. ‘For what do you pray?’
‘I am troubled.’
‘Are you still disturbed by the burnings? You do well to understand that I do not enter lightly upon any act of violence, but Man must suffer for his sins, for that is the nature of things. And those benighted souls we burned are the greatest sinners of all for they are tools of the Devil. If we have been chosen as the instruments of Almighty God, then we should accept our burden stoically and with humility. If you flinch from your duty, then you are of no account to God.’
‘Could we not seek to persuade these heretics rather than do them to death in such a manner?’
‘If a wound is septic do you not apply the hot iron before the infection spreads to the rest of the body? This is why the heretic must be rooted out, Brother Jorda, for by refusing to abjure, he imperils everyone. He endangers our institutions and our towns, our King, our Vicar in Rome, everything that stands between us and savagery. Remember, we stand sentinel over men’s minds. We must destroy everything that comes from the Devil and delays the glorious moment of Christ’s final return.’
‘But what would you do in their place, Father? Would you not hope for mercy?’
‘Mercy? No! Were I ever taken by the infidel I should beg to be torn limb from limb and have my eyes gouged out. I should wallow in my own blood so that I could wear a martyr’s crown in heaven!’ He put his hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Brother Jorda, you must not persist with such thoughts. You have been charged with the task of saving this land from the Devil! As a priest of the Holy Church you will answer one day not only for your own sins but for all those who look to you for their salvation. You have been chosen to be a shepherd of souls. Will you let wolves run wild in your flock or will you stand your watch over them?’
‘I have dedicated my life to Christ, Father Ortiz.’
‘Many feign to love the divine but they do not have the stomach for true devotion. Remember how Our Lord threw the moneychangers out of the Temple? It is good to spend time on your knees, but to love God, a monk should know when to stand firm as well!’ Father Ortiz sighed. ‘Look at the crack in the wall up there. I believe it was our own war machines that did that. We shall need to find a stonemason for the repairs.’
‘We had one right here, but you let him go.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Bérenger, Anselm Bérenger. He worked for many years on the restoration of the Église de Saint-Antoine in Toulouse. His wife was hereticated and was among those we burned.’
‘I know that name. His daughter is here in our prison, is she not? The hysteric who sees visions and mutilates her own flesh?’
‘The same.’
‘God works in mysterious ways, Brother Jorda. Take an escort in the morning and fetch him back. We will put him to work. His wage will be his daughter’s life.’
XCIII
A CHILL AND DRENCHING rain sapped the spirits and froze the bones. Anselm pulled the hood of his cloak over his face, the bitter deluge dripping from its peak. He shivered uncontrollably.
It was a world so dominated by rain it seemed to him that even the rocks were leaking water, though it was just springs appearing from the base of the cliffs. He heard rocks crashing on to the road, sent toppling from their pinnacles by the movement of the mud beneath.
They passed several dead trees that had been blasted apart by lightning.
He could barely see a hundred paces through the veil of rain. He recited the paternoster over and over in his head.
After the surrender, Trencavel’s soldiers had headed to Cabaret. But what was there for an honest stonemason? A winter of starvation and snow and another siege when the crosatz moved up the valley. The Spanish routiers had gone their own way, God alone knew where, probably to mate with she-wolves in the mountains. He had joined the burghers and townspeople going back down the mountain. That little rogue Loup had to lead him by the hand, else he would have just stayed there outside the gates of Montaillet, howling for them to let his daughter go.
*
Apparently they were all headed to Narbonne, which was untouched so far by the war, and where the winter would be milder. It was a long and bedraggled line, a few foot-carts, many of the women staggering from exhaustion, some cradling silent children in their arms. The infants just look through you, he thought, as if their souls have already been despatched to heaven, leaving their bodies behind. He felt affinity with them. His wife was dead, his daughter in prison, his house was rubble. What was the point to survival now? Living was just a habit you got yourself into.
He saw a rock by the side of the path and sat down. He watched his toes sink into the mud. Rain dripped from his nose. He thought about his wife’s bread, steaming from the oven, and her hot soup, with beans and mutton and cabbage. He watched the steam curl off the surface, and held his hands around it to warm himself.
‘Papa Bérenger,’ Loup said. ‘What are you doing?’ The lad shook him by the shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I just want to sit a while,’ he said.
‘If you stop you’ll never get up again. Now come on.’ He grabbed his arm.
Anselm pulled away. ‘I’ll catch up.’
Loup shook his head. ‘You know you won’t.’
‘And what if I don’t? I should have taken the consolamentum with my wife when I had the chance, then we could have stepped into paradise side by side.’
‘Only a priest can send you to heaven.’
‘Well, we’d be together in hell, then. I was a coward, I let her die alone. I let them take her. I thought that if I stayed alive I could protect Fabricia, but now look, even she’s in prison. I’m useless.’
‘We have to keep going.’
‘Why? Why do you want to survive so much, boy?’
‘Because I have promised myself that one day I will have a soft bed and a great horse. The bed has red velvet curtains and the horse has one white patch over its eye. This I dream of and I will not let this dream go!’ He hauled again on Anselm’s arm and forced him back on to his feet. ‘Come on. By tonight the rain will stop and I will steal some food for us and everything will be all right again. You’ll see.’
*
Simon set off as the angelus peeled over the valley from the church at Montaillet. Gilles had given him an escort of men-at-arms, and they had found him a cob to ride barely taller than himself, but tame and compliant enough.
He and his entourage made their way down the valley in the rain, following the road to Saint-Ybars. The forest was black and mostly silent, though from time to time he heard a crashing in the undergrowth, a boar perhaps, or goblins.
At one point they stopped at a thicket deep in the wood and the captain of the guard clambered off his horse to study the tracks.
Simon went into the wood to relieve himself. He saw a shrine carved in the heart of a large tree. There was a small black figure in the shrine, a pagan idol, with dugs like a wolf and a swollen belly. There was a crushed mess of flowers at her feet.
He picked up the idol and thought to smash it on the ground, but it was carved from hard black wood. It would take a fire to destroy it, as did all things evil.
He threw it as far as he could, deep into the woods. He did not hear it land.
*
He found the stonemason among a small group of bedraggled men and women struggling through the forest. They all looked up fearfully at their approach.
Sim
on reined in his horse. ‘Anselm Bérenger. Do you remember me?’ He pulled back the cowl of his robe from his face.
Anselm looked up at him, then at his crusader escort. ‘Why have you come after us? You said you would let us go if we took the oath.’
‘We need a stonemason.’
Anselm fell on his knees in the mud. A small boy at his side tried to drag him to his feet.
‘What is wrong with him?’ Simon said to the urchin.
‘He is just hungry, Father.’
‘Why can’t you people just leave me alone?’ Anselm said.
‘I have been charged to bring you back to Montaillet. We have a horse here for you. Tonight you will be snug beside a warm fire and there will be hot broth and wine to revive you.’
‘Come on, Papa,’ the boy said. ‘Get up!’
‘I have made a bargain for you with Father Ortiz. Repair the church for him and your daughter goes free.’
The boy hauled Anselm to his feet. One of the soldiers brought up the spare horse.
‘Get on the horse,’ Simon said
‘You mean it? You will not hurt her if I do this for you?’
‘You have my word.’
‘What about him?’ Anselm said pointing to the boy.
‘Who is he?’
‘He’s my . . . nephew. He has to come with me.’
Simon shrugged. ‘Very well, put him on the horse with you.’
Anselm clambered into the saddle and hauled Loup up after him. They turned back towards Montaillet. The other refugees watched him go. He could see the look in their faces. How they hated him right then: a warm fire and hot broth!
They continued their long, cold walk down the mountain to Narbonne.
*
Fabricia was too frightened to sleep, whenever she did the rats bit small pieces of flesh from her toes. Besides, there was not enough straw and the rock floor of the cell was cold. There was not even a hole or pail for her bodily functions. They left her in constant darkness, chained to the wall, unable to tell night from day.
It was like being buried alive. She wanted only to die.
Whenever she closed her eyes, if only for a moment, she experienced vivid, restless dreams that sent her limbs twitching in fright, bleeding in and out of her present torment so that she could no longer distinguish reality from dream.
She prayed to the Madonna for mercy.
But the face she saw when she prayed was not the Madonna’s; it was Philip’s. She even believed she could feel his warm breath on her face. ‘I am coming back for you,’ he said. ‘Don’t give up.’
But it was just a dream.
XCIV
Toulouse
I AM COMING back for you, he thought. Don’t give up.
It was a cold, bright day, the flag of Toulouse whipping in the north wind. The city had achieved a certain fame. Philip had heard travellers talk of it in Burgundy; finer than Paris, they said, and certainly finer than Troyes. They reckoned there were more than three hundred turrets and towers across its skyline, though he did not know who might think to count them all.
And churches, too: there the round basilica of Saint-Sernin, there the square tower of Saint-Étienne, and over there the Notre-Dame de la Daurade, beside the white walls of the Église Dalbade and the Saint-Romain, all clustered like great ships inside a harbour wall.
Rosy Garonne bricks glowed pink in the sun.
A sight to behold indeed; but once inside the gates the press of corbelled houses and the poles of tattered laundry blotted out the sky and Toulouse became something less than beautiful.
They were delayed in the streets by donkeys with swaying loads and farmers with flocks of grey-backed sheep. Carts had formed deep ruts in the mud and these had filled with all manner of rubbish; the stink was dizzying.
He heard shouts; saw a gang of young men, all dressed in black and waving black banners, armed with swords and staves, clash with another yelling mob with red crosses sewn on their white robes. People fled, pouring from the lane into the main street. More blood on the stones. Even in the Count’s own backyard the war still raged.
*
He was escorted through the palace like a leper and, having been kept waiting most of the morning, was finally directed into a panelled chamber, the usher curling a lip at his muddied boots and his torn jerkin. That was the problem with servants; after a while they thought of their house of employment as if it were their own.
He was introduced to the Count’s principal secretary, Bernard de Signy, a stolid man whose unremarkable physical appearance was at odds with the clothes that he wore, all rich silks and Rheims linen. His fingers bulged with rings of amber and silver. Raimon had warned him to expect tight clothes and foppish manners; he said the courtiers in the south had never chewed meat off the bone in their life.
Philip had known men like de Signy before and they all sang the same song: Let us be cautious, we should talk about this, don’t rush, think of the consequences, let us send a deputation. These men did not understand travails, had never seen a rat chewing at a corpse or a piece of brimstone as large as a horse stable coming at them over a castle wall; never witnessed men scalded with boiling water, their skin hanging in strips down their back, being ordered back to their place at a battering ram.
He had soft hands and a mouth that smiled independent of his eyes. ‘So, seigneur,’ he said, after introductions had been made and Philip had stated his business. ‘This is . . . unusual. If I may ask, Baron de Vercy, what is the interest of a nobleman such as yourself in the affairs of a small town in the Pays d’Oc?’
‘It is a private crusade, if you will. In the service of a just cause.’
‘A true knight? The troubadours should like to make a ballad for you. What is it you wish from us?’
‘I am here at the behest of Raimon Perella, second cousin to viscount Roger-Raymond Trencavel. I have brought embassy to Count Raymond.’
‘I am afraid that Count Raymond is not presently here in Toulouse.’
Philip’s shoulders sagged.
‘You had not heard this news?’
‘I have ridden night and day under escort from Montaillet.’
‘Which is under siege, I am told.’
‘We rode through their lines under cover of darkness.’
‘That was very . . . bold.’
‘The situation is desperate. We needed to be . . . bold.’
‘Then to better inform you in your boldness: the Church has placed our beloved Count under interdict. They have no grounds for this but it is our belief that they wish to confiscate his lands and are using holy writ to do it. The Count is on his way to Paris to visit the King, then he intends to travel to Rome, to plead his case to the Pope in person.’
‘I am here to suggest to him that he would be better advised to make his case in the Montagne Noir.’
‘Please talk freely, seigneur.’
‘Montaillet has been under siege these last two months and during that time we have held off this supposedly invincible army of de Montfort’s. I can tell you this, they are a spent force. The Duke of Burgundy and Count of Nevers have gone home and taken the larger part of the army with them. De Montfort has just thirty knights left and perhaps five hundred men, together with a few godless priests and bishops and a ragged bunch of hangers-on. As we speak some of the castles that surrendered to him in the summer are rebelling. If Raymond would join the house of Trencavel in this fight we can end this military expedition right now, so that these crozatz lose their appetite for warring here completely.’
A fat and ponderous finger was placed to the lips. Finally: ‘We understand the point you are making, but although I myself sympathize with the plight of the citizens and soldiers of Montaillet, we believe it would be unwise for Count Raymond to get involved in this conflict. It would only inflame the situation further. De Montfort has recently met with the King of Aragon in Montpellier and he refused to recognize him as the new viscount. So why should Raymond take up arms? This i
s exactly what the bishops want him to do. He need only wait and everything will resolve itself without his intervention.’
The square window behind the courtier was protected by a grille. A pigeon strutted and cooed on the windowsill. It has learned its habits from watching de Signy, Philip thought.
‘But you could crush them if you attacked now. You could save Montaillet and resolve things more certainly than you can by doing nothing.’
‘We are hardly doing nothing. Diplomacy may be every bit as effective as swordplay, seigneur. I am sorry for the people of Montaillet, but in the larger purpose they count for nothing. We must be politic.’
‘Montaillet counts for nothing? You pompous little fop.’ It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
De Signy’s cheeks turned pink. ‘Seigneur, I shall not tolerate such insults from a man such as yourself. The whole world knows you are excommunicate, that you have betrayed your own.’
Philip got to his feet and grabbed the secretary by the hair. ‘They cut out my squire’s eyes, damn you! It rested upon my honour to avenge him!’
De Signy shrieked in fear and moments later the guards burst through the door, but seeing him armed they held back. So much for diplomacy, Philip thought. He showed himself out.
XCV
THERE WERE INNUMERABLE candles burning in the choir; a penitent, dressed in rags and with ulcers on his feet, knelt before the altar. Its black and violet covering was embroidered with pearls and silver. He kissed it, his fingers trembling as they touched the cloth.
With winter drawing on, the great crowds of pilgrims had thinned. The innkeepers and the hawkers and the pickpockets were always as sorry to see them go as the monks and the priests. But there were still enough of them, Philip thought, all weeping and trembling as they filed through the ambulatory, gaping at the relics of the True Cross and the bloodied thorn of Jesus’s crown and the blessed toenail of St Peter and whatever else the priests had put there. Just this church alone had fragments of no less than twenty-six such saints.
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