by Glen Craney
Innocent’s cleft upper lip twitched with indignation. He gazed across the vast chamber, drawing strength from the artistic depictions of saints in the throes of various agonies. “Do they expect me to rule from an anchorite’s cell?”
“They expect you not to rule at all,” blurted the Bishop of Toulouse.
Innocent stood motionless, his salmon-pink face sealed in an expression of sour incredulity. The Curia’s physician tried to daub beads from his forehead, but the pontiff repulsed the ministration and pounded a table with his fist. “Sons of Satan! God damn their blackened souls!”
The bishops squirmed with mouths twitching, stunned to hear such a distempered curse by the Vicar of Christ, in holy confines of the Lateran no less.
Almaric allowed the bishops to bridle a moment more before breaking their discomfited silence. “The Occitan heretics are indeed demon-possessed. They abjure taking up arms, even to defend Christ’s kingdom. They also avoid eating meat for fear that the animals may be their kin.”
The bishops tried to negate that revelation with nervous titters, hopeful that the absurdity of the heretics’ beliefs might soften the pontiff’s ire.
Innocent glared them into a chastened submission. “Is it true that these people abstain from sexual union?”
“Not for reasons of purity,” said Almaric. “They deem it a tragedy when a soul is born. Their provocateurs walk from town to town mimicking the Apostles and passing off black magic as the working of the Holy Spirit.”
Innocent’s interest was piqued. “What form of magic?”
“They claim to heal by touch as did Our Lord,” said Almaric. “It is clearly communion with Hell’s succubi. The men seduce illiterate women into their ministries and masquerade them about like pagan priestesses.”
Innocent strode before the craven bishops and examined their wan faces closely. “You have been given the powers of excommunication, exile, and forfeiture of life. Why have you not eradicated these thistles from your fields?”
“The secular rulers must impose the penalties,” reminded the Bishop of Narbonne, his voice suddenly falsetto. “When we demand enforcement, the Count of Toulouse tarries and offers excuses. His vassal, the Count of Foix, is no better. It is rumored ...” The revelation caught in his throat. The only sound heard was the chirp of crickets in the damp silence of the lower gardens.
“Do not try my patience!” shouted the pontiff.
The bishops hemmed and hawed, unable to gather the verve to finish the report. Almaric underscored their cravenness by revealing, “The Counts of Toulouse and Foix are believed to be enamored with the Cathar beliefs.”
“I once heard the Count of Foix’s sister engage in scurrilous exegesis of Holy Writ,” confirmed the Bishop of Narbonne, eager to segregate himself from his colleagues, whose dioceses were more proximate to the offending domains.
“That woman is a wanton whore!” cried Folques.
The clerics turned on Folques, shocked that a deacon would dare speak in the pontiff’s presence without permission. Almaric moved quickly to blunt Innocent’s ire. “My scrivener is unschooled in the protocol.”
Innocent circled Folques. “A Gregorian gamut. Sing one for me.”
The bishops were perplexed by the odd request. With a stern look of reprimand, Almaric nodded for Folques to perform the requested task. Folques cleared his throat and filled the chamber with a series of dulcet plainsong notes.
Innocent closed his eyes and swayed with the rhythmic chant. When Folques had finished, the pontiff sighed as if roused from an ecstatic state. “Remarkable tone. I am constantly tormented by discordant sounds. My ears are extremely sensitive. You have given them a blessed respite, my son. For that, I should think we might hear what you have to offer on the state of God’s realm.”
Folques glanced contritely at Almaric before acceding to the invitation. “Holiness, I once lived among these false Christians. They flout all conventions of chastity and speak the crude langue d’oc, which says yes to every lust. Instead of attending mass, the men spout poetry like Moors and the women parade about in dress more promiscuous than the silks worn by the daughters of Belial. The songs of their troubadours are veiled hymns to the dualist heresy.”
“A conspiracy?” asked Innocent. “Among the errant bards?”
“The singers swear allegiance to a secret brotherhood called the Church of Love. Their code equates the passion for a woman to one’s love for God.”
“How do you know this?” asked Innocent.
“Until redeemed by Our Lord,” said Folques, “I was one of them.”
“What course of action would you propose I take?” asked Innocent.
“St. Michael raised his blade against Satan,” said Folques. “If the Occitan barons refuse to cleanse their land, should we not act in their stead?”
The bishops repulsed that outlandish proposition with a corporate gasp. Delivering souls to the secular estate for the pyres was warranted under Church law, but to suggest that the Church itself take up violence was as uncanonical as the errors being rectified. St. Augustine had centuries ago established that a just war could be waged only by rulers of kingdoms, not men of God.
The Bishop of Toulouse was determined to quash Folques’s temerity by exposing his ignorance of ecclesiastic law. “You would have us shed blood?”
“The Knights of the Temple are allowed to take monastic vows while fighting the infidels in Palestine,” said Folques. “Why not sanction an order of God’s warriors to put down the unbelievers in our own domains?”
“The infidels meet sword with sword,” reminded the Bishop of Narbonne. “The heretics threaten us with lies, not weapons.”
While the bishops browbeat Folques with biblical citations, Innocent stood at the sill and studied the mobs festering in the piazza below. When the clerics fell silent to await his indication, he gave a paternal pat on Folques’s shoulder. “Our Lord banished Satan with the Word alone, my son. I do indeed require an army. On that you have spoken wisely. But my ranks must be filled with preachers, not soldiers. Regrettably, I possess neither. Instead of steadfast servants of Christ, what stands before me is an ostentation of preening peacocks.”
Stung by the calumny, the bishops stirred with affront.
Almaric seized the opening to expand his authority at their expense. “Holiness, may I propose your legion of preachers be recruited from the enemy’s own territory? My monks know these Occitan recreants firsthand. They grew up in the same villages and understand their devious ways.”
The bishops burned Almaric with searing glares, having long suspected him of scheming to insert his Cistercians into their pulpits to siphon off donations.
The Bishop of Toulouse sputtered, “We have conducted sermons—”
“With dolorous effect!” reminded Innocent.
“I meant only—”
Innocent silenced the Toulouse bishop with the point of his horny forefinger. Lips compressed white in dudgeon, the pontiff retreated to a painting of St. Sebastian being slowly impaled by arrows. After indulging at length in the saint’s pained rapture, he turned to Almaric and ordered, “Abbot, draft a missionary campaign for the Languedoc. I wish it led by your Cistercians.” He came to Folques and pressed the former troubadour’s hands into his own. “Find me more silver-throated champions of Christ like this one. What prodigal soul would not return to the Church after hearing such a voice?”
Ears lit scarlet, the Gallic bishops bowed stiffly and hurried from the chamber before the choleric-tempered pontiff could issue more punishing directives. Relishing his victory, Almaric moved with Folques toward the doors.
“Abbot, will you remain a moment?” asked Innocent. “Accompany me. You may bring your songbird.”
The pontiff escorted the two Cistercians from the Triclinium and down a corridor of dark galleries until they reached an iron-studded door. A functionary standing guard allowed them entry into a long, windowless room that was filled with shelves of ancient scrolls, codices, and manuscripts.
“The archives,” said Innocent. “Some are Ebionite, Docetist, and Marcionite tracts confiscated from Alexandria and Ephesus, a few from Jerusalem. I remembered your love of books during our school days in Paris. I thought you might enjoy seeing some of the scurrilous works that have been collected over the years.” He dismissed the custodian and locked the door behind him. After a hesitation, he asked the Abbot with a studied nonchalance, “In your encounters with these Occitan heretics, did any speak of a gospel not written by the saints?”
“They rant on about all manner of fables and forgeries,” said Almaric.
Innocent debated if his next line of inquiry was worth the risk. Finally, he asked, “One authored by an older brother of our Lord?”
Almaric’s brows narrowed in confusion. “The Blessed Mother was a perpetual virgin unstained by original sin. How could—”
“A blasphemy, of course,” said Innocent, waving off the question. “The Jews and Greeks concoct such lies to propagate their mischief. It would not surprise me if a few scrips by Simon Magus and the Gnostics had escaped our nets.”
“Some of the captured Manicheans claimed knowledge of a tradition older than St. Paul,” said Almaric. “I dismissed it as ravings of the weak-minded.”
“But no writings?” asked Innocent.
“They spread their disease by word of mouth to avoid a trail of evidence,” assured Almaric. “Should such forgeries be uncovered, I will burn them.”
“No!” said Innocent, too abruptly, then retreating to an air of indifference. “In the unlikely event you encounter such a manuscript, simply bring it to me.” Finding the two Cistercians bewildered by his directive, he moved to allay their suspicions. “We must study Satan’s sorcery if we are to prevail over him.”
As Almaric bowed to take his leave, he saw the pontiff’s admiring gaze linger upon Folques.
The Whole on high hath part in our dancing. Who so danceth not, knoweth not what cometh to pass.
- The Acts of John
VI
The Languedoc
March 1198
The journey north on the mud-slogged road to Toulousia was proving as taxing as Roger had warned it would be. But Esclarmonde would not hear of missing the christening of the infant Raymond VII, the future count of Toulouse, an eagerly awaited ceremony that promised to be one of the most memorable in Occitan history. Richard the Lionhearted, recently ransomed from an Austrian prison, would stand as godfather for the child of his sister, Johanna, thus bringing together the kings of England, France, and Aragon for the first time in a decade. Those three irascible monarchs shared but one trait—a hatred for the other two.
As an escort led the Foix contingent from Carcassonne, Esclarmonde studied her brother in the vanguard and wondered why he had surrendered so quickly to her demand that she and Corba attend the baptism. Could he be up to some intrigue? More likely he didn’t trust her to remain in Foix unsupervised.
Raymond de Perella doubled back and captured Corba’s bridle to ease her gelding into its pace. “Another day’s ride, my dear, and you shall have a rest.”
Corba stole back the reins in a tease. “We’re not fragile dolls!”
“Yes, Raymond,” chided Esclarmonde. “Do you mistake us for Northern ladies who insist on being carried about in palanquins?”
Raymond arched with laughter. “I truly pity those Parisian damsels. They are soon to find themselves eclipsed in beauty and endurance.” Before returning to the van, he and Corba shared a glance pregnant with a secret.
When out of his earshot, Corba found Esclarmonde locked on her with an insistent glare. Finally, she broke under the silent inquisition. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. But you must promise to keep it between us.”
Hurt by the implication that she was a gossip, Esclarmonde placed her hand over her heart and vowed, “By all I hold dear.”
After a hesitation, Corba whispered, “Raymond has proposed.”
Esclarmonde screamed with delight, throwing the column into disarray. She dismounted and pulled Corba from the saddle to smother her with a hug. “We must prepare the banns and announcements!”
The men rushed up on hearing the shouts. Finding the women frolicking, Roger was about to chastise them when Esclarmonde left him speechless.
“Raymond and Corba are engaged!”
“Esclarmonde!” cried Corba in horror. “I just asked you not to—”
Roger grasped Raymond’s hand in congratulations. “Nary a word to me?”
Corba could only shrug at Raymond’s look of utter dismay.
“Bring the goblets and the best wine from the pack!” Esclarmonde led the foursome to seats on a limestone curb that overlooked the lush vineyards of the Argot valley. When all had gathered, she offered up a toast: “To Love, and to this Paradise in which we are blessed by God to live.”
Raymond clanked his goblet against hers. “Esclarmonde, it is a state of bliss that I dare say you will soon enjoy yourself.”
Esclarmonde saw Corba furtively tug at Raymond’s sleeve in a signal to avoid that subject. Her instincts told her something was amiss, for Roger had acknowledged the prediction with a troubling smirk. Yet she dared not challenge him before they arrived in Toulouse. There was a restraint in Corba’s expression of joy. Perhaps they were all sensitive to the fact that, at eighteen, she herself had passed the age when ladies were considered desirable for marriage. She had entertained no suitors since her public humiliation of Folques, and Roger incessantly threatened to take matters into his own hands. When he confronted her with the growing necessity of an arrangement, she would lash back by reminding him that he himself had yet to take a wife and produce an heir. A sudden wave of sadness swept over her. Who would have thought that Corba would be the first to marry? She knew it to be divine retribution for the many times she had lorded about her own throng of admirers.
Corba took Esclarmonde’s hand and walked her away from the men. “You are thinking of him again.”
“I cannot help it.” During these past five years, she had tried to wean her thoughts from Guilhelm, but his face still came to her, flashing that laugh on the day she had raced past his steed for Montsegur. She had only herself to blame; he was a man who needed be told only once to avoid a lady’s presence. Perhaps it was just as well. The notion of a betrothal to a Templar was as senseless as a desire to flatten the mountains.
“I can ask Raymond if he has heard news.”
“It’s best I not know.”
“Raymond said Guilhelm was ordered to search for the heretics.”
“You told Raymond of our quarrel?” snapped Esclarmonde.
“He is to be my husband. And who are you to talk of indiscretions?”
“I suppose he’ll hand me over to the tribunal like he did that heretic girl!”
“What in God’s name has come over you?” demanded Corba.
Esclarmonde turned away, repelled by her own outburst. “Guilhelm has this hold on me. I cannot shake it.”
Corba stroked her hand. “You will find someone else. I am certain—”
Esclarmonde flinched from a report that sounded like the crack of lightning. A shimmering orb of gold suddenly appeared over Corba’s shoulder, radiating with a centrifugal illumination unlike any she had seen, paradoxically both distant and within reach. She was struck with the inexplicable conviction that the vision was not formed by her corporeal eyes. She blinked repeatedly to chase the phantasm away, but its swirling grew more brilliant as it spun toward her. “Do you not see it?”
Corba turned. “See what?”
Esclarmonde collapsed in a spasm. Pulsations coursed down her spine and she heard words only dimly, as if submerged in water. The alarmed faces of Corba and the men hovered over her, blurred as if looking through a gauze. A balm of calming ecstasy suddenly dissolved her fear—she sank into what felt like a hidden chamber of her own flesh, enveloped by an emotion stronger than any she had ever experienced, painful as it was rapturous. Th
e golden ball of light split into two serpents, one black and one white. They hissed and intertwined in a desperate struggle to swallow each other. The black serpent subdued its opponent but then choked on its conquest. A white dove flew from the mouth of the dead serpent and transformed into the orb that had given birth to the vision.
This is the Star followed by the Magi.
She was hearing the Voice that had spoken to her in the court of love.
Follow this Light, even unto the mouth of the Serpent.
Esclarmonde came to consciousness strapped to a stretcher. Her head pounded and her limbs ached horribly. An elderly woman with dark skin knelt over her, accompanied by a heavyset knight with bushy side whiskers. The woman pressed a wet compress to Esclarmonde’s heated forehead. “I am Giraude, the chatelaine of Lavaur. This is my brother, Aimery. We have no physic here, so I tend to the ill ... Can you hear me?”
Still disoriented, Esclarmonde nodded her head.
“She suffered a seizure,” said Roger.
Giraude drew water from a well located in the center of the small village and brought the ladle to Esclarmonde’s lips.
“There was a sun, but it was not like the real sun,” said Esclarmonde. “And two snakes became entangled in a fight.”
“It must have been the wine,” said Corba.
“Perhaps sunstroke,” said Aimery.
Giraude frowned knowingly on hearing Esclarmonde’s mention of the serpents. The chatelaine monitored the reaction of the others, but to her relief, they remained perplexed. She ordered the men to carry Esclarmonde into her small chateau. When the others had departed, Giraude bolted the latch. She poured several pinches of crushed herbs into a cup, then stirred up a thick concoction and brought the tonic to Esclarmonde’s tongue. “A posset of vernain and sorrel. It will aid the blood humour.” She waited until Esclarmonde regained strength, then asked, “This scintillation of light you saw ... Did it speak to you?”
Esclarmonde nearly spilled the drink. “How did you know?”