by Julie Berry
“Garcia.” The boy licked his chapped and peeling lips.
“Garcia.” Lucien wrote the word on a piece of parchment. They had experimented, first with the notary, then with having Bernard, the parish priest who’d brought the boy in, take transcription, but neither was quick enough. The priest’s writing was full of errors. Ignorant provincial clerics. No wonder the people were susceptible to error, with an illiteratus expounding scripture to them.
“Surname?”
The boy gazed at him blankly. They sat in the dusty sacristy of Sant Martin’s church. Barely more than a closet, it was filled with candlesticks, censers, vessels for wine and oil. The youth sweated in his seat as Lop, Senhor Hugo, Bernard, and Lucien looked on.
“Family name,” suggested Lop, seated on a short stool in one corner.
Lucien looked expectantly at the boy.
“What is your father’s name, son?” asked Senhor Hugo, who stood against the back wall, watching like a vulture on a bare branch as each person was examined.
“Oh. Garcia.”
Lucien decided to let it pass. He wrote “de Bajas” after the boy’s name. “How old are you?”
The boy sighed with relief. Finally a question he could answer. “Fourteen.”
“Garcia,” Lucien said. “Do you now, or have you ever at any time, known, spoken to, bowed to, adored, venerated, given gifts, food, shelter, or aid to, or otherwise succored a heretic, one of the so-called amicx de Dieu?”
The boy turned to Dominus Bernard in a plea for help. “I . . . pardon?”
The priest just stared at the floor.
This boy was clearly slow of mind. But that could be useful. Lucien smoothed his pile of parchment leaves. No hurry, no hurry at all.
“Have you, my son, ever seen any people called bons omes or bonas femnas? The good men and the good women, sometimes called the ‘friends of God’?”
The boy frowned. He seemed relieved; this wasn’t the question he’d been fearing. “There used to be an old lady, a few doors down. Esmerelda. Folks would bow to her, and she would bless them. Mamà would have me take fruits to her sometimes.”
E-s-m-e-r-e-l-d-a. Lucien wrote the name carefully. “Do you know her family name? Any other names by which she was known? No? No matter.” He dipped his quill in the ink. “Is she still alive?”
The boy shook his head. “Been dead for years.”
“And do you know where she is buried?”
The boy’s expression said this was a daft question. “Churchyard,” he said. “Same as everyone else.”
“I see.” Lucien laid down the quill and looked more closely at the boy. “Now, Garcia,” he said, “did you think Na Esmerelda was good?”
Garcia blinked at this. “Mamà and Papà said she was.” He thought a moment more. “Sometimes she would give me bread.”
“So your answer is yes?”
The boy nodded.
“How often did you eat her bread?”
The lad squirmed in his seat. “When she baked enough to spare. She was poor, so it wasn’t often.”
Lucien wrote this carefully. “Did you ever bow your head to Esmerelda? Did you ask her to bless you?”
The boy scratched his head. “Probably,” he said at length.
“Probably?”
He squirmed. “At least a couple of times,” he said, “as Mamà showed me to do.”
Lucien wrote this carefully. “Your mamà, is she still alive?”
Young Garcia grinned. “Oc. Papà says Mamà never gets sick.”
“Excellent.” Lucien smiled at the boy. “What is her name?”
“Saura.”
Lucien wrote this. “Now, Garcia, I want you to think. How old were you when you last bowed to Esmerelda?”
The youth did a bit of work upon his fingers. “Nine?” he ventured. “I think that’s how old I was when she died.”
“I see. And up until she died, how many times would you say you brought her fruits?”
A slow-dawning suspicion materialized in the youth’s eyes. “Should I not have taken fruits to the bona femna?” he inquired. “My mamà told me to. She said it was alms. Aren’t alms a good thing?”
The priest, Bernard, rose abruptly and began pacing the floor.
“Christian charity given to those who are worthy is always the right thing,” said Lucien smoothly. “Now, think. On how many occasions did you bring fruits?”
The boy shrugged. “Ten times,” he said. “At least.”
“Ten times bringing fruits,” Lucien narrated aloud as he wrote, “and several bows.” He laid down the quill once more. “Now, Garcia. Did you know a woman named Dolssa de Stigata?”
Garcia’s look changed. His eyes lowered.
“No,” he said. “I never met any woman by that name.”
Lop leaned back on his stool. “But everyone in town is talking about her.”
“Good bayle,” Lucien said, “allow me. Garcia, do you mean to say that you have never laid eyes on a femna named Dolssa de Stigata?”
The boy shook his head fervently. “Never. I’ve never seen her.”
Lucien bit his lips to hide a smile. The lad had been coached, then. The way the youth became so much more anxious when the fugitive’s name was mentioned was extremely interesting. Was it a flat-out lie? Or was there more to it?
“It seems that many people in town saw her,” Lucien said softly. “How could an active boy like you miss out on that?”
The boy hesitated. He was piloting his own boat now, without his parents’ preparation to guide him. “I was sick,” he explained. “I was in bed with a fever a few days ago.”
“Hm.” Lucien reinked his quill. “Up and about again so soon?”
He nodded. “I’m all better now.”
Lop, the bayle, watched with his hands folded across his chest. “Did they tell you, son, who made you better?”
Lucien made a note to himself to tell Senhor Guilhem to have the bayle removed. His brash way of interceding might work in everyday village lawsuits, but an inquisition into heretical depravity was a delicate exercise. In the future, Lop could remain outside. Civil authorities were only needed to carry out the sentencing. The knight, Lucien reasoned, could stay, but only to provide a witness, and protection.
“It was the woman, wasn’t it? Na Dolssa, who made you better?” Lop was at it again.
The boy knew he’d lost. He nodded.
“God made you better,” Lucien said. “Always give the glory to God, and not to man. You may go.”
Young Garcia jumped up from his chair. “I’m done, then?”
Lucien gave him a grave look. “You may wait outside the door until we come out to speak with you.”
The boy drooped and slunk away. Senhor Hugo watched him go with a look in his eyes that Lucien could not read and did not altogether like. He reviewed his notes and began issuing orders to Lop.
“Two yellow crosses marking him as a heretical sympathizer, to be sewn upon the shoulders of his clothing and worn for life,” said Lucien. “Exhume the bones of Esmerelda for posthumous burning, but first, let us learn more about who her other associates might have been. Summon the parents, Garcia and Saura, for questioning. House arrest, lifelong, a probable outcome in their case, but first we must inquire of them, though with this testimony against them by their own son, who clearly bore no malice against them, we can convict even if they deny any connection to the heretical woman.”
Lop’s eyes narrowed. “All this, over Esmerelda? The crosses and house arrest?”
Lucien nodded.
“The lad’ll have no more playmates,” the bayle said. “No girl will marry him. No man will hire him. No one will dare.”
Lucien de Saint-Honore interlaced his fingers and gazed back at the bayle. He had all the time needed to correct this official’s misunderstandings about his mandate.
“Without a son to work and bring in food, the parents will starve to death on house arrest,” Lop said. “The entire village would h
ave bowed to Esmerelda and others like her.”
“Which is why firm measures are needed,” said Lucien, “in a region mired in falsehood.”
Lop turned away, but Lucien heard what he muttered under his breath. Perhaps he was meant to. “There’ll be nothing left of Bajas when you’re done.”
Lucien coughed slightly. “Would you like to be relieved of these duties, if they displease you?” The gray-eyed bayle made no response. “I can speak to Senhor Guilhem about it.”
The bayle, who was easily twice the friar’s age, was unmoved by this threat. “Why haven’t you brought in the sisters from the tavern yet? Why are we wasting our time on children?”
Lucien liked being asked. “I am weaving my net, good bayle,” he said. “One careful thread at a time. Method is the key. Not haste. Method.”
Lop stood and shook out his stiff shoulders. “And you mean to take this much time in questioning every man, woman, and child in Bajas?”
Lucien smiled calmly. “I do,” he said. “If the proceedings are tiresome to you, Senhor Hugo and I can manage them ourselves. By all means, you may resume your normal activities. At the end of each day we shall compile the sentencing and pass it along to you to carry out.”
Lop sat back down. “I’ll stay,” he said. “I can endure as much boredom as you can.”
Senhor Hugo looked away just then, and Lucien saw, to his great annoyance, that the knight was silently laughing.
HUGO
enhor Hugo de Miramont sat on a rock on the grassy slope leading down to the waterfront. He watched la mar as peaceful waves curled and broke upon the sand. What a day this would have been to strum his gittern and think gentler thoughts. In another world, another age.
His senses tingled. Someone was watching him. He turned about slowly, to betray no concern, but found nobody in sight other than some fishermen at work at the wharves a long ways away, and harvesters in the distance who were nothing but specks.
Odd.
Then his eyes caught his observer, and he jumped. A sleek gray cat sat watching him from atop a small rock. Its cool, unblinking eyes examined him without apology.
The tavern cat. The one that scratched the bayle. Hugo blew out his breath and laughed.
“Honor to you, Grimalkin,” he murmured. “Shame upon me. You’ve bested a knight of the count of Tolosa with nothing but your silent paws.”
At the sound of his voice, the cat’s ears pricked. It rose from its sunny rock, stretched its spine, then picked its way across the grass toward him, and stood expectantly at his feet.
The knight reached down and stroked the cat. It purred and arched its back.
“What secrets you could tell me, little cat,” said Senhor de Miramont, “if you could talk.”
But the cat was through with conversation. It sauntered up the hill and ventured out toward the countryside, where the harvesters wielded their stem-cutting blades and sang as they hauled in the last of the season’s crop.
BOTILLE
he next day was a blur.
Dolssa had become our peace, our concern, our consolation. We tasted her absence like a missing tooth.
By the docks, in the streets, we heard rumors of children and youth rounded up for questioning. With each hour we were glad they hadn’t come for us, but we couldn’t understand it. The waiting was almost worse.
No one came to the tavern.
That night, a knock at the tavern door roused me from where I sat with my srres in a stupor of silent fear.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find Dominus Bernard. His face was gray. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. My stomach sank.
“You’ve come to take us in, haven’t you?”
He came inside and closed the door.
“Botille,” he said, “hear me quickly. You must leave here. You and your family. Go as far as you can, as fast as you can.”
Plazensa rose from her seat and stirred behind the bar. Mimi mewed at the priest, then rubbed herself against his ankles.
“I can’t stop this,” Dominus Bernard went on. “You’re in grave danger.”
“We can’t flee with Jobau,” I whispered. “We wouldn’t leave someone behind. You know that.” He must know who else I meant by someone.
My old friend’s mouth hardened. He took a slow breath, and spoke, no longer to the living, but the dead. “Then my coming here was wasted. Far better, had I stayed at home.”
Plazensa approached and pressed a cup of wine into our village priest’s hand. “We thank you, Dominus,” she whispered. “Is there nothing you can do for us?”
Bernard refused the wine as though it were bitter. “I came tonight to warn you.”
Without another look, he turned and left.
I roamed about in the afternoon, needing something to do. I headed out toward Na Pieret’s vineyards, thinking I might find a chance to peek in on Dolssa, but Symo, seeing me, gave a shake of his head and sent me back. Harvesters were everywhere. It wouldn’t have worked. I knew Symo was bringing her food and water, and even, at her request, some candles, parchment, and ink. What she needed most was company. I wondered what she was writing. I missed her.
I thought of visiting Sapdalina, but she wasn’t home. Her father told me she was out walking with Gui.
Well.
Nor was Astruga at home. Her father told me she was still tending the de Prato children. I headed over to see her there.
She ducked out through her open door, then frowned at the sight of me.
“What do you want?”
“Bonjọrn, Astruga,” I said, and kissed her cheek. She backed away from me.
Over her shoulder I could see the small maisoṇ had smartened up considerably under her care. A noise erupted from the children, and she ordered them to leave off whacking each other. They obeyed. Joan de Prato passed by outside, pushing a barrow of wheat sheaves. He glanced at Astruga, and she back at him, and something passed between. Not a smile. Not quite. But something near.
“What have you come for, then, Botille?” asked Astruga.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just to see how you were getting on. Shall I send someone else to relieve you from watching the children?”
“Do I look like I need relieving?” She swelled with indignation.
“Not at all.”
“There’s no one else who could just step in and manage them, anyway,” she said. “She wouldn’t know them as I do.”
I nodded. “You’ve done right by them. It’s plain.”
“Oc. Well.” She stepped back inside. “I won’t be needing your help anymore, Botille,” she said. “You shouldn’t come back here.” She closed the door.
That night I defied what Symo had told me, and I snuck out to the vineyards after dark to go sit with Dolssa. I had to know she was all right. I could make the journey in the dark.
But I didn’t get far. Halfway along the path leading to Na Pieret’s wine cellar, I heard voices. I stopped alongside the path to listen. I didn’t want to reveal my presence to anyone.
It took no time to discern that the voices belonged to Jacme and Andrio, Na Pieret’s farmhands. They weren’t quiet. They were roaring drunk.
“It’s that friar,” Jacme said. “He’s the one. The others are all talk.”
“Him with his French accent,” said Andrio’s voice. “He’s younger than we are! Who does he think he is?”
I could picture them lying in the damp grass, with their legs splayed out before them, and pitchers of stolen wine clutched in their great hammy hands.
“Do you know what he did?” asked Jacme.
“What?”
Jacme’s throat took a long drink. “He put my maire on house arrest. My blessed maire! For heresy.”
“He never!” exclaimed Andrio. Knowing this pair, I was certain Andrio had heard this outrage a dozen times already, but he would always oblige his friend.
“Because when she was a small toza, not even six years old”—Jacme slurred his s’s—“her parents brou
ght her to be raised up by an aunt who was a bona femna.”
“My mother grew up that way too,” said Andrio. “Every toza did. Back then.”
“He’s a jackass.”
“A jackass from Fransa,” said Andrio, “which is the worst kind.”
Jacme took another swig. “They don’t know us at all.”
Andrio burped. “They’ve sentenced dozens to wearing yellow crosses for life.”
“My own maire!” cried Jacme.
“The jackass.”
They ruminated on injustice for a time. Then Jacme spoke again.
“D’you know what we should do?”
“What should we do?”
A drink. “We should drive him out of town.”
“Oc,” cried Andrio. “Teach him a lesson.”
“I have a few questions,” said the other, “that I’d like to ask him.”
I knew what the rising pitch of those voices meant. One didn’t run a tavern for years without learning to recognize when ne’er-do-wells were whipping themselves up for a brawl.
“We’ll be heroes,” said Jacme. “Na Pieret and Senhor Guilhem will thank us.”
“Heroes. Oc.”
The stupid, stupid tozẹts! What could be more dangerous than such stupidity?
“He walks by the water in the evenings,” said Jacme. “We could surprise him right now.”
“Oc. Send him packing from Bajas.”
Jacme’s voice dropped dangerously. “Or maybe not.”
Andrio considered this. So did I. But they mustn’t. If they threatened or wounded the inquisitor, their deeds would be trumpeted all the way to Roma. If they thought we were seeing the Church’s full wrath now, they were mistaken. Those two must be stopped.
“They’re murderers, you know,” Jacme said.
“That’s true,” replied Andrio.
“Making the bayles burn innocent people,” said Jacme. “They’ll burn us all before they’re through. Come on. Let’s go.”
They climbed to their feet and lumbered off.
I waited for their sounds to fade. Jacme and Andrio wouldn’t listen to me even if they were sober. Dolssa, my poor bird, would have to wait alone in the dark a little longer. I had to find Symo before those drunken fools found the friar.